Ben's Got Back

As of a day or so ago, I believe. The fog surrounding him doesn't seem to have cleared very much, but, while I can clearly type, I can't talk. I wonder if he made it to his namesake's symphonic dabble on the night of his return. I also wonder if he brought the twelve roses I requested of him, each to complete, in conjunction with the others, two half-dozens, for I need them to decorate a currently roseless bed I one day hope to climb into — upon invitation.

Before he left, Ben informed me that art takes the long way round to where science already is. True, that.

From Here to Hurling

Events of late cast a streak down reputations, as has oft. been predicted. It seems that to truly break with tradition one must truly break with verve. Envious, as accused, I hurtled my fingers off at this whole world and found that my true carnal desire was to lack. The follow, I'm sure, you can picture: Me, hands raised, head back, knees grounded, screaming into the rain, below the balcony, my object fluttering her eyelashes coldly behind the window, hair in a bun, as per. And the following you may wish as aural accompany: "Me? Oh, just someone who rode a bus with you". The reply was vicious, in a hit-me-with-a-brick kind of way, and choice was whittled into merely leaving as quick as p. and chewing pride, dignity, lust. To slice ease through my embarrassment, I spurned six-hundred pages of poise and prose upon returning: self-pity and bile et cet., aimed at us. That's how the guilty artistes live with themselves. And that's how I found myself, guitar in hand, the following morning, murdering my favourite uplifting anthem beneath 'er window.

"And it felt like church bells or the whistle of a train," I sang, attempting to maintain the strum while thumping my chest heroically.
"Jesus Jesus Jesus."
"As I pray that you will hold me dear."
"You had better get the heck off my property."
"When the sun— What?"
"You heard me."
"Oh. I guess this is goodbye then."
"No, this is me telling you to get the hell off my property."
"Heck."
"What?"
"Bye."

At times like that, the only thing you can do is sit upon the highest limb of a tall tree and chew awhile, so I went back home and watched television.

The News

For something's sake, I'd best inform you that The News is now Think Hollow. Why? Well, it's slightly less dull this way. Anywhich, it's had a few false starts as of late, but so's Rome. Hopefully things, as well as turning out relatively well, glance up. In other news, I seem to have developed that sordid case of lazy fingers that seems to capture everyone without an enforced deadline. Whoa whoa is me.

The Good Heavens

As you are all no doubt fully aware, the now-absent witnessed, sans permission, the whole sorry scene from the panoramic view offered by the key-shaped hole in the door we were behind, and no matter how present and diverse the spread of missing sheets, his forty-seven year old bones do not reacquaint themselves with us, and neither do the ligaments and skin attached to them. But our voices still boom down wind-swept streets and mottled fields whenever a free hour comes our way, knowing, as we do, that guilt is cleansed by feigning concern.

The offending scene played thus:

Me: My darling Nasturtium, how goes you this morning?
Nasturtium: I goes quite fine, thank you, sir. And yourself?
M: Myself is fine too. Would you care to hear a joke, little love?
N: I'd love to care to hear a joke, my bare bedfellow.
M: Then I shall hear you one.
N: Splendid.
M: You are, o lady of my love.
N: I are?
M: You are, my darling Nasturtium.
N: Then, my endearing dear, I thank you.
M: And I accept, little love. And to that joke I go now.
N: And I too.
M: What is it you get if you cross maize with a college?
N: I don't think I'm sure.
M: A unicorn!

And so on. You can understand why such an exchange sent him fleeing. Both of us regret our actions, and if we were allowed the chance to repeat our actions, we would not.

Tomorrow is our wedding, the second for both of us, having each seen the outs of premature love, and we are both going to be secretly hoping our friend appears and reconciliation is achieved. Before I go on, I should tell you we met while waiting for the 250 on a particularly rainy day. She had forgotten her umbrella.

It's funny how false starts lead to the very right person. For all intents, we will not be split henceforth. Not even such an event as above can twain us. My darling Nasturtium and I, culprits of our friend's hiding, are what's known as two sides of the same coin, and as inseparable as the same. Also, if it were up to me, this would be titled My Darling Nasturtium, and what a fitting title it would be!

Tiddle Oo

For those leaning out their balconies, here's news of Ben's reclamation of his throne, in lieu of a.) his superior bips and baps in the relatively frequent posters field, and b.) the fact that the previous occupant, salt-mouthed Harry, no longer meets the only criteria that got him the top spot: updating.

In other news, Undo has decided it wise to return to the fold with his paralleled observations on culture pop. I'll put his new address on the side when I'm bored enough. 'Sunlikely that it will be a beacon of activity, but hey, it exists.