yawn, why are you so silent?

ankle-length skirts and oatmeal for dinner
yes i'm a very old woman
but where was my age in the sunrising arch
of floral stockings?
horrendous headache and a vague clinging past
wrap around my neck but don't keep away
the shiver of winter or
the steady draining blood from fingertips
yes i'm old and crippled
paralyzed on diner benches and in car seats
behind the wheel and behind life
yawn, why are you so silent?
white air but invisible life
much too quick for weak knees
and weary shoulders
strengthened by push-ups but tired from
pushing the earth back into place
the bed sinks under weight of exhaustion
and eyes remain open to greet slanted reflections
when will tomorrow arrive undisputed?
celexa shoveling through snow
mock bliss and empty sockets
a mouth to use
catch snowflakes
throat to burn
and the air passes silent from
body to body

until... [christmasy thoughts or something]

a touch of red
and white wine
striped socks slid out of oldnew drawers, remembered
beneath vixen fingers glide thread and needle
wrapping paper candle
cookie pie, snow sunlight
loud phone calls with distant realms of the heart while
the table waits expectant turkey cools
books wait for ritual to subside diminish forget
and glasses of wine sit and reflect, watch elf with the rest
and glitter the secrets of sober mind
texts from strangers and those close
faraway lovers with invisible arms hugging stroking
lounging under weight of tomorrow's cares
pre-worry pre-plan new
year's resolution
beneath home lights in front of television swirled into
complexly simple conversation suspended
and then the week is over the year has turned and life reignites
turns crimson again at the fingertips black soon in an instant
bracelets cling to inches of skin, time greets the age
golden vanilla reaches cinnamon arm
shapes colors wrap beneath blankets
greet tomorrow with open limbs empty bags laden pockets
spend into oblivion fix for the fresh year
endless white until

even though

some things feel like they're crashing around me, i feel okay. for now.
i like being drunk and waking up in strange beds.
sometimes i'm such a hot mess. sometimes i feel perfectly fine. sometimes i want to die. and sometimes i'm just happy to still be alive.
some days, like today, i'm just glad to be able to eat chick-fil-a and reminisce about the previous night's hilarity. suck on a candy cane, remember his freckles, and think about being home in less than a few days. think of snow and sleep. laugh at the bruises and soreness. laugh at imminent finals, and cartoons. wonder what tomorrow will be like and whether i'll fail this semester. wonder what tomorrow will be like. and smile because at least there's a tomorrow, at least i'm okay for now.

windy

too windy to light a cigarette
and yet still hand becomes numb
holding
on

12/10/10, pieces of my journal

I don't want to do this anymore. I can't do
this anymore. I can't sit and wait while
the world laughs at me, calls me stupid, watches me
self-destruct. I can't be what anyone wants me
to be. I can't pretend that everything's okay
when it's not. Every lie is multiplying and I'm
becoming too trapped to do anything. I am unfolding
on stage, but the curtains are drawn, the spotlight's
dimmed, the theatre half-empty.

in some ways [i am frankenstein]

this feels like the funniest week of my life.
people are concerned about my well-being, as if i'll jump in front of any passing cab.
they said, "tell me about death. do you think about it often?"
well, yes, of course. doesn't everyone?
why do so many try so hard, every day, to ignore the reality that we all die someday.
i'm just trying to remind everyone: you will die.
and though i have no intention of meeting death cordially and so soon -
no, we don't have a lunch date, nor have we scheduled afternoon tea - it has
placed itself rather delicately and firmly at the front of my thoughts.
she's concerned about my safety - what safety? me, here, in my room,
writing and listening to music. who knew it could be so dangerous?
i walked home last night feeling no possible harm could meet me from the streets that
couldn't be worse than the monster or cavity or whatever inside of me. oh that horrid villain, it's alive, sparks of electricity shooting everywhere, illuminating wild eyes. that's how it goes in my head, mad scientists, probing, creation of a creature great and terrible. [but who is frankenstein?]
the greatest danger is myself, which makes me giggle and giggle,
for i'm powerless

12/1/10, pieces of my journal [and i became medicated]

What will they find, after the tests? What if nothing is wrong? Am I crazy to think that nothing could be wrong? Is it ridiculous to assume there is?

The email only said that I was dead already, a shadow, dead Woolf and dead Dickinson. I only mentioned the way Time whispers in my ear every morning and each hour that all is futile, that all is death eventually.

What is happening? I suppose I really do only have my words now.

Oh, I don't want to be probed.

I fled like a madman, not unlike the mad woman I am.
What else is there to do but run for my life?

And I give up my last cigarette so easily.

How can I run from everything? Where does that leave me? Do I exist in some separate plane, an alternate reality? Am I a third world of myself?

I will run, but for how long? To what end? How long can the rain cover, shield, blend my tears?
Or maybe it can't.

A wet cigarette wasted in the rain,
tossed on cement, discarded - itself
slimy surfaces, slipping pen and running nose
walk with no intentions, she says
I'll do just that

my life is becoming empty...

my life is becoming empty, reduced to nothing but anxious rooms filled with everything but voices, light shining on the bed and all the wrong places, every day asking my journal why i'm here, questioning what i am, wondering why thursdays feel like mondays (and why i had to discover that from eavesdropping on other people's conversation), writing things that don't make sense in places that mean nothing to me, surrounded by no one but blank tourist faces or sad silent admirers, wondering why i kiss stranger after stranger and feel surprised when they're not there the next day, only a pillow to keep me company beneath sheets and complex dreams, eating to fill some sort of space, cavities to fill cavities, sadness definitely populating - who needs the park, ancient things in museums and shadows of lives observing, consuming the very beauty of existence, consuming until gone and destroyed and forgotten, sucked dry, crying from too much love and not enough sex and outbursts and explosions and vegetables, dying every day from choking silence, trembling voice of time discarded, words and lines and shapes and it all meaning nothing to my hazy eyes and jittery hands and prancing legs, ignoring every voice saying i could be something other than sylvia's or virginia's echo, a bukowski dream and a wandering kerouac heart, a ginsberg howl, bare meals interrupting my sleep - rambling dreams and misplaced affection, kissing the homeless and smoking with the old, dancing with the dead, crying with bliss, smoking and dying with shame, penniless and yet still spending

whole half

i don't feel like a whole person.
i feel more like a half-person.
maybe hollow, or with a poorly-developed outer shell.
half at most, dead at best.

11/16/10

What is breathing anymore?

He was in my dream last night. Lots of other people were in other ones too, but I only care about him. Now I've spent the greater part of this morning wondering if his body looks the same, if he's a good kisser, if he's a good lover, if he would make love to me, if I really want it.

It's not a matter of time, but caring.
The words are mocking me. White blank screen.

What about Virginia Woolf's ghosts? What could I possibly say?

a few bits of nonsense from my journal.

11/14/10

it's pretty funny/ridiculous that every time i buy cigarettes the person at the counter stares intently at my ID to see if it's both real and of me. and then skeptical resignation. seriously, you have that much doubt that i'm over 18? when will i stop looking so young? it also doesn't help that my hair is different and i've lost some weight. but still...
sorry if you were expecting some "real" writing from me. i've been trapped in a world of my thoughts and kerouac and other nonsense. i've been writing gibberish. i sit in parks for hours just reading, writing, smoking, drinking cheap coffee. that's all i've become. none of it is particularly good, but it's getting me by.
to be honest, i'm quite lonely. i've reached a roadblock. i ran into a friend today and [awkwardly?] ate lunch and walked home with him. i only say awkwardly because i know i can be so much better. i know i'm not supposed to be this distant.
i'm doing laundry now and slowly inching towards delayed homework. i want to be back in the park, though, listening to the man next to me playing guitar and singing folk songs. i want to hear his lonely, perfect story. i want someone to share stories with. and fuck. lately i've been imagining having sex with far too many people.
i think my classes are bullshit, i think my friends are bullshit. the only things that seem real, things i find myself clinging to, are momentary, like kisses and hot soup and smoke.
in summation, i feel ugly, lonely, and very lost in my own head. (i need drugs and some good music to dance to. and good people to dance with. i need too many things.)

summarizing my journal; fucking panic

am i really reaching the conclusion? is this it? am i nothing more than this?

i want to murder someone/something/myself.

already [unfinished] 9/19/10

already he was there, in front of me, half-naked.
i hadn't even thought of this in my dreams. even if i had, i had never admitted it to myself, never envisioned it fully.
we had suddenly passed the realm of friendship, liking, loving. we had jumped into the cold waters of half-nakedness.
we had jumped, and barely knew each other.
he invited me in and i didn't know whether to sit or not.
i looked at the couch, but it almost would have felt just as right on the bed.
he went away for a moment, presumably to put on a shirt, but he came back just as he had been.
he insisted i sit, and so i sat.
i noticed the tattoo, on his ribcage, exactly where i've been considering getting mine. i considered his, guessed at the words scrawled there because i was too afraid to stare intently. i couldn't bring myself to look at his smooth, tight torso.
he was there, next to me on the couch, and then suddenly he was beneath me, on the bed.
except not really.
i forced my imagination back to the couch, focused on the other empty couch, the blank walls, the brightness of the room. he asked me questions and i was only able to manage a yes or a no, and a smiling giggle.
he said he liked my laugh, and he giggled too.
he asked the questions and i answered and we giggled.
after a while i asked questions and he answered.

this has been saved in my drafts since september. i've been looking back at it every now and then, telling myself that someday i'll complete it. but not now, i've realized. the real-life situation that inspired this has become stagnant and i think only when that is, um, resolved or solidified (?) will i be able to finish... one of those clinging things, you know? okay, i need to stop rambling and ruining everything.

11/6/10

an obsession with dying

monkey brain

"quiet the monkey brain, or whatever's screaming at you"

my TA said this in class this morning, in relation to emerson or thoreau... and this crazy image began to form in my head. i sat down to write it and it became this beat, this rhythmic thing. it needs to be spoken. it excites me, but at the same time, it's sort of a mess. and it really reflects my new musical persona, or whatever has caused me to block out anything not related to dancing and party shit. i just don't know what's happening to me. so out of focus.

any guy will tell you you're beautiful to get into your costume and underneath the face paint [unfinished?]

all we could do was laugh
our eyes met on the couch, in the elevator, on the dancefloor
we were just characters in that novel, i kept thinking
the different hims and yous blended too closely
and the lights strobed to the rhythm of
my hips moved with the knowledge of touch
and sweet talk
transformation incantations
in retrospect
i listened three too many times
let three too many pairs of lips whisper, breathe, linger at my ear
too many hands
sideways glances to check if we were still okay
if the fantasy was still swirling, if my drink was still full, if my underwear was still on

all we can do is laugh
awake again in the fluorescence
remember the bags boys breads burning cigarettes bundles of clothes socks sweaters

a jumpsuit and leggings
midafternoon breakfast
who thinks i'm beautiful now just the
ringing phone, ears
the chai hand holding mine
orange kissing
my throat, juicy
laughing crying weeping the page

i'm starting to cringe about what i've done this weekend. i might as well change my middle name to Hot Mess. but i love my best friend tomi, and halloween, and new york.

all roads lead to daft punk

or at least that's the only conclusion i could see at 3am this morning
even somewhere in my cold mug of coffee there was a lingering beat of digital love
or some desire for discovery
sorry shakespeare but the knocking within just can't beat the knocking without
the drum and pitterpatter of sleepy faces colliding in fluorescent sunday delight
i know it's not sunday or even the weekend really yet but
his face silhouettes the board in such a way
the calendar shifts itself to make sense of the terrain
terrain tearing hurricane came
and shame washed over me as the picture fell slid off the wall words melted and evaporated
in the stillness the heavy still pause between a sentence and an epiphany in that sturdy suffocating breath i found the road the path that bodhisattva couldn't even deny
yeah shantideva would feel fill crush in the thousands of pieces pierce the awakened womb one more time take buddha's seven steps againagainagain
againagain
until face to face with the ment light en light ning high life
after all we're all just electrons electriccellular bits of atomic bomb matter
after all we're human after all

clinging to empty windowsills

where's your wing heart, love?
he whispered gently in my ear, sending individual hairs fluttering in the air.
i just looked out the window, silent as the light warmed the windowsill and spilled onto the floor, revealing the dancing dust particles.
he continued, you can't always cling to empty windowsills.
remember what you told me? he asked.
i tried to remember, and couldn't.
i remembered the words, but not why i said them, couldn't understand how they could have ever meant anything to me.
find your wing heart, he said and brushed his fingers against the back of my arm. i felt beard and lip lightly meet my shoulder.
i watched as the light dimmed, a momentary cloud existing somewhere overhead. i felt the storm without even needing to lift my head or open my heart eyes.

hair, sort of.

my hair is either not photogenic, or this is indeed a shitty haircut? haha. i tried to take some decent photos, but they didn't turn out very well. it was a lovely distraction from my midterm essay, though.

9/15/10

somewhat very tired of everything.
i'll take 2, 3 naps in one day,
and still never wake up.
nothing seems to shake this fatigue.

my journal scraps (too lazy to make a new one, too cheap to buy one) are full of depressing reflections/philosophy.

why the fuck did i come back?

why the fuck did i come back?
why the fuck did i come back?
why the fuck did i come back?

not yet

i've never felt so strange in my own body, she thinks.
she had let the shower get hotter than usual, maybe in an attempt to steam away the new problems.
now, face towards the tub floor, she feels the water hitting her skin, sliding down her body.
she looks at the curves and imagines them more pronounced,
wonders if the swelling has already begun.
but maybe there's nothing to swell, she reasons hopefully.
she wants to cry, but nothing comes out.
maybe they're being steamed away.
maybe it'll be steamed away.
she tries to picture the worst case scenario.
worst case scenario, isn't that what they say.
she scrunches up her face, her fingers scrub lighter than she wishes.
pain, shame, loneliness, it all flashes before her eyes,
images of her being that girl.
that girl, they'll say.
she had so much going for her, they'll say.
how did this even happen, they'll ask.
and she'll just stare because she won't have a better answer than anyone else.
she thinks this all now, standing still under the shower head, done with washing
but feeling like there's something more
like some dirt beneath the surface, something wrong flowing in her veins.
she imagines her next conversations, how they could be the worst of her life.
strained, awkward, full of heavy air, the kind she's used to but new in a sense.
they'll be new because this is new. she reasons that everyone must go through this sometime, yet even as she begins to think it, it doesn't feel true. she's alone.
she's been alone the last few days, walking under the burden of this new secret.
nothing has felt quite important. even now, in this bathroom, she wonders how this could possibly matter months from now. maybe years from now.
it'll matter, she admits, i guess. or maybe it won't. maybe this will all be nothing but an anecdote.
she tries to imagine retelling this story, in the other perspective, days and weeks from now. as she stretches and examines her arms in the mirror she tries to picture another man, more men, touching them. she tries to think this all funny, form words to fill letters to friends, oh i was so worried, she'll write, over nothing.
it wasn't possible really, she'll mockingly admit, as if she had been in on the joke all along, as if she knew this all wasn't a real threat.
but now, it is all very real. and as soon as these thoughts begin to take shape in the steam, they disappear at the sharp face in the mirror.
she's distracted, she can't help it, it's become a habit in the last few days, to steal a glance at her stomach in the mirror, to run a hand across her belly, poking skin and feeling the tension and muscles beneath.
she does that now, trying to detect any change.
no, she thinks, not yet.

9/30/10 4:53am

"you wake up in the morning and nine times out of ten you don't know why you're living."

his eggs and my eggs

i complained about the eggs
until i realized you weren't there this morning
it wasn't until i finished this cold pb&j sandwich
hoping i could wash it down with some milk or a little warmth
it wasn't until i shivered in my empty apartment
i nitpicked about how there was too much oil
but really those eggs were seasoned to perfection
i don't think i mentioned it but they were
now i resort to walking somewhere, anywhere, just because i'm lonely
i'm sitting here with an unsatisfied stomach
and a throbbing head and an unfinished essay
wondering why i don't just pick up the phone or open the door
or do something to keep me from sitting here at this desk
praying for death
literally waiting for that moment
with all the flashing and the nostalgia and the screams of lost opportunities
and the smiling rejection and the irony
it was you who started this all
maybe it was before the eggs or after
i'm not sure though it doesn't really matter
but you became just another person who didn't understand
another who mocked my silence and commented on my hair criticized my actions and made my eggs wrong
just another to make life laughably unbearable
incredibly silly and useless
i'll lie in bed tonight and cry and think of the cleverly cute things i always forget to say to you to him to them
and i'll analyze the bits of dumpling and orange juice swirling in my stomach
feel the acid grasping my insides clinging to make it through the erosion explosion
i'll imagine the new boy i've fallen in love with
the way he wears tshirts and hats and polite interest and slight concern
the way he knows nothing at all about my shivering skeletons in bed
about my peanut butter jelly existence within a lonely breadcrumb world
but soon he'll be just another sunday morning
another plate of cooling breakfast

when it doesn't exist

he says i sit in silence
but how can he know of the constant ramblings of my soul
the overpouring of my mind into this and that and that
i don't say anything because i've already lied so much
to him, something i'm not quite
but something wholly incorrect in all the right ways
he says i sit in silence
but he doesn't know how i've spent my entire life making noise
being so loud in all the wrong ways
a rumbling gurgling being that needed a timeout
he says all this
because he doesn't know how i've become an old, old woman
the weighted life of a ventriloquist
becoming so tired, aged in strange ways
he says i sit in silence
but i don't even understand what silence is
for how can i
when it doesn't exist
and he fills my head with lies and bad jokes
a misinformation of a generation
he says and i look of the window at the grass
and the houses and the trees and his words get lost in mine

shitty mood. i am frustrated. i am everything. i need to get out of this fucking city. i need to get off this planet.

9/24/10

it's like i don't know how to be me anymore.

9/20

primal in every sense of the word
no thinking
logic completely misplaced
i was an animal
having an instinct of food and reproduction
except i didn't really want to eat
and i sure as hell didn't want to reproduce
but there was a gnawing
like the way a beast savors raw flesh
a simple and mechanical aspect to what we were doing
like mathematics

decided to stop here before it just becomes like this ("geometry"). will maybe come back to it later.

jsf

his voice perfect, not soft or high or anything strange, maybe quiet but firm and clear. what he was saying was truth. simple and deep. he made me laugh, and want to cry, and pick up pen and paper, or open a word document. his intentions were pure, i could tell, and his stance neutral. not too neutral, though. his opinions were clear like his voice and beautiful wording, but not patronizing or judging. it was simple curiosity, and it was genius. he told us that there's no such thing as an aspiring writer, just writers. and i knew it was true because i've felt that tugging at my heart, making me drum my fingers, for years and years. being a writer, he said, is the most vulnerable of professions. and it's so true. just think about it for a minute, i couldn't possibly explain it as fluidly as he did. just as he described the nature of novels, their uselessness and superfluousness to society that makes them that much more necessary. it's about freedom and imagination, and the beauty of art. i don't have money, or else i would have bought the book, and one for my mother, and another for someone else. and i would have had him sign it, and made small-talk, momentarily bond when i mentioned i'm a vegetarian too. i listened to the poetry in his words, and couldn't believe i hadn't read any of his books yet, ashamed that he kept being pushed into the Will Read Soon or Eventually pile. he was hilarious and real and brilliant. he introduced me to the world again, the simplicity connecting all things. those moments, oddly, reassured me that i may not be royally fucking up my life or everything around me. for the first time in days, i didn't worry about the future. not exactly, directly, at least. i felt calm, i was enraptured in calm and the literature of life, and it felt nice.

jonathan safran foer did a reading of his new book eating animals, and a q & a session followed. he really is wonderful. earlier i was inclined to describe him as "magical." obviously i enjoyed what he was saying, but there was/is something else going on in my head and it intrigues me. even in "depressed" times like this i'm grateful for the city and nyu, if only for the unique life-affirming and/or eye-opening experiences...

twinkling

she would have called it a quiet sadness
but it was really more of a resignation
an accepting of the unfortunate way of the world
she determinedly put one foot in front of the other
marched in a rhythmic and fast sort of way
only because she wasn't ready to die
in headlights or beneath tires
or hear the thud of her body and bag
as one hitting the cold pavement
or warm depending on who was last there and when
it was loneliness of course
but not the usual kind that ruined lives
and ended friendships and began tears
but the unrelenting kind that lingered
between sentences and behind retinas
it was a twinkling a low burning
like a flame about to be extinguished
others saw the twinkling but said nothing
or she would try to share it and someone would
just brush it off without much of anything
though resigned and dying it was real nonetheless
so real it was imaginary to almost everyone
she was consumed by it so
she thought it was just ordinary sadness
a touch of melancholy to balance out
the overjoyed therapy obsessed plasticity
the dwindling twinkling could have been prevented of course
or at least delayed a bit
if only someone had been aware of the way
her muscles seized up and prevented her from
moving and turning her head
paralyzed so much so that opening her mouth
uttering a few greetings were nearly impossible
she only felt connected to the earth
a sort of pulsing she couldn't feel from her peers
she only kept walking because standing still
just meant still being and being wasn't something she understood
she gave herself away to the way of the world
unfortunate as it is
and she left having spoken millions of words
walked thousand of miles
all swirling lost in the twinkling

=( i hate to summarize my current state of being in an emoticon, but there you have it. my life is all sorts of unfortunate.

what the fuck am i even doing?

what the fuck am i even doing?

feed yourself to the tigress

with a new semester of classes comes a new set of ideas
so excuse me for a bit while i sort out my thoughts
i've been having some lovely experiences
last night i felt free and joyous, anonymous and needed
today, i'm not sure
tomorrow, who knows
for now i'll sip my mint tea, let rioux shock and sway and ease me to sleep...

thin your herd

i was walking through brooklyn the other day and i saw this line
scrawled across a wall
i kept walking but suddenly
maybe a block or two away
it all made sense
everything, life,
it all made sense
everything, it all
came down to those three words
thin your herd
later i was sitting on a curb
lonely and smoking a cigarette
listening to a band and watching some people
i was sitting but also thinking
about all the thinning my life needed
and somehow it all made sense
my bag, my waist, my thighs,
all of my other herds,
the ones here in new york,
and the ones back home,
the parts of my herd i don't need,
the parts making me lag
and it was wonderful
to float while sitting
to feel lifted while walking
down an empty street
i was existing and it felt nice
i was walking and didn't need anything else
it all made sense
that maybe just
being is enough
suddenly it all makes sense
that maybe you're not wrong
but your herd is just
too thick
that maybe you just need some thin white lines
on a wall in williamsburg for a warning
a reminder and a reassurance
that maybe everything is going fine
and your head in the clouds is
in the right place
that walking and existing
and floating and sitting
and smoking and drinking and crying
all made sense
that some sheep just need
to be let loose
and that some,
some but not many,
some sheep are here to stay

graffiti is basically the best wisdom. i spent most of yesterday alone, thinking and wandering. i reached a strange point between feeling sad and feeling complete.

so what do we do with this? we make it sing.

i guess i should just be thankful that this is all i have to worry about,
whether i choose english literature or creative writing or art or cinema studies or
whatever.
i go to bed at night crying because i don't know myself,
after i realized that no one else could possibly know me until
i do.
yeah it's just college and i'm just 20 and it's just another day,
but not really.
not really because while i'm sitting in a classroom in a recently renovated building thanks to some generous, rich, asshole patron,
sitting and complaining about how my clothes fit,
someone is laying sprawled on the sidewalk because
it's just their only option.
and don't get me wrong,
i'm not an advocate for the homeless or a mother teresa
or anything that is outside of myself, really.
but it's made me think,
wrenched my eyes open as if they were clamped shut in cacophony.
it's not just a day, it's not just an option, and it's not
just life.
because if anything was ever just just
the world would cease to exist.
i realized the universe is composed of uncertainties,
of mistakes and unfulfilled experiences, of doubts and disaster,
failure.
options and hope squeezed in the spaces between disappointment and stagnant dreams,
they're there.
so while my life turns to shit and the world turns to shit and people act like shit,
the shit makes more sense.
and everything is revealed to be bullshit,
but not really.
and everyone's dying,
but not quite
yet.

like new york city, my mood has its ups and downs, changes in the flash of a second. one moment is never the same. it's weird, being back and trying to sort of time myself, learn to move to the rhythm of the city again. in the chaos of this week, i've found moments of peace. i'm starting to remember why i wanted to come back to nyc: it's life. i'm certainly not ready for everything it'll throw at me, but i'm sure as hell ready to have things thrown at me if it means that i'll finally wake up.

i'm just surrounded by all these people who know what they want, and everyone's growing up. and it's like my whole life is a mistake.

=/

i keep having thoughts, either early in the morning or late at night, and i don't seem to be able to write them down
somewhere between sleep and life, i'm aware of the mysteries of the world for just a second
and then it all disappears
and i wake up with a sadness deeper than when i went to bed
the pieces i manage to scribble
feel false after the minutes, hours,
days it takes to stumble upon brilliance again
find home again
the rigid lines and the blank pages have lost their warmth,
don't beckon like they used to
and everything disappears in a moment's hesitation

today i learned

that whole foods makes a decent guacamole
my dreams are feeble
and that there is such a thing as too much cream in tea
i learned sometimes four stamps on an envelope still isn't enough
and that even if the day starts gray
the sun in its full glory can bear down on you by 2pm
my heart skips to multiple beats, colliding
that it's silly to worry about the future
it will come anyway
that harry potter has taught me the majority of life lessons i may ever learn
and that sometimes it's okay not to know or understand
a good night's sleep is all we ever really need

untitled for now

she has the limp arm of a writer, toned only for a few short and swift movements
constantly lifting a mug, cigarette, pen
pausing to watch the dreams
fall
maybe waiting until the motivation fades and the lies
drip
away
or possibly biding its time until another limb finds
and captures, tip-
toes along thin bone and transparent memories
until it creates a new territory of
fingers, filtered sunlight, gasps, smooth whispers
of shared pots of tea and shared packs of cigarettes
jointly making the ink run dry
shaking
shaking
reaching for a new one

huh. didn't/don't know where i was going with this, but it's reached an interesting point. maybe will make something more of this.

head horse hit [unfinished]

i never noticed how much meanings change
how words when we're five aren't the same words when we're twenty
didn't notice until the deep purple of the sharpie bled into my retina
familiar shapes, unpleasant memories
i thought back, wondered what i knew then
that i may know now
i left the classroom wishing i could be five again
hoping those words would transform again
we could be children again, maybe
maybe not, never

insufficient lighting

insufficient lighting,
it makes it difficult to read.
more difficult to sleep
than engineer dreams

the emptiness burns bright
in a world so dim

scribbles scribbles
illegible.
silent parties
for the failures

missing links
ancient

ancient sorrows
overlooked.
yes, we'll need another lamp.

this is nonsense. i was just tired of not posting anything new on here. blah blah stressing about a lot of things blah blah blaaaaaaaaaaaah.

8/11/10

she was the type of person who was far more impressive when she didn't say anything. not that she said stupid things. she just had a presence.
she once said that all she wanted to do in life was drive an ambulance.
i want that kind of power, she once said.

less than fabulous

he walked over the piles of clothes and the crumpled photos, shaking his head in disapproval
no, no, no, he was saying
darling, you never let anyone see the room you breakdown in
and definitely not the mess you create
no, we don't do that
he sat down at the edge of my bed, leaning in to get a closer look at my tear-stained, ugly, sad face
you never, ever let the world think you are anything less than fabulous
he looked back at the floor, his eyes hovered over the bare walls
no, love, i shouldn't even be in here
without looking back at me, he stood, straightened himself
without turning his head he said, 30 minutes and we're leaving
i am leaving with the most marvelous girl in the world, and there's nothing this room can do to stop us
as the door was closing, he said, wake up, darling, you've lost at least four pounds and will look wonderful in that little navy dress, don't keep me waiting

birthday breakdown

my insides burn
and i was kicking and screaming and
i was crying
blind eyes tearing photos from the wall
ripping the only pieces of my existence
a collage in its separate pieces,
hours later i look at the damage i've done and i mourn for
hours later and my mom doesn't know a thing
a new plant to keep me company a new plant to freshen a new plant to kill
i was crying and grasping,
never enough hair to pull or tissues to use
acid mocks the throat
pancakes are funny, the way they go down so easy
and then scheme with the eggs and hashbrown to fight their way up back to daylight
up and back to normalcy, back to lies, back to disappointing reality
there's never anything to do but lay in bed and recognize the ugly laying with me
there is only ever these moments, this bed, the world outside with you with them over there there far away, that world doesn't exist
just as i don't exist
so tempted to text him, let him know that i'm going to die alone that i'm dying alone and he was right
sobs so loud i wonder how my ears hold such pressure, a heaving silence, always grasping rasping
one day i'll die in this bed i know it, maybe not today but someday
and my stomach will churn in emptiness and medicine
laying paralyzed in the days of
hours later and no one knows
hours and days and months
waiting to

most of this isn't good, but i'm too afraid to write the words, not ready to write the things i want/need to say.

mixed up [?]

i put on a sweater because the a/c's too high, and it smells like winter
itches like cold breezes on bare branches
earlier i made banana nut bread, filled with aromas of autumn, cinnamon and things
caught in a vortex of inconvenient time, with the green fingers to prove it
nails short for working
the doctor said something about christmas and i nodded but i didn't want to think about that yet,
not ready for the lights and the snow and the ho ho h...
he brings home fresh berries, and i eat them up, suspended in sweet bitter bliss of purity
simple is all we're really looking for, things like a scoop of ice cream and airy vibrations from speakers, from throats
books shutter, fall in movement, take me back to years forgotten, aged ages,
youth caught in sweet bitter memories, flow of distorted life, the worn out greens changing to worn out golds to worn out nakedness to worn out birth
internalized lies, confused in the honest daylight and squished into beet burgers, a dark cold of summer, chill at beach
the transcending vanilla, drop dropping into the recipes of life, mixes of bread and things,
freezing bed on a starry humid night

letters

the words, they're already there, before i even write them
we are one in the same, though different in so many ways
i'm here, she's there
east and west coast, miles apart
but these pages and these thoughts bind us so close
that it almost frightens me, to be wrapped in such
sameness
to smile at the reassurance, to know that my thoughts aren't always so
futile
the pondering of skype, road trips, escapes
thoughts to make our sentences and trinkets and cds stronger than they already are
stronger than they need to be
sturdier than they should
be in such a world, worlds of lists and complaints and bitching and human things
worlds of dysfunctional families and imperfect friends and awkward encounters
lines and lines of confession, tragedy, memory, happiness
i know what you mean, five words that flow out of my pen so easily
you're wonderful, words that lighten my eyes and fill my heart so quickly
all of the inbetween things, phrases, scribbles, that complement my soul just right
and complete my day just enough
the i love you written so honestly and simply

i got a letter today. have i mentioned how much i love sending and receiving mail? genevieve, you'll have to give me your address in arizona once you're settled in so we can start the penpal-ing.

cheap therapy

their relationship was a bit complicated, always
but it worked magnificently
a cheap sort of therapy, a mellow neurosis
she would complain and he would ignore
he would despair and she would doubt
it was beautiful, really, the mess of it all
one day they woke up and just knew
they could feel it in the creased newspaper
and taste it in the bitter coffee
pause between forkfuls of egg, bites of banana
that morning they thought they knew
she said, we should break up
at the same time,
and i kid you not, the timing was perfect, we live in such a humorous universe,
at the same time he said, we should get married
the coffee was bitter indeed, the universe hilariously witty
they both said what and
in those days they were both trapped
something so horrible and perfect,
how do you let go
they would think that to themselves,
how can i let go, they thought
they eventually let go, of course,
days months years passed, who cares
the time doesn't really matter
does it
they moved on to other terrible, magnificent relationships
they moved on to other people with other problems
and their lives separately fell into chaos, beautiful messes
they never found happiness again

bummer. moment of depression. whatever.

the professor of one of my favorite classes ever ever emailed us to tell us about the class she’ll be teaching in the fall. i’m momentarily depressed that i’ll be leaving. her class was honestly the only thing i really enjoyed while away from new york; and it was the only one that challenged, inspired, and “enlightened” me. i was able to look at literature in a completely new light, while at the same time focus more deeply on themes that already interested me. she’s absolutely wonderful, and since the end of the quarter in march i’ve been regretting not showing her my full potential. that class was the only thing that made me even consider that my life in ohio could work. the fact that this little email is making me question, almost regret, going back to nyu is blowing my fucking mind. how do you walk away from such talent, from the person who may be the greatest teacher of your lifetime? how do you walk away from a life that may turn out better, be more positive or successful, than the one you’ve so desperately dreamed about? shit, guys.
why do i always make horrible decisions?
i mean, i know the class is only 10 weeks and we're not going to be best friends and my professor isn't going to decide the rest of my life, but it's about what it symbolizes, you know? if i can find some happiness, some direction, some clarity here, then why the fuck do i need to search for it in new york? why follow a path i don't need, or maybe don't want, to go down?
again, why do i always make horrible decisions?

writer's block

not fun.
i've been feeling so uninspired.
oh phewy.

BUT got a couple rolls of film developed.
c'est moi.

7/13/10

this tshirt smells like skunk and
i've been writing the same reminders on my hand for a week
what happened to all the paper
kerouac last week, austen this
a skunk today
mom likes my favorite band, and
the way my new clothes fit
two sizes, two sizes
let's make it three or four
i've been dreaming about how cemeteries and boys can
fit into my complex convoluted world of storytelling
is it too simple, is it too forced
she ran her fingers through my hair as i drove and
i didn't feel a thing but it was wonderful
to know that you're something beautiful and special
i wear the same things and write the same words and
pretend to be someone else, every day

why do mugs

why is it
that at times
only
tea
makes sense
there is something
so
comforting
about the
boiling water
and the
leaves
leaves dried
withered
why do mugs
hold such
mysteries
there is
a stillness
a quiet
whispering
in the steam
a
shouting quiet
in the warmth
why do mugs
hold such
mysteries

complacency or faded [working title for now]

it was in the middle of that drab summer that she began to think about it
in between batches of cookies, in the midst of blueberry scones
she felt it may be her only contribution to society
the idea rose like dough, bittersweet
when did i become like this, she thought
my soul is too fragile for this, she thought
she tried to wash everything away with cups of tea and imaginary characters
figures dancing on screen
she grabbed her bags one afternoon, careful to remember the notebooks
things just don't make sense, she thought
what am i here for, she thought
she met a man in a diner
he was nice, with a faded hat and a faded tshirt to match a faded life
they were talking and he asked about the cookie she was eating
is it good, he said
i'm thinking about getting chocolate chip i figure chocolate chip is always good, he said
she wasn't aware of diner etiquette but she wanted to be honest
it's ok, she said
not to be rude but i make pretty good cookies, she said
oh, he said
he was quick to catch on
so it's not as good as your cookies huh
well maybe then you can make me some sometime
yeah maybe, she said
why am i still here, she thought
black coffee replaced tea, greasy eggs and truck drivers replaced whatever entertainment her life had known before
steamed away problems in the hot corners of the kitchen, sweating, pausing between batches
things are so easy here, she thought
when a few muffins brightened old norma's day or when faded hat bought her ice cream and insisted they watch the stars
it was in the middle of that drab summer that she began to think about it
and it was in the middle of that drab summer that she came to life, died, came to life, died

thinking i might make this into a short story.

last 4th of july poem, i swear.

oh god and that face, he says, it lit up with the fireworks
and i swear, she glowed brighter than them
i listen patiently, nod and smile
and wait for the moment when i'll be magical enough for him

just a little something i thought of last night while watching some fireworks. it's like we look up at these things in the sky, but what about the fireworks within each of us? they light up the sky with this amazing glow, and i just sort of thought about how we do the same with each other.

declaration

declare independence, don't let them do that to you
the words screamed at her
but i don't know how, don't know how, she thought
all i have is this red blood and these blue lips,
the white remainder of a burned flag
raise your flag, higher, higher
the woman told her
her arm hurt, but she lifted, lifted
until the flag was high enough
and the decorations were in order
she said, protect your language,
make your own flag,
ignore their patronizing
covered her ears, turned away from the boom boom crackle
go to the top of your highest mountain
she found the fridge, ice for the wound and beer for the memories

i don't know if this makes sense at all. i was listening to bjork's "declare independence." yeah i'm pretty certain this doesn't make sense.

4th of july

all of this, she said, it just makes me want to make blueberry pie
what about everything else, he asks
what do you mean, ‘everything else,’ nothing else really matters
he shakes his head, straightens the tablecloth, well are you going to make another one
no, she’s shaking her head now, eyes hovering over the golden tops of the pies already dominating their tiny kitchen’s surfaces
she’s letting all the cool air out, he thinks, the way she’s standing in the doorway, she should move
but he doesn’t say anything
instead he thinks about apple pie and hot dogs and decorations
didn’t you love this time of year when you were a kid, he asks, you know, the fireworks and sparklers and food, he says, wasn’t there a parade
yeah i guess, but

feel free to tell me your interpretation of this. i want to know if it's too ambiguous and needs some "bridging." but you guys are smart and probably get it. but still. pretty please. i'll [try to] make you a blueberry pie.

thrift store, her summer.

she liked to drown her sorrows in other people's trash,
walked between long rows, examined clothes on racks, dreamed of claiming those sandals
or those pants, the right fitting
ice cream and cigarettes, these were on her mind most days
the showstress of a generation
wrote the tragedies of her generation
flailed on empty streets, moonlight reflecting her tears, she still thought of the sweetness of watermelon and the completeness of a cup of tea,
the simplicity of a hug
pieces and holes in a performer's life
carried the weight of her generation in the pockets of baggy clothing, in dreams too horrible for camera,
sandwiched between television shows and car rides
the hum of another's heart, this was on her mind most days

i've been in a sort of depression coma for the past week or so. i guess i still am? part of me just wants cookies and ice cream. and drugs.

6/22/10

sleep is a thing of the past, she said
it's 7am. i'm not tired, but i'll close my eyes anyway
she knew she'd wake up and nothing would be changed

the text

those moments, they last an eternity
to send or not send
open my mouth or continue dying
too scared to just jump,
just hope the rocks at the bottom won't be too sharp,
the rocks don't exist, really
but they exist to my mind, in the moment that lasts an eternity,
in those breaths as i think about leaping, leap, descend,
turn mid-air to grab the crippling cliff once more,
stable and fatal

talking and every other form of communication are just way too difficult for me.

wednesday

body sore in the middle of the week
fluorescent lights, bathing suits tight and honest
honestly ordinary
droplets sliding down glasses, lime bobbing in ginger
sugar in water
donut or two too much, coffee biting and clawing
exhausted throat, stiff muscles, cramped legs
players playing, dinner of french toast, familiar voice through the phone, laughter
long-lost laughter
watching the clouds go by really changes your perspective

mega-haiku about camping that's not at all about camping

i want to go camp
ing, yes leave this all behind
come, my friend, my home.

i want to go camp
ing, with all the monsters and
you, my love, my sun

rise. i want to go
camping, but the land lies bare
barren, my heart, lies.

world cup

that is my life right now.
summer, employment, things like that, will have to wait.
some viewing parties would be nice, though, right?
maybe i'll try to find some people who'd be interested.

summer vaca

so much to do, so much to read, so much to write
and so it begins.

i'm very sad. [cont.]

i'm starting to realize i can't let this consume me. i know
no one cares or understands, but sometimes
i just can't hold it in.
i don't want to let it out,
or let anything in.
but these tears have to go somewhere, the car will eventually run out of gas.
this life has to go somewhere.

i'm very sad.

can't share. don't want to share. want to live.

B-

so my shakespeare professor thinks i'm stupid, and i find this really hilarious.
i wrote a terrible paper out of spite, disinterest,
sometimes my emotions get the best of me
someone once said that graduate student professors are such hard-asses, always have something to prove
i didn't discover that until now
i'm laughing because i'm superior, genius in my wording,
i could care less about your grade
your comments are ridiculous,
i won't even read some of them because i know they're of no use to me
i know how to use examples, transition, form a compelling argument
but i won't do it for you
you wouldn't let me write about what i want to write about,
so i'm not going to give you what you want either

yeah, i'm sort of insane and chemically unbalanced. but i really don't need this self-righteous nonsense from someone who's been teaching for less than a couple years. i just choose really odd moments to be defiant, rebellious, and "humorous" in a twisted way. i'm also convinced she thinks i'm stupid, so this is a huge "fuck you." i can't wait until i'm back in new york and surrounded by people who are a little less idiotic. sorry this is so bitchy and grumpy, i just had to get it out. hilarity and all. i should probably go make some tea and not stress myself out about still getting an A in the class.

monday memorial

dreams of strange shopping malls and injured moms
crunch of peanut butter, cold wave of almond
afternoon with shakespeare and depp in turn,
british realm for the british tea
like the kind mark corrigan drinks while contemplating and internalizing
dreams that come and go, life that flashes and fades with a crunch
scrape brownies from the pan, wholesomeness and the recommended serving of vegetables is outdated, right
daria is me, was me, it doesn't really matter as long as i stay in bed
prospero will always be here, the cap'n won't desert me
even when my hands freeze and can only hover over the unfinished letter
when i drift back into the realm of past and future, shopping malls
the water doesn't quench quite right and i wait for the barbeque that won't happen
the morning rain hilarious in its timing, genius in its afternoon absence, tempest
i'll make myself sick with peanut butter laziness and shakespearean verse, but it'll all return tomorrow to keep me company

graduation

he told us about the pigeon water, his grey white beard giving me something to look at other than his round belly that probably shook when he laughed, i don't know because i was either looking at his beard or his hairless head or his wizened and adventurous eyes, he talked of de-socializing and
at times i dozed too much, drifted too far, and had to look at the trees or feign agitation at the sun in my eyes, turn my head away from wind that wasn't quite there
it wasn't the old man's fault
the entire weekend was like this, i'm always like this,
i seem to love spending time with people i hate
i thought i had a low tolerance for bullshit, it turns out it's actually quite high
it grows as i step on campus again, hi hey hug, to all the nobodies and then it slowly dwindles as i remember, as i stare
i doze, drift, look at trees
i used spite as my fuel, my oxygen, my reason for being
yes, there were the blankets and the photos and the punch and the twizzlers and the non-nobodies, but it all seemed like background noise to the scream of some injustice
some harboring in my soul that leered at the smiling families and the summery dresses
i don't try to be like this, i'm just always like this
but like i said, it all gets louder when i go back to good ole
the memories taunt me, and the old days laugh at the situations we're in now, mock how close we all were once, how distant we all were once, it's cruel, the way the past throws itself back in my face without a warning
throwing, and i freeze
the sun, instead of warming, paralyzed, and no matter how hard i tried to move, i couldn't touch anyone or say anything, i froze
i dozed, drifted, looked at trees
we didn't end up going to the playground or eating ice cream or being really spectacular like we dreamed, planned
the cat and owl with their large eyes, the crutches, the orange and blue, the seven broken noses, the rogue camera, all wonderful in their own way, some moments i would never change, would never ask more of
the old man, the others
but some of the others, i swear i could die from the shrillness of the voice coming from meaningless mouths, telling me stories i've already heard, expressing opinions that are tired, circuited, some
just make me want to scream out, EL OH EL I HATE YOU ALL, i've certainly typed that into facebook, then backspaced and thought of peaceful things
this weekend, thought of peaceful things, clouds sun trees blue eyes vintage cameras that get passed around mexican food fiery hair laughs smiles balloons bells, things like that fill my drifting
once the trees were fading, and the crowd gathered, dispersed, faces fell and crying rose, i fled
so it wasn't the old man's fault, or the burgundy's, or the sandals'
blame the fucking nostalgia and unlived realities and fucking fuck,
blame myself

i really don't LOVE being pessimistic, but i seem to be really good at it. not everything was awkward and horrible, but my nostalgic mind just ran wild. i always feel weird going back. oh, high school. i miss it and i love it and i hate it. i hate people. and i hate myself for being awkward and not a great socializer. ho hum. but i have brownies baking in the oven, so all will be well soon.

5/27/10 32 credits [sort of]

it's funny how these urges come
so sporadic, so random, so caught up in my subconscious
tomorrow i'll buy peanut butter cap'n crunch and i won't really know why
i'll tear up when thinking about a certain day or someone or event,
on some day when i'm with some person at some place
it'll come
these urges produce
a hating of my friends, a killing of my body, an emptying of a room
make golden eyes hide from the sun and hard hearts soften at the caress of a kitten
entertain the entertainment and forget the life that gave breath
i'll try my best not to sweat over the fabric and empty bowls and words that aren't arranged right and suns that don't set and rise again fast enough,
over the futile, directionless beads, the motions the body does in vain, in truth, in anything, in anyone
anytime

this is not what i had intended to write for "32 credits." maybe i'll get around to writing that tomorrow. i don't know what this nonsense is or where it came from... incoherent thoughts from the day/week, thrown together at this moment for some odd reason. work in progress, i guess lol.

sun hands

i woke up this morning feeling so
not good
it's been a week and my body still can't decide whether it will be sick or not
the weather taunts me and my final papers
i feel my sun hands lifting but i have to fight gravity and whisper
no not yet two weeks
looking forward to it like another birthday
not really good not really bad just more time
yes it seems as though i'm still alive
let's celebrate
not good not bad
two weeks and my hands can lift to the sky
my skin can be tan
and my sickness will be gone hopefully
but it's hard to tell
it's hard to know when the fireworks will end and when the winter coats will be thrown aside
i try to tell my body to stay awake but it wanes in the afternoon warmth
i try to read the words but they don't make sense and can't possibly compare to the great expanse of summer and life unlived and mistakes unmade
my throat is sore in the words unspoken
my body is too weak but not weak enough
the fever rises from my toes raises my arms my sun hands
but i have to fight gravity
for now
two weeks and my body will lift lift lift
it will be a cloud a particle of the sun's rays
floating into the great
good

exactly two weeks from today i will be done with finals and everything. this is about the weird semi-cold i'm currently struggling with AND cabin fever. obviously, right? also, i was listening to this song on repeat a little while ago. I JUST WANT SUMMER ALREADY.

you [5/3/10]

please get in my bed right now. no it doesn't even need to be sexual, or even personal. just be here. be close to me. i'll play you my favorite song so you can understand how lonely i've been. we'll lay together in the park and look up at the stars that aren't there. i'll tell you my secrets, not my real secrets but the secrets i'm willing to share to a select few, i'll tell you those.

i found this saved in my drafts. the only new thing i had to share today was that i burned my tongue this morning on my tea. yes, the secret's out, i will still drink hot tea even if it's 80 degrees.

i think his name is nick

he asked me for a piece of gum, he said, you wouldn't happen to have another piece of gum, would you,
i said, oh let me check, i should, even though i knew i did
i said, i do, and he said thanks and i said you're welcome
i wanted to ask him for a camel light in the same way
it was sitting on his desk, and it looked so crisp and clean and delightfully unhealthy
that was all he had, cigarettes and his phone and a copy of the book we were reading,
that was all,
he couldn't even bother with a backpack or some other less uncool bag to carry his things
so that was all he had, with his brown shiny leather boot shoes and that almost hidden tattoo on his arm and those damn cigarettes
i wanted to ask him like he asked me, you know, gum for cigarette
but it was the middle of the class, and it would have been awkward to sit for the remaining hour with a cigarette on my desk or tucked behind my ear,
i didn't want to take my own pack out because then he'd see that i still had one left

YES, short and complete. or at least more concise than i'm used to when i'm letting my mind wander. i suppose it's also because this was such a brief incident and there isn't much more to say about it. haha

5/20/10

i don't have anything poetic or creative to share, but i got a letter today from a friend and i'm so so so excited. i've spent the better part of tonight writing. i love shit like this. i guess i'm just posting this to let everyone know how much i love letters and gifts and anything mail-related, so if you ever want anything or want to share something with me, let me know. [email me or something?] we can exchange addresses and it'll be awesome.

waiting

i wait for things like the mail man and the afternoon rain in puerto rican jungle
wait for my body to catch up to my mind
like i wait for the construction workers to move down the street, or drive away in their loaded trucks completely
and wait for them the following morning, look to make sure they are actually coming
i wait for her letter
and their approval
for that guiding light to tell me where my life will go

like when i stand watching the last drops of coffee fall into the pot, when i wait for the whistle of the kettle
and wait for everything to cool so i can do it all over again
for that person to lay down next to me and instruct me in the ways of love

i began this wednesday of last week [12th] and i know there was something more i wanted to add, but i can't think of it at the moment

or maybe not.

we were at a wedding reception and it made me believe in love again
it was like a movie, the bride was beautiful
and in reality she wasn't the most beautiful person in the room, but in everyone's rose-covered eyes she was
her dress had beads and sequins and whatever else gowns have and i was afraid my necklace would catch and snag in it all
but it didn't
we sat at a table and i awkwardly answered questions, thought of better answers just moments later, but too late to bring up
i began considering law school
we were in the middle row of the room, and i realized
it's always good to sit in the middle, you'll always be in the middle of the food line
if you sit at one end, it could be good because you could be called first
but you could also be called last and have to watch all the other greedy hungry little bitches
so sit in the middle
unless you like to take risks, you like adventure and the thrill of not knowing if you'll come out on top
it must have been a wedding playlist from someone's ipod, the newlyweds stood in the space to take their first dance and some song started playing,
but it wasn't the right one
so whoever was operating it played the next one, wasn't it either, this continued, snippets of songs i knew, some i didn't but felt i should, i heard single ladies and i thought it was a strange song for a wedding playlist, but the right song was eventually found
the bouquet toss came and single ladies was able to play in its entirety
that makes sense, i thought
later i realized i ate too much, said too little, wasn't charming enough
i was called sophisticated and beautiful, though
and i got to tell people i was going back to nyu and watch the faces light up with wonder, or stretch a bit in surprise or envy
either way i was a spectacle again and it felt nice
like my big owl jangling against my neck and chest, it felt nice

ok ok i'm back to posting on here, if only to keep the creative juices in my brain flowing a bit.

i may stop posting here?

if it's all just going to fall on deaf ears.

geometry

the breathing was warm and slow
the hand lightly rested on my chin, slid onto my neck, down my throat, ever so slightly tapping my esophagus, they, the fingers, reached my collar bone and moved in a horizontal line along the length, perpendicular to the throat motion, my life suddenly became one huge erotic geometry problem
the other hand lay between my legs, but it didn't stay there, it traced the curves and arcs of my soft body,
they eventually met on each side of my face, pulling me into a silent kiss, a tingling echo dropped down my spine as spine met bed
the hand/s pleasured me for a few minutes, moaning and gentle thrusting, until we dispersed with the hands altogether and in a swift motion i was on top
in the breathing i could only seem to think about the angles, moved this way and that to make the math correct
we descended beneath the covers, ocean of waves, sines, cosines, tangents
the friction and the science of it all, heat
laughter dopplered, halls echoed, classrooms filled
at first i was just another university,
i charmed with my books and architecture
a sound outside, birds or cars or something, but the motion doesn't halt for a second
my whisper, the answering noise, not quite a moan, not a word, vowels, a culminating hiss
we met after some lecture or show or something, i don't remember, i just remember looking at the same point on stage, following the pacing, hearing brilliant words but not caring, listening to things i remembered saying once
the sun set, orange light stretched through the windows, on the floor, on us, the desks, the bed, it dimmed but nothing stopped
the darkness surprised, the work and problem solving halted, i glanced out the window at the illuminated streetlights, saw the flick of a lighter in the reflection, heard the burning, and soon began inhaling the smoke as a leg rubbed against mine, soon the two were resting atop mine so i couldn't move and i began to think about angles again, absentmindedly staring at the same spot in the empty street,
the campus had been so empty
a caress, turn and the hand held the magical piece of heaven to me, suspended, flashing fields of vision, i chose the street and flick, inhaled, hands on my hips, sliding, searching
stop it, i said, but i didn't want it to stop, the hands knew this, inhale, laughter,
i turned back to the bed, the eyes, the mouth, the hands drew me nearer and the tongue searched my clavicle, the lips tasted my shoulder
there was tasting that night, of those heinous refreshments afterward and the water drink, none of it mattered because the conversation was food enough, in those first moments and smiles i knew those hands would be on my body, i knew my mouth would trace the muscles of that chest down, down and my eyes would discover the sparse body hair, and we'd discover intricate forms and shapes and things textbooks only dream of expressing about the physical, real, imaginary worlds
dawn approaching,
variables eventually changing, no longer just another university
i thought of planes, wedges, levers, the world of symbols and letters
problems, multi-step problems, multi-answers, some without answers, some nights the hyperbolas remain suspended motionless, some nights sitting, working, breathing as one parabola
the body and i danced around equations, nothing was constant
dawn came and went,
when the shapes wouldn't leave my dreams i got up, found a shirt, and began making coffee
i walked slowly back, a mug full of black in each hand, a flat, constant line met my eyes and i smiled, sat down until X and Y values increased, sleepy eyes and sleepy lips, i hold the mug out and the hands tenderly took it as it takes everything, my body, pencils, pens, pipes, the math that morning uncomplicated


i began writing this at around 4am this morning. fell asleep, thought of a bit more when i woke up. and here i am. like all my other nonsense, i didn't intend for it to be this long. but i'm interested with where it's going and probably going to continue. yeah? let me know what you think.

5/2/10 [because i can't/don't want to think of a title]

i never thought i'd say this but i'm over tumblr and twitter and facebook and flickr
and foursquare and shit like that
i'm tired of trying to explain my life and my feelings in words, lyrics, smileys, clever phrases
when we want the entire world on our dicks at every moment of every day, haunting every dream
i can't even enjoy a song or a cup of tea anymore without feeling the need to share the experience with friendly strangers and estranged friends
what is this
my books aren't getting read, my room is not getting cleaned, my life is not being lived, nothing is getting done
my sanity only valid in its self-destruction
i sink into the madness, the welcoming madness, and i feel okay but they whisper and say it's not right, they say i need to add them and follow them and neurotically click buttons and wear out mouse pads, scroll scroll, oh there are new items on the menu, what? who sent me a cow? yes i can harvest wheat now, join mafia wars, join this group, like this, comment on this, tweet this, reblog this, heart this, add me add me add me add me add me, ask me anything, don't sleep - your crops will wither, oh did you see this video? it's hilarious, you forgot to serve the food, look at my photos, expand expand, click i looked at all of their photos, oh i became a fan of, all of them
my head throbs with a hopelessness
futile, it dulls as if it were a beating heart stabbed by a once-friend or a once-lover
i never thought i'd say this
and admit to myself how much You have become a part of my life, you bloodsucking leech, stripping us of our humanity, naked in the streets, kneeling, praying for redemption, praying that a real god exists and that the ambitious demons within us are but shadows, are but precursors to our greater calling in life
these are just pathways to truth and nature, Man takes to the road with conquer on his mind, everything can be conquered, everything can be discovered, everything can be known
forgetting the music of life, the soft humming of our cells and particles, collision, combustion, explosion, of everything, fireworks of sacred mysteries, sparks of incohesion, in recognition, electricity of society within limbs and branches, fins and ideas, weightlessness and gravity, green things and every other color things, pure essence of heat and wind and water, life-giving liquid, all the life-giving liquids, all the movements and instincts of our beings
that look and that fabric, that sigh and that yawn, that light and window, that morning, that evening, that
kiss of softness and hug of strength,
everything summed up in our spiritual souls, reflected in our physical bodies
supported in our inexplicable machines of minds, click clack of energy, toil and toil
oh god we are great, we could be great
limited in our limitlessness,
brains programmed to desire, follow, live one track,
oh but look how the mountains are shining, look how the grass sways, look how far the land reaches
reaching too far and holding too close,
we're losing the love of the land
we're losing the love of ourselves
we're losing the love
i never thought i'd say this
but love isn't everything, the connectedness and the ties and the Web,
they claim our love and our d;asdj distorted so much, they can't walk the streets freely, put on masks, prance about during the height of our natural festivities
we get high off the coke and interaction and attention
and we don't care our noses are bleeding and our homes are disappearing and our relationships are crumbling
oh no but they're right there, over there, that's them, right? in that mask, or no wait, it's that one, yes that's it, no not all is lost
but we're staring at shadows and silhouettes and outlines of the lives we once had and the dreams we once pursued and the time we once took advantage of, took for granted
people wander home, to the places they call home, not really homes but they have nowhere else to go, reeking of people they don't know, people they call friends, not really friends but they have no one else to go to, thinking about things they can't focus on, seeing things in a blurred dream, they wander home and the trash piles on the streets, neglected, leftover masks get swept away and forgotten, the monsters, They have run away anyway, the masks don't matter anymore, the masks don't matter because they have taken the love, forgotten in the shouting and moaning and sounds of ecstasy, they've taken it, distorted it, mixed it into the black mess of their undercoats, put our sacred shit over their faces and run away
i never thought i'd say this
because i am us, we are him are they are it is all everything is you are me

i may hate it, but i'm a slave of this system. fuck, i'm getting tired of evvvvvverything. i just want everything to be so simple. i'm actually sort of proud of this one, it became more complex as i was writing it. but i really don't want to get into explaining it. you know how these things are. pull one thread and ruin the entire fucking shirt.

as;afnwo

so much to write, talk about, do,
i'm getting overwhelmed.
tired yet at the same time restless

sighs of

when all you want to do is be skinny
the days don't matter, and the way the sun shines is never right
your dollar store tights are ripping and you don't care
the shirt you found in your brother's closet is too big and you like the way it envelopes you and hugs you and whispers that you'll never be too large for it
you just care about the next cigarette, and wonder what you'll do when the pack's empty
you find yourself blankly reading words, listening in conversations,
blankly
you answer the call of your next meal, tell the tea kettle to shush, end the whistling and the groaning and the growling
the mirror lies to you, widens you, you stare and stare and can't seem to understand what is going wrong, what isn't happening, when life will begin
your favorite jeans are falling off you and you don't notice
all you hear are lies, the comforting words that aren't so comforting
they're true but you don't want to hear
you just want to sit alone with your stupid cigarette and your stupid book and your stupid thoughts and your stupid life
the conversations are profound, and the education is high quality, ivy substance
but your parent's money can't erase and replace your stupid soul
the world becomes duller, viewed through sleepy red slits, life is a cloud and
you wish you could be a cloud


mmm unfinished, i think. i'd like to do something more with this. but whatever. if anyone was wondering, i no longer have a craving for donuts baaahahaha

stuck between places

i want donuts. and by "want donuts" i mean "fuck i need to lose 5 or 10 more pounds before i can even begin to think about eating a donut"
my pants don't fit right
my coffee is too sweet, not sweet enough
mad men is getting even more intense, i'm zoning out
i'm falling asleep in class. the professor asks questions, i know the answers, but instead of raising my hand and getting all this pent-up knowledge out, releasing all this brilliance, i keep it to myself, collect and collect and hoard and wait for the right moments that never come
i filled out the application, and meant every word, but now that i'm going back to that insomniac city, the words feel false, the tone turned bitter, as if the past me is playing a joke on present me
this time will be different, i keep telling myself,
and it will, but it won't
it's all already laid out before me like the mad writings of a lonely genius, nothing to do no one to see nowhere to go but deeper into research, burrow deeper into the hole of self-doubt, self-pity, a realm with no answers, only more scribbles and doodles and
questions with no answers
i've used the same camera for months, i couldn't load film into it last weekend
my hand shook, the cigarette fell
ash spewed onto my backseat
i'm happy, i have to be
right? because this isn't sadness
the way my throat gets dry and my mind wanders and my feet lead me to the kitchen,
this can't be sadness, right?
the way i take a few steps and turn around because in a few moments i convinced myself that i didn't want to go that way, that that way is not important
the way i hate everything i love
the way i run to you and the way i slap you in the face, shut the door, turn the lock
i've blindfolded myself - or maybe i was born this way - and stopped where i was months, years, maybe a decade ago
i stopped, and i'm standing
and i'm waiting for someone to lead the way
no i don't want someone to gently take me by the hand and say soothing words in my ear as i take small, delicate steps
no, fuck that shit.
for however long i've been standing here, someone occasionally comes by, does just that, whispers, gently leads, let's go when i'm ready, and somehow, somehow, somehow
somehow i find myself cemented to wherever they left me, wherever i started
no no i'm not waiting for someone to lead the way
i want someone to fucking shove me as hard as they can, push with all the love and energy and all the human emotion they possess
i don't want them to worry about the force or if i'll fall, how hard i'll fall, how hard i'll get hurt
i want to stop feeling like i'm flying when i'm actually swimming, sinking, drowning
but really, i just want donuts.

mini-roadtrip

had a nice weekend adventure to michigan with my friend caitlin. will hopefully post photos or something soon.

putting this here for the time being. narcissism.

still have a long way to go, but i'm happy so far.
these shorts didn't fit last summer.
thought of a tattoo idea the other day. it's pretty epic. teacup on my ribcage. and more motivation to lose weight. i'm pretty excited.

4/20. today is tuesday. tomorow is wednesday.

that last post was really personal. i feel i should say something about it, but i feel i shouldn't. just one of those things.

not feeling very inspired right now, sort of worn out, sort of relaxed, sort of lots of things i don't want to put into words... so bear with me as i ramble about life like the good ole days.
no class tomorrow, and not much reading, SO i have this list of possibilities:
1. work out. yay yay! first class was cancelled today, and i used the extra time to write a paper, so didn't get anything in. and i spent this past weekend eating nutella brownies. OBESITY.
2. make chocolate chip pancakes
3. hit up the local coffee shop and catch up on some personal reading
4. actually read ahead for class
5. look for a job -_-
6. watch mad men
7. finish current roll of film and learn how to use/what's wrong with my other new camera
8. oh and spring cleaning. i.e. going through my clothes and re-working/ripping things up for ze spring and summer months

i'm sure i'll settle with a mixture of all of that.
someone come have an adventure with me!
the cloud has passed over my life momentarily. i'm trying to take advantage of this. HENCE THE POSSIBILITY OF PANCAKES.

in the wrong place

i am in the wrong place. always in the wrong place.
stop being so useless.
you are a waste of a human being.
a waste of friendship,
waste of time.
let's move to the west coast.
no, seriously, this summer
let's just pack up and start driving.
we'll worry about everything when we get there.
this isn't working.
you are useless.

you mean everything

she read the words on her wall like she did every morning, you mean everything.
whether it was true or not, it didn't matter.
she thought about all the people who hadn't said those words to her, the people she wanted to simply look at her and say, i couldn't live without you.
even if they didn't mean it.
she made herself a cup of tea, grabbed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and perched herself on the front porch swing. she thought about yesterday, tomorrow, last weekend.
she thought about the people in her life, the people who weren't in her life, and wondered whether she'd ever uttered those words, you mean everything.
the thoughts began to sting like the cigarette smoke, drifting down her throat, up her nose, making her eyes water. she took a sip of the scalding tea to ease it all.
as hard as she tried to smoke away the memories and drink away the memories, they kept wafting into her head as the scent of the flowers. the bees buzzed and she wondered if it was mating season. she wondered the same thing the other day, when she sat in the same spot, drinking out of the same mug, but the mug was filled with coffee and she had been reading a book. the bees were buzzing, but she wasn't thinking about meaning anything to anyone, whether anyone meant anything to her.
she grabbed her camera from her room, to take photos of the smoke, the flowers, the everything, wondering all the while whether it actually meant anything to her. it did, she decided. she looked at the plants and thought, you mean everything. she looked at the budding trees, you mean everything. she looked at the cigarette in her hand, you mean everything. as the hot liquid slid down her throat, as the camera made its noises, as the fedex truck drove by, as faces popped into her memory.


ok before i fuck this up [i don't know how to end things! lol], i'm going to go wander somewhere since it's nice out. the other day i received in the mail some photos from a long-distance friend. on the photos she had etched into them "you mean everything." i could write forever about this, and smile forever about this.

10 things

thanks so much to kaulani for passing the "honest scrap award" to me. i have to say 10 honest, uncommon things about myself, so here goes:

1. i'm left-handed.
2. i'm really into recycling. i don't just mean putting paper, cardboard, and plastic into bins; i mean reusing the things we would normally throw away. i've made collages and journals from old magazines, and a few months ago i started some art projects with tea bags [i drink A LOT of tea.] and newspapers. hopefully sharing this will give me motivation to finish. our consumerist society really terrifies and disgusts me. we should use less materials and what we do use, we should find ways to use it completely and not overlook its potential for beauty and value.
3. when i say i don't know what to do with my life, i sincerely mean it. a lot of people doubt me, because i mention things more than others and occasionally stick to something for a while... but it always changes. i haven't declared a major yet. i'm only studying english because i don't hate literature as much as i hate everything else. i'm starting to hate literature too. i really have no gauge of and no confidence in my abilities. my future is a brick wall.
4. i really love spongebob squarepants. he's the happiest, sweetest, simplest cartoon character i've ever seen and he ALWAYS puts a smile on my face.
5. i wore braces for about 4 years [4th-7th grade?]. my smile is one of the few things i take pride in.
6. i'm terrified of coral reef, and i don't know why.
7. i think more than i should, and do less than i should.
8. i'm afraid i'll never find someone to fall in love with. i'm afraid i'll be alone forever.
9. i like connecting with people in old-fashioned ways - writing letters, sending postcards, bonding over a cigarette.
10. it has taken me a very long time to write these things, and i think i'm over-thinking everything haha. and i'm sure in a little while i'll think of so many better, more interesting things i could have said.

and now i'm supposed to choose 6 people for this award. unfortunately i don't follow that many bloggers, and i doubt i even have that many readers [LOL]. but i'll pass this on to:
1. genevieve because her writing is inspiring, original, beautiful and, appropriately, honest. read her poems and i guarantee you'll feel more alive.
2. soogie because she's one of the most honest people i know. she writes about her life in a straight-forward, unembellished way. her posts are a direct reflection of her personality, and i often find myself laughing or being in a better mood by the time i finish reading.
3. tomi [even though she probably won't read this] because she really is honest and true to herself. her posts are usually reflections on experiences and life in general.

and that concludes my list =/ i would have included bri, but i don't know how often she gets on here anymore lol.
anyway, hope you enjoyed.

time for some happiness

soogie, taken last summer

thought i'd take a break from the gloomy prose.
i want summer NOW.

9:26pm, rain. [4/5/10]

9:26pm, rain. the gods
must've heard my cries
of distress.
or maybe i alone caused
it all, nature a reflection
of myself, my element
reacting for me. rage in
thunder, sparks of lightning
as the angry sobs of my
soul's despair. the incomplete
answer to my questions of
humanity, the future. it's all
a bit dim and blurred in the
downpour, maybe just wait
a bit until the rain settles.
the thunder and lightning
won't last, the rain is
harmless. unless it accumulates
so much so it floods us. but
we won't let it accumulate. oh
no, no we can't let it do that.

taking a deep breath

taking a deep breath.
that's all i can do right now.
the words kept spilling on the page, my eyes kept glossing over, i kept writing, i kept reading, i kept thinking, i kept getting sad.
so i'm taking a deep breath.
i'm trying to make this breath mean as little as possible, trying to not give it extra meaning or strength, trying to not let it become too much of me.
i've done this too much, too often:
overwhelm, relax, cry, laugh, take a break.
i've done it all too much, and the only solution i can come up with is to take a breath.
but this very breath is coming so much more and i don't know what to do.
it's escaping my mouth, drifting, and as much as i try to understand and grasp it, as hard as i try to cage it, it just slips into all the other chaos in my life
and i don't know what to do.
counter-productive paranoia
a choking breath, a killing breath
i'm taking a deep breath.

loose translation: I'M FUCKED. SOMEONE PLEASE HELP. OR DON'T HELP, JUST BE. I MISS LIFE. WHY DON'T I FEEL ALIVE? WHY IS THIS LIFE KILLING ME? WHEN WILL I GET A GRASP ON THINGS AGAIN? why is the beautiful weather making me angry? why do i keep tearing my bed sheets? why am i too afraid to share what i'm actually thinking? why do i have no one to tell these things to? no, you don't count. yes, i'm in a terrible mood.

estate sale

i came into your house and took your things
i know you but i didn't know you
i came in welcomed but not welcomed
your silence in some other place breathed like a dense cloud over your belongings
your belongings i searched, appraised, dismissed, claimed
as my own
your belongings, they spoke to me
with a whispering hiss i learned of your likes, dislikes, routines
you like, liked purses
the bags piled on the couch, in boxes, tan black white brown leather cloth other materials large small medium sized thin straps wide straps clutches
you like, liked other things
books, dresses, jewelry, suits, playing cards, little decorative mugs, light cardigans and heavy sweaters, heels, hats, cameras
everything worn, some things chipped, some things looking brand new but i knew they had been worn in some way, maybe physically, maybe only in thought
things acquired from travels and, in later years, collected in sedentariness
things generic, shadows of things in my own closet, hints of things that will be
things so specific i shuddered and moved on to the next rack, feeling the haunting window of death open a crack and see a flicker of eye peek at me, wink
things unique and forgotten and everything else you'd expect things in a dead person's house to be
you have, had an interest in cameras
laid out next to each other, one two three four, between boxes and platters of earrings and necklaces, all in cases
the cases leather and aged, one or two newer
a four-pack of color film on a shelf nearby
i took two of the cameras, and the film
you drink, drank tea
enough so that the inside of the kettle was worn and scratchy, outside similar, dull, one dollar so
i took it
you like, liked to travel
i found two shirts from guatemala, authentic-looking, native designs and such, bought as souvenirs, never worn
i took one of those shirts
we took other things, things that don't belong with us but do belong, not belonging with the other strangers roaming through the rooms of your house, as they didn't belong with you but did
for moments i became you at certain moments in your life, as i tried on jackets and sweaters, looked in the mirror leaning against the wall
i became you and you became me
i took you home with me
i took you
and now i know you but i don't know you
i know only that you were an acquaintance of my mother, a friend of a friend
but that we were perhaps the same person
your silence and coldness silhouettes on the crowded walls, ducking between boxes and piles, jumping out at me, surprise, when i look in mugs, when i lean over tables to inspect the tiny nothings and interesting nonsense
surprise and hello,
as if i've been here, there before
you know i've been here and there before
we're here and there every day all the time
i came into your house and took your things
and i left
i left happy, a sort of happy contentment, with possibilities, with ideas
thinking of ways to make yours mine and mine yours
two seconds outside, with the screen door still open i gasped and gulped for the air i didn't know i was missing
two seconds outside and the contentment became unease and the possibilities multiplied until they transformed into doubts and what-ifs, so many possibilities missing, thoughts and thoughts of you and your belongings
i didn't take enough
or did i take too much
i snatched your things, assuming you were mine
i heard your hisses and whispers, assuming you were crying out for help
but now i don't know what to do with the raging confusion, the combustion of identity
the taking and taking
i took your things and i know you, but i didn't and i don't

a woman my mother sort of knew recently died and so my mom took me to the estate sale yesterday. it was an interesting experience... i'm a diehard thrifter, always creeping in some old store, and i have a soft spot for antiques; but this was more personal than anywhere i've been. a place stuck between now and then. a place close but distant. i really don't know what else to say besides almost immediately after we left i began thinking, "i came into your house and took your things. i know you but i didn't know you."

sublime

woke up with the most
beautiful vision of smoke
blue-white smoke
sharded in a swirling blackness
swirling, oh god the swirling
beautiful swirling wisps
i pushed them out the window, through
the screen
and the wind pushed them back to me
i laid down fighting, laughing, doing nothing
nothing but breathing, giving life to the red
letting the blue-white completely overtake me and
fuck me and love me and hate me like nothing and
no one else
smile at the forces, cringe at the stench,
look at the destruction, feel the destruction,
live at the right moment [time]
a sleepiness, a dreariness, the smoke slipping
into my eyes, teasing my lids

oh god i'm overtaken by the images, i want
to live in these images, over and over again
i want to repeat them
my dreams only real in the blue-white, in the
burning red, the ash, oh god the stench of
destruction and creation, the stench of youth, the
cries of hopelessness, echoing in the swirls
of despair, losing ourselves [themselves?] in the
lost
images of sadness mixed with anger in the
great swirl
the trails, trails of

windowsill as ashtray, everything as ashtray
oh god the paranoia,
hopes and dreams
and the stench, it never goes away, they never go
away

written this morning/some hours ago in my journal. i copied it exactly how i wrote it, the line breaks are mainly due to page size. and my tendency to write short lines instead of dragging my hand all across the page haha.