i've never not been able to write about something. though, this, by far, has been the most trying. i've been avoiding writing, reminiscing, dreaming. reality is reigning. her smell lingers. clutching the luggage i've hesitated to unpack. the entire trip seemed to be a film of unsurpassed beauty. and i sincerely wish it had been recorded because the reels of my memory are constantly withering. it was two and a half years of unknowing. it's been one week since parting. 62 days left until reuniting. i miss her. i miss everything.

i remember waking in the morning, rushing to ready. blood attempting to navigate its way within the endless anxiety. i put on a scarf and hurriedly shoved my belongings in the back of a rusty green camero. he passed me the keys, said, "you're driving, kiddo." i adjusted the seat, and we went on our way. the highway was nearly vacant. feeling free as my father handed me slices of grapefruit as pink as the sky in midst of its very own metamorphosis. seeing the airport against the hazy horizon. parking. removing my bags and entering the shuttle full of travelers. we were off. gate C. security check-point. pass. seated. waiting. too nervous for coffee. pen. teddy bear. stand-by clear. window seat. boarding. thumbs trembling the text. see you soon. lift-off. clouds. maps. irrigation. mountains. empty land. little houses. colored roofs. gray skies. turbulence. circular rainbows. shadow. runway. land. phone. four texts. she's on her way. heart pounding. not ready. exit. gate 10. walk. "metro/baggage claim." restroom. mirror. breaths. walk back. illuminated map. call. calm. fright. fancy restaurant. christmas tree. don't see it. walk. stop. turn around. still in security. walk. exit. donut shop. christmas tree. can't do it. she saw me. can't see her. fear. christmas tree. waiting. hiding. where are you? can't do it. calm. descriptions of people passing. father, blue raincoat, son, holding hands. woman, heavy set, brown bags. deep breath. walking. scanning. her energy. spotted. curled inside a silver phone booth. slow motion. walking. her aura. her eyes. her voice. hide. window. reflections. staring. speaking. surreal. not happening. knee touch. hands. embrace. never letting go.

(note: this post will be quite lengthy by the time i'm finished writing about the trip. it took me this long. and for now i must stop here, adding occasionally. i can only do this for so long without too much longing taking hold)

brave women. fumes of poetry. they are not entities, but drugs. dreams. struggling to engulf each other. everything they touch morphs to myth. a blunder of psychic blindness. tender muted telepathy. whisper to me your hidden lust. it is now. it is now. it is how. it is now. my lover. my flower. my mystic poet of desire. i no longer hide you. i no longer hide anything at all. this is not an awakening. this is a slumber of transgressed depth. eternal distortion. eternal daze. eternal embrace. brave women. brave women. my lover. my dream. luminous and warm. gentle. tattered. holy. beat.

insomnia is no good for dreamers...

sweet serendipitous soul, she.

half-life nuclear waste unseen particle beams probe long standing questions. big experiments happening. sociological sees the shift. says, "they would've been fine." hospital stays, heart-failure, electric shocks. her mind going to egypt. within minutes plunging straight into birds. revolution erupt. people tell their stories and report blurry photos in mid-february. but she was planning to return privately. insured to die frequently. opal spirit dew shine violet heart silver spray luna flowing dirt spirit.

funny how alternate fates morph so rapidly. instead of pursing that new blossom, i returned to prune the beautiful bloom that i foolishly left wilting. this past year or so i have been so selfish, and that is most unlike me. in truth i knew her and i would end up together again, always. my intuition does not fail me in that particular predicament. but my mind was too preoccupied. with school. with producing my art. with work. with money. with writing. with time. with wondering if i should test these other luring auras which taunted after me. i was just so young, i am still so young (well, i do not feel mentally/soulfully young, but at least in the scientific sense of the word it is so). but i should've never used my psyche to twist my heart. the thought of eternal terrifies and warms me all at once. but i'm finally ready to cherish her more closely than ever before. sweet darling ethereal beauty. i am sorry for ever parting.

it is seldom that i take chances such as that. in fact, i'm unsure if up until this point i ever have. it’s strange. i’m still attempting to decipher the blossom. i told her i needed to sleep, which is half-truth, but really i wanted to make sure i was not already experiencing in disorient spells of slumber. and though now freshly rested, i’m weary as to where i shall embark from here. i cannot stand that it’s been over a year and still sensations of guilt envelope me if i even come to obtain the slightest feelings for another. but i cannot let it hold me any longer. i simply cannot.

entrapped in an experience of outer surfaces, with efforts to probe deeper yielding only to more as murky as the first. at times, such exasperating exertions to locate meaning beneath these shrouds of ensnarement can in turn evoke a psychological disembodiment wherein physical and mental planes become mixed and morphed together. usually, when a blank space occurs, it is rapidly invaded with a reaction of some sort. and, it seems, this particular vacant abyss has begun to anthropomorphize a consciousness of continuous pulling in and out. i do not think any of this is making even the slightest amount of coherent sense. i feel almost as if existing in a semi-lucid surrealist state of somnambulism. and cannot reawaken. visions are slipping out. i must shut my eyes. that's the only way. ever the only way... goodnight, xo.

i forgot to wish for her.

dream.
november 11, 2011.

i only ever fall for those who are unattainable. all desires yearn for that which is intangible. though i always descend, even while knowing. i do not know if i would say it is a helpless act. in fact, i'm sure it is not. i do this because i fear the transpiration of actuality. to say, i fear the loss of my dreaming. i've acknowledged my mania for control. my mother read this in my palm when i was a child, whereby i severely discounted such an accusation. the trait was not yet present in my psyche's recognition, and the foreseen coming had always haunted me. i'm unsure as to why. but at that point i did not understand this word, wholly. i presume i connoted it with abuse--which is an aspect far from my capability. though, now, i translate it properly. it is not an external control, but rather rooted deeply internal. and has intrinsically been the vital component of my entire existence. i will always be a feral entity when entering to this world's collective conception of reality. and for this, i will always descend, even while knowing. because of knowing.

last winter, sometimes, i would sit outside the doors to a recital hall and muse, heavily. strings hardly touched synchronicity seeing as the orchestras were merely practicing. today i was thinking of you and presume i must’ve wandered there mindlessly--whatever the case, the decision was certainly not one of a conscious undertaking. i stayed there anyways, but this time all was silent. for some reason i did not sense the towering emptiness--only the unknown aura which keeps lurking after me. i feel it everywhere. but it can't be you. you’re gone. and for you, i no longer enter. which i cannot comprehend because i've been left cursed unable to rid mounting insufferable visions. transfixed, interminably. what is the dreamer, but a tragedy?

this post possesses more solidity for my personal reminiscing here.

i can transcend now. today bequeathed perhaps the most surreal moment of my existence. here are couple cell phone photos that i snuck through the confines of my blazer without looking. so the composition is absolutely abysmal, but i'm very glad to have them. felt like such a rebel snapping these.



































michals, mapplethorpe, and mann were positioned alongside each other. my heart underwent so many convulsions, i think my soul may have touched enlightenment.

i also saw my favorite photo of frida kahlo taken by manuel alvarez bravo, a brasai, a dali, a kruger, a sherman, a stieglitz, a talbot, a warhol, among some notable others.
i am eternally grateful to my professor for setting up this experience which is still seemingly unreal...

i do not know if we had a destiny. we began walking slowly down a street paved of polished obsidian, scrying delicately, subtly. slipping. night dropped, i felt the moon and turned my bones back. without consciousness, i grabbed your hand in two of mine. we fled fast and far until the moon was unobscured by city constructions. meshing our feet again to the obsidian, you began weeping small crystals. i begged you to look to the giant illuminated milky orb above us. scarlet clouds kissed its edges then shattered at just the precise moment. your eyes lifted. i let go.

dream.
october 28, 2011.

lure has slithered before me as a majestic snake awaiting to be charmed. how tempted i am to chant. though my lungs are vacant and my voice-box has locked. the serpent coiled my throat. i must've been tranced through the hypnotic undulation. i cannot discern what is transpiring. my temples are rapidly infused with heavy throbs. my eyes have slipped to tunneled visions draped in opalescent white. you emerge in the distance, silhouetted, swathed black velvet tattered cosmos embodiment. emitting halos which sprout slowly, faintly from you forming like moon-bleached moss tendrils. shy auras, i long to touch. perpetual drift.

there will always be that little part of you.

all my trials, soon be over.

there are moments,
(undisclosed), when
the strangest
surge will well
within me,
if only--
to say it,
simply--(i
cannot). you
are an entire
catacomb clutching
my chest.

when the moment comes wherein you feel the stillness of the known
and you realize that same stillness exists too within your heart--
how, then, do you ever wake from dreaming?

it's getting old. i have the most immense desire to part. for seclusion. to be a working artist, on my own. outside of stale poorly lit classrooms in which i'm not gaining anything but debt. outside of this land clutching my ankles, draining my dreams. nothing vexes me more than exuding such exorbitant amounts of energy into my artistic concepts and executions just so that another may "be inspired" and confiscate them as their own. imitation is never the finest fucking form of flattery. this is deteriorating. my spirit has neared exhaustion. i must leave soon. a new aura is beckoning, and it cost $309 for a one-way train ticket to new york.

there are things left unsaid which will always remind me;
your essence lies lurking among my most precious phantoms.

i've fallen into such delirium. engulfed within an abyss discombobulated. unable to balance. unable to steady. expectation is the worst of all fates, but the most entrancing of my dreams.

so much remains.

your embrace was

the entire universe

within me

holding its breath

i only know what remains--which is, we share the same unknown.

a few nights ago i had an overwhelming urge to conduct some spirit writing and have since been haunted by this message which emerged eerily within the first lines of winding ink:

"you are good & light & when free love her"

i've been relentlessly bombarded with assignments, work, events to attend, et cetera, and have not been able to write or touch my existence much lately. my battery ran down on my camera while doing a project and i'm waiting for it to recharge--being the only reason that i am even able to write in this moment. everything is happening at such a rapid pace that all seems transitory. i mean, all is transitory and i'm mesmerized by the beauty which that encompasses, but at times it's terribly infuriating because there is so much investment. and now i'm not even able to witness the decay. it's pure evaporation. absolute ephemerality. black holes.

she is the sea,
and i am vanishing.

i can't remember

what it was

how it happened

or when we

became such empty

mounds of magic--

only i know

her voice was
shaking. meaning: either
she despises me
or retains desires,
secretly. no matter,
we are strangers
now. (because that

is what she
wanted) and there

is nothing left.

it started so simply. only, now exists complete restlessness. the cursed enigma. the cyclical ephemeral. sleepy, sleepy cyclone. twisted internal. lay me down, my supernatural. bestow your beloved surrender. sweet, sweet dreams wait whispering.

"What is this universe
but a lot of waves
And a craving desire
is a wave
Belonging to a wave
in a world of waves
So why put any down,
wave?
Come on wave, WAVE!
The heehaw’s dobbin
spring hoho
Is a sad lonely yurk
for your love
wave lover."

--jack kerouac

ceci n'est pas un rêve.

i'm being dishonest. this spiral is eternal. an exasperating unsynchronized drift. and no matter how far i diverge, it's as though something stronger perpetually compels me to return.

a new madness has has consumed all coherency. mania. a fixation overpoweringly more solid than any other i've found myself traverssing within--which frightens me greatly. this has transpired previously under spells of an eerily similar luring--though so suddenly now i’m being pulled with an even greater intensity. there are these currents of seeming electricity swelling and sending countless vibrations, caressing each vein. i am awake, though existing as if in dream. an unprompted ecstasy has encompassed me once again. complete euphoric transcendence. whenever we cross paths, even when envisioned by means of unconscious serendipity, i cannot express what occurs other than an absolute pureness. a radiance. a known. a mesmeric magnetism, unsurpassed.

inexplicably infatuated. a note for my own records of reminiscing--if love at first sight truly exists, it occurred on this day. smitten and genuinely lovesick. this is going to be no good...

forever you knew.

this is it. this is the embrace we've been so tirelessly yearning for. energies entwined within eternal. there is a an untouched stillness, a serenity, now meshing amidst refreshed vibrations and sherbet clouds. the most supreme fusion. i sense the matching rhythms. the visions. we’ve been composing such delicate crescendos. for once, all feels whole--you, across from me with yesterday’s cold pizza and the sun setting on your sleepy forehead.

eyes glazed, longing to be stardust. dark matter. i used to caress the night--now i lay strangled by it. asphyxiated. why did i descend? what in you compelled me?
i'm only haunted because nothing will ever be unveiled.

i collapsed last night into dream without warning. but woke gently--just floated back through consciousness, still shut and stagnant, imposing a fading afterimage in the ever black pools. i pressed my ring finger into a crevice of stitching and slowly drew it up to my brow, tracing continuous unhurried circles around eyelids. eventually i rose, appearing before two large mirrors obstructed with melting morning light where i assessed my form and last night's unwashed makeup, lips stained and smudged eyes. i sat stoic, seemingly in a mind of no mind. but then suddenly it was as though all at once i was wedged in a sort of paradox, peering amid feelings of freshness and filth wherein i frenziedly grappled for grime's secreted immaculacy.

"the frightening experience i am traversing now is this: with her i am acting out scenes which prove, in the end, the strength and vividness of my memories and fantasies superimposed over reality. it is such a subtle, elusive happening, that i cannot describe it. it is as if i see and hear you clearly for a while and then become drunk, confused, drugged. and all the time a part of me is aware of the distortions. it is frightening because it causes self-doubt, a doubt of what i have always believed in: my intuition."

--anaïs nin (spring, 1957)

juste arrêtez
juste arrêtez
juste arrêtez
juste arrêtez
juste arrêtez
juste arrêtez

a luminous instant submerged within ritualistic sensations of dissonance. fields of fallen blackbirds. broken smokey crystal eyes. rainbow refraction. slippery lucidity. returning ambiguity. so gone. so gone. so gone. take me.

darling, i surrender.

muses, eternal--
my mapplethorpe is saccharine.

everything is falling into place. finally. merely within the tiny course of a day, it's consumed me with such vigor. so many new prospects are simmering and i just feel this inexplicably overwhelming sensation of sureness unlike any i've ever felt before. might as well be gazing to the moon...

what to do when you don't have access to a mountain, but feel as though you will spontaneously combust if you cannot freely and vociferously expel your rage:

1. go to your bed

2. grab a pillow from your bed

3. immerse your head within said pillow

4. scream until your lungs fall feeble

5. faint

6. astral project

7. do not return

in some strange way, it was the truest thing i had ever known.

it slid down my forearm and soaked into the blue carpet beneath me. my hands were trembling and i spilt the water. the semi-circle of surrounding souls all sucked in their breaths. i only bit my lip and proclaimed, “just water.” one looked inquisitive. sort of bowed his head in and curiously wondered in a whisper if i was nervous. wherein i retreated and informed that it was merely a normal consequence of my constant quiver. he grew aggressive and preached, peering with daggers. proclaimed he knew why i was always shaking. and i started to laugh, but he morphed his fingers into a claw and reached for his core, “it’s that burning desire!” gaze and passion gaining potency, he continued, “it’s deep within you trying to break free!” my eyes instantly sunk to the small freshly absorbed puddles now growing cold against my foot. “you must let it out,” he warned. and i shifted my head as if to nod, but my spine locked and my heart began to convulse.

it's all drifting so rapidly.

how simple it is to exist within an illusion. lashes locked under cloths stitched of spells. i hardly release them any longer. with hopes reveries will be forced to crystallize. solidify. sometimes i sense how heavy hers have grown. back turned towards the curtains, in tireless attempts to ignore the night's symphony of sighing stars. if only to see them once more, i'd curse mine open. though for now i retain the dream.

i need you, i don't need you,
and all of that jivin' around

endless loop...

all the parasitic daydreams which have mercilessly grown to dominate my psyche are so beyond ready to transpire.

her.
this.

because that's just how it goes. the important things come back. essence remains. and escape is always a temporary business.

i don't know
where we were
traveling, but she
asked me if
i loved her.
and i don't
think it was
a nightmare, but
my lungs were
empty and my
mouth didn't move.

i imagine when i cease and my body lay but a mortician's canvas incisions will bequeath beneath broken bone's cages antiquitous realms constructed of longing's petrification.

surrender surrender entwining vine debilitating she who deforms me caresses me crawls me possesses me with roots immortal surrender surrender soaked soil thy's stolen blood to revive such veins stripped to barren surrender surrender ablaze inferno unbearable she who flames misery of mystery eternal surrender surrender sweet night thy's muted stars to lastly fill my heart's empty dismal vessel.

"the tomb, confidant of my dream infinite--
for the tomb always understands the poet--
during sleepless nights when the dire demons flit"

always upon reawaken, another scratch. i emerge, inexplicably incised flesh. stinging, swollen pink. no longer phased. i've grown exhausted of such voodoo. i allow you, even. i'm aware. omniscient. you are not as clandestine as you'd like to think.

an ephemeral detach. a

momentary funk. erratic passing.

sporadic spiraling sleeplessness. did

you watch when i

beckoned a wormhole manifestation?

did you see when

it devoured a figmented

illusion into my being?

i divulged. mistakenly. stagnation,

stagnation. on the bed,

body torpid. electric current.

hesitant undulation. hovering. departed.

feral. (though, not free)

darlin', you don't mess with magic.

i must realign my center. i must. though i've not the slightest inclination. perhaps i will just sway freely. void of axis. void of weight. but i fear my floating. i know my own ways. enough to acknowledge the coupled lure of enigmatic fleet. i'd not ever return. so i've kept a small silver link attached--with only memory of the anchor. now deteriorating each minute. i've tried polishing. with a cloth woven from strands of lingering dreams, i feverishly stroked (though only ever left an irreversible tarnish). i must rid this crux before it rids me. i cannot comprehend the yearning to withhold such a rusted rivet. it's going to break. soon, it will. and in its fall, subtly bestow the most beautiful dreary clink. propelling my soul through the walls of itself. where stone will morph to glass and fall like golden glitter.

take me to new orleans.

too much i retrospect or invoke visions. seldom am i not in a strenuous psychic mêlée to evade the "now." in fact, i'm not entirely sure i've ever known the realm. it is not that it frightens me, necessarily. i'm just impassive by its persistency. the absolution. the ease of readability. i only ever crave what i cannot grasp. as though i embody that empty microscopic segment composing long-gazed upon sistine ceilings. and i promise, if you look to that voided crevice of two fingers outstretched, though eternally untouched--you will also then penetrate matter vital to my uncloaking.

yesterday evening i ventured out to brazos bend with charlie, alonso, and rosie. despite immense heat and a frightening alligator stand-off, it was entirely immersing and felt as though i was walking within a sally mann photograph.

a few that i took with her floating in psyche:
(can also view on flickr)

twisted heart throbs. divergent. manipulative.
i apologize for my perpetual dream-mucked eyes.

the broken breaths which seeped through last night's electric current are still lingering. how you floated from the warm machinery pressed against the side of my cheek. you, distant. weak and wholly wrecked. i woke reminiscing the rhythm. the rhythm and returned yearning. i dread allowing such dissipation. the engulfing echo of the ebbs. i never told you how terribly i was trembling. unbearably, i let go. though there was static in my slumber. and i dreamt a thousand tiny birds carrying your feeble body over boundless empty planes just to place you on my bed--as you promised. but this morning, strangely, after rising to water the roses, i found a single feather lay resting in the doorway.

i once was
a sculptor of
gold drenched unobtainable
truths--you were

my finest work.
and the heaviest
(despite a cast
so very hollow).

i spent today bungalow dream hunting with alonso. somehow, in the midst of it all, we made our way to a little muggy bookstore which leisurely bequeathed an aroma bouquet of old paper and bound memories and cardboard boxes and someone who had tried desperately to quit smoking.
just as i was heading to the doors, a collection of 1st edition hardback anaïs nin diaries confiscated the composition within my lungs. i felt as though a colossal earthquake shook through the core of me. bones trembling, i held them all--while also attempting to hold back the inevitable weeping. i'm typically unreasonably frugal, but this time the vessels of my heart offered no vacillation when choosing one of the more pricey collectibles. i'll be sleeping with this one under my pillow, always. my body is still being rattled with aftershocks.

“this feels like doom. this is a pyramid on my chest. i want to change blood with her. i want her slavery. i want her promise. i want her death. i want the thrown acid to disencumber me. i want to stop staring.”

--leonard cohen (the end of my life in art)

at times, i feel i’m only able to write frenziedly about things which have withered. flipping through the pages--it all died long ago. that’s the only logical explanation as to why my journals are filled with such wild fervor. mad passion. lines concealed upon lines of untamed ink. transcendence. it all died long ago. it simply must’ve.

"but i come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
and i knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—"

e.e. cummings

fractured sunlight seeped through the fissures, sluggish as thickening blood of a soft fresh wound. damning me to wake amidst the fizzing of a festering dream. mirages sprouted out of two now cognizant slivers with weary pupils struggling to adjust aperture in the engulfing illumination. muscles offered no reach--interpretation entered easily. verifying all i’ve ever needed to vanish vexing visions.

phantoms II.
(flickr)

i've reached the depths of the deep. anchored amid the drifting bioluminescence. unable to relinquish the beating--a cursed onomatopoeia that grew vigorously. my soul lingered, above some swathed shadow of blue. have i, at last, parted my corpse? i remembered sinking. how i’d twist my neck in attempts to keep clutch of the hovering gaze which suspended itself at the surface. but submerging deeper, inexorably, it blurred and soon dissipated. there was only absence. terrifying tranquility. no evolutionary awakening to kiss the swollen stars. cold ocean’s sand slid along my spine. silence. though, sometimes it’d emerge again--the gaze. hitting me (there) in that tiny void found after a fallen pulse.

grandeur, gold n’ gritty.

 e

       a

   s

y

telepathy.
tapping temples,
tapping temples,
tapping temples;
(if only you knew)

new song up.
(also, excuse my bed hair and this awful still that youtube has unfortunately decided upon..)



lyrics:
do you feel like you’ve been had,
does it make you mad?
do you feel like you’ve been had,
gonna get sad?
(gonna get sad)

passion hit my heart.
repeated, repeated, repeatedly
like a moth lured by light--
desiring the orb,
though also desiring the obliteration.
trying to penetrate that epicenter of illumination.
and while my bulb of powdered glass is surely fragile,
it somehow proved victorious against the flutters
of such feeble wings.

do you feel like you’ve been had,
does it make you mad?
do you feel like you’ve been had,
gonna get sad?

then, i hit the heart of passion.
repeated, re…
only to shatter it all in a blinding flash.
the lure burnt out,
and now i’m left flapping, flapping, flapping aimlessly
into darkened abysses with broken wings
and the relic shards of an untimely death
wedged in me

do you feel like you’ve been had,
does it make you mad?
do you feel like you’ve been had,
gonna get sad?
(gonna get sad)

passion hit my heart
and i hit the heart of passion
so hard that
now it’s gone
it’s gone
it’s gone

(it’s all gone)

démolition d'un mur (interne)
utilizing various clips derived from influential artists, i've stitched together a compilation sequencing which has been arranged and edited in attempts to portray the struggles of demolishing an internal wall.
(and is accordingly how i've been feeling as of late)

solstice. characteristically, i'd celebrate. though i'm dispassionate and unstirred. it's too engulfing. the flourish of summer, the beating hearts, the hot embracing. leaving me discarded in an insipid furrow--equipped with a cruel craving for winter. aching for the ambiance. the frigidity that wrecks my bones. the phase when all is razed and recoils to perish--for once inducing me to sense how unexpectedly alive my own soul.

perhaps, at least, it will rain today.

between my neck
and collarbone, there
is a notch--
i have formed
a hollow. so
sometimes (when i
feel empty) i
rest my fingers
inside of it
and experience the
veins plunge, then
swell, endlessly, in
efforts to slyly
ensure i’m not
(entirely an illusion).

bound in night’s gown
how beautiful her body
wearing nothing
but starlight.

tell me your desires--what twists inside you? is there anything? is it void? veiled? tell me your desires--have you experienced ecstasy? complete lunacy? have you gone mad, yet? tell me your desires--who sleeps beside you? and who is sleeping beneath your eyes? in your heart? are they all the same? am i there? is he? or he? or she? tell me your desires--do you wear masks? do you hold within you a boutique to attain them? do i? tell me your desires--what's the tempo of your breathing? are your lungs full of smoke? are you holding them? why are you holding them? tell me your desires--are they active? have you any left? are you drugged? tell me your desires--am i in them? have you murdered me? or am i your hidden lover? or is he? or she? tell me your desires--would you float to me in slumber? would you tell them to me there? would you show me?

we spoke a lot of nonsense,
grew fluent in our dizzied sentiment and half-truths.

only ever sharing sincere visions with the flames
that flickered forth from the furtive shutting of eyelids—

little fences of fluorescent orange flesh,
so sweetly barbed with lashes.

anything gets heavy if you hold it long enough.

i met a woman.

i met a woman
whose fingers
held within them
the aroma
of aged books--

and all i wanted
was to read the pages
of her palms forever.

each
lonely
line

i clutched in captivity,
as stanzas struck
my soul spellbound

(i could’ve promised
she was the personification
of poetry.)

evaporation isn’t so easy. i cannot tell if i’m seeking to part, or to be taken. only i know, my excursions are leaving incisions. this time, three lines. drawing themselves from the tip of my left clavicle and descending in diagonal across my torso, perishing just past the hip. i woke, wearing it like some sort of sash i’d been bestowed. something wants out. though, even in such susceptible sleep, something stronger refuses to concede. these scarlet marks will soon fade--along with all else.

it hasn't ceased happening.

i recall
the moment
you forgot
the moon.
(or maybe,
it was,
the moon
forgot you)
i’ve memorized
the senses,
shed sanity
resembling ridded
snake’s skin.
from me
you slithered,
and i
linger motionless--
but an
irreversibly translucent
vacant hide,
awaiting the
sphere’s decision
to wax
or wane.

i keep getting so shaken because every time i read something by anais nin, i find within the pages entire passages which i have written in my own journals verbatim. it absolutely terrifies me. and even the story of how i happened upon her is sort of awry and strange. but, then again, now certain things are starting to make sense that were once enigmas of memory.

"reality doesn't impress me. i only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, i escape, one way or another. no more walls."

--anais nin

my crystal ball is empty.

non, je ne regrette rien.

in you,
there is
nothing. (nothing
in you,
at all)
in me,
there is
something--it
is the
something of
nothing that
was you.

patsy...oh, patsy.
i've had her on endless loop today.

lately i’ve been mastering the art of fading--
my limbs, my soul, my pulse
are but a field of dandelions awaiting annihilation
a phantom’s breath tremolos in undulation
dangling seeds, vacillate,
drop victim to vibrato--
my limbs, my soul, my pulse
compose a shattered dandelion concerto
(key of E)
damned in drifting dream

cosmic discord.

these gals are my current obsession. so good.

"I’m now making myself as scummy as I can. Why? I want to be a poet, and I’m working at turning myself into a seer. You won’t understand any of this, and I’m almost incapable of explaining it to you. The idea is to reach the unknown by the derangement of all the senses. It involves enormous suffering, but one must be strong and be a born poet. It’s really not my fault." — Arthur Rimbaud

just can't stop the screamin' jay...

still can't sleep without my soul slipping away. alas, it's 3:48am and i'm shamelessly dancing around to screamin' jay while holding a drowsy purring kitty in my arms. what else can ya do, right?

within me
there is
a flag.
how white,
it once
was. waving
wildly (though
now unmoving)
--worn and
wrought with
weather’s weight.
worn and
wrought with
wait, alone.

gone
for now,
serenity.

the lady with lilac hair chanted, exhausted. pounding her head, pounding her head, pounding her head, against indonesian rugs. exhaling. ceasing. slowly curling, she composed her bones comparable to that of a fragile coiled fetus. it was my duty then to understand the position. so, erroneously, i allowed my palm to rest at her neck's nape. feeling her bodily pulsations go languid, then rise, unannounced, like sudden rapids in a river. small puddles piled in attempts to conceal the fissure between her left cheekbone and the woven fibers, but would only ever last for a few seconds--or until the threads absorbed their existence. over time it was as though my resting hand had been coerced into that vital vertebrae. and then bit by bit regressing further, engulfed further, to emulate umbilical cord. ultimately, the rug lost it's ability to swallow. the room flooded, easily. submerged in our secluded world's womb--although unable, we found, to float amidst amniotic fluid. so there we stay, simply sinking...simply sinking...simply sinking. exhaling. ceasing.

"A thousand Dreams within me softly burn:
From time to time my heart is like some oak
Whose blood runs golden where a branch is torn."
--Rimbaud

i'm in such a rimbaud rut lately. i could swoon over his words endlessly. constant cyclical reading and re-reading. never get enough.

originally i was just going to post this song because
1. i love chan marshall
2. the lyrics resonate
and i've no idea if i'm just hearing things, however, i swear the instrumental of this sounds just like patti's pissing in a river. which is the song i've been listening to for the entirety of the summer (seriously at least five times a day...it's bad). i believe i posted it about a week ago, but i'll put it here as well for the sake of convenience. so strange.

i now know how she must feel.

“you may not believe in magic but something very strange is happening at this very moment. your head has dissolved into thin air and i can see the rhododendrons through your stomach. it’s not that you are dead or anything dramatic like that, it is simply that you are fading away and i can’t even remember your name.”

--leonora carrington

the hands loiter within recollection. slightly translucent skin with the most beautifully risen turquoise veins. rings to match. gold bands. a few silver. caressing slender bones. i've always been drawn to those with swollen veins. they seem filled, yet somehow fragile. as though they've hidden answers to mysteries inside them. cautious in their movements. resembling holy. susceptible. a mere nick to the flesh could result in the deepest pieces of their soul seeping out. but it's almost like they're waiting. wishing, even, for a passerby to brutally cut into them. not exactly a lover. or surgeon. deity. assassin. just someone. someone. someone capable of perception. invasion. complete conquest. possession. a warrior equipped with weapons obtaining the power of transcendence through flesh's relentless fortification.

sitting at a battered table next to the gloomy street-lit window. gazing into the glass obscured by steam of beverages, painted text, and cigarette smoke. in the left corner there is a girl with dark hair and delicately chapped lips. our weary eyes keep locking as if by serendipity, and it's as though we know a secret that no other could grasp. we don't. that's just the spell of these places. you could fall in love with anyone.

a few weeks ago i took out three cards, as if by premonition, and tacked them to the wall in an even line beside my bed. i knew this fate before it could even transpire. it was only a matter of time--the other night when i woke, all three had fallen into the small crevice by my mattress. and all i could do was rummage up a merciless smile in midst of the timely malice. everything was to spite me. i'm sure of it.

is it really june, already? the dawn has waltzed wildly before my eyes. rapt by the new moon's retreat and the starry dissolve--how they lingered and vanished like delicate melting droplets of salt drenched tears. there is always something shimmering in the shadows. it's our reason for gazing so long. we seek it ceaselessly, like lost moths. daunted with vulnerability. flight into the abyss is easy. it's when the light starts rematerializing that we lose ourselves. petrified of the leaks and what they may illuminate. there is always that moment when just enough trickles and transforms all into a mass sheet of gray anonymity. it festers in a frenzy, that dull disarray. muddled minds heaped into hysterical states of hallucination. then the vital streak of deep crimson strikes. or blue. or gold. or fuchsia. vast across the atmosphere, as though it were a canvas rothko had stroked himself. there is such mesmeric absorption in the exhibition of a horizon's birth. only now the cyclic waiting commences for it's certain cosmic demise.

i dreamt, on accident; though everything was silent and swathed in an all engulfing black. as if i were embodying the void itself. when i woke, i relived in reverie. i couldn't. i couldn't call forth the desires that once effortlessly crept and enveloped without consent. something was vanquished. there is no flame burning. only the soot is left behind. my soul unperturbed, at last. je suis libre.

everything's such a joke.

maslow's 8 ways to self-actualize:

1. experience things fully, vividly, selflessly. throw yourself into the experiencing of something: concentrate on it fully, let it totally absorb you.

2. life is an ongoing process of choosing between safety (out of fear and need for defense) and risk (for the sake of progress and growth): make the growth choice a dozen times a day.

3. let the self emerge. try to shut out the external clues as to what you should think, feel, say, and so on, and let your experience enable you to say what you truly feel.

4. when in doubt, be honest. if you look into yourself and are honest, you will also take responsibility. taking responsibility is self-actualizing.

5. listen to your own tastes. be prepared to be unpopular.

6. use your intelligence, work to do well the things you want to do, no matter how insignificant they seem to be.

7. make peak experiencing more likely: get rid of illusions and false notions. learn what you are good at and what your potentialities are not.

8. find out who you are, what you are, what you like and don’t like, what is good and what is bad for you, where you are going, what your mission is. opening yourself up to yourself in this way means identifying defenses - and then finding the courage to give them up.

i simply cannot comprehend all this vacillation.

don't lick your finger and dip it into that vast vacant atmosphere in attempts to discern the path of the winds, just wander with the gusts. walk backwards into them, even. don't look. don't turn--i'm warning you. the moment has drawn near and you must now permit the complete engulfing. it’s yearning to swallow. you’re yearning to be swallowed. let it take you. let it take your entirety. it's time. it's coming, it's coming swelling up and you can't stop it. breathing sinks heavy, sinks heavy, sinks so heavy, twisting hair, cerebration dripping out careful scenarios. sentimental. sultry. sensual. strong. it pushes and you've fallen. sinking. submerged. transposing energy. powerlessly possessed and swept away.

“You are right, Sahara. There are no mists, or veils, or distances. But the mist is surrounded by a mist; and the veil is hidden behind a veil; and the distance continually draws away from the distance. That is why there are no mists, or veils, or distances. That is why it is called The Great Distance of Mist and Veils. It is here that The Traveler becomes The Wanderer, and The Wanderer becomes The One Who Is Lost, and The One Who Is Lost becomes The Seeker, and The Seeker becomes The Passionate Lover, and The Passionate Lover becomes The Beggar, and The Beggar becomes The Wretch, and The Wretch becomes The One Who Must Be Sacrificed, and The One Who Must Be Sacrificed becomes The Resurrected One and The Resurrected One becomes The One Who has Transcended The Great Distance of Mist and Veils. Then for a thousand years, or the rest of the afternoon, such a One spins in the Blazing Fire of Changes, embodying all the transformations, one after the other, and then beginning again, and then ending again, 86,000 times a second. Then such a one, if he is a man, is ready to love the woman Sahara; and such a one, if she is a woman, is ready to love the man who can put into song The Great Distance of Mist and Veils. Is it you who are waiting, Sahara, or is it I?”

--you are right, sahara by leonard cohen

i have a tiny sore underneath my thumbnail. unreachable. no one can see it, but i feel it so intensely. the constant throbbing. and it aches terribly--but sometimes i'll catch myself fixated and smiling. reminds me of you.

"you know
that i adore you
you know
that i love you
so don't make me say it
it would burst the bubble
break the charm"

so, this is my summer theme song. i have a sob fest every single time.
patti kills me. ugh.

i think about her constantly. i do not wish to, but it’s helpless. it’s inescapable. suffocating. there is something in me unknown which commands me. paralyzed, though in paradox, because my mind is constantly undulating but fixed on that inevitable dreaming. i find my desiring nonsensical, yet something in me refuses the frail illusions as such. at times i feel as though i have emptied my entire being and refilled it with only her--my veiled madness, my mystery, my impenetrable muse.

spent the evening sipping sleepy tea and hesitantly staining pages with spillings of smudged sentences and proclamations i'll never actually proclaim.
my journal has gotten awfully ragged.

i know that i've posted this before, but i really can't shake it..

there is a fissure in my hippocampus
like a perfume which lingers
plagued in a whirlpool ecstasy
desperado demoiselle dreaming apparatus
mucked in fermenting milky mind silk
and leaking unmelodious delusive storms
static syntax
enormous billowing envelopment
extraneous projection
of eroding illusions
dissect seeing
dissecting visions
light refracted
exposing enclosed entrapments
of the haunted hallucinatory heart

i've just detected my posts have been rather diminutive in terms of length, lately.
bare with me--results of a fragmented psyche.
soul scrubbin' and such, you know?

darling, i feel like a wasteland.

sentimental incoherency,
mal à la tête.

yoko knows.

lounging against auburn bark, women sat and denied the width of their wings.

can't get this out of my head...

engulfed under a quilt cuddled with my cat while watching antiques roadshow, drinking hot tea, and knitting...proof that i'm really an entrapped 83 year old lady.


in an unrelated thread, i have a new song up, if it interests you:

remnants of elasticity.

in dreams, i'm haunted by your whispering--
slumber begs of me not relinquish you;
though while such a soul strays asunder,
waking life yearns i surrender.

rothko makes me cry.

fears of the vanishing muse--
commencing the fickle quest for a proxy.

irresistible craving for a road trip to new orleans and baton rouge. irresistible craving for a road trip, in general. even dreamt about it.

UGH, I'M SO IN LOVE WITH PATTI SMITH THAT IT HURTS MY SOUL.
listen..i can't even explain it in comprehensible terms.
this simply isn't fair.
not. at. all.

gonna cry myself to sleep now,
goodnight.

p.s. patti, come to me <3

i keep catching myself tactlessly watching my heart pulse through me. dazed. i fall into these tranced furrows just long enough for my eyes to wearily descend and my mind to begin a lackadaisical yet intricate unwinding of the laced fallacies that have been weaving themselves on the unceasing looms inside me. but the beats. the beats are shifting. so effortlessly those once potent thoughts wane alongside such dissipating throbs. forsaken. everything fading. it won't take long now--this is the waxing of the wane, my darling.

little clam,
gorging on your grimy pearl--
how it grows,
and how you sink.

you're the only one i can never read.
i can't stand this dreaming anymore.

useless beating beneath breasts
useless throbbing thought thorns
fermenting dreams are the deadliest potion
how futile i was
to desire

"an enigmatic collector of both objects and people."

scrying bleak and blue and sad-eyed with warped murky dust-caked mirror caressing clavicles being mopey because i want her closer and you to fade away.

holding private dinner parties with ghosts and rusted harps while contemplating the shapes of our perished hearts on pretty china plates wearing heavy velvet veils to match the blood stains dancing to the dithering beats. just dancing to the dithering beats. eyes closed and dreaming. dancing, dancing, dancing to the dithering.

fille de mes rêves, si seulement vous saviez...

stupid fragile state of existence.

night morphs all into a state of indistinguishable chameleon. where are your arms? i don't know where to search. are they near? i'm searching. i need them. i need them desperately. it's 3:42 a.m. and the sixth consecutive night my soul has tried to slip away. i'm so terrified. i fear it's trying to reach you.

why won't it rain?

i want to go camping. no place in particular. i don't even want it to be a designated campsite. just some desolate empty land under the stars. where i can howl at the moon and it will echo right back through me. that'd be perfect.

should i...
should i...
should i...
should i...
should i...

i have often prayed for you
like this:

let me have her.


--leonard cohen

maybe tonight i can stay inside my body

everything is unfinished--my bowl of oatmeal, a dream from eleven nights ago, the void in my heart 3/4ths full.

you will not catch your unknown.

third time in my life that i've experienced astral projection in full consciousness. and the second time in one month. this, by far, being the most intense and frightening.
though i must ready for work. i just need to post something so i can remember to write about it when i get home.

i don't know what it is precisely, but when the evening starts trudging in and the cosmos morphs into mystifying shades of emptiness, thoughts of you consume me. my mind gets so bleary and ravenous. i'll write letters and memorize them, then obliterate the exposed spilling into shreds. in hopes that by inducing tangible vanquishing an internal dissipation will, too, occur. but i've found it's like a lizard losing its tail, regenerating with two. so i turn to slumber.

screaming into pillows. stop copying me. stop stealing everything i love so deeply. that's all i ask of you. i can't stand it. you will not win my heart. you will furrow beneath it and i'll claw through the cages of tendons and bones just to remove you. i will. i've already dug the grave and carved the epitaph into stone. i'll devise spells if i have to. i'll chant you away. i will.

“i was always exhausted by my dreams, not because of the dreams, but because of the fear of not being able to return. i do not need to return. i will find you everywhere. you alone can go wherever i go, into the same mysterious regions. you too know the language of the nerves. you will always know what i am saying even if i do not.” — anaïs nin

“o i have been dilatory and dumb
i should have made my way straight to you long ago
i should have blabb’d nothing but you, i should have chanted nothing but you.” --whitman

i almost sent it. was so close. but the petals plucked from the withering rose told me not to. now you'll never know. and neither will i. goodnight.

listless and conflicted.

laissez ma tête, mon petite fantôme.

i've got so much work to finish, but my mind is hopelessly unfocused and all i want to do is lay in my poorly lit room and daydream while listening to 1920s female blues singers.





oh, and patti doing a cover just makes it that much better

diamond in the rough.

can't stop constructing constellations through tracing tiny freckles. creating a cloaked cosmos of fantasies within my own flesh. flushed, and cultivating dreamt up destinies. foggy visions flawed from daunting opacity. calmed, yet still trembling. the coveted echo fixed in constant crescendo--my darling, what has happened to me?

mamihlapinatapai (noun): a look shared by two people, each wishing the other would initiate something that they both desire but which neither wants to begin.

was thinking about her. was thinking about her again and a cardinal started fluttering in the tree limbs above me. chirping. frantic. i went up the stairs and it followed with it's red feathers fumbling. it looked at me, fragile and yearning. i said i'm not ready to fly, my darling birdy. and walked inside. but still, i heard its chirping. and i cried, trying to exhume what was buried in me. though the night came and my eyes were still burning. now the cardinal is sleeping, and my thinking is seeping into bottomless thirsting.

things i did today that are out of my character:

1. employed the tactic of flirting while playing the damsel in distress.
(worked wonders--i should've tried that ages ago)

2. cursed like a sailor.
(which worked wonders internally--i also should've tried that ages ago)


and i still want a cigarette--correspondingly, out of my character.
appears as though going up for block really morphs a person...

all i want is a cigarette--and i don't even smoke.

doomed. photography is killing me, the lack of control is eating my soul away. okay, that's a tad bit dramatic, but my heart is seriously churning. i may not get to go up for block due to lousy printers. i hate digital. and money.
though, had a chat with my lovely creative writing professor today--thinking about just pursuing writing for my degree and doing all other mediums in my own time. i've yet to apply for the creative writing program and she was really urging me to do so.
i mean...i'd have complete control. and compared to photography, it's essentially free. well, aside from attempting to get published--but once you do, you profit. so it's a win-win. also, i seem to fit more snugly in the writer's crowd than that of the photographer's circle. i'm so torn. this is awful. just want to crawl under my quilts and dream for a month straight.

i'm a wreck. everything for block must be completed in two days. i'm a wreck, i'm a wreck. i'm a wreck. and i'm broke. attempting to be an artist is expensive work.
also, my father has forbidden me to take summer courses. which i believe is wise considering my mental state as of late. thus leaving summer open for romantic nights cuddled aside my cat with piles of avant-garde cinema and obscure poetry. can't wait.

things i keep by my bed:

lovers enter the bedroom, lovers enter the bedroom. lovers, and with them the dreams of lovers (dreams hidden, elusive, buoyant), enter the bedroom. two lovers, one striking the other with desiring eyes, enter the bedroom. two lovers, one of them striking the other with words of longing, the other weeping, enter the bedroom. lovers enter the bedroom, not speaking. on a sunday, in april, a day in which could be nearly be denoted as hypnotic, screamin’ jay turns on the record player, secreting soulful yearning, and hearts beat after it, and the full moon, not long after which lovers dig a hole into each other and burry themselves in it six feet down, so that they will never leave each other, and together their souls will perish with eternity, after which lovers enter the bedroom. lovers, staggering after their hearts like it is a piece of fallen cosmos, enter the bedroom, darning their dangling arteries. lovers enter the bedroom, site of desolation, and part immediately to the field, where they mix star dust, river water, regurgitated owl droppings, cold clay, red roses not yet budded, chocolate, sticky sap from a dying tree, roly-polies, lockets of hair, diamonds, dewy grasses, a pocket watch that one of them inherited when their great-grandfather passed away from a stroke in 1913, eyelashes, light emitted from the milky way, saliva, a piece of lace, dirt, and a package of strawberry seeds in a mason jar and mixed with tears until saturated, afterwards transferring the contents of this jar into a glass test-tube, agitating the glass test-tube with trembling hands for twenty-nine minutes before attempting to persuade the other that they should swallow the mixture; later they smash their eyes shut through three seasons (the last, autumn, withering) in a one-and-a-half-year stretch, whereupon they are sent to the astral-plane, until freed, in each case two more years later. lovers enter the bedroom, with altered mind-sets that itch so bad, fresh from reverie.

realized it's just the phase of the moon.

sometimes, i swear i can feel you.

disintegrate, darlin.
disappear, disappear.

one dose of tangibility to break the spell.

the sirens are begining to hum, and i am lured. take me. though i know i should turn away, i float towards obliteration. my life, wading in the depths of woeful obscurity. grappling with the ebbs of each billowing wave. murky clouds weeping under my fumbling feet. limbs rapt and woven in slimy sea weeds. unbreathing with lashes locked. chanting spells of evaporation. flesh laced in clustered salt crystals--i'll save it to make a ring around my heart. bequeathing you powerless. you can't take me, then. you can't take me. you can't take me.

there is a decaying in my chest--rotting with little whispers. that merciless austere fissure deep within that never dreams. pounding and yearning. a pleading black pit pinning ceaselessly. tangled within the desolate delirium of uncertainty and empty desires. lulling into nothingness--observing silently as my soul is slowly devoured.

stuck in my head. stuck in my head. in my head stuck. stuck my head in. in head my stuck. my stuck in head. head in my stuck. in my stuck head. in my stuck head. in my stuck head. in my stuck head. stuck.

little caged dove, it's not as simple as it had seemed--the brass latches are swaying and open, but baby bird, you must learn to fly before you can be free.

you're writhing in my marrow.

hush little baby don't you cry, gazing to the cosmos with disillusioned eyes.

i've been having the most peculiar dreams.

this post is for my own recollection. for future reminisces; a metamorphosis into tangibility--an attempt to not fade. and by which, i'll remember you.

whatever will be, will be.

i am weary. i'm weary about many things. like if i should stay in the laundromat for the duration of my clothes being cleansed in case a thief comes in. and about what the two yves klein blue butterflies meant in my dream last night that did a intricate mating dance then died in a sudden flit--a somehow delicate descent of death from the top of a weathered wooden pole into the webbed bushes of obscurity. or whether or not i should make another cup of coffee. or give zora another helping of cat food, because she's meowing but growing fat. or if i should tell you. or scry into a crystal ball. or if you already know. or if it's you that is this groove i'm incessantly tracing in my shaky palm. i'm just weary, darlin'. so weary..

cold clay mug emptied from esophagus scorching chamomile and honey dollop potion of delectability. tingling into lethargy. the fan is turning turning turning turning whirling with a wobbling hazed metallic halo, lulling me in ebbing waves of slumber. opaque glass bulb coffins clutching faint reflections of moon blue and goldish light. gazing heavy. eyelids of lead sinking sinking sinking sinking waning locking shut kissing charcoal nothingness. bed, body unmoving. mind has gone. projecting protrusions of disheveled imagery and metaphors of cloaked desires.

red-bellied robin
beak rapt round
rotting branch bundles

beating breast belting
reverberating breaths
reminiscing rimbaud

i'll boil water for tea and just as easily all will be forgotten.

(flash fiction exercise. couldn't find my journal--you may disregard this post.)

tangerine flames crackled as the thin silvery haired lady traced a pattern of tiny triangles printed in her polyester nightgown. the mahogany rocking chair creaked deep and monotonously in correspondence to the same reoccurring thoughts as her glossy eyes gazed, transfixed to the lazy clouds crawling up the chimney and lacing feeble lungs. in a sudden flit, her lashes locked and a festering premonition embroidered her psyche. she felt her body wither as flesh meshed with the sodden ground and regenerating roots ramped within oblivious marrow. paralyzed in a trance of catalepsy, dewy tear buds blossomed as a pitiless purple orchid flourished unremittingly. her vision ceased. the chair no longer creaking. she wallowed in apprehension before allowing consciousness to fully reemerge. her quivering eyes turned again to the hissing blaze--which now had waned into mere hues of hushed plum and timid crimson.

new song up.

it's tuesday, not sunday, as my brain suspected. the roses are blooming bashfully in the window next to an unopened tarot deck and stamped letters which have not been, and will not be, sent. there is a child climbing the staircase. they always try to peer through the glass veiled in sun-bleached tie-dye tapestry of muted rainbow translucency. whispering outside my wooden door, planning their escape if the locks and golden knobs start twisting, suddenly.

what a devastating daydream we've been living in.

constantly you, weaving through this loom of me.

just saw chuck berry. one of the best nights of my life. and one part that was absolutely horrifying..but i'll have so much beguiling matter to employ for my creative writing class. including chuck's red sequin shirt and pentecostal women dirty dancing on stage.
absurd!!! i'll likely write an entry soon. on a day when i don't have to wake at 5am to ready for a long day of work. but seriously--i could write an entire memoir in regards to this night.

xo.

i keep reading that sentence over and over. everything is so blatantly obscure. i keep telling myself that i'm misconstruing it all. but you said it. no fancy footwork, just those simple words i keep fumbling over. wondering over. dreaming over. and i keep getting these wild flowering festers of uncontrollable visions. ...but i know i could just be misconstruing it all. my veil is falling. it's gotten much too heavy for my bones to sustain. rendering me vexed, powerlessly, in a swallowing state of disguised desires.

messy, messy psyche.

ripped out a page from my diary.

goodnight,
xo.

even clouds dream of death.

i woke up thinking in rusty french.

my phantoms are reemerging. i was so close. ...so close. even dug all the necessary catacombs. shoveled and slopped little piles of tear drenched dirt out of me. gazed at them--grinning and empty. my own flesh muddied and glimmering in the moonlight, nearly mummified. but i became the robber of my own graves. i can bury and bury all i want--completely void myself, if i wanted to. but i'll always be haunted by my own ghosts. they will linger in the crevices i can never reach, furtively germinating a complex of soul molesting roots. sprouting visions of you, as i watch myself wilt.

it's a funny feeling
when a daydream morphs
into actuality.

if only, if only, if only, if only, if only...

today has been comprised of reading kerouac, listing to lipscomb, and cooking stuffed bell peppers.
my mother was kind enough to write me up the basic recipe with suggestions and i tweaked some things, as well.
they're stuffed with brown rice, spices, and various chopped up veggies that i sauteed--carrots, onions, roasted tomatoes, black beans, an a bit of corn. i would've put feta on top but i was out, so just used parmesan.

j'avais rêvée pour vingt années.

today is my last day of being a teenager. i feel as though i should do something rebellious...since i foolishly forgot to include that aspect in my teenage existence--such a waste!

my dream life has consisted of you, exclusively.
it kills me, darlin'.

so, i was waking to my car and i hear a "hello" slap the back of my neck. i was going to turn around to see who it was, but there was another guy walking the opposite direction, and i figured it was directed towards him. i kept walking. staring to the side at my own shadow. then someone murmured under their breath beside me and a man's voice said "are you in architecture?" startled and stumbling over my own words like a fool gorging on anxiety and palpitations, i responded in "oh me?"s and "um"s...eventually getting out a "no." told him i just came from video, and before i could explain the wicker basket and rulers, he asked if i was "doing 3d and stuff." i kind of chuckled and said no, then felt bad because he was serious. i asked him what his major was and he said computer science and informed, without my questioning, that he was indeed a geek. i smile and said "that's great, though." or something of the sort, trying to be nice and all the while hide my state of bafflement. he quickly switched back to me and asked what i was doing in video, and i explained it poorly. he got to his car said "well, take care." and i said "yeah, you too." then continued walking.


it's so odd to me that these occurrences are so rare. strangers speaking to each other. then leaving and never knowing anything else about the other's existence. and i guess they linger with me because those conversations don't have a past or future. they're a moment--and that is all they ever will be.

can't get enough.

two shirts, one enormous ugly sweater, an obnoxiously large scarf, tights, jeans, socks, boots, and my hair's all waded up like a bird's nest. still shivering. i would not do well in the frigid parts of the country.

it appears, that in my slumber, zora discovered the yarn basket.
i woke to a plethora of tangled string wound and strewn about my abode.

you know..actually, it nearly resembles that marcel duchamp installation:

why is it that i must be savagely detached in order to long for attachment?
and why once attached must i so heavily yearn for such detachment?
what is it to be free, i wonder?

i really miss my cello. playing the first note was always my favorite. deep and crackly. like an aged smoker trying to sing about their lost lover, and weeping. feeling the melancholy seep out of it and into me. but it's all dusty with broken strings and a fallen bridge. a dilapidated sculpture that looks like the inside of me. sometimes i try to unzip the case and hold it.. but all this sad eerie neglected silence cuts into me. i can't take it.

can't get enough of this woman. so obsessed.

what really gets me is that you have no clue, honey darlin'.
nobody does.
but here i am, here i've been, dissolving into waltzing thoughts of you. for so long. so peculiar.

clammy cold wood tainted with remnants of old paint (which i'll eventually have to scrape) kissing feet. heater humming, hummingbird, hummingbird hisses. honey bottle on the pearl colored counter. holding this cup of hot tea, slipping from esophagus into a hollow belly coffin of hunger. filling shaky flesh with warm steam. quilt covered quivering bodies, broken strings tickling tenderly. drawing heavy breaths of cosmos into being. starry speckled sky flooding tired eyes. drifting into a loony moon mind soup. pen pulsing sluggishly. watching wearily through foggy second story windows as a muddied booted guy walks down the ally. head hanging in the dank air, sobbing or stoned. wind whispering sweet dreams. everything will be okay, eventually. but not for now. slipping from lips, gargles of "good-night," tuned to tired tongues twisting through throats. and making note--don't forget to pick up your fallen lashes in the morning, to wish upon, clumsily.

dreamt that tom waits read me the constitution.

can't sleep, so i'm reading pages from my diary to zora. it's really quite cute. how she stares at me, wide-eyed and purring, like she understands every tangled sentence.

chattering teeth.

staring into an empty screen. cursor blinking monotonously. like my heart. i have no fury and am surprisingly not saddened, either. it's reached the point where only laughter seems applicable. and i'm content with that. it's nice not to feel. to be truly numb. scrumptiously void. i hope to stay this way for a while. i really do. it's much easier to carry on with necessary mundane functioning in this setting of human existence, if i do say so myself.

moon full, mind full. i nearly forgot.
consciousness hanging on lousy hinges.
new memory posted, nevertheless.