brainglish [brain glitch]

i've so many writer's blocks that i could build a wall.  I've also got so many drafts i could start an army.  yet with all this i still can't seem to be able to find enough words for even one complete idea, one decent post.  so, you get this indecent post.  the words are all on the tip of my tongue, taking turns coming from the back to the front of my mind, but somehow their meaning is lost.  they never reach the tip of my pen [fingers, in this case] intact.  maybe, thats a fault of mine, or maybe its just that the translation from brainglish to english isn't very good?

Life: you look like a participant.

warning: this post contains content that might be an insight to some viewers.
~ignorant viewer discretion is advised.~

i'm not picky, i probably even like you. so long as you tell the truth.  i like people,
As they Are and Were. (thoughts on truth and people)
My words are cut off, like a fixed
drip. drip. drop.
like the dry blue sky, my conscience is clear.
you know me? like the back of my hand, washed clean
with soap made of lye?

truth is like liquid. hard to see. hard to hold.
hard to speak until swallowed. truth is hard and it is cold.

we could go on....
about how truth floods, fuels those who run, but
what would be the point?
it'd read as Just
a pencil thin line, that once touched becomes
sssmmuudgged.
so, this paper stays blank,
as the back of my mind.
inspiration gone, without even the linger
of the last note of a song.

and all of This, started,
ended.
              right here.
with choices and actions
that like falling lifeless
leaves lie heaped on the ground, for its
the autumn of the seasonal year.
we think we're done when everything is dead,
but it comes down to one thing,
not zero or none.
Truth is the matter.
That, makes who we are.
not at once, but quite slowly
in a small drip. drip. drop.
so, with this matter only,
my words, are cut off.


~we all know that 'Someone', who we'll never figure out, but still, we befriend them. the mystery is half [or whole] of the intrigue.  and being their friend, its kind of like listening to AM and FM radio at the same time: mixed signals, bad reception, the same four lines in the same four songs, and a mess of political opinions.
yet, we like music, we like to hear familiar things, and to think through the opinions of others, and so, we like this person.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rT-5NY83OYI&ob=av2e

i'm not picky, i probably even like you. so long as you tell the truth.

hourglass. lookingglass. timepassed.

oh time, how you are always and now. how you set stereotypes and control my appearance. an appropriate time for new hobbies would be after retirement(so time would have us believe)....so when i recently took up drawing [portraits, abstract, and random such sketches] i felt like i must be retired.  however. it still stands that i am not retired. i have a job. i would like two jobs. so, i suppose i've broken the stereotype of age.  shrug. mostly i just feel re-tired. i age a little everyday and every night on my way to sleep, i suddenly have ambition and motivation. i am an artist, a writer, i take up water aerobics (okay..maybe not that) ...twenty minutes later,  i feel re-tired. so i sleep. next morning. i arise, go to work and feel at-tired.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jNv46fB93IE 

this song reminds me of the passing of time. it fits the mood of this post, and the tune of a music box.  

a book at face value.

i've sort of been toying with this idea in my head: a book of peoples faces.  its sort of like the ultimate scrap book.  pictures of all your friends and little captions.  you can have your copy of book of faces updated by simply sending your book into the company. we'll have it updated and returned to you in five business days with little or no cost to you. shrug. we hope to come out with a digital/online version.  not entirely sure if it will catch on though.  We've already got a demo/test group going.  it seems they've changed the focus of the site from scrapbooking to 'chattin'.  they have added more than one hundred people to their friends list...does anyone really know 100 people well enough to have full access to their scrapbook and captions?
its a different world out there....this new generation. they value themselves in the number of 'friends' they have. they are taken at face value and nothing else.

to you (you too)

 even though when you're with someone, doing the same thing, at the same time, in one place, its never really the same, is it?

~Today (two days)~

The water, it was green

                                                 (no       jade)    

the reeds swayed and sighed

     in the wind

and the sky was clear

                                (or was it clouded?)

the karp played in the shallows

their mouths blowing bubbles

to the frogs.

mosquitoe's legs kissed

                         (no     skimmed) 

the surface

waves slapped and lapped

the wooden skiff,

            (it was a canoe)

this scene    (seen)    together

was different for me 

                         than you. 

same water, same sky. seen through different eyes with different  colours and hues, but converge at points.  

a tribute to pretty boy

i had this goldfish and i wrote a poem about him. here it is:
~ode to fish~
oh what a life at sea
in this clear glass world
there's no one else
but,
reflection me
no, not a soul
just tiny fish wishes
and bubbles blue and bold
each time i peek
it's my face i seek
with shimmering scales of gold
each view is new
a refreshing hue
-memories, short term are few-
i flitt around, tail like a tassel
flying all about my underwater castle
translucent lemon finns
help me swim and glide
when fingers tap and faces spy
i swish through quick and hide
i look up at clear blue sky
i bolt and jump
landing high and dry
gulp in air
eyes give blank stares
i breath, sides heave
life, it leaves
clouds drift by...
i,
    goldfish,
                  die.

so. i am now realising that this poem was really an awful prediction. only, my fish didn't jump out of the bowl. he was tortured by my cat the assassin.  sigh. its really ok since every fish is really just a dictator reincarnate. my cat was just doing his job, bringing us one step closer to world peace.  my fish was named Pretty Boy, he loved to stare at himself all day in a mirror. we're probably better off with one less narcissist.  next time you buy a goldfish, don't write the tribute prematurely. thus ends todays account of the short life of a household fish. adieu

i trust my sixth sense so much more than your oriental, paper filled, baked goods.

people say they fear the future. why? its just a word. just a collection of hours separated into groups of 24 then regrouped into days. its only a vague clump of time and uncertainty. looking at the future in little bits is enjoyable. i can't wait for tomorrow, in an hour i'll have this post completed :] haha.
i once stared at the clock for 60 seconds...to find that only one minute had passed. one minute wasted.
time is passing, passing, passing. gone.
i'll remember some of it. only little liquid memory water drops. they'll fill my brain bucket and the ones that overflow will be gone and go in the dirt and help the seeds of new memories grow.

one of my memories is this blog. it swam to the top of my memory bucket  like a hungry fish. i had forgotten it. and now its a memory made new.

yard sailing, boats of the land.

for some reason getting up at an unspeakably early hour on a saturday is fine, so long as you're having a yard sale. who knew? ...i knew and tried desperately to will the yard sale out of existence. no such luck. though as i rummaged through our yard sale merchandise, i happened upon a few old world vintro treasures. i am now the proud owner of a polaroid camera, which has always been a wish of mine. good things might even happen to you sometime. shrug.
i try and take picturesque pictures. its a fifty fifty chance. catching people off guard and snapping their photo is the only true way of capturing the moment. the downside is they are often not picturesque do to my own shortcomings.
for future reference, the word vintro is a combination of the words retro and vintage, this only concerns you if you are in fact reading this blog. even if you are, i can't guarantee i'll use the word again.
to make up for the blandness of this post and the non-existant contrast between this and the one before, i think i'll leave you with a song, maybe you'll even listen to it. then maybe you'll like it and have to have it for your own. but, this is all theoretically speaking.  sometimes, i get carried away.

blog=brain

cloning people is an odd concept. sometimes i think about it. and to me, books are clones of people.  authors are the cadavers of brain studies and their works are the clones. libraries have copies and copies of people. people who are dead and people who are living.  this thought process is what lead me to create a blog.  so i could post little bits of me and one day there could be an entire copy of me, or infinite copies of me for others to see. maybe you'd like to read this:

peer into ink and paper minds

disect the brains of the poet cadavers.

copies of books

right from the press

clones of human nature

distributed to the masses

added to the shelves

these copies in time

paper thin, full of lines

faces, fonts, duplicated spines.

steal from the storehouse

peruse the clones

stuck ageless in a forever mine.

read their thoughts

words of a people

a person between the covers.

i'm an author. i am a clone.

shrug. day one of blog. completed.