frightened fields: Only one One-and-Only

I typed "love" into my itunes and 44 songs came up. I've been a hermit lately, and, last night, a dream saved the day. I went to where she lived, though I'd never been there before; a big cast iron gate guarded the doorway to her building, too far from the door to reach through and knock (I would and could have yelled her name to the heavens in hopes she might hear my cry, but the street was crowded and the city was so busy): I started to panic, and I kept myself from crying right right on the spot by steeling my guts and staring intently into the eyes of the passers-by. I wished I could find a place crawling with bugs so I could step on all of them. I felt this familiar cold wash realizing itself all in me. I had to look away and down to the ground, bringing my hands to my ears in order to block out the sound, all the careless rushing hustle and bustle. My innards went into a stern fist and brought me down to a knee and the fingertips of one hand, splayed out with the crystalline grace of a spider's shadow; my other hand came over my eyes to shield my view like the blinders on an Amish horse that can't know about cars. Down on the ground with my hand over my eyes like I was trying to see a great distance on a sunny day, i looked through the black iron gate: just inside and hidden by the metal was a button for a buzzer, just above it on a piece of tape, her name written in her hand was faded but visible. My own hand shook as it moved pointing towards the sliver of white plastic rectangle. It murmured as I pressed, and I lost hope as I waited the handful of seconds it took for her, thin and tinny, to say my name to me. I was so glad.

I've been remiss in not attending to this fledgling blog thing, so let's dig through the archives and get right back on that horse.

I quit eating meat about a month ago. No reason in particular; sometimes, however, I do come across something that makes me curious about possible taste sensations...

I love Yoko Ono.

Agent 355 had a great line about the blame that everyone assigns to Yoko Ono. 355 scoffs at the idea of a woman needing to be the culprit when some boys can't get along. Yoko has done so many cool things, but I do like her music too. I mean, "Woman is the Nigger of the World"? Fucking represent!

I need this bumper sticker, even though I don't have a car.

I love the insane degree to which this guy rocks.

Her nose reminds me of a woman I know.

Speaking of Spring being sprung, (paraphrasing Salt & Pepa) let's talk about sex; Who says there is no modern romance?

Significantly less peurile on my part, yet equally and symbolically apropos to the current unlocking of Winter, eggs.

I used to have a Bosch poster on my wall in college... Whatta ya want? Picasso's Blue Guitarist or Bob Marley smoking a joint? It always struck me how musical hell is.