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.