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..