Last week I mentioned to a few folks that I'd never been described as "fun." Mind you, not being considered "fun" doesn't bother me. To quote Waking Life, "everybody knows fun rules," but I've never even thought of myself as a "fun" guy, despite thinking that I know how to have fun, if only in often atypical ways. I may be funny, yeah, and a purveyor/appreciatior of good times, but fun? Shit, I dunno.
Yesterday, however, I was told by someone whose stature increases steadily in my eyes that I was "more fun than a barrel of monkeys." Not only did this make me reconsider the concept of fun, but it made ye olde Corpse's sluggish, nicotine- and booze-addled heart leap, in a highly unexpected way.
I never fail to be impressed by a) her and b) her. Oh, and c) my ability to type far better than any drunken person aside from Faulkner or Bukowski has the right to. Of course, for all I know, Faulkner wrote by hand, and Bukowski might've puked on half his manuscripts, so I may be in the lead. Heh.
Seriously, and this is just pure aorta/brain-throb glee: HER!
I will, for once, put aside doubt and revel in what I've got going for me right now. Xie xie, Lao Tzu, xie xie, Tao, and (probably most importantly) xie xie, liao bu qi.
(Pardon my horrible use of English/Pinyin online dictionaries, lack of tonal marks, and drunken happiness. Fuck that- pardon the first two only.)
1 comment:
With your mercury mouth in the missionary times,
And your eyes like smoke and your prayers like rhymes,
And your silver cross, and your voice like chimes,
Oh, who among them do they think could bury you?
With your pockets well protected at last,
And your streetcar visions which you place on the grass,
And your flesh like silk, and your face like glass,
Who among them do they think could carry you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
With your sheets like metal and your belt like lace,
And your deck of cards missing the jack and the ace,
And your basement clothes and your hollow face,
Who among them can think he could outguess you?
With your silhouette when the sunlight dims
Into your eyes where the moonlight swims,
And your match-book songs and your gypsy hymns,
Who among them would try to impress you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
The kings of Tyrus with their convict list
Are waiting in line for their geranium kiss,
And you wouldn't know it would happen like this,
But who among them really wants just to kiss you?
With your childhood flames on your midnight rug,
And your Spanish manners and your mother's drugs,
And your cowboy mouth and your curfew plugs,
Who among them do you think could resist you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, they all did decide
To show you the dead angels that they used to hide.
But why did they pick you to sympathize with their side?
Oh, how could they ever mistake you?
They wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm,
But with the sea at your feet and the phony false alarm,
And with the child of a hoodlum wrapped up in your arms,
How could they ever, ever persuade you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
With your sheet-metal memory of Cannery Row,
And your magazine-husband who one day just had to go,
And your gentleness now, which you just can't help but show,
Who among them do you think would employ you?
Now you stand with your thief, you're on his parole
With your holy medallion which your fingertips fold,
And your saintlike face and your ghostlike soul,
Oh, who among them do you think could destroy you
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
Not sure why but your posts got me thinking of this Dylan song. It seemed appropriate somehow. Good luck man! - Bill
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