damn the muse

It's a yearly thing I suppose, but I'm sitting here trying to ignore the sinus infection that's attempting to develop, tinkering away at all my sites. MT hasn't behaved in months, and I know I need to upgrade. I logged into blackglass, and I started checking the stats. My domain still gets some pretty decent traffic for being somewhat inactive. And yes, shame on me for not doing much with it this last year, but I have plans. Working in the real world just put them on hold for a while.

Back to the stats- looking at the referers was like glancing at an internet graveyard. There were two dead links, but 4 links lead to blog entries written by a dear friend dating back to 2002! I haven't heard from him in years. It was almost heartbreaking. He's still so popular, that I can only hope he's still writing.

I hope you're well, where ever you are, Machine.

Posted by yasmín at 3:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I confess that I am not myself when placed in the middle of a crowd. Shy, quiet, reserved. I'm the comma in the middle of the sentence. One of many paintings on display at an artist's premiere.

I confess that sometimes I wish I could scream, and scream, and scream some more until my throat aches from the strain on my vocal chords. Then I'll be petrified by it all. Not because I screamed, but because I, the subconcious attention seeker, had actually done it. Such sweet release even as prying eyes ogle me and I recoil from their gaze. Might I dance again? No one cares. The outside matters more. She may have a pretty step, but look at her. Do you like what you see? Please let me know. Attention whore that I am.

I confess that my self-esteem still gets the better of me.

I confess that I'm a woman, and I like it. I confess that I am a woman, and I hate it. Pretty eyes glance my way through the mirror, stubby legs and a stomach to match. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. That eye has stabbed me in the back.

I confess that I like men, but let's not talk about that.

I confess that religion and I don't seem to get along these days, but the Lord and I still have a lovely understanding, even if he still breaks my heart.

I have a confession to make. I have no more confessions . Revelations are a thing of the past, and these are just too painful. Too selfish, too insignificant, and in the end it all comes back to the thing I love to hate and hate to love: attention.

-----

x-posted from newsvine.

Posted by yasmín at 10:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Not long ago Wired had this article containing the shortest short stories. They were 6 words long to be exact, and they were written by today's better known horror, sci-fi, and fantasy writers.

Gown removed carelessly. Head, less so. - Joss Whedon

We kissed. She melted. Mop please!
- James Patrick Kelly

Heaven falls. Details at eleven.
- Robert Jordan

Starlet sex scandal. Giant squid involved.
- Margaret Atwood

What Wired failed to realize was the monster they had created. The lovely community at Newsvine decided to try it out, and now there are over 100 more short stories, and they're hysterical.

Posted by yasmín at 9:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I did it. I signed up. We can call me masochistic now.

Posted by yasmín at 9:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Oh look, I wrote a poem. The only catch is that it's in Spanish. I know, it's not fair. What was I thinking hiding my crappiness behind my native tongue. Actually, because the subject is someone dear to my heart who happens to be on my Mexican side, the words just came out better in español.

Posted by yasmín at 9:04 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Wackiest moment of the day:

Getting schmoozed by an Italian who once convinced he had me reeled in quoted the following lines from "Caressing Skin"

'My anticipation.
Sliding languidly up this painted face,
like bitter kisses caressing skin.'

In the immortal words of Monty Python sayeth I to Nik and my roommate, "Runaway, runaway."

Rule 1: You don't impress me by quoting my poetry (no matter how great) via icq.
Rule 2: When you quote lines like the above, you really do give mixed signals, and since I'm not in the mood for entanglement with middleaged balding men from Italia, the answer is no.

Posted by yasmín at 7:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

The audition for the Valentine's Cabaret went well. Very well. Daniel liked it, especially when Katie came in with the harmony. So, come the 13th and 15th we'll be singing "Angel" by Sarah McLachlin. I just hope I do the song justice.

Posted by yasmín at 7:34 PM | Permalink

4th of July

And then there were none.
No filler seats
or candied saddles.
No screaming serenades
by the tilted carousel.
No small painted faces
in white, red, and blue.
No starlit nights.
No country pride.
Just an ebony sky
beneath a local fair.
That site of laughter
devoid of it now.
Huddled in corners
hidden from the sun.
Free voices stifled
by a silent war cry
starting from the east
smothering the west
from a same centerpiece.
What once was theirs,
soon will be none
on this fourth of July.

© yasmín 2003. All Rights Reserved. That means that you don't take this without my permission or you die.

This is my sad attempt at a blackglass challenge. I'm going to hate it tomorrow. Just wait and see. Gah, I'm tempted to already take it down.

Posted by yasmín at 7:53 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)