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2001-09-26

Muffins and an old Poem

If the muffin man doesn�t get here in like, 3 seconds, I�m going to have a conniption fit. It�s always when I don�t have time to eat breakfast in the morning that the muffin man lags! WHY, GOD? Why? He�s getting back at me, that�s what it is. Usually, he comes in here with his giant wicker basket of muffins, breakfast burritos, pastries and eggs (yeah, there�re some eggs in there), and I say, �No thank you, muffin man. I�ve already had breakfast. Maybe if you ever got here earlier, say, closer to like, BREAKFAST time, you�d catch me before I�ve eaten and make some money.� Okay, so I didn�t say it in those words exactly, but he got the message. And what has happened? I am here, it�s like 10am and my belly is empty. Wah. Thank God for coffee.

Enough! Thank you all who have given me feedback on yesterday�s entry. For some reason, it makes me feel good to know that my thoughts and words can elicit from you the same emotions I feel when I�m writing them. It�s the most unique form of human connection I�ve ever shared, and I appreciate that in you.

I stumbled across a poem I wrote years ago, on a hot day in LA that reminded me of being a child in Brooklyn. Thought I�d share, since everything else on my mind today is probably going in my poetry book, and not here. Forgive the choppy style, it was a quick jot on a hot, hot day:

Hot, thick air, dry hair. Reminds me of then � when I wasn�t carefree, as children should be. No, full of worry, riddled with thought, everything a 10-year-old Ought Not Need.

But now I drift back and feed, in my reverie, on nostalgia (the word always reminded me of my nostrils). I take in the sweet, the pungent odor of it, as memories always seem to have an odor. Odor of legs on hot cement, heat through keds from a black-tar driveway, enough heat in your feet to make you take notice when the heavy slow breeze tickles your wet temples, making sweat drops dance.

Then back to the city, where trucks exhaling and gears constantly shifting come together to create ONE constant SOUND, with its odd ability to comfort.

-Barbarella

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2007-05-19
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Muffins and an old Poem 2001-09-26 10:38 a.m. If the muffin man doesn�t get here in like, 3 seconds, I�m going to have a conniption fit. It�s always when I don�t have time to eat breakfast in the morning that the muffin man lags! WHY, GOD? Why? He�s getting back at me, that�s what it is. Usually, he comes in here with his giant wicker basket of muffins, breakfast burritos, pastries and eggs (yeah, there�re some eggs in there), and I say, �No thank you, muffin man. I�ve already had breakfast. Maybe if you ever got here earlier, say, closer to like, BREAKFAST time, you�d catch me before I�ve eaten and make some money.� Okay, so I didn�t say it in those words exactly, but he got the message. And what has happened? I am here, it�s like 10am and my belly is empty. Wah. Thank God for coffee.

Enough! Thank you all who have given me feedback on yesterday�s entry. For some reason, it makes me feel good to know that my thoughts and words can elicit from you the same emotions I feel when I�m writing them. It�s the most unique form of human connection I�ve ever shared, and I appreciate that in you.

I stumbled across a poem I wrote years ago, on a hot day in LA that reminded me of being a child in Brooklyn. Thought I�d share, since everything else on my mind today is probably going in my poetry book, and not here. Forgive the choppy style, it was a quick jot on a hot, hot day:

Hot, thick air, dry hair. Reminds me of then � when I wasn�t carefree, as children should be. No, full of worry, riddled with thought, everything a 10-year-old Ought Not Need.

But now I drift back and feed, in my reverie, on nostalgia (the word always reminded me of my nostrils). I take in the sweet, the pungent odor of it, as memories always seem to have an odor. Odor of legs on hot cement, heat through keds from a black-tar driveway, enough heat in your feet to make you take notice when the heavy slow breeze tickles your wet temples, making sweat drops dance.

Then back to the city, where trucks exhaling and gears constantly shifting come together to create ONE constant SOUND, with its odd ability to comfort.