overocea: (Default)
I am so afraid of doing so wrong that I falter and start, mumble and fart
about, do nothing and nothing more, until I have no choice anymore,
and am saved! no more decisions for me, hurray.
I'll live to while away
a few more hapless, harried days.

so much life spent being
sad and uncertain and sorry and scared. how silly, how silly, how silly.
but, well, as long as everyone hurts but me
(sighing, staring longingly
while I spit my prettie words like coins,
hugely blinking shining, guileless eyeshadows
at all the girls &boys),
yes, maybe. maybe, perhaps, we'll see..
as long as, till then, you keep feeding me.
I need, I need, I need.

eh, dishonesty.
look, here I go,
I snarl and tear my only flesh,
already purple and red and grey,
eaten away.
eating for the rotten part
but there's so much in the way.

I start to think there never was
any quite so rotten
as that I've chewed to bleeding death.
but, well...
even my own miserable flaws are more enthralling by far than anyone elses's enchantingly shining traits
any day. :)

"Whenever she felt lost in the endless deserts of insomnia she would take up the labyrinthian thread of her life again from the beginning to see if she could find at what moment the paths had become confused."


Apr. 1st, 2010 11:34 am
overocea: (Default)
I am reading of Paracelsus, Renaissance physician, rejecter of magic, namer of zinc, creator of laudanum..

arrogant, bombastic believer that the universe was "one coherent organism pervaded by a uniting lifegiving spirit, and this in its entirety, Man included, was 'God'.."

contradictor of the traditional Galenic medical belief in the four humours of the body..

whose motto was "atterius non set qui suus esse potest," or "let no man that can belong to himself be of another" (men, because women were only ever of another)..

who also wrote "Alle Ding' sind Gift, und nichts ohn' Gift; allein die Dosis macht, daß ein Ding kein Gift ist," or "All things are poison and nothing is without poison, only the dose permits something not to be poisonous.."

and who provided the first scientific mention of the unconscious!

but this is by far my favourite quote:

Let me tell you this: every little hair on my neck knows more than you and all your scribes, and my shoe buckles are more learned than your Galen and Avicenna, and my beard has more experience than all your high colleges.
overocea: (all the sights)
If I can fervently drink his tears, wrote Jean Genet, why not the so limpid drop on the end of his nose? To this we can reply: first that nasal secretions are not so limpid as tears. They are more like treacle than water. When a thick rheum oozes from the eye it is no more apt for poetry than nasal rheum. But admittedly clear, fast-running tears are the stuff of romantic poetry: they do not defile. This is partly because tears are naturally pre-empted by the symbolism of washing. Tears are like rivers of moving water. They purify, cleanse, bathe the eyes, so how can they pollute?
-- Mary Douglas, Purity and danger: An analysis of the concepts of pollution and taboo, p. 125.

in other news, i've one week to write 75% of my dissertation.
overocea: (i'm an unbutterflie girl)
so i'm wondering what the fuck is up with drycleaners lovingly caressing muculent looking stains? it's not like it could possibly be anything anyone would want to touch.

me: *dumps a pile of disgusting clothes on the bench*
little old drycleaner lady: *goes through them till she finds the most disgusting article of the lot* oh, look, stains! what happened here, then? *picks at an encrusted glob of goop*
me: ... hello? THAT'S VOMIT.
little old drycleaner lady: *yanks hand away in horror* oh! okay then. well, what about this? this isn't vomit! *pick pick pick*
me: um, yeah. THAT'S SEMEN.

meanwhile, a mystery someone just ordered me a paid-for surprise pizza, yay! MUAH!

no doubt to enforce a break during mad-essay writing. ahh. well i've just started (thus the livejournaling...). it was due yesterday, but Sarah & Hawkins stopped to visit on their way to the snow, and ended up distracting me for two whole days. and last night i'd the worst hayfever evar. I went miserably to bed at 8:pm, forestalling all my plans of intoxicated wonder :<


oh, essay, yes yes. i'm not sleeping till it's done.


Jun. 8th, 2006 02:16 pm
overocea: (follow my fishie)
1. prepare for the worst: always have a back up plan.
2. know your facts: do the research inside out.
3. develop your story and beyond: leave no room for question.
4. create a situation in which the possibility of a lie would be absurd.
5. self delusion: it is not a lie. if you can convince yourself you can convince anyone.
6. TRUST NO ONE: never tell. the truth does not exist.

I always felt I should have been born on a Wednesday. Alas, I am Thursday's child. oh yes:

Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday’s child is full of grace,
Wednesday’s child is full of woe,
And Thursday’s child has far to go.
Friday’s child is loving and giving,
And Saturday’s child has to work for a living.
But the child is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and lucky and wise and gay.

Felon woke me up at 6am vomiting on my bed. YUCK. but I still love her. I wrote of her when she was a baby, October 2004, her cute quirks:
  • she purrs constantly. I haven't once not heard her purr in the 5 days since I picked her up.
  • she lies on the desk while i'm at the computer and kitten-hisses at the cursor moving around the screen (kitten-hisses are like little facial explosions).
  • when about to use her kitty litter, she pounces it first like she's going to prey-murder it.
  • she can't seem to learn that jumping up through a glass tabletop is not possible.
  • she eats SO MUCH. it's like she feels guilty for all the starving kittens in Abyssinia. and when she eats a lot her stomach swells out really huge like she swallowed a magic 8ball whole and if you shake her she'll vomit enigmatic answers to desperate "does he love me?"s

and meet today's entertainments:


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