The above title comes from a phrase found in a poem of Shwugirl that she won’t allow me to print here, all more the pity. And when I tried writing a blog post at least describing it (which is kinda cheating, including the most immature line ever: “Well, she said I couldn’t publish it here; she didn’t say anything about discussing it.”)

And then I wrote the most glorious review of it (okay, maybe that’s a bit much), churning some of me best writing in ages (right, that’s definitely a bit much), and then this stoopid Compaq workstation spat out the Windows Blue Screen of Death and I knew it then that my blog, my delicious, mischievous li’l blog, my poor baby, was eaten up, words and all.

Sniff.

Shwugirl sent me the poem last nite, and I only got to read it this morning. It’s like a Tori Amos album (strangely enough, I’m listening to Scarlet’s Walk now: No one’s at the door / You suggest a ghost / perhaps a phantom / I agree with this in part) in that you have to spin it several times at least before you get the deepness and vastness of it all; the way it swirls and shifts, before, finally, it sweeps you away. (Ahem. I’m sure I sounded more, er, professional and less like a babbling fanboy the first time I described it. Really.)

Oh, those lost lines of mine!

But beyond the dark colours and the sly wickedness of her poem, her generosity shines through, for all the near immediate surfacing of things we all go through, things we all understand. That’s more than art, that’s a fucking slice of life, baby.

We two know so much of worlds the other barely recognizes; it makes for deep conversations and deeper thoughts, all this intellectual flirtation wrapped up with the sparkiest of cute emotes.

Anyway, I’ve embraced the idea that words lost will never return, but evil always remain. Why, you ask? Well, I just rewrote the whole damned blog post again, didn’t I?

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Copyright © 2003 Kenny Mah Ying Fye.