| can we please? |
[22 Oct 2009|04:26pm] |
Someday I will stop being ashamed of the fact that I listen to one song by Miley Cyrus, one song by the Spill Canvas, and two songs by Metro Station.
But not today.
How. Embarassing.
Also, this play and this physiology class is driving me insane.
NO MORE TALKING ABOUT DICKS IN ANY FORM.
PLEASE.
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| I would like a warning label. |
[19 Aug 2009|08:48pm] |
All these posts are downer. Not today.
There's a male model who wants to get with me. As shallow as it seems, things like this kind of make you feel like a baller.
Monsoon for now, dry spell later.
As for this moment? I do not fucking motherfucking care at all.
Heygirlparty!
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| Two months later |
[15 Aug 2009|10:24pm] |
A different smell. A different house. A different set of habits. A different guilt with a different sparkle.
I am learning about plants.
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| A case study |
[17 Jul 2009|11:58pm] |
He always smelled very strongly of Dove soap. As if the requisite morning shower hadn't quite held up its end of the bargain and the situation might be a little itchy. I suspect he foamed when it rained. I lent him a shirt when he stayed over and even after several washings it still smelled like ivory bar.
A stray sniff on the bus, in the drugstore, in line at one of those places you stand in line at, and I'm one more time waking up to the raining window, still tired and bright.
Went to a sense memorial this afternoon, though chemically I'm not sure how to pay my respects.
Man, I love overextending metaphors.
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[28 Mar 2009|10:58pm] |
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Big stupid distance. Big stupid miles.
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| Song |
[27 Feb 2009|01:36am] |
The weight of the world
is love.
Under the burden
of solitude,
under the burden
of dissatisfaction
the weight,
the weight we carry
is love.
Who can deny?
In dreams
it touches
the body,
in thought
constructs
a miracle,
in imagination
anguishes
till born
in human--
looks out of the heart
burning with purity--
for the burden of life
is love,
but we carry the weight
wearily,
and so must rest
in the arms of love
at last,
must rest in the arms
of love.
No rest
without love,
no sleep
without dreams
of love--
be mad or chill
obsessed with angels
or machines,
the final wish
is love
--cannot be bitter,
cannot deny,
cannot withhold
if denied:
the weight is too heavy
--must give
for no return
as thought
is given
in solitude
in all the excellence
of its excess.
The warm bodies
shine together
in the darkness,
the hand moves
to the center
of the flesh,
the skin trembles
in happiness
and the soul comes
joyful to the eye--
yes, yes,
that's what
I wanted,
I always wanted,
I always wanted,
to return
to the body
where I was born.
San Jose, 1954
Allen Ginsberg, you sly devil.
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| I believe |
[24 Feb 2009|09:14pm] |
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Sail on, captain. Sail. On.
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| arrythmia again |
[23 Feb 2009|09:55am] |
Irregular beatings.
Regular beatniks.
Same old, same old.
But!
I have a new pair of shoes. I think I shall go make them old.
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| For that moment |
[23 Feb 2009|09:51am] |
A wanting begins in the half.
And ends in the quarter.
Whodathunk that
the things so necessary
so available
so easy
so surprising
so much
so little
so sharp
so thrilling
so sexy!
so new!
so what.
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| Seriously. |
[15 Jan 2009|11:10am] |
Universe. Hello.
DOES CHRISTINE HERDE. LOOK. LIKE. A BITCH?
I didn't fucking think so.
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| The things a body tells you |
[01 Dec 2008|11:27pm] |
Could the folding stomach be because of hunger?
Could the pine slow step be from too much walking?
And the water. And the salt. And the paper.
What about those?
If bodies move in very small dances,
from cold or fear,
do they still keep time?
The nerves stop short at the fingertips,
the hair stops long at the shoulder.
The fingernails tucked in, sleeping,
The back is ever so small.
Bones do clank
Tendons with the sound of plastic wrap
Blood that shrieks through open-faced tubes, splashing over the sides
a slap- it hits the ground in sheets
the body is crowded.
The water is piss-warm
and I paid too much to stand here in line for 90 minutes
holding a tandem inner tube.
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| Thing is, |
[28 Nov 2008|07:43pm] |
Whenever I'm feeling down, I can put on old dance movies and get right back up.
Gene Kelly, what would I do without you?
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| trace. |
[18 Nov 2008|01:56am] |
And if you ever leave before I wake
I will follow you in dreams,
a snake around your feet, your arms, your neck.
Sleeping in your hair by day, chasing all your fears away at night.
Nothing's right and nothing's wrong,
just as long as you will stay.
But if you decide to disappear, disappear without a trace.
Don't save a single kiss of me.
I will search and find a thousand oceans to drown my memories of you.
Swaying hair like seaweed
Dolphins wear you smile.
Fishes' lips as soft as breasts.
Everything weighs least in water, even grief
So if you want to leave me,
leave.
but do it just the way a tear drops into the sea ."
- Peter Verhelst and Ultima Vez -
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| contact. |
[08 Nov 2008|01:56am] |
Disappearing is entirely too easy sometimes. Downbeat two three four and I'm gone daddy gone.
I hate claiming the state of confusion. It seems like such a cop out, innocently befuddled and completely without blame.
Remember when?
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[06 Nov 2008|03:15am] |
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all things are inspired tonight.
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| puppy. |
[24 Sep 2008|10:31pm] |
why did you go
little fourpaws?
you forgot to shut
your big eyes.
e.e. cummings
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| arson-ed. |
[15 Sep 2008|11:24pm] |
I was reading LJs from about one year ago.
Man, what a bad idea that ever was.
I used to watch my brother build houses of cards. Card castles, he would call them. They were multi-storied, sprawling things that required about three or four decks and the occasional index card for dramatic effect. Amazing stuff. He would sit there for hours, digging the edges of cards into the carpet, teetering one heavy piece of paper on the edge of another, creating intricate and precarious artworks in hearts and spades.
Naturally, my favorite thing to do was throw things at them. You know: pennies, marbles (for these were the days when one had marbles simply lying about), shoes, stiff gusts of air if I could manage it... I loved knocking that shit down. There was something incredibly satisfying in wrecking hours of work without anything more than what could be lifted with one hand. Sometimes he laughed and lent a hand, sometimes he got very, very upset. I never understood why sometimes he got so mad and other times it was nothing.
And now I know what it feels like when someone chucks a shoe at your house of cards.
Aint funny a'tall.
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