kerry

Tue, 02 Jun 2009 18:06:31 GMT

woooopss:

http://kerrygiangrande.wordpress.com/
http://kerrygiangrande.wordpress.com/
http://kerrygiangrande.wordpress.com/
http://kerrygiangrande.wordpress.com/
http://kerrygiangrande.wordpress.com/
http://kerrygiangrande.wordpress.com/

there we go.

Wed, 20 May 2009 20:25:39 GMT

http://mysterytrees.wordpress.com/
http://mysterytrees.wordpress.com/
http://mysterytrees.wordpress.com/
http://mysterytrees.wordpress.com/
http://mysterytrees.wordpress.com/
http://mysterytrees.wordpress.com/
http://mysterytrees.wordpress.com/

hi .

Tue, 19 May 2009 19:01:34 GMT

see ya livejournal
hellooo wordpress .....

i must

Tue, 19 May 2009 05:55:22 GMT

open doors
open doors
open doors
cellar doors
cellar door

parachuting .

Sun, 10 May 2009 21:32:45 GMT

i want you to tell me who invented tears,

who came across them first. and the words that fell

out of your eyes and your lungs and your veins.

the trouble with reversion. going backwards

tears swimming up instead of out

salting your brain and giving pictures soggy alphabets.

I want to see the moving images in your head.

I want you to put your whole world in my mouth and i want

to swallow everything i just want to know you -- i just want you to know me.

i just want to live; put me in your pillows then

if that's what you want.

what do you want?

my heart has little tiny magnets though they

are not the kind that pull to forces

they are the heavy kind with dark marks and

dark powers, sorcerers and kings.

I have forgotten everything.

I have forgotten how.

I am carving wood smells and licking bottle caps,

making tiny stars with ice cubes on my tongue, I am

just not completely sure.

it's the kind of thing you avert your eyes from.

makes you uneasy, turn around.

tie me up in the little holes in speakers

i will blow out all my eardrums I will

blow out all my brains.

fucking pick me like guitar strings and

swim inside -- can you do this for me?

putting lips on a microphone

like singing into a kiss

little holes and holy.

god i don't want to leave this song

i feel like it's my lover

it is now that he is touching me . i

cannot breathe .

look at me again .

yes, goodbye .

Sun, 03 May 2009 05:36:49 GMT

Out of my element .

Sat, 02 May 2009 19:23:40 GMT

I will tell you a few things about beauty.

Because, the only thing I want to dance with at this time here now is The smoke from something, from anything -- a long french cigarette -- a joint. From something burning Between two live fingers , blood flowing to the heart, it pumps. You ask it why it only gives you beats it only gives you tick tocks. You ask everyone why, everyone you meet you ask them why. You love them all without knowing how or why or when to stop or When to start or when to say no and when to say yes And when to just simply, want.

And you forget yourself often, you lose yourself down streets, the inside curbs where the Rain water flowed and fell into grates a man put there to collect it. I will live in rain waters and leaves until you carry me out until you Show me rays of light. Lost yourself. The smokes’ legs twingle and twine, I lick them with tiny kisses They ask me for more . And I tell you now that , these tiny sentences are the reasons for despair. The reasons my brain takes me lightyears ahead of me, to places I have never seen loving people I've never met and I am always stuck running to keep Up. To kill this would be murder, would define murder. To kill something as beautiful as this? Never. Though, I laugh. I have. I have done this before.

I'm not a bad person, you see. I am convincing both of us here. I am a servant to The things you over look. I bow before the Subtley Attractive And the piercingly blurry sadness. Looking over your shoulder is a habit you admit to, its the ghosts you deny.

And the idea that you might live galaxies away from these feelings That everyone you know could lick them maybe taste them On a random sunday evening from a glass of wine but they would never

They would never

Really know.

I have blood on my fingers And words in my head.

Ask me if my heart is burning, look away. Did you? I can't remember.

But it is. If you asked, yes. Yes.

And it doesn't feel like beautiful.

well.

Mon, 13 Apr 2009 06:27:21 GMT

-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.
fingers crossed.

-i cannot breathe any longer
on top of this mountain
there is a good chance I will
explode.

-there is something
i need
to free me.

-free.

-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.

Sun, 22 Mar 2009 02:39:05 GMT

it is merely a matter of remembering to record our stream of consciousness and unconsciousness. perhaps. Or, perhaps, it is much more. stuff of gods and miracles.

things that happen for a reason with light inside them, stories never heard from decades ago living in the air still that swim and squeeze inside your brain to be reborn.

It just occurred to me that i couldn't possibly not be a writer because i will always believe it is something godly. i will always believe that the things, the words, crash into me biblically, that the steady force and soft arrival of these words are something uncommon and spellbound.

I worked an event today at the restaurant, a congressmen's campaign. surrounded by egos and the stale air that only exists when someone "important" is in a room.

I just kept thinking, oh god. what a circus this is. these human beings watching another mans every move, blindly trusting words that mean nothing as they fall off his mouth. where do these things fit in? when did we ever decide it was a good idea to put other people in charge of ourselves. how can we even use the word individual anymore these days, I wondered. I wondered why we never thought to just understand that we were all the same and that we all deserved the same and that love and hate should not be blurred the way we have blurred them.

But no, I am distracted. I am not intrigued by these suited coughing briefcases.

I am thinking of how tongues taste. the persons taste that you can still recall. I am thinking of venom and circus clowns, tripping on acid and jumping from one fluffy white cloud to another. thinking of colorful war paints as decorations on our faces. a politician as a drag queen in a suit, attempting to prove to himself and his audience he is surely a man. sweating it out, you can always spot a fraud. see, the whole reason behind all this; the grey slick suit, the handshakes, the scotches on the rocks, the expressive speech telling is this: acceptance.

a little pug nosed boy with muddy jeans beating the shit out of a smaller kid on the playground in order to be chummy for five minutes with the bullies.

they are busy watching another persons reaction while they tell their stories, praying in the back of their mind that this listener will not interrupt.

i am thinking of small towns and even smaller brains, millions of both. i am thinking, this is not the thing i want.

i am thinking that i want to wait till the end of the day and i want to kiss your fingers and i want to taste your whole day on them, i want to free you from it i want it in me. i am thinking that i'd rather be living in a circus freely then cover it up with a tie and a briefcase.

Sun, 15 Mar 2009 06:49:00 GMT

the familiar chill falls over me and I can remember needing to write. this is addiction material, i mean it. I spray windex on the sinks of the restaurant I waitress at and think how much is repeated daily. for example, I have sprayed and swiped these silver faucets everyday at approximately 5:15 and I think "I should not be here, this isn't right". I considered calling in sick, a habit I admit. "What's wrong with you?!" my boss might say, "i'm alive" i'd tell him.

All the lives i've lived are spinning around and I don't know who it is I am. I am sitting on the rug on the floor of the ladies' room, scribbling maniacally as if something I jot down in this Mead notepad I write assholes' orders in might actually mean something. I need everyone. it's true. I am diabolical and self destructive. i cannot feel a thing, I'm cut off. i'm convinced the song rotation in this fucking restaurant is telling the story of my life. I need everyone, I have no standards; everyone is amazing. My hands are shaking.

Sat, 07 Mar 2009 05:48:56 GMT

I pictured words on the tips of lips vibrating and then sitting there, unable to come out shaking and making the lips feel numb. And I thought there were ways that people could maybe touch lips and have the shaking words touch too so that they would just speak by touching lips and wouldnt have to worry about making words come out with their voices.

But when the words come, and I assure you they will come; Words are sly and mischievous, they will spill.

And when I say they spill out of my mouth I mean that the words actually fell and fumbled, the letters moved and fell out and my lips followed along on the outlines of them and they came out like steam, something uncatchable, unstoppable, they flowed as I listened as they formed in my voice and wondered what it is I could even possibly mean. i wondered how much

of the things i say to people is not really me saying it? where do I fit in here? Because monument could really just be a nicer word for "grave." I think about the way things slide off me like light would, if light could slide. Why I can make things happen, and change things, however small or romantic or out of place. I wondered which clouds in the sky were real and which might just be my imagination. And I thought about you, also.

You meaning, the group of you. the you here is plural and it involves

smoke and mirrors and humans and mother nature and you and me

and the way that books smell when you breathe them in.

I watched as moments took place that could never, would never

happen to me, I feel them pass by like breezes, I walk through them like scene changes in a comic book and I find a place to sit and dream and write stories, perhaps i will miss you but i will be content there until you come

and slide the lights.

Fri, 13 Feb 2009 19:38:49 GMT

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.

cold hands

Mon, 09 Feb 2009 04:30:22 GMT

x
god, first loves. do we ever get past these? do we ever get to shake them off? i'm not even sure who i was then. i am sure of who i loved, though, most definitely. there are pages and pages of proof. it is so strange how we touch each others' lives. what a mess. i am not sure who we think we are or what we think we know or understand about love. i mean, giving it titles and rules and roles. some of us are bound to get confused.

i guess it's important not to listen to anyone. procure your own rules. i wonder what it is about this that makes me so nervous.
i want to be free, liberated. i want to be home, typing and i want to be high, illuminated. i want 1,000 eyes and i want 1,000 ears.

writing is so strange, i swear. if i believe in any kind of god, it is because of writing. because there is something holy about it.
i want my writing to change people. i want it to make people confused about what they are given as life and how far from life it really is.
i hope that i get published. i hope i can do it.

it's funny how relevant "no change i can change" still is to me.
i think it always will be, i will always fear the new and unknown. i will always need to
work to change things. i sometimes find it difficult to catch my breath.

i haven't thought about you in hours.
i cannot stomach this, i cannot breathe with anymore unfulfilled connections.
it's like hanging off the edge of a cliff, your hand at the tip your body hanging.
i would bet this hurts more than you ever imagined.
the feeling is similar.
it's amazing how oblivious humans are about wasting time
when we all know how well it slips and passes and disappears.

Sun, 08 Feb 2009 05:00:59 GMT

i am, so, cold.
i have about seven layers of clothes on right now and
i am
sitting on my couch indian style.
it's really quiet and i like it.
one thing i do like about living on this mountain
is that if i shut everything off , and sit down I can hear
the wind really clear. i hate admitting it, but it's true, it's lovely.

i've been thinking a lot about bravery.
i'm thinking i need some more.
but god, it's so fucking hard to be a human being.
i mean, really?!
couldn't someone have sat us down
at some point
in our childhoods
and just told us the deal.
no one seems to want to ruin a childs imagination or
faith, but isn't it a little fucked up to let these things be the
first things this person will have faith in,
one of the many firsts that will inevitably crush him.
anyway.
bravery.
yes, i need more of this. I will find it i think,
i think i will be building it up over time slowly and
all of a sudden i will know i have enough.
it will be very hard, sigh.

i need to make a point to record my life more,
whatever it is.

Fri, 02 Jan 2009 04:55:43 GMT

Simon Briston is a collector of sorts, also, he is something of a believer.
At ten years old he stands tall and thing, bird-like, as they say, and spends
most of his time with his nose buried in old books.
Simon's parents own acres and acres of space, they make and sell their own honey, cooking and living
completely off their land. They maintain their very own bee colony, in hives.
They know that this life is beautiful, that we are made of earth,
and would not trade their lives for anything else at all.
What they don't know, Simon's parents, is that at night Simon tiptoes to these bee hives.
He tediously captures a few of the tiny machine-sounding animals, painting yellow
and black leftovers as they buzz around lazily and look for something familiar in the air.
Simon locks them up and rushes into his bedroom to let them go.
They begin to move quicker in this new air as he makes them angry, provokes them with his shouts and hands. The arrival of the moment feels it's way and happens slowly and quickly at the same time as Simon takes a deep sigh and let's them all come to him, let's them give him something.
Everywhere, they land on any part, his milky skin. He watches the creatures break
in half and die inside of him as the soft pangs of pain wash over, beating. He understands the word "lull" fitting
into "lullaby." He is more aware of the feeling of blood flowing than he has ever been, and he understands
how blood is always warm. And this is what he has been waiting for, the poison of this, the elixir of life of it.
And what Simon's parents don't know or could probably ever fathom is that, this; this is Simon's religion.

scarlett johanson is beautiful.

Sun, 21 Dec 2008 21:40:34 GMT

-having bronchitis is really, really sucky.
there's tons of snow outside, though, and i haven't had to work, so silver linings and all.

-i have so much trouble with waiting to give presents, i am so impatient about it.

-rediscovered wizard of oz with pink floyds dark side of the moon.
forget the incredibleness that is pink floyd.

-in january i am submitting some writing to a magazine, crossing my fingers.
i am lacking inspiration, or maybe just the motivation to get words out.
i came up with what i think is an amazing idea for a writing exercise. suppose you turned on a film and picked a character
and watched them very closely from one specific moment and just wrote and wrote, what you felt was in their mind, what their hands were doing, how their insides felt. i should really do this.
what is stopping me?

-people are insane.
it is both lovely and infuriating.

Tue, 02 Dec 2008 18:53:37 GMT

people are usually shit.
i need to write in here more.

wheatgrass

Mon, 17 Nov 2008 06:03:29 GMT

wheatgrass</a>.

shots of wheatgrass.

being myself.

Sat, 08 Nov 2008 03:57:46 GMT

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.

Wed, 05 Nov 2008 05:23:12 GMT

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.

also,

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.

Tue, 04 Nov 2008 04:55:24 GMT

(so far)
california has been the only place i've fallen for other than brooklyn.

subtly.

Sun, 26 Oct 2008 17:37:13 GMT

"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. "

Wed, 08 Oct 2008 03:29:28 GMT

None of the churches were open, when i gripped and pulled the lead handle it only pulled me. No large door opening to someone's idea of heaven, no epiphanies, no sanctuary. I guess I imagined churches as a 24 hour sort service. Even without sermons, a place anyone could go and sit in the pews and sort out their lives, rearrange. God was busy, I thought, closed up for the night.

And I'm afraid, even as a writer, that I cannot tell you what happened last night or what it felt like. It was being swallowed up by nothing, eaten alive by empty. All of the sounds you had forgotten playing over and over way too loudly. Having the strength only to sob, louder and harder and the tears were both answers and questions. I watched them fall and evaporate, mid-sentence. The buildings watched me with curiosity and I imagined them having no idea they were so beautiful. And the people walked by and accepted the scene as any human being would, and I wanted to run and embrace every one of them, and thank them for existing here. They could be liars, cheaters, murderers even, most likely they were but it didn't matter. It didn't matter. The concrete was cold but not freezing and it kept me alive while my body shook with the hardest realizations. And I wished for the sky to have arms so it could rock me to sleep right here. I thought if i kept walking, if i kept up the heels on the pavement I would eventually end up somewhere that resembled anywhere I could belong again.

rambleramble

Sat, 13 Sep 2008 20:00:19 GMT

work is the lamest, waitressing is a nicer title for SERVANT.
it's lovely,really.
going to california oct 31- nov 2nd/
hopefully I can take off also Oct 25th and maybe more for the haunted
walk in park slope , that would be amazing.
i'll probably be able to go down to brooklyn from around nov 2nd to the day before thanksgiving.
hope so hope so.

-i have been smoking entirely too much marijuana.
-finally paid off the money owed for the mac.
-bought a 98' used audi, it's pretty cute. been driving a few times a day, hopefully
sometime within this month i'll schedule a road test and pass it.
-emphasis on pass it.
-so homesick.
will i be this homesick always?

i can't wait to go back to school, seriously.
i'm thinking maybe i will major in journalism rather than minor in it and major in psychology.
i'm thinking maybe i've had close to 2-3 years to decide what i want in my life
and have gotten nowhere.
it's good stuff.

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.

Wed, 20 Aug 2008 17:22:44 GMT

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.