Boy quid bright eyes

January 13, 2009
By adora lee, Lebanon, NH

High pitched singing from usually softly spoken girls ribboned about me, trailing my steps. My marching went all kaboom kaboom sounding, some bizarre sensation mushrooming through the dense smoke. I was alone and starved of his presence, but hell,I could do anything. More importantly, I will do something. I am motivated this very instant. I'm going to do deeds of great and horrible things.
They don't recognize my old soul, only the youthful girl in a one piece tied died suit. I avoid seeing the fashion in the uniform, that makes it a packaged thought that is plastically distributed to malls for consumers to spend spend spend on. I'm not unique or different, just neurotic enough to be overexcited by finding elastic bands on the side of a road. It made hiking in ugly boots worthwhile.
The beads in my dreads hold some holy power, cause even the impoverished materialists spoil them. I reject their earnest praise with sincere hatred, but bless the junk which is our very soul all day. Time doesn't stop.
I've pawned all of the jewelry. The money has helped propel me across countries, more so by chance of fate and opportunity then by wishfully thinking I had the ability to organize a planned schedule of expenditures. There comes moments of desperate measures, like when the coffee contraband runs out.
Bums like me are happy, we have a confident style and constant smile. It's a universal beauty that passes language barriers. It's natural, but how alternative it is depends on the perspective of the evolutionary rate of a society. Anywhere I go I can claim to be an ordained priestess. In India that claim holds more ground then in America. The U.S. has cracks for people to fall down, that depressing loss holds no shackle over the families who have nothing to gain. Oh, the enlightenment they'll never have the realization of having known. A revelation to the tribal man is that food, a decent meal equals happiness. You will never find content people, because they travel. Since they're clearly in denial and must escape the local landscape and seek to take some foreign current that almost but never drifts them to a setting that escapes them of their self.
I too wear pin stripes, ties, vests, fancy hats, and lacesl But I am neither professional or pretty. I am a billboard of mockery. The tattoo of homeland across my heart is Buddhist scroll over a map. The main question asked is how such a white girl became so intrigued in ethnic pleasantries. "Idle trinkets" I reply but resort to writing why I've lost faith.
At first, I had considered us a subspecies of animal. I was close, but no cigar. I forget if it is either a germ or a virus in mammal form, but one identifies us. One or another identifies the craft of our inbred, specialized art.
I bother to be intricate because the details make life less mundane. The doldrums you decide to live in are no fun. I trust the effort is as meaningless as physical blow to the head, but there it all the same.
The Goblinesque portrait of my face is cold framed. Although I am swayed, I like to be indifferent. It gives my character strength when I loose all of my watercolor paint and so the canvas fades back to a dull scale of grey. No personal value. Peaceful passiveness redirects mental stress, it und up in my tummy but I can puke out rainbows left over from an unnecessary meal.
A clinic assistant, committed to the same institution she worked for, told repetitively how she was once born a unicorn. I wondered hence, if all of this particular breed were in fact suicidal.
I read books to absorb their auras, peoples fantasies intoxicated me. Accept for the detail that I could remember I was inspired. I have a collection of fixations, my poor memoirs don't bother to write notes saying stalker.
The top of my hat has a hole for emergencies, its more productive then the patches you offer. Not to scuff, though that what I do indeed so, at the means of fingering you subjectively imply. Needle thin crayons graffiti the sea, I've picked up and lost those skills and along with them, fond memories. My tackle box just wasn't locked, I didn't try too hard to break it. Back alley aloofness, no survivors, no pity sanely.
Music is Amsterdam, Holland tolerates it as tourists adore it from a far. Like looking at the Japanese cherry blossoms from across the streets. Like not licking the full moon or battling machine bears while fight rambling. Like wearing a wool hat but not gone lama herding in Nepal and right after scuba diving in the icy hot waters to the stage where whales and baby barnacles royally serve pirates..
Pink goggles and disposable clothes, I am a model under my veil. Women and men don't smell like flowers and taste like lollypops but I get daily reminders of how merely beautiful existence is. Insignificance runs around like blinking.
Studded friction and spikes digging along a straight edge spine. Crazy women with deceitful intentions and disease riddled boxes with rare infections. Under a microscope there is no protection for your telescope. Wonder in the labyrinth with the maze, hands reach out to caress or attack. We celebrate as one together around a dancing bonfire, but at some point in space we take turns making it our pyre.

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