Hey you guys…. HAPPY SUMMER SOLSTICE!!
Okay: would it be a little too spoiling-the-party Virgoan of me to clarify that, really, the summer solstice –a.k.a longest day of the year– really happened at 12:07 UTC, which means that when we were just about to start watching "So You Think You Can Dance", (that would be around 8 pmish for you non-believers) the earth had slowly and happily moved past yet another crazy spring on this side of the earth and started its slow tip back?
Yeah. I thought so. So scratch that paragraph back there and let’s try it again: HAPPY SUMMER SOLSTICE!!! WOOOOOOOOOO!
In the spirit of solstice, I found something really cool on Bohemian Girl’s website that I thought was very much worth sharing. Today, June 21st is the International Day of Possibility, or a day where you stop telling yourself things are impossible and actually start believing change is possible.
It is sometimes far more comforting to believe that change is something that is too difficult to attain, because the status quo is so very well known. The status quo may really suck, but familiar is good because we know what to expect from it.
So in the can-do spirit with which we should be seeing this day, I share a poem I wrote on a whim yesterday afternoon. I would normally not share these kinds of things, or would introduce them as "this crappy little thing I put together and seriously, who really writes sonnets these days anyway?" But since today is a little different, I’m just sharing. So here it is.
I don’t want to die to become famous
Won’t do upskirt shots, won’t neglect the kid.
There’s more to life than being infamous.
And haute couture is just an eBay bid
away. Away, you go, stupid thoughts of
ovens and knives and pills and too much booze
and dating jerks. The photog flip-off-shove,
snorting the coke, schmoozing with the sleaze–
can’t hold a real thrill– that cannot be fun–
cannot feel like a life worth living, no.
Unflattering pictures of skin that’s dun
From drugs and sunbathing; a captioned "ho",
Public heartbreak, cellulite, unpaid tax,
Fickle fame treats people as if of wax.
PS: Oh, and take a picture today and submit it to the Washington Post! Details as I remember to put them on here.