Below are the 25 most recent journal entries.
Out of my element .
-it is late. i am tired.
-i avoid this livejournal most of the time, no good.
-almost done with book
going to work with lulu.com and see where
that takes me.
-i cannot breathe any longer
on top of this mountain
there is a good chance I will
-there is something
to free me.
-yes, I love you. I do.
-half awake versus half asleep
I dream about wars and wake up with bruises everywhere.
i have been dying in them and waking up
just before my body throws me up and things go white.
this is the problem.
-I want out, off, gone, zip, open, clear, far, safe, dangerous, delicate, ugly, beautiful, nothing, everything.
The best time of day is definitely grey. Grey with hints of light, creamy yet sharp blue.
You know, the end of the day, the beginning of the night. The air is aware that it will grow colder but it
holds on to the last breaths of warmth. When I was allowed to still play outside, because it wasn't quite
dark yet and we were all busy chasing the sun.
The last hour; the best smell on earth, I think.
The cements way of saying goodnight, making sure we smelled it's wet top, and the skies were waving.
i need to live here.
people are usually shit.
i need to write in here more.
they tell me to move my fingers and i know that it's in me but i don't want it out. they tell me to grip the pen and let things fall out, let the ink do it. let the ghosts voices. i know the indents on the pages cannot make a dent, i know they cannot breathe. how can something breathe if it isn't alive? they are something though, these words, they are somewhere before i write them on the lines. it is as if they are trapped inside the carbons of the paper, once a tree. it once stood heroically in a cerulean forest and had a place in the dirt and friends in the leaves and small creatures on it's branches. and they expect me to beat this? i cannot make you happy.
the souls of words are sleeping in me, my heartbeat lullabies.
i want to shake their bodies, open up their eyes. they cannot always hear me.
there are echoes in my lungs and love letters in my blood flow. they are written to no one. they are written to you. he writes poems about cities that i dream up at night, i tell him, "i am no one" and he makes wrinkles near his eyes with the curving upward of his lips. i tell him i want life to be dark and clear and free. like sticking your head out of windows to smoke joints, looking down and everywhere.
and if you borrowed all of my dreams could you write these things down? would you mind waking up with the shakes, cold sweat -- if this would give you words?
tell me when the streets are empty and the air holds horror, where will we go? when the world gives us notice, that it has had enough, when it holds us responsible, who will you be holding on to? because the street signs will disappear and nothing in your world will matter, the faces of the shocked and dying will pass you by like birds wings, flash. this is not something you are ready for. it is not something i can take.
if you watch politics very closely. too closely, in fact, you will see that it is the saddest thing. not sad as in pathetic. sad as in, heartbreaking. sad as in watching actors and scripts and feeling your chest get tighter.
i don't recommend looking this closely.
EDIT: in fact, if you look at everything this way it all seems to bring on the same reaction.
EDIT 2: south park DOES seem to make me feel a bit better about it though.
california has been the only place i've fallen for other than brooklyn.
"i could do this forever," i tell the words. won't you get tired? the answer is yes, very tired. we will lose meaning on the way, we will become gibberish. we will not fit in stories or poems, but stand alone on stray lines. we will be lonely and no one will love us. few speak this language, i hear it in my sleep.
but no matter,
it is time to feel blood flowing. this is the time to breathe.
the same reason you stay with that lover that rips your heart out with their own hands over and over again is the same reason i write these words down. it is not a thing i can just stop. it is a thing that when words press their body on mine i cannot keep my hands down. my hands insisting on reaching the curves of "c"'s and the hips of "s". when they tell me pretty things i am astounded, i can't ignore this. and when we kiss, it is the loss of air they spell out; so that my heart feels like falling and rising coinciding, at the same time. i have faith in words like religions. they are always prayers, something beautiful, watching a regular child using sign language for handicapped parents. and what do i mean the holy spirit comes through me? i mean this.
it is recurrent.
put some words on me, i told her. right away.
but no matter,
the time has not called us there.
later, she says.
"spoon feed me sentences" i am begging her. her eyes are heavy, it hurts to stay open.
why don't you sleep, i whisper.
she is already there.
i write her a letter---
"you know where i am, which is almost like who i am but remembering how the outside changes me.
you know the way to get there, and how to get so lost.
why can't something not true be beautiful?
it is like you knew me before i was born. "
work is the lamest, waitressing is a nicer title for SERVANT.
i mean well, but i always destroy things.
the person in the room that smiles too much.
the cutting of paper, the veins in our hands.
Running away isn't all that it's cracked up to be.
so, my credit is fucked.
i'll never be able to do anything. buy a car, a computer, get a fucking new cell phone line.
my parents owe my school 9,000. a parent plus loan 9,000 and another loan 7,000.
and it's all in my name on my credit.
i can't go back to school until i pay most of it off.
and my parents can't help me, even though they got me into this mess.
i'll pretty much be paying this off until im 50.
and i hate everyone.
the life of a liar, games of pretend. lacking the swollen emotions of love you crave, stoned revelations.
it is fitting squares into circles, it is the motions of rewashing and rewashing your hands.
it is how growing up means gritting your teeth. to wait, to be afraid.
and what is it about humans that makes us such cowards? every one of us.
what is it about feeling safe.
the little girls' body, ebony and small sits quietly next to me for take off.
she sits for awhile, dangling her legs while the plane carries us up.
the pressure makes her ears pop and i can see her swallowing dry spit to make it go away.
her name is kayla, she tells me.
she draws pictures on the small drink napkin we are given.
this doesn't look like enough for a three hour flight. i carefully rip some paper out of the book i am reading,
the first and last pages, the empty ones.
i give them to her.
"never rip pages out of books," i tell her, "unless it's really important. books are really, really special."
"how old are you?" i ask her.
"six. i am six." she says.
"i wish i was six."
"that's stupid. you are tall enough to touch the ceiling of the plane. you are lucky"
i laugh because she is right, but mostly because she is wrong. i am not the lucky one.
kayla touches my hair, "why is your hair soft?" she asks me.
"why are your eyes really green?"
i think about her six year old questions and don't come up with many answers for her.
when do we stop asking questions like this? i wonder.
she draws pictures of me on the ripped out pages and tells me to keep them.
pictures of me at work, at a playground. little stick figures with uneven eyes.
kayla falls asleep on my lap, drools on my pillow but i don't mind.
today i realized i had completely forgotten about the metal doors on the sidewalk that lead to cellars, in the city.
the ones your mom always sort of steered you away from because of the risk of it being lose, and falling in.
the sound you made when you jumped on them.
the smallest thing but it filled my whole heart up just to remember.
- There are worse things than being alone. It rings true.
- my ipod is missing!
- I have so much trouble with plots. I am writing a novel. It is progressing yet halfway plotless.
(right after i had finished typing that i realized it entirely described my life. good? i think not.)
- new job . tomorrow, 12 am. Manager with a strong french accent I can hardly understand. Life.
- Losing butterflies.
- new books.
- the "how am i not myself" scene in i heart huckabees is so fucking brilliant.
- this indented list-like set up of my recent posts is beginning to bother me.
Everyone is graduating college.
four years ago, graduating from high school, we all ran out, screaming at the fucking teachers, running down the streets, getting all sweaty.
our heartbeats were so, so loud and we were laughing so hard, running and screaming around in the staircases and classrooms.
i thought my life was starting.
i'd do anything if i could be back in that fucking high school where the teachers treated me and only me like a fucking fugitive, where i did horrible in all my classes even though i'm a pretty smart kid. just so i could be a part of something again , seeing people everyday. people that hated me , people that loved me, people that were jealous of me ,people that thought i was an idiot, people that let me take the blame , people that took it for me , people in seats next to me in classes, ALL OF THEM. everyday.
i miss life.
someone should have slapped me in the face.
it was all downhill from there.
WHAT AM I DOING?!?!?!?!?!?!?
when will i belong to something again ? to be A PART OF SOMETHING. life.
if one more person posts pictures of their college graduations while i sit here unable to go to school i will fucking scream bloody murder
- water with limes.
- neil gaiman is not living up to my expectations.
- ordered cloud atlas and some Italo Calvino's. Anticipation!
- almost have a new job , pretty nervous.
- i need money, i need brooklyn.
"At the age of 25 most people were finished. A whole goddamned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidate who reminded them most of themselves."
The first part is easy.
All it requires is simply the ability to throw yourself forward with all your weight,
and the willingness not to mind that it's going to hurt.
Bob and float, float and bob.
Ignore all considerations of your weight and simply let yourself float higher.
Do not listen to what anybody says to you at this point because they are unlikely to say anything helpful.
They are most likely to say something along the lines of "Good God, you can't possibly be flying!"
It is vitally important not to believe them or they will suddenly be right.
- Life The Universe and Everything
i am not even kidding when i say this,
fred, of drop dead fred, is my hero.
i need to get my life in order.
the truth is so easy when you're writing it. it is the only truth that exists.
it came to her late, the little window in her room told her this. along with the small black digitial clock across the room;
the red straight lines connected to read 4:38. it came to her slowly, though with a quick linking together of the words.
they were strung together as if floating on thread.
perhaps it was, that she no longer wanted to exist.
the first step, she assumed, was forgetting about the people who were aware she existed at all.
this seemed simple. she had already become someone else, someone unrecognizable.
someone that walked beside her when she went places, a few inches in front.
someone else's hands typing foreign words, a mouth making foreign sounds. foreign.
she said the word out loud, in the dark.
it made clouds.
the only fucking thing closest to a human that could possibly understand a thing that goes on inside my head, heart (including myself) is songs.
White Noise by Don Delillo is slightly life altering.