keep · the · car · running

Shameless plugging:

girlandocean.wordpress.com

I'll still be on LJ for the communities, but my blogging has moved.

http://girlandocean.wordpress.com

Gimme some RSS!

I am stealing this idea from Jessica (decorums ). I'm going to make a video post of me answering some moderately boring questions. In case you would like to know some moderately boring things about myself and/or see what I look like in motion and/or listen to my silly maritime/british accent mashup.

SO: leave in the comments

1. questions you would like to have answered so I have more interesting things to talk about and
2. other things you want to see (a tour of my house? my puppy doing tricks? etc?).

This is a public post, ya'll, so you can comment even if you don't have me as a friend or even if you don't have LJ!

http://mylifeisg.com

Finally.
I've been waiting for FML to go fuck itself for a long time.

I don't know... but here is a poem. It almost says what I want it to, but I can't get it quite right and it doesn't feel finished. But. Anyway.

raisons d'être
we have been reduced to living in the confines of a calendar square, forced to dissect the earth to pin it, still squirming, to a corkboard, to close our eyes and draw lines up & down creating past & future and somewhere you and I make up the present. if it can all boil down to eating/not eating feeling/not feeling then I can live with that (and I've been doing both for you). I can live a life of impossibility. to come to terms with the tragedy of having only one to live. to explain to myself why I am not where you are. why am I not where you are? in another life, there would be no waiting. there would only be one city, one third third floor, only one language so I wouldn't have to learn them all. it would always be sunset and all the colours I feel would be purple and blue. in this life we speak as if it couldn't be. my mouth gets stuck each time I try to say I can/I will/I must. we are too used to the waiting, but can't you see? there can only be: the brown of yr eyes, the pallor of my skin, so alive with believing, that the cameras stopped rolling ages ago.