dull parts, just because weekends are still for needless sharing
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Nothing says souvenir like a blind eye and a broken heart, I will say. It is God's honest truth come down upon me a week before February fourteenth one year whilst I found myself being wheeled out of white gown limbo, the aforementioned keepsakes in tow along with flowers, scars, needle marks and a throbbing gash substantiating this new reality the way refrigerator magnets serve as markers for a ten-foot appliance.
The heart suffered more or less ordinarily, of the sort that rendered it a useless machine, defenseless from incoming danger (all-meat pizza is a worse heartbreaker than failed romance), alternately a ticking time bomb and a failing clock. In other words, there was no way I could drink smoke go-kart and tango all on the same night in the off chance that this was called for. I sat home in those days and played like Bettie Serveert chronicling the pains of being pure at heart. Dust Bunnies, I'd mentioned before, is probably the band's least liked album but I really like it anyway. (And now I have it back, yay!)
Taking a more bewildering turn, the right eye lost a lot of peripheral vision, which is to say I tend to bump into door frames and table corners even when sober. While the defect's uncorrectable, the eye made do in time but you don't want to be crossing streets and trekking cliffs with me. At least, don't hold hands unless you're suicidal. We laugh about it, at all my winky-eyed photos and that one old lady who near struck the blind eye with her umbrella (and then got angry with me), and I say to my friends, the next time a freaky one-eyed pirate runs into you in the dark, consider that y'all got there by accident, unplanned, and no one's complaining. In case they're hyperventilating, they could surely use an ever-loving drink of water.
I will only add that this is not meant to be a sad story because I lead a staggeringly normal life and use the handicapped's restroom cubicle just like everyone else.
I shall go ahead and recycle something once made for a playlist that has nothing to do with this post:
Comments (9)
This one's called Fallen Foster:
.....One of life's small shiney pleasures (for me) is waking on a Saturday morning to a new essay by POEBEGONE, & of course the soundtrack she shares.
......Ilay, i always delight in your Dali-esque prose & your gentle self-effacing wit. I stand by my prediction of fame.
got to concur with DMDM such a nice way for me to get started on Saturday as I start on my artwork.not familiar with the early Bettie but am really liking it.
I have one Bettie Serveert album that I got in a discount bin & love it. I need to listen to it again since it's been awhile.
We all have our own personal handicaps to deal with in life, that's for sure. Mine is not being able to communicate clearly & quickly which infuriates my friends & me as well. Accepting ourselves & each other in spite of our handicaps is all part of life. . . .
poebegoe, turning a new leaf I've renounced holding hands as suicidal. Bit by bit, you tweak me slowly toward self improvement. Serveert forges new musical structures, chord changes and mysterious confessional lyrics that remind me of Judee Sill, a long lost victim of self-destruction I need to post about soon.
"Dali-esque prose"? Yes, that's what I loved about this post. I read the words and the syllables flowed through my mind like a shroud in a fog; with no grasp or care of understanding. About 3/4 through, just as I started to wonder if I would ever understand, the flashbulb went off - and I was momentarily blinded by your brilliance.
Yep, I liked it.
It's BS that I don't know these tunes...thanks for that, too.
Jeff, a belated good (Saturday) morning to you. i told myself that if i was ever going to write anything that i wanted deliberately to get published, i should first learn the art of surrealism / realism / etc. without getting tangled in being oblique about it. unfortunately, i like taking photos through glass windows and can never express myself without hiding in the comforts of crypticisms.
CP, say, have Moggers ever been privy to your art? i suppose i am very curious. (; i value my weekends, especially having been a member of the working class for years and years, and it's practically a religious ritual of mine to make my Saturday mornings and Sunday evenings as close to perfection as possible.
Aug, bargain bin Bettie? pshaw, that is too cool. i am a little surprised you find yourself having problems communicating clearly / quickly because it seems to me you're someone who certainly speaks his mind. i like the idea that the word "handicap" can mean either a disability or a means to equalize abilities.
Charles, even as i am hardly Mogging regularly, i can not wait for your post on Judee Sill, about whom I know nothing, just because self-destruction makes, I suppose, a fascinating study on human frailty. you know, i did not realize the extent to which "holding hands = suicide" can be taken, thanks for pointing it out.
Scott, in hindsight, i should mention that this post was written while i was remembering a time when i met a huge accident, for lack of a better word, which literally left me with some medically defective parts. in any case, what's great about writing (and Mogging :D) is that it can take on a life of its own.
Having had the pleasure of live Bettie Serveert, I continue to go Dutch every chance I get. This was a good'un - although you bring me to the precipice with your prose, poeby. Eye-yi-yi. So glad you're careening forward. Hope you don't mind if I take a little inspiration from this.
Mike, not only do i not mind, i am pleased out of my mind to be able to offer some inspiration. i loved Bettie Serveert and must say i'm very jel as i've never had the same pleasure of enjoying them live. oh, well, i've enjoyed them in my head all the same. ;d