hoookaaah

my head is full of sweet hookah smoke and i know i'm gonna have to use it fast because pressing hard, leering close, is the old face of reality. there it is *points* i can see it through the shifting, lovely haze.

use it for what? i'm not sure.

i have a house, that's one thing i know we work for. it's important to have a roof over your head and a floor to sit on (or a couch, or chairs, if one is inclined in that direction). these things are important to have so we're not just sitting in a park or on the cement. it's hard to sleep in the park, or to smoke hookah on cement. it's hard to make food without a house -- refrigeration is key, as is a stove. important.

in america, it's important to have a vehicle too. most of the time, and in most places in america. work. school. socialization. meetings. so we have to work for that too, because self-transportation isn't free. neither is insurance. nor gas. blah blah.

food. clothes. shoes. domesticated animals. caged animals, or ones that live in tanks.

then there's the entertainment we use to distract ourselves from that old face. from it's constant, ever-leering face. this too is a necessity, though some may disagree.

posted before i'm ready... more to say but cut short. reality sets in sooner than expected.

so i don't forget...

If the song of the bird outside on your balcony
rings higher and sweeter than the song of your phone,
if the arms and the blossoms of trees are your home,
and the sky is your comfort, where ever you roam --
blessed are you by me,
one whom you'll never know,
together we'll share this love
in the fields of words that we sow.

~me~

"our hands are tied"

trite phrases. what to do with them? a woman's voice gets a little flustered on the other end of the line.

"we can't do that because we don't know if you're who you say you are."

"oh." my voice is dumbfounded because i thought there were ways to prove your identity over the phone, by giving little treasures of information out, piece by precious piece.

that's when her voice peaks, as if my simple puff of a word is an accusation. which it's not.

"well there's just nothing we can do about the situation. our hands are tied."

and i'm thinking, what does it really mean -- to have one's hands tied. how many of us have ever had our hands truly tied in our pasts? not of our own free wills, of course.

and then for a second i'm having visions in my head of struggling. my hands and feet are bound tight and my muscles hurt from trying to wriggle loose. i'm exhausted. i'm gagged. i'm panicking and crying, not so much from my pain but from my confusion. what's going on?

back in real life, i'm still on the phone, and the lady sounds somewhat panicked. maybe she does recognize the meaning of what she's saying. or, my guess is that she's hiding behind a phrase she's heard and used a million times before, but has never stopped to think about.

flippant. frivolous. afraid.

people should own their words.

it just kills me when they don't.