let us applaud the german uni-deer

'venus in furs' just played, dampening my memory with high-school intrigue; now it is 'million dollar baby' and i am reminded of missing alice cooper at the emerald queen casino because of a fight with the ex. i do regret that. alice cooper would have been great in concert- even, no especially, at a crappy casino in fife, washington.
i spent the day getting shown seattle by the marvelous bus system. i have a crush on public transit in general- it is the first, and often only, thing i do in most places. the sun was filtering through the leaves alongside the road. i tend to stare out the window rather than regard the societal microcosm i am surrounded by- thereby missing out on far too much- but i do eavesdrop. the first bus had conversations spoken in other tongues. i was the only fucking cracker aboard, other than the scowling transvestite in the accordiony section. fell asleep en route- i am either an insomniac or narcoleptic, or both. i browsed through a huge asian grocery in white center. everything on the shelves was dented and dusty; the place itself was dead quiet.
it is gratifying to discover new places in the realm i have grown accustomed to. i know seattle very, very well. but not well enough! it still has secrets, ways to flummox and intimidate and delight me. a tantalizing maiden, to be sure.
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random snapshot from the world, even earlier today: i am driving to a DiSC training for my job, on my day off, in the uninsured, mold-encrusted, blissfully shockless sweet green. i am doing 70 down I-5 and singing along AS LOUDLY AS I CAN to 'living without you'. and that, as we all know, is a song that no one should sing, much less loudly- it is a karaoke nightmare, karaoke or not.
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i spent the last 24 hours rereading things. 'the black prince', 'bridge to terabithia', 'the mole people.' all are excellent. all are very different. and now i have an amalgam of julian's purple boots and clabber and braiding your hair so it stays clean and rudderless invalidation of your life and a weirdly shameful giddiness of inspiration and amazement at the possibilities that lurk everywhere, exploited by at least one person somewhere.
it is a muddle.
'the black prince' is full of utterly abhorrent characters, but damned if it doesn't still turn me on. it's the repression of it, the intellect blustering over the carnality, muting out THE SHAME of it. it reminds me of 'lolita.' and, to my sincere displeasure, that book also turned me on like mad.
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the turn-on is: REPRESSION. knowing that what you are desiring is bad, illogical, entirely without reasonable merit. it does not matter what that actual desire is. the eroticism comes from the internal conflict- the actuality is, at that point, irrelevent.
shame is second only to curiosity in its ability to arouse.