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.