BUT NO. A-PAR-HANT-LEE some people either
A) Really HATE Baltimore
OR
B) Cringe at the thought of me gaining anything from my life
A-PAR-HANT-LEE these people read my last blog and actually took nothing poetic or relaxed or really useful from it. They just got Angry. They just used it against me.
A-PAR-HANT-LEE they found some offense in my love of seagulls, and crab cakes, a malls, and the 695 Beltway. A-PAR-HANT-LEE they think maybe i should just be miserable. Maybe i should just forgo any happiness or light and transform myself into a thoughtless gnome.
WELL HERE'S A THOUGHT:
Leave me alone.
Get off my case.
If you have a complaint, file it in a box and throw that box in the ocean.
Actually you could just ship that box to me. I can hit the ocean from here.
(It really would take quite some time for your complaint to travel so far to the Atlantic from all the way up in the Mountains, Now wouldn't it???)
If you don;t like that thought i have another on for you, but you'll probably shirk this one off as well:
Call me and tell me you don't want me to be happy.
Call me and tell me that my references annoy, hurt or anger you.
Tell me, instead of badgering someone else.
A-PAR-HANT-LEE, once again, I am not allowed to express my thoughts freely, so I have to use these veiled allusions (which people OFTEN TIMES take much too literally) to sned any messages.
And Boy, is this white child sick of people using her writing to interpret her life. People who don't take the time to even think to, oh I don't know TALK TO ME, are reading my blog, looking at my myspace, riffelig through my personal journals, and rooting through the proverbial garbage of my mind in order to garner some false sense of what I mgiht be thinking at any given time.
Can anyone really know what, in his most profound work, The Wasteland, Eliot meant by the verse:
THE river's tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;
Departed, have left no addresses.
By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept...
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
Can anyone really judge what her state of mind was when Charlotte Bronte set our to write Jane Eyre?
If you can, you would be the first, a true inside source. Surmise. Wonder. Philosophize. Discuss. Debate. Theorize. Hypothesize.
You could look at their history. Consider the evets in their life and what effect they might have had on their overall sensibility and opinion. You could look at their Zodiac sign and determine if they are an analytical thinker or a heart-lead feeler. You could sit for hours and ponder all the hidden messages. Or whether there was only on message. You could discuss their motifs, plot, setting, or theme. You could divine an answer with runes.
In short you could Guess.
But do you really know? Is it really fair to make the assumption and say with authority what is and isn't, what is meant and derived, what is said and what is omitted?
In truth, you do not know. Nor do you know or have any understanding.
STOP THE LIES.
Or just ask me. I'll tell you all my dirty secrets.
The clean ones you'll have to pay for.
