1. If you don't read poetry, you are missing something essential for soul growth.
2. If you read poetry, you have realized why so few people read it.
3. If you don't read poetry, you watch too much television and have allowed Jon Stewart to become your bard.
4. If you have allowed Jon Stewart to become your bard, it's okay because he is a bard, of sorts.
5. Still, you might try reading some William Blake or some...William Blake and, I promise, you will love Jon Stewart even more.
6. In truth, it takes some training to read William Blake in any way that might make deep sense to you. So if you're gonna read William Blake, read something about William Blake, too, helping you understand why William Blake is the father of people like Jon Stewart.
7. William Blake isn't the father of Jon Stewart, metaphorically, of course. Probably Jonathan Swift is. Proof is they share the same initials.
8. I have been considering getting cable so that I can watch Jon Stewart, but I have been holding off because: would it be worth it? Really?
9. I think it really would be worth it.
10. Nine is my favorite number so I'm gonna stop there.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
A few mornings ago, I dreamt that I was skateboarding up a mountain, wearing a formal gown the color of ashes. I had a windbreaker on over the gown. At the top of the mountain, I found a man-made lake surrounded by RVs full of elderly people; it was like a Good Sam Club Convention. Deciding this was no place for a girl like me, I turned and started skateboarding down the mountain, which was A LOT harder than going up the mountain. I kept having to go off the side of the road to stop myself from losing total control. On one of these forced stops, my skateboard landed in some grass next to a python-length of dog poop. My right front wheel was touching the poop, but I hadn't actually run over it, into it: what a relief. At some point down the mountain, I pit-stopped at a girls' college and picked up Clara, who was a baby still. We went to the gross cafeteria and tried to find some food, but all they were serving was fried catfish and two day old french fries. The cafeteria's ambience was like a Vegas cafeteria -- cigarette smoke-coated carpet, weird 70s chandeliers, and wine red padded wall paper. We left the cafeteria and wandered through the girls' dormitory to find our way out of the college. As we were walking through the the dorm, I noticed that all the girls were fat and just sitting around on their butts getting fatter. "I don't think any of these girls are good babysitters for you, Clara," I said. Then I woke up.