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.

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.