{ Who speaks for the body? }

I AM SO TIRED. And yet here I am, updating my LJ, instead of going straight to sleep.

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Yesterday I went to the Community Centre and adminned like a crazy person in the computer room until midday, at which point I went to the Reception Desk and adminned there for a couple of hours. I then returned to the computer room and spent another few hours trying to put together a workbook for Hotmail users (the only email workbook we have is for Yahoo and to my knowledge, no-one here uses that system). Went home, grabbed a sandwich (first meal of the day at 5.30pm, woo?) and then worked in The Rents' store until 10pm. Despite being shattered, I spent more time on the workbook and went to sleep around 2am.

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This morning I went to the Boss Lady's house to discuss some of the things that we need to sort out at the computer centre - online tutorials, making certain classes available to long-distance learners, etc. - and I came away with notes as well as some new software. Got home at around 2pm, forgot that I should eat lunch (no, really) and set to work trying to finish that damn workbook.

Nearly forgot that I was covering The Dad's shift at the store, so left the house closer to 6pm than was advisable. Trekked in quasi-darkness (car headlights = light, but not useful as mostly they blind you and increase the possibility of you falling into the dyke/ditch alongside the not-quite-stable path) to the store where I sat around reading the news and doing sudoku for four hours. Came home, showered, made a sandwich (second meal of the week, huzz) and then SAT DOWN TO DO THIS GODDAMN WORKBOOK. It's not even complex, it's just time-consuming, but at long last I am DONE with it.

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Tomorrow morning's session at the centre is fully booked (15 people, all doing different courses) so I have to go in early. Seriously, I am going to have to wrench my hind out of the bed. The reason the workbook had to be finished tonight is that I have to sit with someone tomorrow and teach them how to use their email account. Which they already have. (Boss Lady said that brushing up on email skills would be useful for this person, but I really feel like they would benefit more from figuring out s spreadsheet; oh well).

Afterwards I'm probably going to spend the afternoon there, too, in order to either make a workbook for Gmail users (ugh, ugh, ugh) or try and get working on a framework for some web tutorials (more interesting but has the potential for more frustration). That's assuming the phone doesn't keep ringing during the morning session, or I'll probably spend the afternoon trying to catch up with admin. I'm not supposed to be a tutor (tutors get paid, for one, heh) but I double up as one when the shift is tight. It's actually really great work, and I do enjoy it; this week has just been randomly insane.

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In other news: with all these mad skillz, I should really have a Real Job already. Am sending my CV and a letter of enquiry to two locally-based international firms (seriously, the hell? This is The Middle of Nowhere, Fenland; why would you base your avionics hub here?) in the hopes that maybe they'd like to hire me to shred their information and alphabetise their shelves etc. I don't even know. My standards are so low right now that I'd take a job licking stamps. Which is basically my voluntary position, except with added teaching shenanigans.

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The poem I posted earlier? Totally great for an epigraph to a Bones fic, I know, but more than that: TOTALLY IN MY BRAIN. Who speaks for the body? We do. OH GOSH, OH GOSH. I love it but it needs to leave me the hell alone right now. Ribs, phalanges, / wings of the sphenoid, shapes named / for what they resemble, scapula a spade.

{ yesterday's tweets. }

( my milkshake brings all the tweets from the yard. )

LoudTwitter, innit?

{ Rumi: Look at my sallow face, but say nothing. }

Look at my sallow face, but say nothing
by Jalal al-Din Rumi

Look at my sallow face, but say nothing.
Look at this infinite pain, and for God’s sake, say nothing.

Look at this bleeding heart, eyes like the River Jeyhun.
No matter what you see, pass by. Don’t ask, say nothing.

Yesterday you appeared at the door of the heart’s house.
Your image knocked and said: Come, open the door, say nothing.

I put my hand to my mouth and said: Woe to my broken heart.
He said: I’m yours, don’t bite your hand, say nothing.

Since you are my surna, don’t sing without my lips.
Until I play you like a harp, not a word about music. Say nothing.

I said: How long will you drag my soul around the world?
He said: Wherever I drag you, come quickly. Say nothing.

I said: While I say nothing, do you want me
to burn? Are you saying: Come in and say nothing?

He smiled like a rose and said: Come in and see.
This fire is jasmine, green leaves and roses. Say nothing.

The fire became roses and spoke. It told me:
Except for our beloved’s love and kindness, say nothing.

--

A poem, to make up for earlier nonsense. Since you are my surna, don't sing without my lips. / Until I play you like a harp, not a word about music. Say nothing. Such direct commands are so reassuring to me sometimes.

I have one more to post before signing off; that one ends with a command, too, but it's frenetic and lightly delightful. I can't express how physically I think of this poem.

{ Justin Chin: Travelogue. }

Travelogue
by Justin Chin

I want to make love to you
in 15 hotel rooms
                        in 14 cities.
I want to wake with the infant delight
of finding your body held
between two freshly laundered white sheets,
lightly perfumed by the smell
of these hotel room staples.

                       In this room, available
to all with an open and ready wallet,
where hundreds, perhaps thousands,
            have wandered through,
& in this bed,
where hundreds, perhaps thousands,
      have slept, have made love in ––
some frenzied & violent:
the spread kicked to the floor,
the sheets entangled in sweating limbs;
others clean & calm:
everything folded away neatly,
every act wiped away with hand towels.
I will know that in this one night,
this container of the temporary,
this Tupperware of wanderlust
will know what it means to be stained
with the fragments of the ghost of my craving
as it flits from one more room,
one more city, one more hotel with you.
We'll move as early pioneers did.
Wholly uncertain of what lay ahead
but heart-pounding anticipating
a pool of clear water to cleanse and quench,
a goodness, a feasting,
a soft place to lay heads,
                                        rest bodies.

Once I had this daydream.
We were traveling together in Tibet.
I wondered what it would be like
to kiss you in a light December Tibetan drizzle.
How the thunder would grumble in
a strange tongue, how the trees would smell
different,
           the air different.

& amidst all this foreignness,
      I would realize
the shocking familiarity of your kiss.
I would know what you taste like
even as jasmine and saffron melt on my tongue,
& as patchouli burners cloud my nose.
I would hold you to my mouth and say,
           This is the first
           of a million kisses.

              Come,
take it from me.