Hidden, crouching

by Yule Heibel on November 15, 2003

I went to Chinatown this afternoon to buy Emma some “kung-fu” slippers. She needs a pair of simple black “shoes” for some performances.

I’m so tired. Well, not really tired as much as … affectively frozen? There’s a great Joni Mitchell song on Hejira:

Dora says, “Have children!”
Mama and Betsy say — “Find yourself a charity.
Help the needy and the crippled
Or put some time into Ecology.”
Well, there’s a wide wide world of noble causes
And lovely landscapes to discover
But all I want to do, right now
Is ….find another lover!
Song for Sharon

Being an experienced married woman who can get all the lovin’ she needs, I don’t need any Hejira on that count: it’s not another lover I want. What I desire is a long conversation with an old friend who will gossip with me about all the compass points in our lives. Yes! I want to trash him or her, take that one apart, put that one together, speculate about this one, tut-tut about that one. I’m really fed up with scratching at my own hives or reading about the cyberhives of my virtual friends. I need blood. Fresh, warm, blood that means something to me.

The Animal Slaves, another great 80s bandVancouver local, too — had a song called Scratching Hives which echoes in a concrete bunker that’s really cold, but really real:

Let’s hear it for the easy solutions that present themselves effortlessly as whispered platitudes
Insidiously convincing, carefully blanketing self-conceived madness.
I give you my madness, parttake [sic] of it freely,
like medicine gone bad it cures nothing.
If ingested thoughtlessly it poisons absolutely all imagined invalids with real illness.
With the trembling of the knees, with the rolling of the eyes, with delusions of grandiose largesse of the spirit,
with lascivious hiccups of empty air I amuse the allergic by scratching my hives.
It manifests it self as the uncontrollable urge to flap one’s lips around well-constructed phrases,
to spew forth infesting like germs through saliva with the vapors with the bends, with the nasty humors.

Sometimes writing just isn’t enough to get out of it, sometimes you want …a chat.

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