About
Technologically challenged. See cisne.tumblr.com for new posts.Following
To make reblogging/liking/following simpler, I switched the names of my Tumblr accounts. My old posts - once published under cisne.tumblr.com - can now be found at actuallyyes.tumblr.com.
If you’re reading this, you’re following my old tumblr.
Cisne.tumblr.com is the URL I’ll be using.
SORRY, I’M TECHNOLOGICALLY INEPT
Epic fail. What kind of parent would put fail whales above their kid’s crib?
It’s like encouragement to be a problem child.
Maybe I had them above my crib. That would explain a lot.
Borges was a wild guy. Figures he’d imagine paradise as a kind of library - he wrote a short story called “The Library of Babel,” where the universe is one giant library. Lots of symbolism about justifying our existence and whatnot. I’m such a nerd.
Click the picture if you want to check out the story - or to see an illustration of what this endless library might look like.
When I was a kid, I loved dancing in the rain.
I haven’t done it in a while. Maybe tonight’s the night.
From a project called “Make Something Cool Every Day.”
Not sure I’d equate heartbreak with losing a life, but ask me again after I’ve experienced it.
This was waiting for me this morning in my work email:
Dear friends (all 156 of us):
Did you know you have a pocket angel? God hand picked your angel for you and because I sent you this email, he put that angel in your pocket! If you love your angel (and me, lol) pass this on to your friends and your angel will reward you with good luck and blessings!
Before I was an Angel
I was a fairy in a flower;
God, Himself, hand-picked me,
And gave me angel power.When He tucked me in your pocket
He blessed you with Angel care;
Then told me to never leave you,
And I vowed always to be there.My reply to her:
Dear [redacted]
I regret to inform you that when I did my laundry last night, I did not check my pockets, as I had no way of knowing that you had God send me an angel. While I did have the setting on gentle, I’m afraid I also had it on hot. My pocket angel might very well be pocket angel soup now.
In the future, please let me know when you are going to do these things so I can take better care to not kill any supernatural beings.
Also, God is probably pretty pissed off at you being that this angel’s blood is on your hands. So you might have to send out a lot of email prayers in order to make up for it. Not sure how that works. I wanted to ask on your behalf, but my email to god@aol.com came back undeliverable. Anyhow, maybe you should say a couple of Hail Marys just to play it safe.
Have a wonderful day,
Michele
P.S. I looked in the washing machine and the dryer but there were no angel remains. Maybe they are biodegradable?
another Bukowski post. I love this poem.
“we have everything and we have nothing.
some do it well enough for a while and
then give way. fame gets them or disgust
or age or lack of proper diet or ink
across the eyes or children in college
or new cars or broken backs while skiing
in Switzerland or new politics or new wives
or just natural change and decay —
the man you knew yesterday hooking
for ten rounds or drinking for three days and
three nights by the Sawtooth mountains now
just something under a sheet or a cross
or a stone or under an easy delusion,
or packing a bible or a golf bag or a
briefcase: how they go, how they go! — all
the ones you thought would never go.
days like this. like your day today.
maybe the rain on the window trying to
get through to you. what do you see today?
what is it? where are you? the best
days are sometimes the first, sometimes
the middle and even sometimes the last.
the vacant lots are not bad, churches in
Europe on postcards are not bad. people in
wax museums frozen into their best sterility
are not bad, horrible but not bad. the
cannon, think of the cannon, and toast for
breakfast the coffee hot enough you
know your tongue is still there, three
geraniums outside a window, trying to be
red and trying to be pink and trying to be
geraniums, no wonder sometimes the women
cry, no wonder the mules don’t want
to go up the hill. are you in a hotel room
in Detroit looking for a cigarette? one more
good day. a little bit of it. and as
the nurses come out of the building after
their shift, having had enough, eight nurses
with different names and different places
to go — walking across the lawn, some of them
want cocoa and a paper, some of them want a
hot bath, some of them want a man, some
of them are hardly thinking at all. enough
and not enough. arcs and pilgrims, oranges
gutters, ferns, antibodies, boxes of
tissue paper.
in the most decent sometimes sun
there is the softsmoke feeling from urns
and the canned sound of old battleplanes
and if you go inside and run your finger
along the window ledge you’ll find
dirt, maybe even earth.
and if you look out the window
there will be the day, and as you
get older you’ll keep looking
keep looking
sucking your tongue in a little
ah ah no no maybe
some do it naturally
some obscenely
everywhere.”
Reminds me that I should never let myself become something, or someone, that I don’t want to be. What better day to channel that than on my birthday? I always feel like birthdays are beginnings. New chapters to my life story.
And hey, I survived another year. That’s always good.
it’s almost my birthday!
