So instead I should like to introduce to you Paddy. She's a she, this time, now that sociology has got me hooked on blaming other people for the way some things in life just don't seem right or fair (wawawaaa, bitching about my race or sex or poo. again.) Anyway, her name is Paddy Malon, emphasis on the 'lon'. She's a little like a plant, roots uprooted to feel the breeze just before they begin to dry out, she is reckless, flitting about and tottering on erstwhile feet and a near-broken heart, mouth almost wrecked like it has been smashed in the past by a demolition ball. She abandons old self to enter a new one in a new strange land filled with other-mother milk, reverse-parents, money (not hers), stares, and a whole heap of people lapsing into incomprehension even though they speak the same sets of words.
There exists a little something called religion... and yet even within the one person will be an array of inconsistent remarks and changing breathing dynamic ideas in a state of constant revision yet who would ask for anything else??? least of all Paddy MaLON. Is it true that every body in this P-town is longing for what we in the West would call a white-picket fence and a dog that won't shut up...? (And a pet dog too?) Well sex on the sly doesn't sell, unless you want to feel like an artist, whereupon names are forgotten. Ah, give me a shit-whistle. Stay tuned to discover more tunes from Paddy Cake and what she ended up jamming like after this. . .
So together we will venture into a new era of creative processing, before I end up in a dark room, voluntarily, listening to Daniel Johns, Julian Lennon, and Enya, spewing words into a little black notebook Arabic-style, right-to-left. again.
Great!
After all, Indonesian Mama calls me keras kepala and I think she's onto the truth, as all mothers tend to be.
Peace out! - He:Di
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