THIS IS A READ-ONLY ARCHIVE FROM THE SORABJI.COM MESSAGE BOARDS (1995-2016). |
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boy stealing green bicycle from the corner of emerson and minnesota late 12/22. i'm totally in love with you though you took my beautiful bike away. musicians wanted: various musicians (bike punks preferred) to form a one-show band for a bike benefit in north portland. must be willing to cart equifpment to my house; i play flute and keyboards and my bike's gone. lauren 286-xxxx. i didn't lock up my bike last night when i got home from work and so it was gone when i woke up this morning. i woke ben up with my shouting and stomping and whining about my bicycle. i woke up afraid that my bike was gone and when i discovered it was stolen i was severely annoyed so i've already expirienced both my emotions today and it's only noon. so there's going to be a benefit for my new bicycle on january 25th, the day after my birthday, to raise money and collect parts so i can build a new one. everyone's invited. |
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joel is enthusistic about either playing or having his band play. i'm going to strt a band specifically. it happens. i flipped out during my lunch, started crying and couldn't calm down for nearly an hour. the rest of my day i felt really shitty and could hardly work at all. i couldn't understand what anyone was saying, iall i wanted to do was curl up and cry. i hate christmas. all the people on high stress wanting the same things right now. billions of one hours and "you need to unlock this case right now" every five minutes. i felt claustrophobic and sick, solitary as all get out. finished my christmas shopping and there's nothing i'd rather do on christmas day than sleep the entire day. my only day off this week is the holiday; i'm working 45 hours and i can't handle this emotionally. i am headed for a nervous breakdown i want to break down my body bit by bit and thropw it into the fire. let the flames lick my bones one by one to ashes and dust, become one with the earth. ashes to ashes, dust to dust. but rise up out of the flames as a phoenix, strength renewed as one is reborn through the heat and burning. i will be invincible and no one can keep me from flying to the stars. no one. ask icarus if he regretted those waxen wings once he tasted the sky. ask anyone. |
Thats pretty shitty Pez, the other month someone stole my cycle lights from my bike 'cos i forgot to take them into the studios with me. Stupid dicks, why would they want two cycle lights without the clips to use them. fuckers! I hate people who steal. - thats a pet peve that i forgot to put down. |
I understand those poor folks are open 24 hours a day 365 days a year. Ouch!!! That's got to hurt. When I started working in retail, the stores were closed for all federal holidays. Then they started to open on Labor Day and Memorial Day. With volonteer employees only; of course. After a couple of years the employees had to work one of those holidays. Then one year the store I worked for was written up in the paper about how nice it was that a retail company would close and give their employees the Fourth of July holiday off. You can guess what they did the following year. But, by then I was gone. My wife has often said, "one of these years in stores Christmas will be celebrated between Twelve Midnight and Twelve O' One AM." They have got to go after the almighty dollar. |
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i'm going to chop off my hair and dye half of it bright red. sew my 30's style dress and wear it with my 50's frames, cutup sweatshirt, fishnets and black satin slingbacks for the show. it'll be pretty. all i have so far is a song about icarus. i could revamp some of my 17depression poems but that's no fun. |
i'm glad you flew the coop, pez. happy new year! |
Icarius, The Tender Lover Well into the deeply warm summer night He has slipped away Whoring of this world’s oath and bond And gone from sleep by garlands of wine Slipped past the slippery glass. And he has ridden upon forbidden wings To heights he cannot comprehend, where some say Erigone had hung herself for grief of him; There, in the islands’ mists he partook Of freshest berries and fresher cream. Some say, too, he dabbled with the feast of life Fresh time itself and even of the night And has lived Throughout unspoken flights of fancy Only in the freedom of dream, Where at morningtime, gazing homeward He found that things had changed: The festival gone, the murder made, Night’s constellations turned to sun The warm dark night now the cold wet dawn. from Something Like The Cost of Darkness © 1980 Daniel L. Smith |