{Sarah}
{MyBestBuddy}
{Skule}
{MyComments}
{faboo:logs}
In anguish,
a young throated bursting forth.
First in fear,
then in shock and anger,
finally in a sob of recollection:
a woman now.
Question: what am I talking about?
Did I force her to... never mind. Thanks for the notebook noor!
droll (drl)
Amusingly odd or whimsically comical.
n. Archaic
A buffoon.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[French drôle, buffoon, droll, from Old French drolle, bon vivant, possibly from Middle Dutch drol, goblin.]
See? GOBLIN!
Should I burn'em, Bury 'em or dump'em in the Thames?
From: Black Immortal *vampier@pacbell.net*
Subject: The First
The first to answer my calling... Leifea. She journeyed across the country to come to me , on her own, despite being only 13 years, to escape the poor enslaved existence she was trapped in and now because of the great laws of this land is being forcibly returned to the same existence she tried to so valiantly to escape. Her life remains in peril and I am frustrated beyond belief. We developed a close relationship through e-mails and upon meeting it was as though we had always known one another. Betrayed by a ÒChristianÓ Judas her life is shattered and mine shaken. I will not be silent and I will not cease my endeavors until she is safe and free. There are many like her and the time has come to offer sanctuary. Because of our laws however, only those 18 or older are free to make their own choices. Otherwise they must for their own ÒprotectionÓ be forced to attend a good Christian school not public, where they can learn and memorize scriptures, fairytales and hypocrisy. They can live with parents who are alcoholics, druggies and pathetic as examples and educators. They can be taught a lesson and put on probation, have their pentagrams taken away with their black clothing and incense. Forced to go to church, have no privacy, get their rooms searched and CDÕs taken away, along with books that are not ÒcleanÓ and ÒwholesomeÓ in the view of the most bloody organization man has ever created... the church. If you feel as I let me know... if not then please do not contact me except to ask to be removed from my list. ÒIgnorance is all around us and it is killing our youth and destroying our future. Our ÒChristianÓ leaders are no different than the Taliban in their radical out of touch views of who and what we are. I curse them all.Ó
The Black Immortal
sempiternus venatus
I AM 28% GEEK.
I probably work in computers, or a history
deptartment at a college. I never really
fit in with the "normal" crowd. But I have
friends, and this is a good thing.
Take the GEEK Test at Fuali.com!
Another option is to use HTML entities to encode
mailto: links and other mentions of your address so that extremely brain-dead spamware can't scrape it, like so:<a href="mailto:schampeo@hesketh.com"> Send me email! </a>| Disorder | Rating |
| Paranoid: | High |
| Schizoid: | Very High |
| Schizotypal: | High |
| Antisocial: | High |
| Borderline: | Low |
| Histrionic: | Moderate |
| Narcissistic: | Moderate |
| Avoidant: | Low |
| Dependent: | Low |
| Obsessive-Compulsive: | Low |
"I'm not saying that it's boring down in the mines. I'm just saying that it's boring down MY mine."
Red print paws mark an exit path
to the marble hallway, and through the door into the night.
Lover's red wound flows desire through ripe split lips.
Halloween is to me, now, the Vigil of Samhain; the souls of all in the animals of the night. Not neo-fantasy shit, but just a night for me to spend in the hills in the fall under the moon and just listen. Listen for all the sounds that I forget to hear every day. It is like a night of mindfulness. Luckily I've got a gypsy-psycho living in the house who has more in tune with dirt and growing stuff than I have in the rest of the known universe. I live and learn. She bitches about how stupid americans are. Thank god she doesn't believe me when I say it is just me.
Favorite halloween film? The wicker man.
Favorite halloween candy? Snickers and sweethearts.
But there is no meeting; eye to eye, tooth to tooth,
or better, lip to lip, thigh to thigh. And finally,
heart to heart, soul to soul.
When the blood of my heart burns on the soul of your fire
the tears of the mother will never quiet the rages of the son.
Woke up this morning desperation a.m.
What I've been saying won't say them again
My head's not empty, it's full with my brain
The thoughts I'm thinking
Like piss down a drain
And I feel like a beetle on its back
And there's no way for me to get up
Love'll get you like a case of anthrax
And that's something I don't want to catch
Ought to control what I do to my mind
Nothing in there but sunshades for the blind
Only yesterday I said to myself
The things I'm doing are not good
For my health
"Love crops up quite a lot as something to sing about,
cos most groups make most of their songs about falling in love
or how happy they are to be in love,
you occasionally wonder why these groups do sing about it all the time -
it's because these groups think there's something very special about it
either that or else it's because everybody else sings about it and always has,
you know to burst into song you have to be inspired
and nothing inspires quite like love.
These groups and singers think that they appeal to everyone
by singing about love because apparently everyone has or can love
or so they would have you believe anyway
but these groups seem to go along with what, the belief
that love is deep in everyone's personality.
I don't think we're saying there's anything wrong with love,
we just don't think that what goes on between two people
should be shrouded with mystery."
Love'll get you like a case of anthrax
And that's something I don't want to catch
Love'll get you like a case of anthrax
And that's something I don't want to catch
James Martin Enterprises, Inc. (MAKEMPAY5-DOM)
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Farmington Hills, MI 48331
US
Domain Name: MAKEMPAY.COM
Administrative Contact:
Matties, Martin (MM28577) mattiesm@JMEC.NET
JME Communications
39395 West 12 Mile Road Suite 100
Farmington Hills, MI 48331
248-324-1740 (FAX) 248-324-1741
Technical Contact:
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Billing Contact:
James Martin Enterprises, Inc. (K11378-OR) mattiesm@jmec.net
James Martin Enterprises, Inc.
39395 West 12 Mile Road Suite 100
Farmington Hills, MI 48331
US
248-324-1740 fax: 248-324-1741
Record last updated on 01-Oct-2001.
Record expires on 21-Sep-2002.
Record created on 21-Sep-2001.
Database last updated on 14-Oct-2001 22:20:00 EDT.
Domain servers in listed order:
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NS2.INTERNET-DNS.NET 216.87.0.197
I'm ashamed to be american!
I spend the evening being domestic. überdomestique, I would say. Like when was the last time that you or anyone of your acquaintance ever clean the oven. I don't mean mothers or professional cleaning employees. Well, I've been living here for about two years. And the house was only sparsely populated before that. Just Mme, and her crew, coming down at various times of year. And there was no way I could afford servants. So, aside from the person who takes care of maintaining the house, repairs and bills, Esmé and I are responsible. Or irresponsible. Well, she does most of the stuff, I have to admit, and herding cats is her divine calling, so she doesn't mind, and living here is a way better lifestyle than she was living in Lyon when we met up... cleaning. Ok, I cleaned the bloody oven. I remember seeing re-runs of that old 60s commercial. "Thirty years with my head in a dirty oven... this is marriage?" Well, 3 hours anyway. With a stupid wire brush and baking powder. Herr Doktor says no harsh modern clensers for me, no hair dye, no nailpolish, only organic stuffs. But he has a good track record, so what das Doktor says Smiling Sarah does. Baking powder and a wirebrush falls into the organic category.
And that bloody thing was caked with every one of my botched cooking experiments. Luckily I don't have to eat it. But *someone* complained that everything was starting to come out smelling like roast chicken, including pies. I don't make the pies, so I got away blaming the baker for a while. But it really smelled great, just too much of a single food type. So night is the night. As usual, everyone took off for the weekend or evening. I was able to slap The Catherine Wheel on the good stereo in the main room, and get to work scrubbing. Two boxes of baking powder and a destroyed wire brush later... I'm covered with black flecks and grey sludge and the kitchen is only slightly better, in a nice chaotic hemisphere about me. You could almost identify a ovencleaning shadow about me, but I figit so.
Cleaning the kitchen is nothing. Millions of years old, the floor predates indoor plumbing, and I think that the best way to clean it is to just hose it down and push everything out the back door on the flood. I will never live otherwise, though I don't really feel the need to have a kitchen as part of my life.
I guess that's why I blog about domestic stuff so much. I really do. I talk about it more than is natural. There's something in the kitchen that really catches my mind and imagination. I guess it has always been such a foreign part of my existence, yet so central to the lives of so many other women. I never grew up in the kitchen. My aunt and cousins did, but I just hadn't really bonded with her like that. I didn't want to do what mommy did. I was old enough to know that 'mommy' was gone,and Auntie just wasn't fulfilling that sort of roll. Books books books... so many I can't remember, and endless scribbling, or later running through the old farm next to our part of town... one that they later turned into a park. iI remember crawling around all the earth moving equipment when they started to transform my beautiful farm into just another county park. So I wa more likely to come home muddied and covered with hydrolic fluid in time to smell something wonderful coming from the kitchen; leaving me with a vague sense of expectation and regret every time. It was something I should do, but something that was just not part of me, in any sense. My aunt understood, and never pushed me to participate, nor excluded me from the fruits of their labors. I think she sensed that I was like my mother... more motorbikes than domesticity. But that wasn't true. I just never figured out how to fit myself into their rhythms of kitchen, so I had to find my own rhythms. Though even in the winters or when I had homework to do, I'd sit in the kitchen doing my homework or reading, while they chatted about everything and did whatever they were doing at the time. And watching them was almost like reading a book.
But now, over here, being who I am now. Somehow the kitchen is the most concrete link that I have to the living and life itself.
Google, darling. Speak to me.
Ok. I'm feeling rather ev-il. Not totally demonique, but rather, how you put it, dev-lish.
Do you thanque, dat you coude bay me anoder drank?[/stop]
At which point I spewed the nasty vile liquid I'd been sipping; misting her ever so delicately, as a halo to a sow. Well, a sow prettier than thou or I but of the family swine not withstanding. She was all pursed in silk, a damsole from her camisole down to heals of her over soled boots. Do I sound envious? No. Yes. No. Oh, I just don't know. Would someone please think for me. I am in such a swoon. Bitch. Think not for yourself, but think what others can think for you!
Oh I know I should be so descriptive. So very converrsational. I should interrogate my memory and my experience. What colour were her boots, and was her brastrap black or red? But all I can see is the glittering of my spewed drink in her hair, as she smiled thinly, and as I blushed sheepishly. And as everyone laughed, and a waiter refilled my glass.
Or is voyeurism porn?
<# Log Noir?>
And you know, if I'm asked nicely, I'll just about anything... except consume the bored. I'll take no dram before its time.
NoorSA has deigned to relocate her blog to my domain of love and glory.
Noor is finally where she should be and where I begged and begged for her to be. But nooooooo... she wanted to be her own girl, and use blogspot. Sure, be your own girl, you can have your own room, but let's share the house, right?
Ok, next year we can buy our own domain NoorSarah or something. But for now, we got www.sarahsmiles.com/noor. And I'm too happy for words.
Of course, if beth would only write, we'd be a trio again.
"About what?" you ask? Who knows. The lack of rain in spain?