2 February 2014
1028 hrs
Good Morning, Patient Reader . . .
Well, There
is some good news on the
home front . . .
home front . . .
Primarily, I suppose, I have recovered
from the specifics of my Rant Last, though I still
harbor the usual Cunning Fennec Fox sociopathy
that is
my congenital milieu . . .
So shall I move on to
the finer points of
this last week? Splendid!
this last week? Splendid!
Vesper
First and
foremost, My Very Newest Friend informed me
that I can indeed reference her
name, certain works, and her
blog/website info here on CFF. She is a Quebecois, though I am
unsure I am
using the term correctly, id est; is she of the
particular party that
demanded independence from Britain? Or
is it Quebecoise, as she is a (quite
lovely) woman? Any input
from y’all
would be most welcome and received with the respect
a learner affords a
learning.
Her name is
Vesper, which is something I do know a little
more of . . . It can mean Venus, or Hesper; it refers to
Evening,
as is seen in the Roman Catholic hour (seventh?) of vespers- a
quiet, reflective hour of evening
prayer in which there is
sung/prayed a canticle known as Evensong . . .
Ironically,
as I am NOT a theist (as you all know by my having made this fact pretty effing
obvious), I find this last definition the most enchanting. I like the idea of an Evensong; a quiet,
musical ritual in which one reflects and is thankful to the IS or whatever (Nature
in my case), and rolls about the brain the events of the day.
At any
rate, Vesper is the Curator of the wonderful page,
Truly a page everyone should
visit, like the Louvre at least once
in their lives. Hyperbole? Well, as we all know, hyperbole is the best
thing EVER!!!!
Just a sample from her blog:
First Snow in November
The Winter Queen is dancing
above the town
When she sways
and swirls
to the music
of angels
or of the spheres,
her ball gown
-regal as she is-
sheds pearls and diamonds
on her subjects
They make luxurious jackets
for trees and squirrels
and turn into hot kisses
on my eyelids
(Vesper chickwithaquill.blogspot.com)
And that's not even my favorite. I will not share with you which of her many works- photographs, poems, etc. is my favorite; y'all need to find your own. Good luck choosing!
I may seem overly effusive, but
isn’t it always interesting when another shows you some pieces of their heart .
. . some vignettes of the mind? I think so, and since this is my blog, I am
right.
So please . . . take a moment and roll in the colour of her
minds tides. You may find within her art
your very own Evensong.
In other news, a good friend of
mine has moved back to the area. I spoke
with him on my new telephone just yesterday, and though he lives about a
hundred miles away, at least we can shoot the proverbial shit much more often
than before, which was, er, never.
I met him back in 2010- we
watched a game of the World Series-“Give
him the High Cheese! Let Timmy smoke!” became fast friends, and have been friends
ever since.
We sort of lost touch over the
last few months, due to life, or Life, and now we’re back in touch. Good to hear from you, Shmony!
Super Bowl. So I live here in the Pac NW, as you all
know, and yet I am NOT a Seattle Seahawks fan.
Sure, they entertained me back when Steve Largent and Jim Zorn played-
but really, they do nothing for me. How ‘Bout
Dem Cowboys. Yes, and I defend it!
And then there is Denver. How do representative football teams from the
two U.S. States that have recently legalized Weed make it to the Ultimate
American Professional Football Game?
Apparently, by remaining very mellow.
But Denver, a team I never
really cared for either, is now a team in which Manning is manning the helm . .
. Peyton Manning, ex-Volunteer from
Tennessee, Knoxville (that’s pronounced Nocks’-vull, to all of you Yankees out
there- BTW, I am a Yankees fan. Find a
better SS than Derek Jeter, I challenge you.)
Tennessee . . . Great women’s softball team; who can’t love
those tight, orange pin-striped leggings?
But the
football team . . . Grrrrr. Roll Tide, is all I have to say about
that. Don’t even get me started on
Elway, or King John if you suck Denver . . .
well, let’s not get VULGAR.
Elway
lost two bowls, then won two, only because Terrell Davis could make the play
option work. But Terrell had that fucked
up Mile-High Salute! Let’s see his DD-214. Poseur.
Anyway,
I dislike Denver just one C hair less than Seattle (all of the PAC NW-ers are
Seahawks fans, for some reason) so I hope they (barely) win.
BBC News
just informed me that Philip Seymour Hoffman is now dead. WTF?
Man, I really liked his work.
Have y’all seen his performance in The
Talented Mr. Ripley? He stole every
single scene from Matt Damon. And as
Truman Capote . . . jesus, the guy was a juggernaut. I even thought his performance in the (3rd?)
Mission: Impossible film was
something else. Look at his work- Synecdoche, New York? Come on!
Jesus, how old was he? 46 years
old . . . Humbling.
What
else? When it rains it pours- feast or
famine here in the old personal life. I
am not a braggart, though I would be the Best Braggart Ever if I were; nor am I
a womanizer, or a Player, as I was
called recently, but there are several women in my life right now vying for my
attention. Now don’t get me wrong- this
is not a complaint. I simply marvel at
the surrealism of it all. First of all,
I do not think of myself as attractive, nor do I currently, as a poor and
starving student, have the ability to
Wine and/or Dine anyone or lavish them with gifts. I am not even sure I can set aside the time
to spend it with them in any intimate way.
About all I can do is give the World
Famous Cunning Fennec Fox Full-Body Massage, using the patented “swiggly”
at the end (more on that later, perhaps).
Even so,
I have not yet even employed that particular bonus.
No, I am
just me, be-bopping through life, no expectations, no illusions of love, and by
god they all know this because I tell them so- You, Patient Reader, know all of
this all too well.
And yet
they seem OKAY with all of that . . .
But they all seem to at first, don’t they? They all think that wow, this is a new
philosophy . . . that this is all that
is required of him for me . . . I don’t
need anything more . . . Horse shit.
Try Angles by Properfessor
There is
always that bizarre and surreal moment where suddenly I awaken next to a
changed woman- someone who demands that they be loved- who would rather hear
the words than hear the honesty in my own I Love You-less speech; hear those
long-forgotten words roll from my mouth like the emetic lies they are, than to
be treated well and kindly.
I
remember a time when, “Words just aren’t enough, Cunning Fennec Fox . . . You have to show me that you care.”
Never enough, is it, Patient Reader?
Yet,
reluctantly, I admit I am human. I need
to touch and be touched. But I do not
need to hurt anyone, especially myself.
And I always fall for the “I’m not like those other women line,” hook Line and sinker, don’t I? You can’t
fool me seventy-twelve times in a row, dammit . . . I won’t fall for that again . . .”
So what do I do? I go for it, and one or both of us always get
hurt in the end. It’s all about
expectation, I suspect. I have none-
they have all. Is it the Biological
Clock? Is it the mutated gene in our
species X chromosome that needs the promise of forever no ifs ands buts get
your ass over here and coo in my ear don’t do that do this you suck I love you?
How The Devil Sees Snowing Souls
by Properfessor
So I do
not know what to do with this new cornucopia.
They are all aware of one another- they may not know their names but
they have not been kept from this knowledge of plurality.
Sure, it
is probably a competition, now. One
trying to best the others. It’s a
challenge, and I get that. I really
do. I used to be the same way, back when
I was naught but naughty. But again, I
have no expectations. Only that I will
get hurt, this is my understanding, if I allow myself to get hurt. All I have to do
is don’t.
Well,
enough of all that . . . I need to get
this posted and get my homework done for my other three classes. What a day I still have ahead for me. Painus!
But I love to learn, so learn and do I shall.
Wish me
luck and right-thinking, Patient Reader.
I need companionship, but I eschew the boxcar-loads of baggage inherent
within.
Again,
As Always, I remain
Triplicate by Properfessor
The Lonely Cunning Fennec Fox
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