"Now the flames they followed Joan of Arc
as she came riding through the dark;
no moon to keep her armour bright,
no man to get her through this very smoky night.
She said, 'I'm tired of the war,
I want the kind of work I had before,
a wedding dress or something white
to wear upon my swollen appetite.'"

Well, I'm glad to hear you talk this way,
you know I've watched you riding every day
and something in me yearns to win
such a cold and lonesome heroine.
"And who are you?" she sternly spoke
to the one beneath the smoke.
"Why, I'm fire," he replied,
"And I love your solitude, I love your pride."

"Then fire, make your body cold,
I'm going to give you mine to hold,"
saying this she climbed inside
to be his one, to be his only bride.
And deep into his fiery heart
he took the dust of Joan of Arc,
and high above the wedding guests
he hung the ashes of her wedding dress.

It was deep into his fiery heart
he took the dust of Joan of Arc,
and then she clearly understood
if he was fire, oh then she must be wood.
I saw her wince, I saw her cry,
I saw the glory in her eye.
Myself I long for love and light,
but must it come so cruel, and oh so bright?"

sufjan stevens music video for "you are the blood" using silent horror classics.

i dreamt in french of ghosts and life lessons.

biggest craving for a mango and a thunderstorm.

sobfests are the best releases.

fumbling strings. tangled sheets.
red lips, dirty nails from clenching the mud in fists, untamed eyebrows, wild hair, lousy limbs, and dark shadow spread across eyes. morning eyes. foolish tired eyes from staring at the night sky for too long.
empty perfume bottles. but the smell wafts through my nose and blood just the same.
even though nothing will spray.


making coffee.

new song up. "coffee stain"

-dance cleaning with a broom
-screamin' jay on repeat
-kitten purrs
-patchouli incense
-homemade soup brewing on the stove
-gray skies


lookin' good.

things i'm working on:
1. growing out hair
2. cursing

both exceedingly difficult.
my hair is currently in the awkward stage, driving me mad.
and i have an irrational fear of cussing that's quite vexing.

lovely.

(advice more than welcome)

WHY is dora maar so underrated?

i mean, i absolutely adore picasso..but it's unfortunate that he overshadowed her almost entirely.

nostalgia. standing on a roof before the hurricane in isla mujeres. 2005, i think.
brother's hand. long hair. band-aid on head.

can't recall if i've posted this before or not. nevertheless.

me n' my lady.

THUNDERSTORM.
finally.

why is it that my mind is so able to perceive?
everything i actualize before actualization and nothing can actually be actualized as perceived.

"i dreamed that you bewitched me into bed and sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane."--none other than, sylvia plath.

happy birthday, lucy and andy!
andy, you're exquisite.
lucy, my core.

xoxo.

juste comme ça..

made a stop-motion. i'm deplete.

my mind is a desert-storm.
relentless. i'm restless. smearing ink.

prop 8 just overturned!!!
heck. yes.
i'm inexplicably exuberant right now.

awoke to cat purrs filling my empty belly.

"It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing. It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive. It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain! I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it. I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human. It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy. I want to know if you can see beauty even when it’s not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence. I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!” It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children. It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back. It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away. I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments."
--Oriah Mountain Dreamer

listen: scout niblett--i wanna love.

the steady throb of pulsing inside.
beat. release.
beat. release.
beat. release.
amorously emptying.
beating, beating, beating, beating a bit more languidly.
vitality drawing out of me.
and then the thrashing. threads for veins.
weaving. sewing away.
like gazing into a rothko painting all crimson and purple then muddled to gray.
lured through the black lines into some mysterious cosmic place.
pulling and engulfing without your say.

and then arrives the steady throb of pulsing inside...

i've never seen such bloodshot eyes.
disillusioned eyes of mine.

maya deren perpetually streaming through my mind.
repeat.
repeat.
repeat.

nothing will ever be okay.

warhol's funeral.

you'll be the death of me.
you'll be the death of me.
you'll be the death of me.

what if memories were tangible?







(http://www.flickr.com/zoenoelle)

want.

damnit. i feel like crying.
they keep playing joanna newsom on the radio.
damnit.
damnit.
damn. it. !!!!!


you'd think this would make me exuberant..
..but it really just tears me up.
i have my reasons, though don't feel like ranting. just want to scream.

winter.. i need you.

(http://www.flickr.com/zoenoelle)


"I will pack all my pretty dresses
I will box up my high-heeled shoes
A sparkling ring for every finger
I'll put away and hide from view

Coats of boucle, jacquard and cashmere
Cartouche and tweed, all silver-shot
And everything that could remind you
Of how easy I was not

I'll tuck away my gilded buttons
I'll bind my silks in shapeless bales
Wrap it all up in reams o' tissue
And then I'll kiss you sweet farewell

You saw me rise to our occasion
And so deny the evidence
'Caused me to burn and twist and grimace against you
Like something caught on a barbed wire fence

Now you can see me fall back here redoubled
Full bewildered and amazed
I have gotten into some terrible trouble
Beneath your blank and rinsing gaze

It does not suffice for you to say I am a sweet girl
Or to say you hate to see me sad because of you
It does not suffice to merely lie beside each other
As those who love each other do

I picture you rising up in the morning
Stretching out on your boundless bed
Beating a clear path to the shower
Scouring yourself red

The tap of hangers swaying in the closet
Unburdened hooks and empty drawers
And everywhere I tried to love you
Is yours again and only yours"


(i'm aware i've posted these lyrics before. but i just can't shake it..)

she stained her lips with red red red.
“hollow, hollow, hollow,”
she said.

go ahead.
let go of my hand.

"this halo is a joke
a little hoax
for parting ghosts
my momma told me so
she's dead
she ought to know

and if you see me
talking down
your favorite street
i'm only going to see
little babies
trying to breathe

this cradle is a tomb
an everlasting sense of doom
my momma's in her room
she's dead
she died too soon

and if you see me
crawling out
of your favorite tree
i'm hanging so delicately
there's no one that can save me"

how i feel.

juste comme ça.

give me your hand, we'll play with the ghosts.

http://www.flickr.com/zoenoelle

abracadabra.

oh, darling.
our minds are full of mist.
quivering bones shaking tiny wrists.
do we really exist?
do we really exist?
do we really exist?

http://www.flickr.com/zoenoelle

buffalo state insane asylum.

love this video.
(though, the cloaked figures with mirrors for faces were taken directly from maya deren)

self, revisited. may 2009.

you’ve bestowed me a bouquet of the cruelest gray.
faint whispers have vanished, gone astray.
waltzing wildly at some private soiree.
ebbing, ebbing, ebbing away.

(flickr)


"wanderers this morning came by
where did they go
graceful in the morning light
to banner fair
to follow you softly
in the cold mountain air

through the forest
down to your grave
where the birds wait
and the tall grasses wave
they do not
know you anymore

dear shadow alive and well
how can the body die
you tell me everything
anything true

in the town one morning i went
staggering through premonitions of my death
i don't see anybody that dear to me

dear shadow alive and well
how can the body die
you tell me everything
anything true

jesse
i don't know what i have done
i'm turning myself to a demon
i don't know what i have done
i'm turning myself to a demon"

there is nothing more fulfilling than a rumbling thunderstorm...oh wait, yes there is--an entire week of them!

mmmmmmmm.

je veux être un squelette.

"silence is deep as eternity, speech is shallow as time."--keats

today=listening to björk ceaselessly.

"the unkown turns me on"--björk

"i enjoyed being on my own so much, i never really understood the word "loneliness." as far as i was concerned, i was in an orgy with the sky and the ocean, and with nature."--björk

graph of 100 consecutive pulses from the pulsar CP 1919.
the pulses represent the final flashes of a dying star.

"these days."





http://www.flickr.com/zoenoelle

new moon tonight.


living in houston is a constant reminder of my grandmother
and how she is no longer here.


i wish she were so we could stay up all night howling the blues.




sending you butterfly and eskimo kisses, you beautiful departed soul.
xoxo.

fingers left alone fold into fists the size of hearts.

something feels strange.

i was going to write quite a bit, though i'll leave it at that.

..told you i can't stop.

i need to know this guy.

"ceci n'est pas une pipe."

i need to crawl out of my mind.

shower, coffee, then reading the new book i picked up at half-price today until i fall asleep.
it's called "the fallen sky--an intimate history of shooting stars"

description:
"these characters and many other collectors, researchers, dreamers, schemers, and ordinary people populate christopher cokinos's the fallen sky. through their foibles and successes, their adventures and tragedies, cokinos unfolds the panoramic history of how science came to understand meteorites-the rocks that fall from space to the earth-and how these stones reveal truths not only of the solar system, but of the human heart as well."

another new song up.



if you were wondering:
at the end i say "right, zora?" (who is my cat)
and she responds: "mreoww."
then i smile.

i've been listening to lady winehouse endlessly.
...it's a bit absurd. but i just can't stop.


haven't celebrated the fourth at all.
when i was younger, i would spend almost every single summer with my grandparents.
they live near this beautiful murky lake, and i remember it was always so enchanting to be there on the 4th.
sometimes we would go out in my grandfather's boat at night when the lake was cool and calm. human voices were silent while tree-frogs and cicadas gently swayed the night's symphony into our ears. toes in lukewarm water. the first firework would shatter within the sky's dark star-filled belly. the crackling. the lingering smoke moseying away, still holding shape. the ones that looked like weeping willows were always my favorite.

these breakdowns aren't merely breaking me down--they're shredding me into utter bits.


you'll find nothing but pulp inside of this girl.

can't get enough of egon.

(woman in black. schwarze mädchen. 1911. egon schiele.)

"hush little baby, don't you cry
mama's gonna sing you a lullaby..."

my cat and i are so in love.
snuggled up and listening to the thunderstorm together. soulmates.

xoxo!