B is for The Shape of Randomness

TWO THOUGHTS:

There are not enough hours in the day, he said. So he embarked on his own experiment to stretch the day into twenty-five or twenty-six hours to get ev-er-y thing DONE! With twenty-six hours - twenty-three if he counted sleep - he could change the world, he could squeeze every last thought into a reality. Some form of reality really. And as the ideas poured, more came and more came and he dropped to his knees in a catatonic state as twenty-six hours proved to be too futile. There were not enough hours in the day to give these ideas room to play. How sad. Sixty seconds, one minute, sixty minutes, one hour MORE did not stop... did not cause to halt... did not give time for more of the creation he hoped for. Just frustration and catatonic haze while the normals slept in their beds approving of another moment of nothingness...

Priest. Weary. Returns home from the city. No one to rise and anoint his head. So he does it instead.

© Tracy j H

07:07:2012

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B is for Loving Boys

90's boy love - Joey n Chandler.... a moment of randomness between Catharsis videos There are boys I love . And they love me. And we’re open about it. Just last Saturday I got a text message from one of those boys who said “I love you too man” in response to something I said. My boys are artists, artistes, atheists, and agirl (who is in fact one of the boys so hence the addition to the category) fathers, brothers and high school musicals (Jed and Umar will get that one – lol). We share ideas, music, random nothingness and Brent Worthington . We approve, reprove and listen to each other. I think the girl that I end up with must in fact be like the boys I love. Good looks aside… please… have some substance. One of my boys is appalled that I watched Gossip Girl (if you’re going to bash it… know what it is first) and has for this [and other minor reasons] jokingly labeled me a homosexual. But he who looks like Miley Cyrus with rainbow bandanas should not talk [chuckles]. I love my

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B is for The Hand of Gordon (Act 8)

8. And Gordon did look upon the face of the actor, standing at his door. Wet, cold and angry. Gordon invited him in but he refused. He wagged his finger, trying to gather both thought and breath. Gordon turned away for a moment and returned with a towel and a glass. Whisky and water. Mixed. The actor took a sip and was sated some. Presently, he began to yell: “WHAT WERE YOU THINKING, GORDON?! WHA… WH… WHAT YOU DO THAT FOR?!” The actor wept. Gordon, not missing a beat took his sketchbook and showed it to the actor. His wet, nubby fingers thumbed through the book growing ever more confused as he did. Gordon’s notes were likened to a physician’s and, quite possibly, only a physician could have possibly been able to decipher it. Possibly. “I don’t understand your handwriting.” “I do. I know what I’m doing.” The finality of that answer was… comforting but the actor required more. “You still have more of that whisky mix-thing?” Gordon turned from his guest, smiling to himself

B is for Stealing

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