42 & fi-er-ce

Christine Chubbuck (August 24, 1944 – July 15, 1974) was an American television news reporter who committed suicide during a live television broadcast.

“In keeping with Channel 40’s policy of bringing you the latest in blood and guts, and in living color, you are going to see another first — attempted suicide.”

This is from an Gallup article I read recently about Moral Taboo. Seems like Americans are still quite close-minded and bigoted… OH and before I get brain damaged from the lack of sleep… Term 3 is such fuckery I shan’t even bother commenting about it.

blehh I realise that I should make your reading worthwhile by sharing either funny or revealing information on this portal. So sorry to disappoint then, I’m doing neither. I don’t have the courage to confess and I certainly lack the wit… -rolls eyes-

I am looking for the purpose in life (what else is new people…) After mulling around and getting Madonna’s Hard Candy whacked into my head on repeat, I THINK I FINALLY REALISED! LOVE, SEX AND MAGIC (thanks ciara…) IS THE ONLY THING LEFT LIVING FOR. And BITCH NO, it does not mean I am reading more harry potter erotica…

Poor Michael… dead at 50. And my mum hopes Madonna is next.
-sniffles-

Bittersweet

written by Rumi, edited by Deepak Chopra, reading by Madonna
———-
In my hallucination
I saw my beloved’s flower garden
In my vertigo, in my dizziness
In my drunken haze
Whirling and dancing like a spinning wheel

I saw myself as the source of existence
I was there in the beginning
And I was the spirit of love
Now I am sober
There is only the hangover
And the memory of love
And only the sorrow

I yearn for happiness
I ask for help
I want mercy
And my love says:

Look at me and hear me
Because I am here
Just for that

I am your moon and your moonlight too
I am your flower garden and your water too
I have come all this way, eager for you
Without shoes or shawl

I want you to laugh
To kill all your worries
To love you
To nourish you

Oh sweet bitterness
I will soothe you and heal you
I will bring you roses
I, too, have been covered with thorns

because I’m seriously too lazy to blog, I shall just post the article I wrote for aCAPella to summarize the series of events that ran my life for the last week and the next bit to come.

Picture of Crazy Me.

Oh hai! I’m Ephraim and I wanted to introduce myself like Amy Winehouse. When Amy turns her black bewildered eyes towards the cameras, we too are bewildered.  Why does she seem to want to kill herself with drugs? Is the source of her pain the source of her genius? Anyway, my master plan was working until I realised that a) I’m neither a beer-gorging singer nor writer with an impressive seven years résumé of alcoholic abstinence. b) My life isn’t an opera of violence and self destruction.

SO WHAT? I ALSO CAN BE EMO OK!

I kid, I kid… In my head, all you emo writers out there in CAP are the future Amy Winehouses. So I will love you and all your wacky interpretations of ‘journeying home’ –insert random operatic scream- !!! My head may not be a safe place.

Since writing in 3^rd person is totally the in thing nowadays… Seriously though, Ephraim is actually quite a happy person & emotionally-charged writing is ok. Everyone has a story to tell, and if they want to, they should tell it. And this is Ephraim’s. Ephraim does confess to doubts. Sometimes, particularly with the diet columns, Ephraim looks and thinks – is that too much? Will Ephraim regret reading about the disgusting effects of the diet pill? While Ephraim attempts to pass off as a practitioner of this dark, self loathing art, he shall remind his dear little friends that they have to EAT EAT EAT! Chronic addiction to food (i.e. EATING LOTSA VEGGIES) is the only way to remain HIGH at CAP. PS. Don’t behave like you’re on crack during the stay. OR EPHRAIM WILL STUFF THE REAL THING UP YOUR TINY NOSTRILS.

Rant over, as head is hitting desk.

Picture of Happy Me!

Because CAP is next week, I shall attempt to be more literary and read some poems.

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.

Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.

Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,
if you like.

Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.

Valentine by Carol Ann Duffy