Hotdog @ MindSay

saw was not too scary.

 

"saw was" is a palindrome.

 

sushi can look like a hotdog, and books can look like phones.

 

oh the seven wonders of the world, emancipated from christian culture are ye.

i do not want to be everygirl.

i have become everygirl.

life has become quite like fireworks.  you've seen them so many times, the rapid fire flashes don't even faze you anymore. they are old and familiar like every skybright july. everyday motions are the chewed red hotdog, the noisemaker, things that you are taught to like in childhood, good for good's sake.  it is a good that seems very far away and hard to grasp.  the colors tracing sky seem very far away too. there is a constant party, but no cause celebre.

it is comfortable to fall into apathetic hedonism.  it is nebulous. you float.  i float.  people cease to be people that stir you, or, at its worst, even people at all. places cease to be places you've never been, even if you haven't been there.  your boots have crossed these floorboards and you've said hello to the same menagerie of strangers with their cheshire grins, with their intellectual glasses, with their polka-dotted scarves, with their shadowy eyeholes. they are now simply there and then not.  flashes. they go by your vision and you give the compulsory smile. you no longer wonder how they made the rockets magenta, or how the sparks fell in a halo.  you just let the image fall over your retinas. and not enter the shadowbox of your mind.

it is interesting to the eye i guess.

instead of people on the constant drift, i would like one person to stay, one spark to set the whole sky one strange color. 

i have not written much in here lately. i have not written much lately at all. i need to write in anticipation of a certain bohemian gathering which will doubtlessly be attended by photographers of the highest caliber in striped leggings, literati who have scorned the establishment and stand outside smoking in their underwear, musicians who throw people through walls and are calm again, bards who are quiet and spell oh so well.  maybe even a pariah or two.  i think it is because i have to listen to write, and lately i realized what everyone says are just words, like on this page that exist as ideas in vacuums, and do not have the power to touch fat and thick truths, to move them to action. people say they will do things all the time.  do the words make it so?  i just havent really been in the mood to write. im not saturated in it.  i have numbed.   you cannot write about people when you look and see no one, not even yourself, really, and hear nothing. not even the deep cracks of fire bursting. not even the joyful anthems and the parsed choruses.

last night girls singing in close, country harmony and beating crescent shaped tambourines sang of the cold Jordan.  i am very jealous of those girls.  i would love to sing in close harmony, in a deep timbre like riverwater in a voice that you meant it and even if you don't mean it, you really really wish you did.

i do not even think this is as deep as it wishes it were.

Gord has had a thing for me since I met him when I was about 12 years old. Gord is at least 4 years older than me. I met Bruce around the same time but Bruce is the same age as me and we were in grade 7 together. As far as I can tell Bruce has never liked me ‘in that way’ and we’ve just always been friends. This story takes place when Bruce and I were in high school – so we were most likely 16 or 17 and so Gord would have been at least 20 or 21. We were hanging out with Gord. Gord and Bruce were drinking but I wasn’t. There had been various other people with us throughout the night but towards the end it was just the three of us. So we were walking around and there was this street vendor selling hotdogs. They smelled really good so I bought one. Then both Gord and Bruce wanted one but neither had money. So they wanted me to buy one for each of them but I only had money for one more. I really didn’t want to buy one for either of them but they were both promising me the most ridiculous things if I would just buy them a hotdog. So I decided to break down and buy one for them to split. That didn’t go over to well because Bruce shoved the whole thing in his mouth as soon as he got it. Gord was rather drunk by this time and refused to believe that the hotdog was for them to share. He was really upset and left for home in a huff. I have no idea why not buying him a hotdog was such a big deal but he wouldn’t accept my apology. He wouldn’t talk to me and whenever he saw me he would leave. That lasted for a few months and then he suddenly got over it and started trying to get me to sleep with him again. What a piece of work.

Question of the day:

If you were a hotdog, and you were starving, would you eat yourself?