'Who am I' she asks : A creative explosion of paradoxical remarks the student replied.





What say you the firmest affirmation of
Affection due, if not to dance as if one
All the more, cannot contain reason
In becoming infatuated with you;
‘I dare say you will find him quite amiable’
Under modest supposition, perhaps
It is a loss of steady senses, within right
The amalgamation of musical souls justly
Defines dance.

Tell me something.

 These weren’t the original words I wanted to say.

I watched a grown man failing the resistance to validate himself in the window reflection on the train ride home. Quick tug to his hair, shake of a head. Repeat. Touch to the bridge of the nose, quick sniff of the index. Repeat. Almost like he was superstitious. A prayer that his real life prominence lived up to the one in his mind.

This repetition realized my impatience for the world’s loose vanity. But I’ll get to that.

Sometimes life can feel rather unmitigated and similar to an ass.

That’s what I wanted to say.

Life comes at you in so many different ways, we owe ourselves as authors here online. I feel like I’m googling the same words over again as I come across this trend to ensure my sanity;

Allegory, cipher, maxim, parable, adage

When they say farm to table, I think of this precise trail of words – small digestive pieces of information that the modern viewer is capable of. And yet when I come across bloggers that showcase their life in these precise bubbles; when the shots are too candid, the select words too deliberate. When I can feel the loose coolness behind the scenes, like a grown man who can hardly stand himself on the train, I immediately opt out.

I don’t want you to sell me your life.

I want the odd blogger with their due aplomb, their black comedic humor, their observations.

Recalling that man in my mind, I wonder what it must feel like to be so sensitive to one’s appearance. Was his lack of self truant from our seemingly collective desire to know-all/be-all? I had it in my right mind to smack his hat, afloat on its brim as not ruin his hairstyle, right down and tell him to cut it out. That I can’t fathom how simultaneously as a female, I would have the fear of men walking in the dark despite myself, yet have the strength to not fidget seeing my own reflection.

People still often mistake me for older. I don’t remember when the internet was connected to your phone lines. I never had a walkman. I hardly remember an Ipod. So what panel decides that my person appears to supersede my otherwise inadequacy in world trivia?

I switched off the alternative rock and just let myself be swayed by the acoustic sounds of mellow indie/pop. It felt less like a front putting up a fight against the world. Suppose this is what one means to settle into your skin. Likely I overestimated these thoughts as one does walking alone at midnight. So instead I arrived home and put my effort into furthermore contemplating the ‘extra bit’ that dangles while my cats trot away from me.

Take yourself a little less seriously.

Feel Out The Notes

I’ve got a tattoo on my right thigh that says, : “One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.” Complimented with an enzo circle. Back in the day when I used to a so called band geek – further complimented by the fact that I do in fact wear glasses, and was only saved by a slight hand of fate to not end up with braces as well – I used to feel out the notes in my music sheet. Meaning that whenever my teacher called out individuals to play their part, I was lucky to sound out the composition in its proper measurement over half the time due to an intuitive sense of beat that carried me through those years. Because let me tell you, I can’t even name what that beginning swirly is called at the beginning of a line. Yeah, high school was tough.

I don’t think there is a word for what it feels like to be in the midst of a symphony. I played an alto-saxophone, and sometimes, all I felt were the vibrations through my brass instrument to understand that I was making music. It was overwhelming, how your senses are flushed, as all around you are sections doing their part; the flutes by my furthest right corner, trilling and young; the clarinets, my friend playing a sophisticated solo, his sound whirling and lingering above the rest of us. It was amazing really, considering there were 40 of us against the one. On the left were the keyboards and the electric base, which to be honest, I heard almost none of the time when we played together, but its funny how it still adds to the completion of things.Then the drums and the trumpets blasting lascivious belts towards the back, just to wrap it all up. It was practically a crime in the scheme of things, supposing us being a whole composition and all.

There were no words.

My teacher said that simply reading off the music sheets did not mean we played music. He told us that music was not just the sounds made by the exhale of our breathes in combination with a twisted metal…To be fair, when I try to recall right now what was it that he said exactly, I am embarrassed to say that I cannot remember. All I know was that, whenever he would repeat this mantra, it made me feel ever so slightly better about myself, to know that perhaps my way of imperfectly feeling out the tune was what equated to the sort of music he wished to conduct.

I was thinking about this experience when I read back on my two recent posts. This is not a sex blog, if you haven’t figured already from the sardonic Duck painting on the home page advocating something to blast out of your ass. Intuitive right? It just made me rethink the way I can describe to you what sexuality is.

Now there are some talented people out there that know what they’re doing when they’re talking about this sensual subject. And I applaud them heroically to be able to make even the most conservative soul curl up in their seat in anst. It really feels like they may be just as well to put in words the exact origin of an erotic painting or a boudoir photograph.

I’m not one of those people.

I was just thinking to myself this afternoon how to describe to even a friend, what it’s supposed to feel like when you’re in that perfect setting for a romantic encounter. Or more importantly, what is that universal spark we’re all looking for. What’s the big idea with the rapport and the connection, like really, any tangible factor at all would put it somewhat at ease. If for reality’s sake, it’s just called a simple girl’s dream – even then, if it’s so simple, why have I had the hardest time trying to find the words for it.

Then I think about what it felt like to play in my band class. Short lived, but I would sometimes take my mouth off the instrument (no pun intended) to just smile, because all of the otherwise awkwardly composed notes alone could all of a sudden be so beautiful when juxtaposed against each other in synchrony – that was music to me. A constant blend, it came to me like an amorphous blob of vibrant colors. Molten and challenging to the senses, and I was right in the middle of it.

To spare you, that was no metaphor to say I’m in some sort of tranquil love. Far from it, that is just to say, so many things in life, love being one of the most common theme, and my tattoo being relevant without intention, goes to say that we are always searching for the right words. I actually thought the tattoo went towards the complexity of the mother/daughter relationship I have struggled with through the years. The kind that catches your tongue and drives your insane. With more thought, I would actually tell you that’s the one feeling most closely related to this universal topic than any. But that would just ruin it for the most of us, so I won’t say that. Or the fact that I have written and written, and like many authors out there, have yet to come across the most magical thing that was ever put into words. Of course, we keep trying. I mean, I’ve gone to counselors for 6 and a half years of my life. That’s a lot of words, and I have still yet to find the right ones. But when I do, if ever – unless that was the meaning of life, then aren’t we screwed, haha –  they’ll be simple, I’m sure.

We’ll see. You’ll be witness for sure, if this blog doesn’t stop rambling on.

Bus Route

In the morning I hail the bus of time
Because in the wistful mist of dawn
It seems most likely to come true;
I stand alone on the sidewalk
To dream about the time that I had never known
Yet miss
Then I ask myself,
“How can you miss something you’ve never known?”
Except that I do.

The age of soul, jazz, and dance
Where in the background of all this
Buzzed the dream of Martin Luther King.

I wonder had the people known
That decades from now, Peggy Lee sang from a storefront just yesterday
Like she did many years ago
Though now it is just a recording
A momentum
That speaks sparingly about the times of gentlemanly nature
From one forgotten musician,
Who declared himself a beggar upon your courtship, to
When men took the everyday matters into ridiculous proportions,
“We do this or we die!”
Of self important prompt
Charming and stupid;

How much more grappling
The nature of old photographs,
Audrey Hepburn put back to life in color
Sucking on a cigarette and opening a stove,
If only just posing,
I miss all of it
Since the sun rose again
And again from those days;
Nobody warns us
When the bus of time, came and left.

Ca-Ca-Ca-Ca-Cater Me

I often get a lot of questions about what I like once people find out my favorite music artist isn’t a beaver. So here I am to explain something. No? You didn’t ask? You probably didn’t even bother reading the title.

However, this indulgence in occasional narcissism is allowed because…

Of this beautiful baby
Of this beautiful baby

First, I’m going to give great cheerios for the woman who nominated me. Such sweet words. Visit her at

And no, I can’t shorten the link name cause if you haven’t already read the reason why my web link doesn’t make sense in Excessive Thoughts..well you don’t deserve to know now the short way.

Now I’m going to break some rules here and make things interesting. The last time I poured my heart out on surprisingly, another version of the Liebster award, well… I guess some people just don’t know beauty when they see it. Therefore, allow me the privilege to give you a walk through of a series of photos that represent me.

Trent Reznor
Trent Reznor (Nine Inch Nails)

The sweet perversion of older men.
Older by more than 25 years.
Guess I’m a backwards cougar?

Sigh. Handsome lads. They just don’t make vocal cords like that anymore.

Maynard James Keenan
Maynard James Keenan

Maynard James Keenan

Perfect Circle
The Puscifer

Might I add as an honorable mention:

Reeve Carney
Reeve Carney

Young one, you’re only 30. Give it 20 more years until you reach the epitome of orgasmic voices.



Bunkering down and reading a book with a cup of tea.

Orange Pekoe
Orange Pekoe

Just like an old woman.

Might I also add with a shit load of sugar and condensed milk.

So a TOOTHLESS old woman.


Love Interest:      

Milo (My-low)
Milo (My-low)

Most of you already know.

If there’s any brave soul of a woman out there who dares put her meat on the market, you’ll understand my pain when I tell you this. Chasing after one who’s as capricious as the wind is a hard life. But it’s worth it.

Also, note worthy, am obviously an aspiring artist if you haven’t gotten that through yet. Taking photos of my cat’s crouch is my calling.


Pervert + TOOTHLESS old woman + rejected romantic = It’s a wonder I have friends.

Now was that not interesting?                                     cinderella

No? Did I say this would be fun for you?

Well, who were we kidding. This was all for me.

Oh yeah. And for the nominees.

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celeste lee cloud

writer & artist

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