Saturday, May 06, 2006


So isn't it great? She's set up a blog, supposedly for poetry, and then she posts nothing. Nada. Zip. Fuck all. She is in AWE of all those bloggers out there.

She nearly typo'd "bloogers" just now. There's an image. There's the T-shirt. But she digresses, as she often does.

"When I have fears that I may cease to be"... but that's not really the danger any more, is it? That's bloody unlikely, in fact, given the myriad ways one can leave bits of themselves online: hint of an address here; a photo there; quotations from conversations long forgotten—little marks on the trail, mostly meaningless on their own, but with the means to lead a seeker back to the source.

What if she gave a blog and nobody came?

Anyway, back to her infatuation with blogs. However do people manage to keep them up? She can't imagine having the time. Making the time. She's too busy. She's too tired.

She's so full of shit.

What it takes, she realizes, is a commitment to take the time. Which she just took, as it happens.

So here:


She likes to watch,
Shrouded in mystery.

She likes to dance,
Inhabit the music.

She likes to sing,
Voice rusty with time.

She likes to sob,
Clear the way to silence.

She likes to pray,
To gods you've never heard of.

She likes to tap,
On toe-shoes made of gold.

She likes to melt,
Alchemy-girl, fading to white.

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