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Post BB Housemate Antics - Part 3

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sbramham
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  • sbramhamLeaving my job of five years and beloved Melbourne to start new ventures in Brisbane and Sydney. Thank you for the love @disabilitysportandrec xxx
 
Does anyone know what Katie's tattoo says? I got "She's mad for she's magic. Love's no lie in her life.' Which i am sure is wrong.
 
reepbot said:
Does anyone know what Katie's tattoo says? I got "She's mad for she's magic. Love's no lie in her life.' Which i am sure is wrong.
Click to expand...
I googled what you thought and found this

An Almost Made Up Poem - Poem by Charles Bukowski
I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
because we’ never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’
magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.
 
Isee said:
I googled what you thought and found this

An Almost Made Up Poem - Poem by Charles Bukowski
I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
because we’ never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’
magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.
Click to expand...

Well that makes more sense. Thank you for that.
 
reepbot said:
Yes. It does. Why do you think otherwise.
Click to expand...
Seems a very wierd quote to get tattooed. Obscure. Although I am no poetry fan (don't like poetry, don't like cartoons, is there anything I DO like). And not super inspiring...given the protagonist committed suicide....
 
Mooseface said:
Seems a very wierd quote to get tattooed. Obscure. Although I am no poetry fan (don't like poetry, don't like cartoons, is there anything I DO like). And not super inspiring...given the protagonist committed suicide....
Click to expand...

Maybe it wasn't meant to be inspiring? Maybe it was meant to be art?
 
reepbot said:
Maybe it wasn't meant to be inspiring? Maybe it was meant to be art?
Click to expand...
Sure. I guess art can be 'anything'... Maybe anything can be 'art'. Technically...

But I don't see the point of 'art' that is uninspiring. Especially being tattooed on my body. Personal opinion. Others may disagree.
 
Mooseface said:
Sure. I guess art can be 'anything'... Maybe anything can be 'art'. Technically...

But I don't see the point of 'art' that is uninspiring. Especially being tattooed on my body. Personal opinion. Others may disagree.
Click to expand...

The point of art is to make you feel, to make you feel so deeply that it scares you. It is meant to make you feel so many emotions that you don't know what to do. You feel it in your bones as you look, listen abd feel this art. You feel like you want to escape because the emotions are ao strong, so vivid, so real. You want to cry, so you cry as you bang your gabd against the table until it is broken and bleeding. But you don't care as this artm thus wonderful piece of creativity has nade you feel. It has made you feel something so deep and profound that you want to stop time and replay that moment again and again. You want to feel like that agajn but you fear deep down in your soul that you will never feel that way again. That you will be wandering this earth for the rest of your life. And that vexes you so. So you try and find some more art, some more art that makes you feel.
 
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