Buckle up.

The Song of Winter:

Map of the Problematique
: Muse

Get it. Listen to it. It is the song of the season. Winter 2007 - it will echo with Muse.

Directing you to...

Read the blog entitled "The Story of My Dream about Matthew Bellamy.' from www.myspace.com/eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeemo (there should be 23 es there)

c'est enchantant.

IT'S AMAZING.

I LOVE HIM/MY DREAMBOX.

Viszy

Vistessa was bonafide Italiano
Italiana? She wasn't sure. Did it matter?
She prided herself on her meticulous hair
her dark red nails and dark black hair
she flaunted her dark brown skin
and locked herself away in her dark black soul
today she was dressed in a long green dress
that dripped to the floor
sticking to her like honey making its slow descent with gravity in tow
it shimmered in the remaining light of the day
every nuance of her body seen
she is no shrinking violet
engimacy never came easily
she stands out amongst the drab workers
trudging home from work
she notes how many mumble to themselves
recasts her lipstick
her gavelstick declaring them crazy
she arrives at last at her story
she checks her reflection innocuously
Vistessa, you are ravishing
she glances around self-consciously
then pouts her red lips
the mirror melts for lust
her dripgreen dress flutters slightly as the
cool breeze of night begins to blow
she pulls her shawl up to her shoulders
lights a fad
draws from it a single breath
mumbles quietly to herself about life
its cruel realities
she leaves a red ring on the cigarette
no, viszy, no!
Alfonso is lost
she looks over her shoulder
leaning against the bridge
and looking out over the mucky river
its water lapping at browning banks
the smell of frying onions disturb her grooming
my, I am hungry!
The dusk sky is making way for night
the star in the middle of a yellowblue sky
reminds her
she opens her bag and applies her parfum
no woman is complete without her scent!
Alfonso is not coming, but she does not know
the trickle of workers slows
she straightens her dark hair
a vivid picture against the greying city skyline
a stripe of colour, or life, de vivre
She admires the little dog sniffing her red shoes
In a slow zoom-out, she is all alone
Combing her hair, straightening her dress
what is she? but an image of nothing
she prides herself - on what? her black soul
charred by years of careless lovers
keen to fuck
quick to leave
Vistessa, you do not learn
Alfonso had his two cents, wants a girl with more
with what? I don't know. not what she's got, anyway
Vistessa, a lonely figure on a suburban footpath
content because she does not know
mumbling to herself like a crazy
feeling the need to fill in all the gaps opening around her
her chatter continues to cover the silence
she reapplies her eyeshadow
and waits a few minutes more.

You've a long way to go yet, son.

While sweeping, the rough bristles picking out dirt from the grate, a certain sense of self-disengagement present in the kitchen, I made a startling discovery. People thought differently of me than I thought that they thought of me. I was also glad of instant deletion, the image of a typewriter, in which one's thoughts may solidify on the page before being able to be deleted, frightening me. I was glad for this distraction.

"You're innocent. You have an innocent face. "

I stop sweeping. Innocent? I think that's the first time I've been called innocent. I've been called crazy, impulsive, Arabic, even kind, but never innocent. Never innocent. And the thing is, I can feel these thoughts making slow sense in my head, a sleepy, meandering narrative. I'm making this into a story as I think it.

"I'm sorry - innocent?"

"Yes."

"Like in the way a crooked cop looks innocent on the stand of his mate, crooked judge?"

"What?"

"How?"

"How what?"

"How am I innocent?"

"Well, you don't look guilty."

Therein lies the existential problem. It wasn't that I was innocent, it was that I wasn't anything else readily identifiable.

*

Why big and small. Why not something else?

*

"You're funny."

"Why?"

"You say strange things that I don't get."

That's it. That's why I am. Because I do, and they don't get. Funny that.