| dispatch from mind to self at a later point |
[30 Apr 2011|07:37pm] |
I don't know what it is about being here at the bookstore that motivates me to write about my transient thoughts, or even to write for the sake of writing( an infrequent urge these days) But here it is. I am overwhelmed with a strange feeling that I used to get while working here After a certian amount of time passes, I end up looking into La Trattoria's front doors and see the reflections of people who are about to pass through main street. Kind of like the lady of shallot. There's a sense of yearning and being stuck at a distance from the world outside and hoping to see Lancelot.
The problem is that I miss Marco being here. I want to watch him walk by, I want to feel him, feel assured that his body is around me, accessible somehow. Oh well. The anxiety is moving here, missing him, encountering this sensation more often. ow that I've articulated my mood, its gone.
Been watching through the doorway, though. Trattoria parking lot has a lot of human activity. So far a young girl in a communion dress, surrounded by kids, her cousins. An ongoing game of tag. Gangly arms and hands everywhere in that off kilter way children. Earlier saw a older balding man and a younger barbied out woman with a platinum dye job, long tonguey kiss, a bit of an existential wonder moment: is that what I look like sometimes? Meepovnik. Now two ladies with fanniepacks have just entered. a Man leaves with one of those eerie dry eyes guy monotone voices and a smile, taping his recipet to his book, "helps me remember why I bought it." Reminds me of a dentist. or a doctor/serial killer, maybe?
thats all for now
re walking by him at night and having him startle in bed and at once I almost felt like somebody else entirely, teh relationsho[ evapored in a flash of a second,
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[15 Aug 2010|08:48pm] |
Bad love, your the only one
you in this body like a drum
you tighten these old strings
oh, baby picks, plucks and makes me sing
Bad love, my soul has flown on
Some place I do not know
left this body full wonder
left this body full of holes
Bad love,
Come on,
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[18 Jul 2010|08:47pm] |
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Desire can be quick, immediate, then fall flat on itself, sour, distant and strange.
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[26 Jun 2010|08:20pm] |
He reads the headline, "A Frenchman ate his cellmate's lung, Gets 30 Years in Jail. Gruesome stuff people are capable of."
"Something has to be terribly wrong with you from the start. Fucked from the beginning." She said.
"You don't think its possible for an ordinary person to do sick thing?"
"I don't think so."
"I do. I've seen it.
"Then they aren't ordinary."
"No, they are ordinary, I think, which makes it makes them all the more terrible. Something collapses inside people. The force that holds them holds back is broken. We never know how fragile we really are." he explains from beneath the paper. "My friends father. His wife died. Became a tyrant to his children. Disowned them. Stole their money. Before he was no great man, but an ordinary one."
She luiked to beleive that there was something indelible about people, their personalities, something lasting, something that brings you where you are, that perhaps you were even fated to lead your life. She didn't mention this thought,, almost out fo the fear that her belief may evapore the moment it escaped her mouth.
That was how things were with her. She kept those thoughts in, Afraid of what may become of them when they were spoken. How she lives her life, how her marriage came into being. At the time though perhaps she was not entirely aware of that.
She aged, buut teh girl, the girl was attractive, she did not have her beauty, even though her beauty was at times she felt, a ghost surrounding her. It was all still present.
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[06 Mar 2010|01:15am] |
why is it that
days and hours can sometimes
feel so simple
as lost change
slippery and exchangeable
breakable and malleable plastic
and another moment
a growing weight
of indecipherable fractions
a waxing shadow
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[31 Oct 2009|05:56pm] |
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a sister to my soul
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[25 Jun 2009|01:21am] |
We're here because
We're here because
We're here because we're here;
We're here because
We're here because
We're here because we're here
We're here because
We're here because
We're here because we're here;
We're here because
We're here because
We're here because we're here
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| night |
[06 May 2009|10:01pm] |
Letters came alive again. Syllables escaped, petite resurrections, fumbling metaphors caught between the brambles of disjointed laughter, and like one luminous eye you sat, squeaking on the leather chair, making those low vibrations of a tenor, you hummed towards me, and ever so slightly the dim silent slouching world of miserly living rooms grew bright
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| time |
[24 Apr 2009|04:50pm] |
a day puts off another day
and venerates the imminent throng
of days in waiting
while i pass you passing me by
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[08 Apr 2009|12:06am] |
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surprising, when you miss a place you so fondly hated.
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| Rimbaud - Vowels |
[01 Apr 2009|12:02am] |
A Black, E White, I red, U green, O blue : vowels,
I shall tell, one day, of your mysterious origins:
A, black velvety jacket of brilliant flies
Which buzz around cruel smells,
Gulfs of shadow; E, whiteness of vapours and of tents,
Lances of proud glaciers, white kings, shivers of cow-parsley;
I, purples, spat blood, smile of beautiful lips
In anger or in the raptures of penitence;
U, waves, divine shudderings of viridian seas,
The peace of pastures dotted with animals, the peace of the furrows
Which alchemy prints on broad studious foreheads;
O, sublime Trumpet full of strange piercing sounds,
Silences crossed by Worlds and by Angels:
O the Omega, the violet ray of Her Eyes!
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[17 Mar 2009|12:47am] |
Guilt and paranoia sit close together
So bad love is like a good, dirty, murder
you can't erase, or scrub out the sense of blood
or crime
many hot showers and white linens later you
will wait patiently for something worse,
a punishment for trespasses
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[03 Mar 2009|01:36am] |
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"Stop the world I want to get off!"
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[11 Feb 2009|01:35am] |
where is the night
the sulking, skittering
sanguine killers
the downy dolls of disaster
like I drunk i want
to be sloppy and mistaken
with some dream of gauze or dirty seafoam
catching my ankles like
a salty phantom
your reedy groan
your grimaces
you trespasses
your little death all over me
a little annihilation
in heaven
where are you, life
because this is not enough
to go so quietly
to bed again
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| vomits |
[08 Jan 2009|01:19am] |
| [ |
mood |
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 uncomfortable |
] |
"There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein." Thank you, Blankity blank.
So here I am. Coercing myself with tea, dim lamplight, shuttling my lusty fingers into a bowl of salsa, trying to create a generative atmosphere. Why is this so hard? Why is this confrontation the first place I must go before I go anywhere? And does this really go anywhere? For a few years the notion of writing has conjured up nothing but a sickeningly pulse of anxiety, a incurable restlessness-- perhaps due to the rembrents of failed projects, personal essays and short stories I never turned in on time, i'm not sure-- but it is always there. Beginning when I first understood what makes good writing good. To write something good, there has to be a truly potent, naked, desire. The compulsion to share something significant must be there. The problem is and has never been that I lack any will to share, but whether or not it is significant. My desire is there, but is it a selfish one, this cathartic desire, to get all of my complicated emotions and feelings out in a well structured, beautifully laquered and witty peice of defiance? I want to make a point, somewhere in there, draw the human connections, but is it enough? Is it enough that it comes from my stupid volatility? From my need to transform the ugly convoluted mess into something with a worth, something compelling, something you didn't expect out of quiet me, stuttering me, wordless me. I don't know. I guess what makes good fiction you believe in the reality the writer weaves you enough that you forget the writer is a writer, you simply believe in it, you have to. My problem is like a clinical self conciousness a worry that I am not doing justice to by subjects, my feelings, my explorations, that I am too one sided, that I can't melt, can't let go into that otherness the characters, the objective reality that isn't me, even though I want to. I am afraid of being too contrived, too innocent, to assuming. And wouldn't I be? To try to assume how you feel, to try to carve it out, give flesh to this hollow grammar? To write you, to really write you, to get on my knees, and write you. But I suppose the point is not to get too beyond oneself, right? Write what you know. How about those empty spaces, though, the aching mysteries, the silences, the gaps in your history, do i fill them in, do i leave them, do i change you, what is wrong, what is right? I suppose nothing is. Wrong. Right. I must ask, what is this really all about?
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| plop |
[10 Oct 2008|08:44pm] |
you
thrust your smooth
white blinding body
of sinking sleep
and soft sins
out like a guileless
boy,
old man
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[26 Jan 2008|12:43am] |
one never feels so small as they do
when the insincere and ravenous begins her siren wail
lonesome jealousy of
wanting things one doesn't care for and
in the end
it is wanting the wanting
this coils around the neck softy
like a feathered cobra
blindly illustraeous and beautifule
the kiss of death is
in daisys mouth
saunters into your lips
your hips, your dozen mouths
waiting for the passioned,cocaine fire
short esteem crackling of dreams
sex, sensuality , romance
whatever word you might use and believe, it is all the same
to null out
to forget
to become
and disintegrate yourself
in him
feel, daddy
your epidermis rich
thick kingdom
all little girls become princesses
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[21 Dec 2007|03:00am] |
“I know the night is not the same as the day: that all things are different, that the things of the night cannot be explained in the day, because they do not then exist, and the night can be a dreadful time for lonely people once their loneliness has started.”
-Hemingway
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| erinism |
[17 Dec 2007|07:30pm] |
if you spend most of your time groaning
you better be getting off
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