Archive

Sours

My girl, My girl, don’t lie to me,
Tell me, where did you sleep last night?
In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun don’t ever shine
I would shiver the whole night through

My girl, my girl, where will you go?
I’m going where the cold wind blows
In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun don’t ever shine
I would shiver the whole night through

Her husband was a hard working man
Just about a mile from here
His head was found in a driving wheel
But his body never was found

My girl, my girl, don’t lie to me
Tell me, where did you sleep last night?
In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun don’t ever shine
I would shiver the whole night through

My girl, my girl, where will you go?
I’m goin where the cold wind blows
In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun don’t ever shine
I would shiver the whole night through

My girl, my girl, don’t lie to me
Tell me, where did you sleep last night?
In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun don’t ever shine
I would shiver the whole night through

a blind sailor can’t see where the ship has sailed, still. the journey is map-less. about the seas, for that sailor, is home. to navigate and explore and gyre. this is veto, these waves, the rolling. the ocean, the distance. unanchored directionless. the salted face. the torn seams of the sails above, the weather. the length of time between voyages.

the ebb of falling-rising-floating by the moon-cast light. no dread just lasting. that sailor wears black pessimism, and something that sailor is not prepared for. the stars, the planks and a wind traveling through the empty sightless hollows. the silence above and the surging below. that sailor is facing backward, neither stopping nor starting. a shadow gliding, omnipresent. that sailor stopped breathing. that sailor will not answer.

there is the dark, the wood, the distinction important and cased in midnight suits. the difference is in the command, not taking any action, limited to advising the circumstance created. a dangerous situation. that sailor has hand, and reef, and steer. a single pulse, one minute of arc of latitude along the meridian. waves push torrents of static towards the sky.

 

Hello blog-world. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to take / make the time to lay down some writ and/or personal confessiandos, whatnot. Work’s been of utmost priority for me, expanding and growing with my organization’s new mandate, new roles therein. When I’m not working, full-time Mommyhood, shiny girlfriend + social times layered with being pregnant have erased clocks, watches, calendric systems.

I’ve got a moment & wanted to address a lil nugget of nuisance.

Maybe I’m alone in this experience, and how it makes me feel(?), but I seem to be on the repetitive copy of a former friend. From clothing to shoes, make up to hair style, music to art, and now……even though I’ve excommunicated myself from her entirely…..direct material from this blog to her recently launched online presence.

While we were friends, I tried to shrug it off for myself and consider copying as the ‘best form of flattery’. After too many incidents, I spoke with her about it, gently requested it stop, and offered to help her define her own style’n’such. When it was made clear to me that this person wasn’t truly a friend, (another tale), and the inevitable, albeit relieving finale to our union, I felt huge relief for so many reasons. This little teeny weeny example, was one of those exhalations.

But waddyaknow. This morning it was brought to my attention that this person had recently launched a T*****. Sadly, regrettably(?), I had a peek. Direct content copy/repeat. From things I’ve shared on Twitter – through things I’ve shared on this blog, including same categories, hashtags, the works.

There are *so* many articles out there offering insight and perspective on handling this type of scenario, how to react (if at all), copyright credits, etc. In the end, it all comes down to the public domain and my having no leg to stand on here. I’m irked. Again.

What is it with this person? Why are they so very-very unoriginal and incapable of identifying with themself, defining their own sense of style, sourcing their own inspiration? Given I don’t have contact with this person anymore, I can only file this irritant in the back of my mind, block them on other social channels and look away.

The Urban Dictionary has a term for this, Shadow Surfer.

In the big scheme of life, this really doesn’t matter, that much is true. And I’ve got so many amazing things swirling in my sphere, this hardly dents the aura. But I must admit, a good ol’ vent is such a release. Who knows? Maybe……….just maybe(?), said Shadow Surfer will read this…probably…haha…um definitely.

Self reflection is a gem dear, go on and get your own sandwich – it’ll probably taste better to you than borrowed meals.

Here’s a song for you: