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assembling [Sep. 18th, 2005|07:06 pm]
like the night when you walked through the woods--alone--after reading about peter walsh
it's not a bad guy or a good guy or sadness or elation or overcompensation
you dont know what it is, but it's there.
and the part of you that wants to cry out
that wants to scream (i am here)
(i am scared) (i am lonely)
(i am desperate for something)--
it settles.
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tell me one thing, more than this. [Jun. 13th, 2005|02:12 am]
and it's the other things really, that you will remember. like how he cuts a mango. four long, curly strips. it gets crazy and hot and you're shot, dying, drowning before you wake up and realize it's just fruit and a knife.
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it's three a.m. (i must be lonely) [May. 15th, 2005|03:35 am]
you know that feeling when you having nothing to write
you feel pretty
and youre fucked up out of your mind
sitting on a couch between people you know
but dont know so well, not anymore
and just thinking
i am completely blank.
and you know that everyone else feels the same thing too
i can do something i know i can if i could just
put the key in and fucking drive
get rid of my bullshit stories
throw away the mascara and the rolling papers and the stupid bottle cap collections
realize that there is no such thing as a home or a job or a life, really
there is just me on a couch. my eyes and my ears my nose and my hands.
really. writing it isn't everything.
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(approximently) jane [Apr. 7th, 2005|11:43 pm]
And she thought about how in truth she wasn’t really sure if she cared for anyone, for any person at all. Of course, there was the mother, of course she felt something for her mother. But maybe only because her mother had cared for her, perhaps it was only because at one point in time she was her mother; she used be inside, live, breathe, eat her mother. which is probably why the only love that can be proved is the love of a mother; There is no space between these specimens, as there always is between lovers—you could always thrust a bit deeper, push a little further—and it is not as if there is one, big moment, as there is with lovers. It's not just the closeness of conception (the sperm reaches the egg and bam! Contact). There is no moment of excitement, as your heart races, realizing that you love someone, that you must tell them, shout for a moment, I love you, and moments later not being able to be sure if you really meant it. the moment is gone and there you sit clumsily, fumbling with your fingers and changing the radio station, giggling, making silly faces. With a mother, perhaps it is different. But then again, you do come out of the womb, eventually. The cord is cut. There is no more anchor, no more speechless love. Perhaps after this we truly are just lost.
Other than that relationship, almost all, almost every single one had been for personal gain. Not that she had swindled her friends, had any plans to steal from her personal acquaintances. There was no malicious plan behind it all, no rules that she must be ruthless, caring for nothing past herself. But each friend was talked to, taken out to waste the time. each person and instance was simply for swift deposit into a small bank of memories. she collected admirers, like vats of pennies, for the very purpose of having a bank.
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(no subject) [Feb. 5th, 2005|12:52 am]
For the last four years of his life, my grandfather refused to eat anything but desserts: thick vanilla frosting, marshmallow- based bars, pecan iced-cream stolen from the freezer and eaten with a soup spoon. Something about pork sandwiches and BLTs lost glamour; the solidness of it all was terrible; he wanted something that would melt. There is some sort of inherent goodness that comes along with the sugar, bringing back memories of lemonade stands and chasing the iced cream truck and the way mud seeped through your toes as you ran through your sprinkler in your backyard, dreaming to be sucking at red and purple popsicles. It allows you to remember who you are without the pain of world war two or marrying a woman you never loved. My grandfather dwelt in well- preserved jams and rhubarb pies. Soon, all he could recall was dessert.
On the night he died, it was not a big change; he hadn't remembered me for years. In most ways, he was already dead, which led me to think, Is an afterlife--heaven--is it simply a compilation of memories? His smell of Lava soap and chapstick, the way he'd pronounce my name with a harsh "K" and "T," the way his icy blue eyes would smile at me, as he chewed on a toothpick and talked about pheasants. The little things that make us who we are, made us who we were; perhaps this is the way an afterlife works. In these short moments, we proved that our existence mattered, that our presence was somehow, at least to someone, meaningful.
But what if that's all this really is? What if we are dead, and simply re-living memories of things, moments that made us, happenings that broke us, tore us, lifted us, changed us. Are we only images in the minds of our beloved, faded pictures that still seem to move, tattered toys that emulate what we are so used to doing? If my afterlife was simply a small stored moment in time, lived through eyes that were no longer my own, I would allow myself only dessert. I would start with caramels. Their sugar would build up, exploding as it combusted, surging through my fingers, my bloodstream, my face. I would smile, Sit still, never be ready for sleep.
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(no subject) [Jan. 20th, 2005|10:32 pm]
And we were rushing though a scene
I was staring at your scruffy temples
And you my upper lip
Figuring what the hell
There is soda, there is a bit of punch
Why not make some party dips
Warm up to a little trumpet, a little rock and roll.
Perhaps one day we will know one another
and perhaps we won’t
I will still remember your temples
And you my upper lip
So let’s (while we can still climb staircases and)
(while we can still drink milkshakes),
Eat each other up.
We shall tap out the rhythm with our toes, one two one two.
And then be quiet.
stare at wallpapers and floorboards past our shoulders
Bend back our hands, extend our fingertips,
Think, yes. This is what it is. isn’t it.
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