Poetry Post (not mine, say thankya)

Ezra Pound - Ancient Music

Winter is icummen in,
Lhude sing Goddamm.
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
And how the wind doth ramm!
Sing: Goddamm.

Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,
An ague hath my ham.
Freezeth river, turneth liver,
Damn you, sing: Goddamm.

Goddamm, Goddamm, 'tis why I am, Goddamm,
So 'gainst the winter's balm.

Sing goddamm, damm, sing Goddamm.
Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM.

(Pssst. I actually love gray weather and maple leaves and puddles and apple cider and so, yes, the world is perfect perfect perfect.)

Everybody come see The Wall, kay?

Marie, Marie, hold on tight.

Hello.

On Wednesday afternoon, after having spent some time in the shower, crying, hugging my knees, staring blankly at the soap-bottle and thinking “Well, now what,” I received a call from MattThomas, fixer of all things. He and Daniel drove me home to see my mom, who had been taken to the hospital for surgery that afternoon. She was in a lot of pain for a couple of days. I drew her baths, scratched her back, held her hand, helped around the house, did what I could to make things better for her. Today she was feeling much healthier, so much so that we were able to go on a walk this morning. Hopefully she’ll be back to swimming a mile a morning in no time.

It has been good to be home. I feel useful here, and loved. Papa makes me cinnamon toast for breakfast, Joe and I stay up late watching his latest films (Teddy Roosevelt’s Organelle Safari is a must-see), and Tom the cat bites my toes (lovingly). Joe and I went on a date last night to the Witches Brew, and then later he, Monty, and I went to Lincolnton’s new Waffle House. Classy. Picture:

I’ve been to the doctor finally, (was still running a 100 degree fever till Friday for whatever reason) and I got my Zoloft dosage doubled plus a flu shot. I’m severely anemic again, which explains the fatigue. Lots more pills for me. Oh pills.

Thanks so much to everybody who has called me and expressed their concern for both me and my mom. It feels really good to know that I am cared for.

Love you guys. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Panic Attack Manifesto

Okay internets, here’s what’s up.

Much like a Rachael Ray recipe, the past two weeks have been erratic and absurd. The flakey crust of mayhem and laffs may suggest nothing but delicious enjoyment, but the hearty smattering of misery and confusion is leaving a bad taste in my mouth.

/end idiot metaphor

I’m going to go ahead and get all of the worrisome stuff out of the way right now. I really need to clear my head. Later on I’m going to pay tribute to all the good stuff and Jesse-mayhem that has gone on recently which will hopefully cheer me up and not make me seem like such a sad kid. But first.

Let me preface it this way. Here is what is not fun: having panic attacks for no good reason, leaving your friends downstairs to go curl into the fetal position and cry, hoping vaguely for someone to come comfort you (nobody does and your heart is beating muchtoofast). Here is what is not fun: the 6am check to see if the person you are seeing is in bed with any of your housemates, since he sure isn’t in bed with you, (and, well). Here is what is not fun: your mom being very sick with another strange chronic condition and she is worried and sad and you are worried and sad and you just want to go home and make things better. Here is what is not fun: vivid nightmares every night, sore tense muscles every morning, and the feeling that everything is and has been wrong for a very long time now.

Also I am worried about this: when I moved to Chapel Hill I didn't know anyone or anything and I liked it that way. It's been five years and my mistakes are written everywhere and I sometimes think it would be good to go someplace new and start fresh. But what if I'm just fooling myself; pretending like anywhere I move to next will be any different in the end, like once half a decade goes by things won't feel stagnant and spent, like living this way won’t mean having to keep on and keep on leaving people and places in my wake like wasted empty plastic bags.

On top of everything, I’ve been sick this week with a fever-tummy-headache bug. It rains all day and my heart hurts and I’m lonely. I want to feel good about things, people. I want to feel good about things; people.

...

I am officially out of reasons not to throw myself into oncoming traffic.

Bus Blog

This morning on the bus, a dialogue:

Emily enters bus with a million pounds of crap, sits down next to tall blond Austrian dude

t-bad: You have enough stuff dere, ya?
em: Ha, ha. Yeah.
t-bad: You having good semesta at school?
em: Um, I’m not a student. I work. At the university.
t-bad: Oh! What do you do?
em: I manage a research lab. Psychology.
t-bad: Oh! Does it make you happy? You sit on the leetle couch?
em: Heh…actually I do research on memory.
t-bad: On what?
em: Memory.
t-bad: On what?
em: Mem…ha, ha.
t-bad: So you work with the leetle rats?
em: Um, no. With people.
t-bad: You know how it is easier to remember some things, like… the ice cream flavors? but harder to remember people’s names? You know?
em: Yeah.
t-bad: You should do experiment…with different ice cream flavors. And different kinds of potatoes! You know? The little…red potatoes and the big white ones?
em: Oh yeah. That…would be interesting.
t-bad: Ah, I missed my stop.
em: Oops.

Today at work I noticed that the green light that the copier gives off is exactly the color of something that would cause one to mutate or develop superpowers. My right hand is constantly exposed to that green light. And so it is only a matter of time before I develop the ability to duplicate things just by poking them with my index finger. (Logic.) This would prove handy in replicating many things (twenty dollar bills, AA batteries, socks) but I’d have to wear a protective glove at times, for certain. Just imagine…I’d be absently petting Binx and wham! a house full of tiny black kitties. Jess’ sheets would never be clean again. Oooh…but at the movies I could eat popcorn forever and the bag would NEVER BE EMPTY.

Okay, best superpower ever.