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.

love of my life, happy birthday, jojo <3
i've been listening to you relentlessly today.
xoxo.

i'm so utterly out of my mind. classes commences yet again on the morrow. i do not feel ready. at least it will be a distraction. guess i'll take a shower, find some frumpy outfit to wear, set my alarm, then read until my eyes fall weak to keep from worrying.

drowning in placid reveries of golden honey dripped irises and muck. i'm sick to my stomach, darlin', i'm sick. and i got these aches in my neck from daydreamin' too much, you see. because i've learnt that these times call for abundant thumb twiddles and rocking chairs that creak, while smearing red deep along silent lips under thick tattered tapestries...i'll be mighty fine, eventually. dark dancing with elusive shadows, which twist abstract transparencies of me along the milky wall or loopy bridge or muddy streets, sometimes. 'till heartbeats and eyes leak all lazy and dank. i'll be mighty fine, i will. 'cause i figured out that gorging on words like strings of spaghetti and cups of sweetened coffee do wonders at filling up the empty, empty.

i was doing so well..now everything's just all jumbled up again.

i don't know how i'm going to make it through work today.
my emotional state has been haywire since last night.
i need today for contemplation and silence and daniel johnston.

working is gonna be tough...

i went to the daniel johnston concert tonight with anne, and i knew it would be good, but i have no idea what the bloody hell just happened. and not just to me, i know every single fucking soul in that muggy dim-lit room all felt it, too.
i'm..i'm just so heavy. i mean....heavy. that's the best i can describe it. like a sunken ship rusting in those untouched depths. and there are these eddies churning inside the middle of my being that i know will never leave. his shaky voice of longing and jokes and truth. his trembling hands. his closed eyes. beard covered in cake. a, now, fifty year old dreamer.
i felt him hold each of our hearts tonight. and i felt his, tattered and broken. completely shredded. so helpless. with nothing but a cheap guitar. it hurt so terribly. i can't even type or attempt to explain this to you any further. i am eternally haunted and eternally caressed.

anne got a recording of "true love will find you in the end"
listen here.

internal weaving.

i just had the most beautiful moral-filled dream. woke up unexpectedly. it'd probably mean nothing to anybody else, but i have to write it down before i shut my eyes again in fears that it will wash out of memory.


we were living in a small cottage, deep within a desolate land where every road was laced with trees on both sides that arched over. i was outside, tending to our garden. the atmosphere was drenched in gray, so the roses looked inexplicably vibrant. you were inside, baking. you had big headphones on and were dancing around without care. i came inside and reclined on our window-seat next to the soft lazy lamp light. i shifted between watching you and the rain. everything was finally simple. i could feel that the wall between us had been demolished. we were so free together. you walked over, sat down, and said, "tell me something magical..like the time you told me about your friend who was afraid to fly on planes, but he got on anyways, and it landed him right in front of the moon."

i wasn't, by any means, expecting this to happen so suddenly.
all of my veins are quivering with each pulse. i have yet to tell if it's the frigid weather or an attack of anxiety that's got me uncontrollably shaky.
i want to write more, but i'm in a state of bafflement.

the ear longs to hear what the heart already knows.

i keep having this dream about a mesmerizing book. but it's in russian. the cover is off-white like a grimy pearl and the title is barely visible due to it's old age and set in a faint goldish text. i remeber that it starts with the letter "t." there would be a page of russian text on one side and an english translation on the other. and every time i read it, i cried uncontrollably. and i never get past the first two pages. when i wake i cannot remember the title or what the words were. only the overwhelming feeling that i was immersed in and how the book felt within my hands.

i'm crumbling. all this rubble is me.

"if i never see you again
i will always carry you
inside
outside

on my fingertips
and at brain edges

and in centers
centers
of what i am of
what remains."

--charles bukowski

never knew i'd be walking, wounded, on all this rubble. emptied of everything. staggering, yet free. wings, unfamiliar. feathers slicing flesh.
...so many feathers slicing flesh.


"i didn’t want any flowers, i only wanted to lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. how free it is, you have no idea how free."
--sylvia plath

attempt #1 at becoming free:
my brain has quieted, my heart has settled.

i'm more tangled up than the roots of the eldest living tree.
8:37, and i'm going to bed.

i've been listening to nothing but tom waits and leonard cohen.
can't stop.

my sweet baby.
we love each other entirely too much.

my skin, my hair, the clothes i wore for two days smell like an open fire. these lungs of mine feel like chimneys must. and my bones are creaking like the wooden floors in that ramshackle victorian house my father almost bought when i was younger. but this smell of dead earth set aflame which has seeped it's way into me, is fading. everything is altering. i feel it more than ever. the new year never fails to entice and frighten me all in the same moment. this year i sat stoic, gazing into those flames kissing the bottoms of my outstretched feet and other limbs. drunken howls soaring, vanishing. everywhere, last years lovers forgotten, and new ones already clasped in arms and on unusual lips underneath old trees and ancient stars. there is a caged dove inside my chest. i've kept it there for some time now. this year, i'll let you free. somehow. i will. whether it's a proclamation or a fly into voids my heart nor eyes obtain the capacity to perceive. i've jut gotten so attached to the mystery. and, darlin', you know i love a mystery. i really wish there were farmer's booths on the sides of highways that sold fresh hearts instead of watermelons.