Tourette's synaesthesia

I had a hard time thinking of something for this week's Poetry Thursday topic of synaesthesia. So I ended up with this little ditty.

People think I have Tourette's
but really I dig the smell of flowers.

Shit
that's good

cmmngs

wh hs ll th vwls?
d thy vr
cls thr mths
whn thy tlk?
r d thy drft
n cnsnnt fr sk?

oaaeoe
oeee
oeiou
eea
ooei
iaooaeey?

Not Me

Poetry Thursday's
weekly topic is writing as someone else.

I riffed on it:

I am not writing this poem. This
is someone else. Perhaps my neighbor
who stumbles in at 3 in the morning
while I am awake staring at my monitor
not writing this poem. Perhaps the
ghosts of 5 years ago but I think
they are too busy to bother they have more important people
than the me who is not writing this poem. Perhaps you are
writing this poem. That would be a neat trick writing and
reading at the same
time creating
the next
word out of your subconscious desire to see that word next
on the page no other word will do really it is obvious why
you have chosen that word next. Please choose well or the
world may end
again.

Another beginning

The secret to Casanova, argue the numerologists, is in the unique formation of the letters of his name. A, the first letter of the alphabet, ends the name. A is repeated consistently in the name; this repetition is violated just once. N, the middle letter of the alphabet, is directly situated before the violation.
C begins the name, also the first letter of a vulgar word for the male sex. VA ends the name, the first two letters of a proper word (which some consider vulgar) for the female sex.

As the numerologists are not clear on how to interpret their findings, other than to note their undoubted significance, I shall humbly attempt to do so below.

But first, my qualifications.

I hate numerology. This not the hate/love of a man for his penis, nor the laissez-faire hatred of a sleepy woman towards an empty bed. I want numerology to cease to exist. I want pages ripped out of encyclopedias, whole sections of university libraries empty. I want puzzled expressions on professor's faces when they search their minds for a discipline they used to know quite well.

I tried, oh how I tried, to hate numerology without knowing its innermost secrets. For years any mention of the subject would send me into a death-spiral of guilt and pain. I could not bear to hate something so well without understanding what it was that I hated. Why numerology? My mother was a launder, my father an autocrat. I was poor, then rich, then poor again, depending who raised me, which week or month or year it was. And throughout this bipolar time in my life, I gradually became aware of only one deep and sincere hatred.

Finally I harnessed my fear and rode it straight into the devil's mouth. I studied with Vincent, although at first he would not have me, with Bornoes, with Guildlily, overriding all their objections and hesitations. I attended the little-known midnight mass of St Charlene's in Attesbourgh, held once every five years and attended by numerologists of rare repute. I penetrated secret societies I cannot name here and learned tricks even I cannot access unless the need is great.

And I discovered the bizarre importance of Casanova.

All numerologists are impotent.

This is intentional! For the root of numerology is in ancient Jewish mysticism, and those rabbis were ascetics. They believed in God, that everywhere was God, and to see Her required bridging the world of man with the world of God, existing fully in neither. And as Casanova knew, the moment of orgasm is one of the few that demands complete existence in self.

A beginning

12 months before he died he began his memoirs, which started thus:

"12 months before I die I begin these memoirs. They are all that stand between me and not-me. At their moment, my moment, of completion I shall meet my anti-me and we will be annihilated in burst of fruit and light."

Not unlike a Starburst commercial.

Beginnings

I have this habit of starting to write a story, getting about a page, and then stopping and not knowing where to go. Beginnings are easy for me.
So I thought I'd post a few. Why not? Maybe it'll help me get past a page. Or maybe I'll start to explore the beginning a bit more; maybe there's something about these beginnings that's making it hard for me to continue.

Between...

...is soft.
You are softer.
You soften up
have a soft upper lip
You're a big softie.
You're not so stiff. You're stiffless.
You mold into the cracks. You bend
in unexpected ways, you melt in the sun you
drip onto the ground yo
u puddle up
and flow
awa
y

moon

the sky reflecting the lake
and there i am
smiling at the bottom

Kind Hearts and Coronets

Emily and I Netflixed (Is "Netflixed" better or worse than "Googled"? I vote worse) this 1949 movie because it got really good reviews and it starred Alec Guiness playing 10 members of the same family.
We stopped watching after half an hour.

This movie has made the cardinal sin of relegating the interesting bits to the background. In this case, the interesting bits are Alec Guiness, all 10 of him. But each Alec barely appears on screen for more than a few seconds before the main character kills him. And the main character has this irritating habit of droning on and on about random minutiae in what is likely supposed to be a parody of upper-class snoot language.

We watched Monty Python instead. Much better.

Sorry, Alec, your legacy remains at Star Wars for now.

ReBjorn

Let's try this again.