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Tempi duri per I vampiri | Sarah Smiles :: Sarah Bites |
| {Sarah} {MyBestBuddy} {Skule} {MyComments} {faboo:logs} | ||
7/29/2001 7/28/2001 7/25/2001 Info-Shrine to Phoolan Phoolan Devi, the Indian Bandit Queen and politician shot dead outside her home. She was an anti-caste radical... 7/23/2001 Wow. I forgot how long i"ve been online with my site. It started Feb 12, 2000. Amazing thing memory, or lack thereof. I'm cutting with the past a bit, and moving on. I realize that trying to keep ties with America and feeling slowly back to my roots has been a bit of a mistake. No, I'm not saying that I'll stop talking to americans, but I've been trying to build a community there that just hasn't worked. I won't rewrite the past, but I'm not going to mine the recent past in order to make meaning for the future. Collaboration must be more than a one sided event. Sigh LiveJournal.com beat out Blogger for a webby. Hmmm. I'll look at it I guess. Blogger just sounds so much more cooler. Peter Pan's Home Page! I wonder if Disney is gonna sue. This is a disney project I'll support. Get Peter Pan into Leather! I know nothing, see nothing, say nothing, sleep nothing, fuck nothing, wear nothing, cry nothing, eat nothing, read nothing, ache nothing, hurt nothing, dream nothing, build nothing, wake nothing... nothing is but anything whenever someone calls. 7/21/2001 7/18/2001 7/15/2001 7/11/2001 "sarah has joined us. hopefully she will offset the abundance of testosterone thraxil is currently soaking in." IHT: Prostitutes Find Regulated Workplace Is a Mixed Blessing. Oh brave new world that has not American ignorance in it. Now there's a face only a mother could love: E V H E A D. The lord god of blogger emself. I wish I could figure out what he was saying, but his lips don't move. 7/10/2001 I'm in print. Spazz couriered this over to me, and I got it tonight. It is from the bleeding pen. I'm cooler than all hell. At least for tonight. Ignore. this was a repeat, thinking that the last post died painfully. Which it should have. Which it didn't. I blame the faeries. Anders @ thraxil signed my guest book. I guess that the marc's of the world are not statistically significant. I'll keep my toes to myself, and wax poetic on ancillary topics. Vale! 7/9/2001 I've been reading Derrida's Gift of Death (this is just a link to represent it) that I got sent last fall from an admirer. Let's be honest. I don't understand much of it. But what's the point of putting something down that you might learn from just because you don't understand it? But I may pepper my blog a comment once and a while, if it interests me. "Authentic mystery must remain mysterious, and we should approach it only by letting it be what it is in truth -- veiled, withdrawn, dissimulated." p 37 Got this from someone by way of spass: BBC News Coming soon - Dracula Land Romanian Minister for Tourism Matei Dan has announced that a Dracula Land theme park will be built near the medieval Transylvanian city of Sighisoara. Wonder if I can get a job? I take it back. I really like marc. I want to suck his toes and blow bubbles in his ears. He's so cute. 7/8/2001 Don't you just love Marc. He has no home, not email address, no soul. But his IP is 172.168.170.150 it seems. Or at least it was lat time he graced me with his wit and love: :::hiss::: I'm a vampire I'm gonna eat you! ::roar::: Fear me! Whow wants to be feared? Who wants to scare? Who wants to eat some jock-itch encrusted triple-x website wanker with nothing better to do than return to the scene of his own stupidity? Why don't I just ignore him and he'll go away? He won't. He'll just bother someone else, and not me. So why not help others and keep him busy. He'd probably end up sexually abusing someone, or pulling some roadrage stunt. What a total stud. 7/7/2001 Date: Fri, 6 Jul 2001 13:27:00 -0500 (CDT) From: dzeiger@the-institute.net (David Zeiger) Subject: Re: Vampyres: Re: fangs and tongues; book delays Forwarded for dgillett@deepforest.org A couple of years ago, I developed a blockage in one of my salivary ducts under the tongue. After several days of painful swelling, I was able to extract a "spike" of calcified deposit ("calculus"), an inch or so long, perhaps 1/8" thick, and tapered to apoint at both ends. It looked remarkably like a tooth -- in fact, I had consulted a dentist since the previous time I'd had swelling in that region, irritation from a fresh filling had appeared to be the culprit. I do not *know* that something like this inspired the folklore, but it's a possibility worth considering.... 7/6/2001 Korbeau's xperimental Alterflow - Audioplasticism is what I'm downloading right now. If it is as good as his old stuff, I'll be happy. "Music for the happy ones" is fascinating. Minimal melody, and mostly noisy shit, but it has special charm that is almost poppy. Neat. I think I upset Antonia, with my poemA Darling Piggy Poem if her response is any indication. Here's my reply: I worry not, I mean no harm, I singled not out piglet only Sasm
7/3/2001 Eeek. There are typos in this. I used viavoice to transcribe it, but I forgot that waverly train station would come up as Way Early ;-) And now my blog editor is borked, and I can't make changes. Woe is me. Thoughts of my first night in edinburgh. As the last light of day fades and the breeze takes on the mantle of the night, the lights from the medieval side over the Waverly train station becomes like some impossible construction. All these great houses and tenements rising up from the dark forest. Why would anyone have thought to jumble together that monstrosity of stone, stretching from one end of the night of horizon to the other. Hanging above the black river of the nighttime below, they stand as a mile wide swath of human lives and struggles and centuries of history coming to me like some jungle mystery of impenetrable beauty. This wondrous wall of rooftops and turrets and gables beckons to me to search and explore. My nocturnal bravado as a fearless wonderer-of-the-night of Provence has followed me here. I'm ready to rock and roam, and watching the castle to my right, out the window, a pool of gold sodium light on receipt of midnight stone, it calls to me like my beloved Mount St Victoire, full of promise and mystery. But not tonight. As a sit in the second-floor cafe of the Royal British hotel, by Bells scotch and bottled water sits before me, still untouched. My budget is too tight to waste on hotel single malt prices, but wee dram is almost a necessity to ward off the midnight and chills. Behind me, the muzak plays a strange tune that I've never heard... "Suicide is painless. It brings on many changes, and I can take it or leave it if I please." How appropriate. I will have to find out where it comes from. Street noise wends up here, above the street is as a quiet aside from the mumbling unmusical nonsense and the replaces suicide lament. And outside, the doubledecker buses weave a transit tango before me. 7/2/2001 Oh, oh, oh! I just heard that The Bleeding Pen is out. They're publishing my first poem to get published in paper. I'm promised two copies. Last time I was over checking my mail it wasn't there, but I just got the word that it is out. Perhaps I'll get it soon. Woooohooo! PS: Poem is decayed expectations. 7/1/2001 I'm having a wonderful chat with Scarecrow from Farmpoetry on Yahoogroups, as we speak. Got it is so nice to talk to someone who is civilized, even if he thinks I need to grow up. Growing up is good. Growing old is even better. Just making it until the next full moon is enough for me. |