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[Nov. 15th, 2005|12:43 pm] |
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Day 1 |
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[Sep. 19th, 2005|07:11 pm] |
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i will change. it will happen. right now. |
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[Mar. 19th, 2005|05:09 pm] |
I used to live life without ever thinking about it. Days were days and that was it. I cried and I laughed and it all felt the same.
For a few months I became obsessed with 'life'. What it was. What these moments were. When I was living.
To this day I don't feel as if I'm living all of the time. At select moments I feel it and I think, "This is life."
Last night I was crying in the backseat of a car in a parking lot. Completely self-absorbed I turned my head to look out the window. My eyes were met by a middle aged man in the car next to us. He had been watching me cry. And I thought, "This is life".
The snow was quickly gathering on the windshield and I wished the blizzard would thicken and wrap around me like a curtain, my own private play. |
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[Feb. 27th, 2005|09:57 pm] |
Plain fear you can't distinguish or dismiss
In list form to make this a little more meaningless:
-Sometimes I think of my heart as a cliff. When I stand on the edge little pieces break off and fall into oblivion. And if I could just close my eyes, I could lean forward and fall. Forever.
-I might just sleep in my closet the rest of my life.
-Hiding possessions in dark plastic bags doesn't make you forget they are there; that they still hold meaning. And it's too much to throw them away, too permanent for a Sunday evening in February.
-Right now, time is juxtaposing thought.
-If I can't find my DVDs in the next month I'm probably going to cry. I have gone over 9 months without them. And all I want to do is lie in bed/closet and watch 'Ordinary People'/'Willy Wonka'/'I Am Trying to Break Your Heart' and maybe try to be comfortable.
-Right now I'm regretful that I deleted my Wilco essay. I might attempt to reconstruct it. this time I'll just have to fight my addiction to deletion.
Current Mood: iwantagoodlifew/anoseforthings
Current Music: wilco - i am trying to break your heart (demo) |
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[Feb. 24th, 2005|01:42 am] |
The dark nights attack the indefensible road. Protection arrives around sunset, the tall guardians light up, canvassing the streets with an awkward glow. The protection from night is usually unnoticed as you walk the Roman patterned blocks. Until, that is, until. One of the lights is attacked and succumbs to the darkness. A slight ting. You hear it, you feel it, you look up- you see it.
It's a reminder that you yourself are vulnerable at any time to the rays of night. To just disappear into the darkness. Invisible to the light.
I mentioned the feeling to you and you responded you felt the same way; its an planned attack on a patterned structure. These things cannot go forever but should never die.
'The city should really do something about it.'
I remember driving you home and two of them went out. How do I chalk this up to coincidence, I thought.
An electric shock; I felt it between our lower lips. The same noise as a street light going out. I could hear it, I could feel it, I looked up- I could see you. I thought, these things cannot go forever but should never die.
You wondered why I backed away. But I knew that I couldn't stand to have all of my street lights go out. I couldn't be invisible to the light. I must fight the darkness, I must fight being engulfed by you. This is a one way street and there will be no more lights in the future. It will be a love so dark it has no illuminating guardians. |
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[Feb. 22nd, 2005|05:30 pm] |
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you can't recreate poignancy |
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[Jan. 16th, 2005|08:11 pm] |
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mediocre high school actress in a generic drama club production of 'Annie'. An overly happy orphan, pretending all of the time. |
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[Jan. 8th, 2005|06:21 pm] |
a life divided into pie pieces, giving them away to whomever will take them.
Devour this, you fucking asshole. |
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[Jan. 7th, 2005|03:09 am] |
I asked my mother the other day if, when she was my age, had planned on living in the same city all of her life. She was born here, she grew up here, she'll die here. She looked at me and said, "I guess I never thought about it."
She never thought about it.
I think about it all the time. How can I leave these mistakes and failures behind? When can I recreate myself? Where can I go that I don't have to pretend to be happy? I've lived in 4 cities in 3 years. There are those that battle their problems and stick up for themselves. And then there are those of us who run and never look back.
No one should ever ask for help. No one should ever cry and mean it. You might as well admit all of your failures. Spread them out on a table. Have people pick through them as if it were a rummage sale.
Thats what it feels like.
My own mother didn't even realize my attempted suicide until she saw the bottles under my bed. You see, my comforter had slipped off and revealed the contents under my bed. A psychologist would tell you that this was me "wanting to be caught". I tell them, 'I didn't know I would have convulsions and the covers would fall off the bed'.
I left no note, I told no one. Never casually brought up suicide in conversation, never joked about it. I was too ashamed. If I was all alone then there was nobody who could help me.
Some things never change. |
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[Jan. 4th, 2005|04:01 am] |
New Years was good. Wierd, but good.
I woke up with red hands and a leather jacket stained with red wine. (Or at least I hope its red wine...). I also woke up in familiar arms, a familiar situation. Realizing how different things will be next year/this year.
My favorite moment:
Me having my dreams interpreted
and him being exactly right,
Me realizing I'm in a wheelchair,
This being the most symbolic moment of my life. |
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[Jan. 4th, 2005|04:00 am] |
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I'll admit it, I'm jealous every time I hear an ambulance's siren. |
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| the semantics of a life undone |
[Jan. 4th, 2005|03:59 am] |
yes, i perceive nothing.
a camera flaccidly around my neck could not picture this endurance of disgust. this dog shit will prowl outside of my shoe for the next 5 years. if it doesn't let go and let me down. it would be nice to say, "this dog shit has been with me." hopefully this shoe won't outgrow me.
a piano plays in the next room, the door on the right. the flowers sit outside in a vase. i would say something about them being "saturated with the watery notes" but this all seems too obscure. what a day this all makes. timeless music and mortal vegetation twisted together in such a clever way! oh Mr. Prufrock do not think ill of it.
beautiful rythm of Your Majesty. don't fault me for not making sense. do not tease me with useless compliments devoid of understanding. Friends, Romans, Countrymen. these are deaths which will not go away. these are sentences which will not compromise by combining.
This is a mind that needs editing. A life desperate for revision. |
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[Jan. 4th, 2005|03:57 am] |
It's been a little over a year.
I didn't need the date to remember.
I knew by the feel of the season.
This time of year directly connects me to the memory.
Its hard for these fingers to freeze and not remember braving the harshest of days.
Haunting coincidences keep appearing.
I do not want these things connected.
But they always will be, always have been.
It's impossible to impede these impulses, especially mine.
I would give anything right now to drown in a small, warm pond.
Be covered in lilly pads.
Face the murky mud forever.
Tilt with every strong breeze,
flickering like silk in the wind.
I think I could do this.
A lesson every day, magic every minute.
Everything is connected. We all just a big fucking version of Chutes and Ladders.
I dreamt about him again last night. He mentioned the dream, intent on me telling the DreamtAbout. I promised I would, but I needed practice. We rehearsed it with an air of serious childish play. Him, maybe suspecting, maybe not, gently played along. He came up to me at the party and asked if I had done it yet, I said, "No, I will let you know when." Ten minutes later I pull him aside, drop my chin down and breathe it in his ear, "It's you. The dream was about you." He cupped his hand on the back of my neck and dropped his head, mimicking mine. We stood there for awhile, too faint-hearted to move. I could feel the abrasive sand compound and frigid waxen wall on the back of my arms. My heart mechanically beating, his gasping uncontrollably. |
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[Jan. 4th, 2005|03:57 am] |
Upon examination of internal dialogue, flickering memories, and unexplained actions, I have determined my fatal flaw. This is stated as if it were a critical analyzation of Hamlet; where concrete dispositions are carefully drawn out. My flaw is purely incidental, accidental, a poorly developed allele: my mother had no idea when I first emerged. This investigation would become crystal clear to outsiders if I would only remove the cloud of ambiguity. These tergiversations are completely expected, and I suppose, necessary. This research has taken me twenty years to come to a somewhat agreeable hypothesis. I cannot just give away years of my life in a few simpleton sentences I constructed on a whim.
This flaw is not inherited, nor learned. Personal discovery has only made me more self-conscious of my previous actions. My conduct merits evidence of a flawed personality feature. Not so much a feature, but the foundation. Are we all built on flaws?
Internal 'habits' are easy to disguise for they lack direct outside pressures. They are easy to brush to the side. I'm dealing with mine now so I don't end up with a huge mess down the road. It's overwhelming, dealing with twenty years' mess, I can only imagine 80.
I write in these terms for simple reasons. One, by writing in a language we are so apt at ignoring, this seems like school, hopefully you will reject all I say. You will brush it off, your attention span waning by the second sentence. For I do not write for anybody but myself, and if I change this, why don't I change my body as well? Two, repetition of monosyllabic words is annoying. No one wants repetition unless it reaches a crescendo of symphonic proportions.
Happiness comes in waves associated with familiarity. Standardization is so comforting, fashionable non-conformistism is even expected. I am merely living my age. Prescribing to the scholastic ideology we are all too afraid to confront. Thank you Erik Erikson, I am in Stage 6. It's nicer to have a spot in the realm of ideas, than be left aimlessly wandering, wondering, in a place that no one could dare imagine. For nnsanity lies on the outer ridge of imagination, a place we dare not visit.
I love you, too. |
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[Jan. 3rd, 2005|01:49 am] |
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Falling in love is like being beautiful. Some people figure it out before others. But it is those who tire of it quicker... |
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[Dec. 31st, 2004|01:05 am] |
The tsunami strangely makes me happy. That for once humans arent the ones taking lives. It restores my faith in Nature. We've been denying the fact that nature rules us, we do not rule it. And it is sad that 100,000 people died, but just imagine what a beautiful death it was. To just be swept out to sea in a fit of fright and helplessness? Only to be smothered with a deafening crush of water and peace? Bare arms raised over your head quickly slipping into a frigid abyss, skin tingling with tiny air bubbles? It's always been my dream to drown or be swept out to sea, so perhaps I am a bit jealous. I love the fact that Nature can kill us. It keeps us honest. Afraid. Humble.
We're all just envious of Nature's power.
And thats why we are upset.
Overpoweringly Monstrous. Fatally Beautiful.
Someone got mad at this post. Because of the air bubbles. I responded:
This is coming from someone who is not afraid to die. I don't perceive death as a tragic occurrence, as paradoxical as it may sound.
Our death is the pinnacle of our existence.
I admit that it is easy to toss aside the feelings of 100,000s when you cannot see them, it is easy to be apathetically oversensitive.
But those tingling bubbles are real, as are the arm hairs they molest. And it is they who have left us with this reality. Those thousands will never feel it again, and all we can do is sit here and wait. Wait for our turn.
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I should have said:
How do you know that death is not beautiful? That the last sensations of life are the most intimate? I imagine a child floating, one shoe dangling by a shoelace wrapped around his ankle. His eyes forcefully closed by the impounding waves. His arms raised over his head, sinking deeper and deeper. A red and white striped shirt hovering around his belly button, waving like an American flag on a breezy summer Chicago afternoon. The tingling bubbles are gone now. He is gone. Sensations no longer belong to his body, but to another realm. One wear the air pets your lungs like a fur coat, and chocolate smells like a mother's hug. Things we cannot imagine. For there are limits to us. We are bound in a world of 5 senses and simple organs.
And for a few moments those organs purely experienced the magic of the waves. Ribs were smashed with delicate indecency and futile skulls were smashed against the rocky ocean coast. Imagine one sensation, one feeling. So intense and pure it kills you.
This is beauty.
You are only frightened because you have nothing to compare it to. Your only pain and sensations exist is a realm surrounded by pain and sensations. These are not special to you. You dread the ground while high up. You fear the ocean when you only have one breath. It is only when you have nothing that it all means something to you.
An overdose brings a swelling pain to the stomache only appreciated by the one who swallowed the pills.
A slit to the wrist slices a seering senstation only felt by the one with the razor.
You do not know. You are not aware of the beauty in the last moments. Whether they be of pain or bliss. |
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[Dec. 29th, 2004|07:09 pm] |
The message is:
You help us and we'll help you. |
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[Dec. 29th, 2004|04:09 pm] |
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I hate my dreams. |
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[Dec. 29th, 2004|02:22 pm] |
see and do |
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