get your war on, yo.

(I know it's been one-liners lately. The big block of text just isn't getting through. Writer's constipation. Out for a pint tonight. We'll see if it helps. Dancing shake the words loose.)

this could get interesting...

Today's Rechav Sumsum was brought to you by: annie, Chinaka, and the letter zed.

and then there were math dice. r0x0r5.

I have let my hands use my head, blinded my eyes, denied my heart. I have forgotten the face of my father. This is more than BB guns behind the garage; this is the strange stinging sweetness of cleaning oil and smooth movement that is no longer hand-arm but mind-eye; this is small and powerful in the hands of protective and knowing. I miss knowing who I am and how I want to live.

I have never known my mother's face. I hold dear my father's.

I do not aim with my hand.
He who aims with his hand has forgotten the face of his father.
I aim with my Eye.

I do not shoot with my hand.
He who shoots with his hand has forgotten the face of his father.
I shoot with my Mind.

I do not kill with my hand.
He who kills with his hand has forgotten the face of his father.
I kill with my Heart.
-s.k.

This is the unofficial themesong to Adaptation, out of whose self-examining silent to inner soundtrack self-delving fugue I'm climbing even now. It has to be.

I live in a hotel / must keep writing / if I'm to be better than everyone else / like figure skating / like asphyxiating / on your own seeping fumes / you're just waiting / living in a hotel / but I'm not traveling / between two points, in mid air, / I'm levitating / above the earth / beneath the sky / eyes like static / in my three feet / from bed to wall / there sleeps a genius / leave me here to my devices / the call could come at any time / they're playing love songs on the radio tonight / I can't relate to that right now / note so self : no one cares. your voice is average / in worried piles I typed for miles and noone noticed / I will begin / I will put right / this morning terror / I have been kissed / between the ears / by human error / leave me here to my devices / I need a word to change my life / I've tied my ankles to the table legs with wire / he can't write so much as type / leave me here to my devices / I can't think with all this noise / they're playing love songs on your radio tonight / I don't get those songs on mine / you keep fucking up my life

-jets to brazil, I typed for miles

Posting drunk instead of sitting in the shower... oblivion in cups instead of sleeping an annihilating twelve hours a day. What is wrong with me lately? I know it's more socially acceptable to do this on a Saturday night instead of working-sleeping-working-sleeping, but this is not better...? I'm never sure these days. Speaking and typing very very deliberately. Grammar impeccable especially when full of tequila and rum. I don' twant to do this anymore. Time to start writing again. I could get drunk more often and the words would come like lightening, spelling errors aside, and it would feel so good... but then the writing would be from nights rightfully spent in tubs asleep, no good.