Bummer.

A spider bit me on the face.

My cheek and my lip are now all swollen.

I look like that munted guy from 300 who limps around Leonides until he gets rejected and then goes and helps the Persians breach Thermopolae...

Worst Sunday Ever.

Random Thought Friday!

The concept of seasonal produce hurts my brain.

This, friends, is not because I am retarded or somehow incapable of associating fruit with weather, but because I live on that funny little island down the bottom of the world.

Raspberries and strawberries in summer, in England, makes sense. Because berries happen in summer, in England.

Berries are not from Australia.

So what are the poor little strawberry brains supposed to do - keep bearing fruit in June, or skip forward six months because it's too chilly out?

Think about it.

And then there's the whole issue of how strawberries got over here in the first place... Were there garden boxes on the First Fleet? I like that idea...

Now you are pushed to your feet every day,
Kicked in the ankles to force each foot forward.
You have always been told to kick yourselves,
But you've always had each other for that.

Now you are the points of a compass,
Destined to point your separate ways,
Told that your paths must divide,
But fighting tooth and fucking nail to cling together.

Now you are broken shards,
Of something never quite whole,
You're not healing the way you used to,
But you don't know quite why the stitches don't hold.

Now you are stupid,
No - you always were stupid,
Foolishly idealistic, with foolish faith in each other,
But your hearts fit back together and your scraped knees healed.

Now it does not come so easily.
Now you point to different corners.
Now there is space.
Now there needs to be space.

Now you are Men and Women.

Above My Bed

My beautiful goddess card collection spreads over my head. It's pretty cool and it brightens up my grey little room.

It's fitting on a Sunday...

.. to talk about George and Dot.

George is my other love...

George is very special.

Dot is very special too... Have you ever seen a character and just thought...





"She is me."...?





I have.

Nothing seems to fit me right.

The less I wear, the more comfortable I feel.

More rouge...

George is very special.

Maybe I'm just not special enough for him.

If my legs were longer.

It my bust was smaller.

It my hands were graceful.

If my waist was thinner.

If my hips were flatter.

If my voice was warmer...

She sings with my voice... or do I sing with hers?





And George sings with a voice that's unlike anything else I've ever heard.

Mapping out a sky.

What you feel like,

planning a sky.

What you feel when voices that come

Through the window

Go...

Until they distance and die,

Until there's nothing but sky

And how you're always turning back too late

From the grass or the stick

Or the dog or the light,

How the kind of woman willing to wait's

Not the kind that you want to find waiting

To return you to the night,

Dizzy from the height,

Coming from the hat,

Studying the hat,

Entering the world of the hat,

Reaching through the world of the hat

Like a window...

George is an artist, Dot a work of art. They are my greatest inspiration.





I don't think you, reader, could possibly understand the power of this poetry until you hear it sung through George's lips.





If there is one new thing you listen to this week let it be Sondheim's aesthetic masterpiece Sunday in the Park With George.





This is what perfection sounds like.