Maybe it's the unusually cool weather. Maybe it's the exorcism we had at the house recently. Whatever the cause, I've been thinking about that holiest of holidays, Halloween, and wondering what I may come up with for my halloween costume this year. As planned, it will be my first Halloween spent out of the great state of Kansas. So it's special. Here are some ideas:

1.  Barbarella

Needless to say, the best space vixen this side of the Degoba system. I'm not sure I can pull it off. I'd probably succeed better with a villain costume. Although the obscurity factor becomes even greater. And despite my Indyrockitude, I want to be at least identifiable to more than 1 percent of the population.

The villain, portrayed by the legendary 'sixth' Rolling Stone Anita Pallenberg, has a horn, sequins and great black hair. yowza

and a sexy Eat-Your-Heart-Out-Daryl Hannah eyepatch in some scenes

No where do I get a see-through plastic horn?

2. My idea from last year which was never realized, a girl celebrating her Quinceanera in a big gawdy pink dress who was, unfortunately, ravaged just prior to her coming-of-age Mexican ceremony by a blood-thirsty chupacabra.

Which results from my deep-seated desire to be a debutante, obviously. Now, where do I get a chupacabra?

Currently Watching The Heart of Me By Helena Bonham Carter, Olivia Williams, Paul Bettany see related

"get off the computer"

so sayeth my bro, ben. a decent imperative.

super mario bros 3. fo real.

I went to summer camp and still haven't changed my hair. I'm beginning to think it's never going to happen, the whole making it blonde thing I promised some people. But I'm no promise keeper, so. Whatevah.

In other news, typing takes so much energy. The weight of the summer is getting to me. West Nile is taking its toll. My computer has no internet, I feel like a renegade blogger with nowhere to call home. My name is Lobo, I hunt alone.

What's with this homie dissin' my blog? So, someone who I know well said recently that my blog was drivel and boring and such and a waste of time and uncreative and boring. Did he mention that it is boring? However, he did like the dream picture entries. So to contintue with that spate and to honor my fffff---fffff----er, ffffffriend...yeah, my "friend".... another dream imagery amalgam is soon to come. Whenever I remember my dream again, that is. Until then, prepared to be bored senseless by a few poems I wrote my freshman year that I found recently. And boy, they are bad. But not quite as bad as my high school poetry. Thankfully, I've given up writing poetry.

Untitled

While my mold had hardened hers was just beginning to be pried open exposing fresh and vulnerable skin She awakened with the intensity of a sunrise (editor's note: oh, the metaphors!)

Shafts of golden hue erupting into a blinding, baffling brightness (editor's note: oh the alliteration!)

I watched her transformation as a mother with a child both excited and frightened

After this poem in my notebook I wrote "10 words to learn" but only listed four. Math was never my strong suit. (The words are sycophant, inconsonant and umbra/penumbra). I must have been distracted.

Here's was my S&M inspired poem that I actually read at a poetry reading at Aimee's. I think some California guy liked it and clapped loudly. But then again, he clapped at everything.

Untitled (editor's note: couldn't I come up with titles? I mean, it's not like you have to follow any rules to write them, like headlines. They can be a series of dots, for crying out loud)

Rip it, fling it

make the motion scream a high pitched note that tears your throat and a single thread along a needled path that winds and winds into your eardrum, coming out your veins aching.

A solid mallet flung into the softness of your sigh. A mile high cross scraping you away that makes you want to die and not regret it.

Stroke me with a hand that bleeds. Let the wind whip one thousand wounds into flesh that begs to breathe. Feel the rot ring inside the doldrums of your spine, that numb space forever pacing, waiting, waiting, for whatever shades the vibrant blood of life

Feel the rot ring inside and come alive again. Rip me fling me breathe the wind that whips one thousand wounds and count the days we are alive solely by our sighs of pain.

(editor's note: Egads)

I actually like this poem, which I think was about a mother and her emotional distress. Not that I really know anything about it, but I think I was learning about postpartum depression at the time in one of my psych classes.

Baby's breath

Baby's breath, a sweetly swept song without words or notes                            a swelling face, a wide mouth,                                 the song erupts and quells the sadness of her own sighs.

Baby's breath, upon the sheets and silences, a smile that spans a room she leaps across to kiss,

the searching mouth, wet and perfect with syncopated breath and milk churning for a need.

Baby's breath,

mother's milk

Exhausted and feeding, this need is braiding down her spine.

Currently Playing Weezer (Green Album) By Weezer see related

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Oh Brad

I went through a Brad Pitt phase, like many girls have//will do. Mine was a sizeable crush, I must admit. I discovered him on the cover of a People magazine I picked up while preparing for an unfortunate surgery. Enmeshed in my own mental anguish, I found comfort in his angelic visage. As a somewhat tomboyish and thouroughly geeky tween with a definite inferiority complex, his somewhat feminine masculinity with a thouroughly hot bod and definite intellectual mediocrity proved both sexy and really sexy, once I thought about it for a while. Legends of the Fall was what did me in. Tristan was the bad boy with a swollen heart, and the obvious wrong choice (over Aidan Quinn's obvious good choice). But his golden locks, matching tan and tragic figure could win over even the most pragmatic woman. I filed loveable Louis in my collection of mental escapes, for what could be sexier for imaginative 12-14 year old girls than an immortal beloved with nice hair? A River Runs Through It was riveting, Seven was spectacular, 12 Monkeys was more than I could ask. After that, my love for Brad waned and now I'm indifferent at best where my pathetic early obsession is concerned. Heck, I didn't even see Troy. So what, I ask, is up with my dream last night?

I dreamed of  playing

Either I'm subconsciously channeling Brad Pitt's brainwaves or these are archetypal symbols in disguise with great meaning to my life that I'm completely oblivious to. I'm going with the former. Of course, the other possibility is coincidence, but how boring is that?