| Oh, these sweet little vices. |
[07 Nov 2007|09:34pm] |
Speaking to a friend not long ago I realized something I thought was funny about how I get to know people. I seem to not acknowledge that someone could have existed before I have met them. They may have have existed theoretically, but somewhere in the back of my mind I believe that they must have materialized just moments prior. Somehow a life was fabricated just to coexist with me in some way.
This way I can make what I want of them, believe what I want about them, make them up as I go along until they fill in their blanks. Maybe I just live too selfishly to notice or accept the parallel action around me.
I don't think I believe in fate (as much as I often wish I could) so I find it ironic that I catch myself in this thought.
Often I accept life stories of others as a fiction because, well I do love a good story.
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[01 Nov 2007|10:16pm] |
I saw your secret: "This world is so wrong."
Tell me why, because I'm inclined to disagree.
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| Picking up |
[24 Oct 2007|04:31pm] |
My scanner is finally once again operational. I threw open my drawers and furiously began rummaging through all my photographs, trying to recall which I had wanted to edit.
Looking at them now, they seem like such a distant part of my life, regardless of the fact they were taken only up to 3 to 4 months ago.
I am still finding this very odd, yet I am very thankful for it.
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[21 Oct 2007|06:35pm] |
I need less subtlety and more passion in my life.
October is the year's last chance to redeem itself.
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[17 Oct 2007|10:24pm] |
What I need:
My friends
A solution
Why is it that what you want most is grossly inconvenient when it comes in abundance?
I am still very much without a scanner.
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| hi |
[22 Jun 2007|11:10pm] |
Two decades have casted me here ready to start over again. If I could abandon these past months in my desert Avro road room, I would only long for its familiar aching.
I miss my grandfather. I still listen for his breathing some nights. Terrifying reminders of warm blood through his veins. I miss a family and not worrying about different cancers and separations. Moving on, not coming back.
Hours of my days have become dedicated to solving if I am leaving home, or if home is leaving me. This was supposed to be my selfish deed, a belated call for their attention perhaps. I am afraid to leave only to have no home to come back to. No Lavender walls to cradle me, canopy to disguise me, puncture in the door to remind me. Belonging to someone else.
Allowing the dwell to feast in my mind I lose sight of what I'm happily free falling towards. Independence, academia, nights next to him while the shadows cast over our bodies from the moonlit sleepless city night.
I am nervous with anticipation.
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[13 Feb 2007|10:13am] |
I really am nervous.
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[18 Jan 2007|06:59pm] |
My love sleeps to the south and my friends to the north. Sometimes it feels as though our lives are so perfectly aligned like that. There are symmetries of life that have yet to be pronounced, and even then we claim we have no direction. We claim to be more scrambled than eggs until we are and we forget there is a simpler way. Going with the motions of life.
I am defiantly headstrong and pinkishly sarcastic and fall into a conscious dreaming, wondering how people cordially put up with me. I find I can't settle and throw punches at straw mans when am discouraged. So much for going with the motions.
The sky has become a mosaic of different moods recently. It rains and storms because of exhaustion and rage, it snows because it's humble, beautiful and spiteful, and it clears because it forgives.
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[25 Dec 2006|01:03am] |
Happy Holidays.
I'm broke, spent and happy as hell.
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[11 Dec 2006|03:27am] |
Where does the anxiety of expression start? The overwhelming blue ink at my balls of my fingers. My occupied right hand waits while my left hand cradles my mind. It feels like an ecstasy rush of infinite lines running off of pages, spilling onto my skin. I'm writing my own life, the lines run up and down my arms. I can ink into myself profanities and poetry, secrets and Aurelius- 'Consider thyself to be dead, and to have completed thy life up to the present time; and live according to nature the remainder which is allowed thee.'
I am the belly of the beast. I feel as I am both evil and innocents and in this moment I could care less. I am utterly self involved and though the moment will go faster then it came I feel a high of anxiety and I truly love myself. I love my damn self. The red in my curls, the round of my breasts, the concave of my waist. A few hours of hibernation may turn these obsessions into vapor, but for now I am in love with the slender of my arms, the full of my cheek bones and the tell-taleness of my hips.
I'm considering taking more risks, getting caught in the whirlwinds.
I will never stop teaching myself.
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| Returned |
[15 Nov 2006|04:03pm] |
... blanket cocooned birthdayed bodies and sex.
I can see something good ahead.
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| 30m toastings |
[24 Oct 2006|10:01pm] |
Cheers to new beginnings and celebrations of long and ever lasting love and admirations.
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| susan |
[15 Oct 2006|08:03pm] |
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I have come home from the weekend and my father told me my pet passed away on friday.
I am okay, I guess.
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[22 Sep 2006|11:35pm] |
Everyday strangers belch awkward compliments at me complementing a perfect likeness of bulking words, so uncertain of justification or reason. I've always enjoyed the perplexity of another's reason, secretly discussing the madness of their chemical reactions.
This morning I went to kiss my grandfather goodbye before heading off to school. Just as every morning, he is smoking what life is left of him. I think of the cancer, and the sweet smell of the wine grapes that tent us in the humble autumning backyard. Both of which suffocates me momentarily when I can see it in him, either killing him or maintaining him. I recite in my head a stream of consciousness:
There is a man
who lived for his wine grapes.
A green so perfect
like a false camouflage
to glisten in their dignity
and cower at their destiny.
There is a man, who is no longer young,
he anticipates long letters in a crested mailbox:
To Toronto,
From Italia.
There is always a box in his shirt pocket,
and in his pocket,
the pocket of the old man,
are cigarettes and ten dollars for each his grandchildren.
There once was a man, who is not gone yet-
he made his wine every year and bought
fresh bread twice a week.
A day will come when we converse. Our mouths
will say 'it was the cancer, it was the cigarettes'
and on cool days my breath will materialize in a stale atmosphere
and I will think of him.
And I will miss him.
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[15 Sep 2006|08:55am] |
She is in over her head. Typhooning in a direction she didn't see before. Soon she will take another step and expect the pebbles on the floor to jitter at her feet and dust to slowly baptize all she sees with the eyes at the back of her head, but nothing will happen. She is just afraid. I am very afraid.
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[05 Sep 2006|07:49am] |
Some people are tragically gross. Others not so much.
Whatever.
Welcome back.
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| Wipe |
[29 Aug 2006|11:54pm] |
The summer air is expiring to a chill. I've bought a grey fall coat and I am ready to feel the turning of the seasons. I Sit here 118 pounds in my pride and a smaller pair of jeans, wait for the last few days of summer to be overturned by an annual ruby and golden crisp.
I believe that if not for school and starting a new, I would this September, leave for France and visit romantic tourist spots. Once done being the cliche tourist, I would visit relatives in their Paris home and wish for Italy.
To dreaming.
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[17 Aug 2006|11:27pm] |
One day I will live where quietly I will lose myself in refuge. I dream and wake every morning longing for forehead and fingertip kisses. Charmed, my life is taking me down roads I've only failed to see before. Under my pale skin runs a hope, a desire, a need to entwine myself in every self I've ever been, what I've done to be this happy. I bought novels I've read in school growing up, rediscovering hidden stashes of knowledge I missed once before. I'm pacing now, enjoying the long stretches before slipping into my morning robe, the brief walk to the bus shelter with the wind beside, in front and behind me slowly crisping as the mid afternoons pass. It is all so fleeting, and when we long for the moments again, we realize life is a cycle. It's all so perfect sometimes, we never miss for long enough.
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