something dead

—personal luna causes unusual emphasis on insignificant tics—

Eating salad with a spoon is difficult. The food was free, though, so I managed—but not without a co-worker drawing attention—again—to the fact that I was eating a salad instead of pounds of heavy pasta. Next time the lucky commenter will be told I have irritable bowel syndrome and salad is the only thing my bowels can handle lest explosions occur. I just like veggies, man. Concern yourself instead with world peace, curing cancer, your rocky marriage.

—sadness heavy like a planet perpetuates coffee not sweet and light enough—

Last week I bought Max Richter’s The Blue Notebooks and Boards of Canada’s The Campfire Headphase, both perfect in their simultaneity for the mood that had befallen me: in combination peace wound with sublimely sad fluid flare, or vice versa. I’m an eternal child. While I accept occasional sadness and grump in trigonometric waves of mood and humanness, I don’t see why so many people can’t chip through their thick-muck walls of insecurity and misery enough to realize their similar human root plights, instead giving foreground to generally mean demeanors and sandpaper quips. (Yes, this is another way of saying, Can't we all just get along (even if we don't like each other?)

—phrenic porch makes a place for confetti to land when the parade ends—

Meanwhile, the thing having crossed my path four times in two weeks, I checked out of the library and fell in love with Ravel’s "Boléro"—a whole-body fall. A dark walk in the park and arboretum, "Boléro" becoming louder all the way, had me skipping and waving my arms along the winding quiet paths despite the threat of being scolded out after "closing," raped by randy deer, or tormented by colonial ghosts. This will hereafter be my retreat from occasional uglies.

Finally, a quote from my grandma: …he smells terrible this morning - must have rolled in something dead.