tonight i reckon we rob a bank

This here's Miss Bonnie Parker. I'm Clyde Barrow. We rob banks.

what do you say bonnie?

sweet child o' mine

don't expect him to marry you just because he says he'll never leave you.

















you cannot always believe with gasping faith that someone will stick around for good. most of the time they don't. and then you cannot live.


things start spinning and you feel like you could have fallen, but your feet not touched the ground. chasmic spaces and a headrush. the electric touch.

the Fear takes your breath, just like he did. censorship, dumbness, heart-racing, recoil.

so wouldn't it be better, then, for all of us to be cynics?

don't care what my hair looks like

...or what the fuck my reputation looks like either.

crumbling brick and mortar

the truth is that i do care what she thinks.

i don't mean to play the victim or the bad guy, even.
the truth is that it hurts when they criticize me. they always seem to notice when i can't do anything right. they say it too. mostly they mean it. sometimes i'm not sure what they say and mean, and what they say just out of anger. i take most of it to heart anyway, just to be safe. it's not safe though, this business of taking things to heart, because often it just means that you get yourself into trouble. i am chastised again and again. the hurling of resentment clouds our interactions. the television drowns out the arguments over dinner. the dishes go unwashed.

they are alien to me. i have become alien to them.

i can do no charities in this house. if i ever did it'd never be enough. i am never enough.

we are all aliens under this roof.

no more than mere innocence

do you wanna come and play in my tree house? usually it's no girls allowed, but i like you a lot and think you're swell.

bonnie & the drag nun

art as performance is pretty much an extension of 'happenings' in everyday life. it may be a suicidal accountant telephoning his bank to cancel his credit cards before throwing himself off the brooklyn bridge at noon. it may be a zombie flash mob in the streets of new york city. even a man being shot in the left arm with a rifle by a friend standing 15 feet away, just like Chris Burden did in 1971. some people will go to great lengths to make a statement, even if it means blood, tears and civil suits.

so, anyway, new york city isn't the only place where weird shit happens. keep your eyes peeled as potato skins and you may see something you weren't supposed to see. or, most likely, something you thought you saw and weren't sure and had to look twice.

walking on long street on friday night i noticed a nun dressed in drag. a man, dressed as a catholic nun, conversing with the bouncers outside some club. i wondered what she was doing so far from the convent, bearded, and resplendid in a habit and veil, showing no signs of obediance, chastity or sacrement. i thought this was pretty funny. perhaps i should name her sister frank benedictine and make up a story.

Scene:

what you doing dressed like that?

dressed like what? a woman?

a nun. you're dressed like a nun.

so i am. it's because i am one.

what do you mean? you can't possibly be a nun. you're a man.

no. i am a nun.

you are a man dressed as one. that doesn't make you a woman, or a nun.

it makes me what i says i am.

you have a beard. and you are drinking bourbon straight from the bottle. you are a man, a drunken one at that, and dressed like a woman, who thinks she's a nun. nuns don't drink bourbon.

they don't, eh? i tell you girl, all nuns drink bourbon. just not in public they don't. but i can promise you that they'da done it long before i ever did.

barbara

zapiro does it again

whoever said evolution is a phony didn't consider south african politics.

a home i can compare

it's been a while since europe. i miss it. home doesn't quite compare.



clyde and i went to greenmarket on friday night to a place on the square for some music. i was surprised to find it relatively unpretentious (for cape town) and pretty well-turned out, even though the clientele were mostly one small seedlings who had nice hair, or a hat, and shiny pockets.


the square is pretty at night. there's a church, like the ones in france, and cobbly stones. only because it's africa you can smell bergie piss. haha. but besides that, i found it charming.

one day when i am back in europe i will be home, home i can compare.

i guess i just want to feel at home in myself. maybe craving europe is my running away from reality. reality sucks. i want paris.

a song by the doors, with chords.


People are strange when you're a stranger
Faces look ugly when you're alone
Women seem wicked when you're unwanted
Streets are uneven when you're down

/ Em - Am Em / Am Em B Em / :

{Refrain}
When you're strange
Faces come out of the rain
When you're strange
No one remembers your name
When you're strange
When you're strange
When you're strange

/ B - / G - B - / - - / G - B - / - - / - - /

People are strange when you're a stranger
Faces look ugly when you're alone
Women seem wicked when you're unwanted
Streets are uneven when you're down