Americans,
claude le monde no networks, no nukes, not notcakes
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2:36 pm | 26 March 2003 | this is not Hello, darlings. I don't really have a cohesive theme today. I fell down a couple of minutes ago (full-on wiped in my office, then had to explain to the five people that rushed in that the rumble and clatter was just my knees and elbows being abruptly flung against the door, that Yes, i'm okay, and Yes, i fall down a lot, and Yes, i would like some chocolate, please, that would make me feel better). So anyway. I made a violently genius painting this week--it's a cream-coloured stag with a dirty olive-green background (very flat, very pop). In a pink speech bubble, the stag is saying: This is not about love. That may not sound too epic, and is certainly not what i usually paint, but it's making me sort of delirious with happiness (it hangs next to my bed now so i get to wake up to it). I have a hard time waking up lately. It's supposed to snow again this weekend. I feel tired and cranky and bitter and passive-aggressive, but i am really trying not to complain. I lay in bed in the morning from 6:00 until 7:45 or so, trying to reconcile myself with my world, trying to convince myself to get up again and exist in reality instead of the dreams that are so much better. Traffic squeaks and drones by. The pillow is lumpy and malignant. Hi, sad deer painting! Good morning, dog licking its paw! The alarm clock squats like a nickel toad, burping gentle seconds of time. Bon matin, hideous and giant brass parrot lamp! O pile of matchless socks, staring at your irresponsible laundress so accusingly! You are my world, really. I guess I'll get up. This is not about love. clm. p.s. I am now going to give a shout-out to Gate, who is feeling lonely. Gate, here is your googlist poem: gate is open unless otherwise noted, all work contained herein is � claudia sherman, 2002-04. |