| who didn't know that i am a girl who moves in circles... |
[22 Jun 2007|12:31am] |
we have nothing to talk about, you and i.
and i enjoy this relationship with you, immensely.
we stand and pull sentences out of the air like kids who skip school to hang around, fishing old boots out of lakes that never had fish to begin with. we could be prying into each others' real lives, our true lives, our very real interests....anything of any interest–pangea to proust. but, oh, guy who works behind the counter at my gym... don't ever change. don't stop asking about the weather and i will not stop asking you how boring your day has been on a scale of 1-10.
i imagine things about you, though i couldn't be less curious. i like imagining you dislike dogs too and that would be our common ground. you dislike dogs and maybe you think egypt is amazing.. i do not ask, and you do not ask (i don't even know your name)... i will only like you less and less. and you would hate me, immeasurably.
we throw the most meaningless words around, you and i.
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[20 Jun 2007|02:37am] |
i feel like i spend more time, proportionately, pretending to at least have overlapping qualities with the people i am around, than i spend time actually being myself. some nights are inherently compromises and i should know better than to try.
though to be fair, i just don't see anything wrong with bringing a book places...
on a more positive note, i've come a long way as far as needing to blend in. i am pretty perfectly comfortable doing my own thing in public, as long as people don't rub it in. i don't understand why they did. doesn't everyone get bored at inappropriate times...? especially surrounded by the wrong kinds of people.
sometimes i miss you just because you know me, and you knew me when i was afraid of even ordering breakfast off a menu. when i actually was too nice.
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[24 Mar 2007|02:12pm] |
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sigh. no one lives here anymore.
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[26 Nov 2006|09:03pm] |
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100,000 Thoughts |
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avoiding the tidal wave of drama...
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[10 Nov 2006|11:41am] |
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cloud cult - Shadow |
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She spent evenings with the art books Yankel had bought for her in Lutsk, and each morning sulked over breakfast, They were good and fine, but not beautiful. No, not if I'm being honest with myself. They are only the best of what exists. She spend an afternoon staring at their front door.
Waiting for someone? Yankel asked.
What color is this?
He stood very close to the door, letting the end of his nose touch the peephole. He licked the wood and joked, It certainly tastes like red.
Yes, it is red, isn't it?
Seems so.
She buried her head in her hands. But couldn't it be just a bit more red?
Brod's life was a slow realization that the world was not for her, and that for whatever reason, she would never be happy and honest at the same time. She felt as if she were brimming, always producing and hoarding more love inside her. But there was no release. Table, ivory elephant charm, rainbow, onion, hairdo, mollusk, Shabbos, violence, cuticle, melodrama, ditch, honey, doiley...None of it moved her. She addreessed her world honestly, searching for something deserving of the volumes of love she knew she had within her, but to each she would have to say, I don't love you. Bark-brown fence post: I don't love you. Poem too long: I don't love you. Lunch in a bowl: I don't love you. Nothing felt like anything more than what it actually was. Everything was just a thing, mired completely in thingness.
- from everything is illuminated ; jonathan safran foer
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[17 Oct 2006|01:26pm] |
so, it's snowing. all the muffledness and the coats are getting to me; getting to everyone. the heat which is cranked to the tropics in our studio. the endless lists of who talks to the instructors and when... whole days wasted that way. me, boredly over-feeding the fish i got to live on my desk (david foster wallace).
yesterday:
anders, after taking a thrashing from our witty & abrasively erudite instructors, was slumped over his desk. he fidgeted with papers and his stapler. we pulled on our coats and went for coffee. the intensely known & visited coffee shop in my neighbourhood, right down the hill from the school. we bent over his laptop and edited creative briefs. he helped me with package designs.
there's something particularly validating about having anders laugh so often in his twitchy, attentive way... and i certainly don't have to put on any metaphorical coats of attitude just to have things go somewhat seamlessly... it's always noticeable, when that's the case. ... it's noticeable that it's nice. when people genuinely like your stripped-down characteristics.
.....
i've avoided writing anything (well, just anything in itself) about maine or the east coast or the sudden peppering of peter-related dramas. in both cases no one is who they really are and i'm no one to even pick up a rock... whether it was all in defense or whether it was just idle, summer behaviour when i didn't particularly fit... it is all the gigantic doors in me, slamming shut...
november, novel-writing month coming up. it feels odd and severely lacking to the point i doubt i'll even open up & save some blank word document in the entire 4 weeks...realize how removed i am from other people's writing, these days...
i feel very thoroughly exorcised.
chris in particular.
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[13 Oct 2006|10:16pm] |
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Going to Georgia |
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And I stepped back into the street
Feeling the fullest moment of my life
Slowly shrink away from me.
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[30 Jul 2006|12:17pm] |
The sound of your laughter
Tiptoeing across the floor
makes the deepest of red umbrellas
able to inflate my smile.
In each of your eyes, I saw it's spring,
Where every mouth wakes up
to a smile and a yawn.
Grass is long and laughs
when the wind jumps through it.
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[21 Jul 2006|12:53pm] |
i cannot tell you how vastly odd and shaking it is, for paul to be playing his guitar and humming a tune that suddenly clicks...
i look up and say, ... Be Thou My Vision ?
he says, yes
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[17 Jul 2006|12:58pm] |
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KEXP Live (128kbps mp3) |
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many of you know i have moved to a new, angst-free location.
oh, hello!
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[08 Jun 2006|11:12pm] |
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All Your Faithless Loyalties |
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And so I thought I’d let you know
That these things take forever.
I, especially, am slow
But I realize that I need you
And I wondered if I could come home.
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| bergers |
[07 Jun 2006|02:54pm] |
Liboetas often talk of a feeling, a mood, which they call saudade, usually translated as nostalgia, which is incorrect. Nostalgia implies a comfort, even an indolence such as Lisboa has never enjoyed. Vienna is the capital of nostalgia. This city is still, and has always been, buffeted by too many winds to be nostalgic.
Saudade, I decided as I drank my second coffee and watched a drunk's hands carefully arranging the accurate story he was telling as if it were a pile of envelopes, saudade was the feeling of fury at having to hear the words too late pronounced too calmly.
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While she was crying, I waited, like you wait for a long train to pass at a level crossing.
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The impudence of the tongue running with its tip along its own white teeth while saying nothing.
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I'll tell you a story, she says. One day a rich patient asked him to visit her in a large house. He examined her and then asked the maid to fetch him a glass of water from, specifically, the kitchen tap. He knew the pantry was far away. During the maid's absence he performed the cure. When the maid returned with the glass of water, he drank it. Doctor, when will you next visit be? asked the woman from her sickbed. He pandered, winked swiftly at his patient, and said: When I'm thirsty, Senora. Upon which Dr Martins left.
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I risk to write nonsense these days.
You put something down and you don't immediately know what it is. It has always been like that, she says. All you have to know is whether you're lying or whether you're telling the truth, you can't afford to make a mistake about that distinction any longer.
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[07 Jun 2006|01:46am] |
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Gloomy Sunday |
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...christ, i can't sleep.
i have been tossing in bed for the last three hours.
maybe all the coffee. maybe it's the last chapter in my new berger. knowing he's 80. i think about him dying a lot and it drags titanic spikes through my heart.
i have spent the last hour, trying to come up with one thing to say to you that will melt walls.
why is it so hard to come up with one honest moment for you.
when i really want to say "just, no more moments, please, at all."
how do you get back to it. to the place where you are just responding to each other. and not...responding inside yourself. formulating. the formulated response formulates another.. manipulates..snaps... the snapped self formulates a comeback. slaps it down as the response. all of it in a fraction of a moment.
i can see down through your layers like old, cracking onion skins.
i don't think you bother. you want to see me, slapping you in response. or not at all.
i'd give anything, to have not known you this last year...
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[06 Jun 2006|09:36pm] |
If I mean anything, I have already meant it. It is not something contemporary, or alive. It is a fossil that is buried in its own exhibit, in the soil of my past with you. The dark crumbs of our earth that have been left behind for other continents, a thousand other maps describe them to you. Other settlements. I know it is nothing retrievable. I know, for all your size, you are not someone to pick up a shovel, walk across the surface of the earth staring down, wondering where I am buried. You’re not someone who will try to find the place to dig. You're not someone who will sweat and dig until i am uncovered.
Though you constantly have your sleeves rolled, you un-roll them.
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[28 May 2006|07:26pm] |
this woman is a total virgin.
"But what I will say is that being a good lover does not depend on the following factors:
Cock size – I have had cocks as small as my thumb and almost as large as my forearm - and everything in between. Whilst the former was hard to feel and the latter hurt like hell, the rest fulfilled their job very nicely, thank you.
Beauty – I have fucked men that my friends thought were as ugly as dogs, as well as men that modelled for a living. In bed there was no difference: a horny man is a horny man – his skills in bed aren’t connected to his handsomeness.
Intelligence – I have shagged guys who were so boring that I couldn’t wait to leave (after fucking them) and ones that were so fascinating, our conversation continued whilst in the missionary position. Both types were fun to fuck, (but being boring doesn’t equate to a second shag).
Social class/career – I’ve bedded men with differing fiscal status: from a street cleaner to a multi-millionaire ambassador’s son. Their wealth, or lack of, had no connection to their abilities in bed.
Racial/religious background – I have had men of many nationalities, both here, and abroad. The only difference between them was their ability to say ‘I want to fuck you’ with an accent (or not).
Personality – I have slept with bold, outgoing, dynamic men as well as quiet, shy, nervous men; naked, in bed, they were all alike."
i bet she has slept with no one. one person tops. i bet she has bad skin and horrible teeth. and she keeps referring to things in the most obnoxious ways. it is not her girl bits, it is "her Desire" and her actual desire is referred to (all the freaking time) as "a throb between her legs". all the time.
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[28 May 2006|12:35pm] |
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Paddy's Heaven |
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my kingdom for one article describing me as a "wonkish technocrat".
that is all.
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[25 May 2006|12:50am] |
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Lovers turn into monsters |
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so i have this dream last night. now keep tuned in because man is it odd.
ok
so i'm working in space. (have i got you hooked? just wait) i am working in space with kyle (engaged kyle, not school kyle) and we are organizing things on this planet surface and he is getting married soon. to lindsay. on the moon. we talk about it off and on. and as a present, i get him a sack. and in the sack? a see-through octopus named Gibraltar.
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[24 May 2006|10:01am] |
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Lovers turn into monsters |
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nike + ipod ... it's like the marriage of brad pitt and angelina jolie for consumerists.
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[23 May 2006|04:54pm] |
having one of those days.
i went out for coffee. sat in higher ground for a few hours. came home around 3.
me:
well. it's something i got over pretty well the first year or so i was here on my own. but.
sometimes.
i just do not want to go out. feel like my heart is anchored to the floor. or the sofa.
i think if i were an animal i'd be one of the burrowing kinds.
chris:
you say things better than i ever could.
you know, every time i took one of those "what kind of animal would your friends be"
i always got stuck on you
i immediately went to 'bird' .. but even that wasn't .. i don't know, human .. enough
me:
i think probably more cat than anything.
i'm too squinty to be a bird.
birds don't have the right kind of laziness, either.
chris:
mm.
people tell me i'd be a cat. but i don't think i would be.
me:
that's how the french guy at the hostel in london hit on me, though.
"are you afraid of the bird flu?"
"no... if i were a bird i'd be terrified."
"are you sure you aren't?"
"terrified?"
"a bird. are you sure you aren't a bird?"
".... pretty darn."
(you are more ferrety. nervous/curious.)
chris:
HAHA
me:
he was like: "i think you could be a bird"...looked at me with his head at an angle. probing-ish.
then i said "meow". and went out for coffee.
chris:
haha.
me:
it was morning. we were watching the news together. that's how it started.
christ i am lonely. i think that's what makes it so hard to go out.
lonely=anchor.
chris:
yes.
you sort of .. anchor to yourself.
but it's like putting down anchor in silt
it doesn't stay. drags around a bit.
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[18 May 2006|05:21pm] |
If there was anything left, it was irretrievable. Like a Chinese letter in a Steve Erickson novel. A note that says something simple, maybe two words, folded into letter after letter of complications, explanations, apologies, warnings, accusations, these attachments and labels clipped to every single organ and motion between the two of us, about the two of us. There are things that could cancel out his action. But those things were cancelled out by others. A thousand that have to be stuffed into an industrial sized manila envelope. inevitably torn up not even halfway through.
I can't imagine his list of strike-outs against me.
I am a matter of labels. He is a matter of labels. We are masses of papers, notes we’ve made about each other in the backs or fronts of our minds and meant to remember. Some of them clearer than others. I do not remember which all are mine, except I have the crushing sensation of their sum.
Because my labels mean, at the bottom line, that I will destroy everything. I will take it all in my hands and rip it up. Because that's what I did with everything that fell into my hands, before.
All this seems so far back. The labels. As everything was chalked down on me, a slow eraser followed. I remember very few things about the last year: a couple bits particularly good or particularly bad. Mostly the latter.
Everything else is gone, for me, from that period. I think about it like some oily, black, primordial ooze that developed me. I couldn't even realize things decently while I was in it- I remember I must have talked a lot about things. To him, to rhianna, to anyone? But I don't remember what I said or what I was thinking. I think i remember shouting at him in a mall? I don't remember why I was in the mall...
I remembered the other night, really suddenly, the month I was just going to kill myself. And how un-dramatic it was, for the most part. Just that I was going to. And I cut myself. How could I cut myself? All these teenage girl jokes, and i go and cut myself? It was so casual, too. I don't even think I cried. I know there was an x-acto blade that had come out of my knife and it fell out of my bag, onto my bedroom floor. I was in a towel and I just sat on my bed and made a line in my calf. A white one. And then etched over it again, lightly, repeating until it started to get red/angry... I know I did it more than a few times, but I don't remember any but the first.
I went back into my room last night after having a movie & dessert with rhianna and jess... I stood around, thinking about it. Tried to remember what happened to the loose x-acto blade. Opened the basket that has some old jewellery and hair bands. And it was at the bottom. I just looked at it. Flummoxed. (that is a nice F word, actually...dammit.. anyhow...)
I put it back in the basket, moved the pillows to the other end of my bed and slept in the opposite way from the way I've been... with my head under the window, so the sunlight won't be so obnoxious in the morning.
....I don't understand half of what I did. I know i'm dramatically different, though.
Stable, at least. My darkest moods now don't even come close to... anything I had, even before the Peter bit.
He doesn't understand that I am different. I move and he doesn’t see me. He sees the titanic outline of everything he has attributed to me over the last three years. Gigantic, crumbling, assumptions that run me over, each step forward. Sometimes I fall into them, thinking I can use them to end things. Sometimes I just can't keep thinking about them and it fucks everything up, completely. But what do you do, really. If i told him flat out, that I'm different and he should chuck everything... he wouldn't believe me.
The same way he doesn't believe anything about me, really. it really shocks him that much, when I do anything that fails to be completely stupid.
I wish I could just be honest.
The staight-up kind of way. You know...
That, with Peter, will fall and fall hard. He'll factor in those other letters that i'd meant to be honest. I am terrified of going into my email history and reading the letters I wrote him. Though i don't know what they're about. other than maybe one or two... I really don't want to know any more about what i've done the last year, than I already do.
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