a live show
do you feel alive
watching my five seven five?
you should five seven jive
i made it to france, and had a wonderful time in an old farmhouse:
our gang of eight arrived, attracting the attention of the local mayor's wife, who feared for her bebe. we responded with humorous mafia jokes – "don't worry, just because we ride in black citroen cars, we are not the mafia" – and she invited us to have dinner. an offer i have only just, after three weeks, remembered.
then we danced under the stars, which we did not notice until three nights later, to songs by and called peaches. i performed a forward–roll upon the lawn, while everyone made themselves at home by creating carnage on the dancefloor.
the week continued in that fashion, getting increasingly fun, until we had to go home. everyone either agreed that it was their favourite holiday, or took too long weighing up their answer for it to be easily remembered.
at the moment i am writing an essay, and feel as though the way i am writing resembles the guardian's 'diary of a genius', sans horror. i am barely more coherent than a game of european scrabble (any european language can be used):
writing an essay can take it out of you, and leave you feeling as if you have been kicked in the head: luckily, when the room was completely black, i kissed her and she kissed back, which is much more therapeutic than expressing yourself in wordly form ("...no doubt this nervousness is heathy, something to be incorporated unconsciously like the joyous bouncing of my right leg’s energetic calf…")
on saturday, some of us philosophers of mind are to V in the very chelmsford that is my hometown. i shall carry a warwick umbrella so that you can all recognise me on the television as we sing along to radiohead (and dance along to beck) in the rain.
i am dry and fly
'neath the chelmsford sky and my