The Jumper’s Singe and since it’s Wednesday, some Wavves

So I would definitely disregard the picture for this YouTube video of Wavves.  The song is better with headphones on and your eyes closed anyway… Kind of like listening to that fugly British woman everyone is talking about, I’m not sure of her name.

I jotted this jigger today.  It was supposed to be for a Columbia student’s final but then I pulled an Urkle and wrote some other junk instead.

The Jumper’s Singe

Oh, yes, a song.  Tell me about it.  What was I wearing when you told me about the burning scars?  Was it grammar and punctuation that made up my style, or was it just a dress rehearsal?  Are they still there?  Alas, hindsight has the last laugh, academically speaking of course.

I’m sitting down to write right now, look!  And there we are just sitting there writing.  And reading, and then again, re-writing.  A critic would point out that this may in fact not be possible.  I love criticism, especially when it stands out.  They always ask me what I’ve learned but they never quite believe me and I try to tell them everything even though I’m never really telling them the truth.  Who could?

We’ve become storytelling cave dwellers that make fire out of words and sentences for meals.  Please pass that Word Processor, I’m thirsty for some music!  The skin of the drum we beat stretches context tight until it smacks when you hit it with like a keyboard.  The staring moon sweats cold and the flames beg for a blanket.  Spoon asks me if I would like to cuddle and then she’s telling nobody in particular about the beast roaming amongst us.  She calls it literature while the shadowed woods surround our shining academy of utensils and we serve ourselves dripping over the sides of the serving pot.  The last I heard things were going to get worse before they got better which meant we might be stuck out here for some time and this was fine by me.

My pencil’s eraser pokes me in the thigh and I let out a wicked grin because if I had it to do all over again, I most definitely would.  The tip of my #2 lead is dulled from the use and is hiding in my pocket, ready to strike the moment I have the courage to spring it from its safety.  Instead, I grab a stick from under the rock I use for my seat (still sitting) and draw the most hideous image in the sand.  From the other side of the fire Knife scratches a spark against the ring of rocks that contain the logs.  My glimmering sketch in the sand reflects against the faded stars and outdoes any act of God as it disappears under my extending foot.  The pencil winces as I draw it from its chamber.

We close our eyes and the crickets encroach upon our gathered spattering as the dust rises and mixes with the ash.  We toast to the bittersweet affair in silence.  What was once a private party has been crashed and we feel that we are still the lucky ones, soaking it all up.  We sit there listening to the marching insects sing in atonal concert and even if I could whistle Dixie it wouldn’t make sense under the Northern Lights.  Literature creeps up from behind and grabs me by the throat – keeping with the dancing lie.  Spoon asks Fork to do something so it sticks its prongs in the sand and vibrates along my side.  The rising hair on my neck shivers me to full attention while our dubious illusion leaves an unintelligible mark.

Oh yes, the illusion is the song.  Can you sing it to me as I jump into the fire?

I guess the crickets I’ve been hearing out my window at night have a lasting influence on my subconscious…

I finished Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, along with On Being Blue and now I’m about 3/4 of the way through Bill Ayres’ Death by Leisure –  a fitting title and a hilarious account of a Scot’s rendition of the foibles in the City of Angles.  Yes, a-n-g-l-e-s.   Although I know a few angels there, they constitute the vast minority, try as they might to shine a light (and rhyme!).

What else, oh yes, a song.  In requiem to Mr. Ayres.

But I’m not really bored.  In fact, gots myself a BBQ joint this afternoon with some amigos celebrating the impending doom of the College of Santa Fe.  We shall drink to its demise and there will be food.

Leighton Meester is hot, Mister.

Twenty reps with each arm, then ten each over the shoulders with the twenty-five pound dumbbell.  Next, three sets of fifty crunches and three sets of thirty push-ups, all at different angles.  From there do lunges, as many as you can back and forth and switching legs.  Then it’s time for calf raises, again do as many as possible.  It will burn.  Following the legs, pick the dumbbell back up and hold it out at chest level straight ahead until it feels like your arm is going to fall off (for god’s sake don’t let it fall off [wo]man!/whoa, man!).  Then switch arms and repeat.  Crack your knuckles at this point and do some windmills and back turns to stretch.  Take a small sip of water and then drop to do a final set of fifty push ups.  Get up as fast as you can, drop your knees to stretch your hamstrings for a second.  Pull up a chair and do the tricep drop making sure to get your elbows to ninety degree angles.  Feel free to drop further if you want.  You can also go half way up and down in quicker strokes to work out the middle tri’s and really feel the burn.  Try not to let your legs do any of the lifting, just your tri’s and you will see them ripple if you look close enough in the mirror.  By the way, try not to be so damn incredibly narcissistic.

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~ by garcialoca on May 13, 2009.

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