I am taking next BlackHole off because I'm going on vacation. You may be thinking to yourself, "Melissa, aren't you unemployed now, so isn't your life like a vacation?" and "Melissa, since you are unemployed, how can you afford a vacation?"
Well yes and yes!
My life isn't like a vacation. I'm on a vacation from life. And I hope it stays that way. That's why I'm not taking out my septum piercing and I have a tattoo on my hand.
And no, I can't afford a vacation. I currently have $14 in my bank account, and I don't know when my next paycheck is coming in. I think the company I'm currently freelancing for is ignoring me and my invoices!
But who isn't?
Anyway, it's along story how I'm going on vacation, but it's with my family. And it's to North Carolina. I doubt I will have a good time. It's New Bern. This is it.
SO WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THAT?
I tried looking for comedy clubs around there. I think there's only old people.
I plan on entertaining myself by visiting the historical sites and taking pictures of ghosts of slaves.
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7 comments:
looks like a great place for people to die. don't die.
You can't leave just now, you just can't! I wrote a poem for you in the last hour. Not about you, but about someone exactly the opposite of you, (your would-be arch-nemesis in my mind's eye) and the protagonist needs this muse (i.e. you, in the next installment) whose humorously self-deprecatory writing style belies an internal-confidence and external-beauty that is there, whether or not you believe it, or express it, on the page or on the stage, and who is necessary to the protagonist's character development. Anyhoo, here it is, it's called "Ten Minute Musing: Lady Imperial"
She chose to service many …. save for this, her troubled partner;
Long-since plagued by riddles …. And dualities, departures;
And, all along, so many, many, many, many more,
Callous monsters, all of them …. savoring their whore.
Pure object, indeed - that is, to seek to know one’s self,
Power sought and measured by the breadth of her relations;
Freedom so she thought, but simply wars of tribes and nations;
Happiness she sought, but all the world was out for ‘delf.
The formula full-circle, competing views, resources, rations;
Sybarites and cuckolds likewise searching for ovations;
Disparate forums were proscribed, “zero-sum-gain” domination;
Compelled participation, or enduring deprivation.
The silk purse shan’t return, once the ear is fully “sowed”,
Perhaps the laughter shall desist, once she realize the trysts,
Internal universe, procreative, irretrievably is plowed,
One needn’t compile legends, neither anecdotes, nor lists,
As history repeats itself, the power is avowed.
And it was Thomas, once who thought, “I think, I think I can!”
But little Thomas, alas, could not, and so he wept;
Continuing the chase, a passion burning as he slept,
No longer dreams, the nightmares, transformed from a noble quest.
Complex fancying to be, simple relief, feet cleansed in summer rain;
Trading skills of mouth, for other sensualities so fleeting,
Dreams forestalled, the scant resources, steadily receding,
Listening neither to the cynic, nor to hopeful, accursed train.
Saxony and Palatine, await,
Shall it be in vain? The vigor and, of course, the dream abating?
History of youthful boasting, long have ended,
Shameful whispers under breath, and pain lingers unrelenting.
The fluffing, and the lunge and parry tact,
Emotionally scheming shades the Reign;
No more affects the mood, nor, the impact-
She should not seek to call on him again.
The campaign shall not, with success, protract.
Nicole, and Paris, Lindsey and the rest,
Still have it better, all must confess,
Trust funds dwarf the meager hope-chest
Of the girl who thought submission eventually might bring one rest.
Slaving to the senses, symptoms capital excess,
Rupert Murdoch on his island, consistently abreast,
Accumulating Dow, as well as My Space, and the rest,
Lord Soros struggles, contra; The balance is his quest.
And what of Thomas, little train, who thought, “I think I can!”?
Rolling backwards down the mound, before the mountain in his mind,
Continuing with modest plans, the search for “states content”,
A creature of inertia, what will be tomorrow’s find?
He’ll fall, but forward …. And, again! Again, oh Lord! Again!
The mind’s eye, tragic characters … They’re broken, but remain;
Make amends to all of those, who’ve loved him, all the same.
And some steadfastly lean, uphill, behind this sorry train,
Assume the vicar’s role, when the empire shall wane.
Have a safe trip, looking forward to reading more writing.
Did Steve Fulop just write me a poem?
Please don't tell anyone. Oops! My poop's already on the stoops.
By the way, it's a cautionary poem about human excess, not simply of capitalists, nor of self-appointed nay-babblers. The "Girl" may or may not be a "girl", and the gap may or may not refer to a clothing company. (But boys will be boys, and you should know this. And You CAN see my balls, in private, of course. But, if you want them in public, you'd have to agree to get on your knees, and let me air them out, over your nose; A 'tain'-ted ring, to help us sing, we'd be dancing cheeks to cheeks, so to speak.
-S
SORRY MY DEAREST, IT WASN'T ME. I ONLY SHOUT AT PEOPLE IN ALL CAPS.
AND I ONLY WRITE MY POEMS IN ESPERANTO.
mmmm hmmmm,
julian xo
Melissa,
Before the peanut gallery tries to stoke another bonfire (because it is always in its nature to do so), I like your writing .... period-end. good stuff.
I just wrote a ten-minute ditty for your consumption, and, admittedly, considering (1)the contempt you've expressed for Mr. Steve and (2) the preface and closing, I was a bit offended that you'd place this in that category, i.e., something written by one for whom you've expressed loathesome feelings.
It may have been what he'd write, if he'd actually written what you'd attribute to him, and if he actually, and with mean spirits, would respond to his detractors.
So, all in love, maintaining verbal agility, seeking peace and tranquility,
S.
New Bern looks splendid!
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