Tuesday, October 15, 2013
Sunday, August 11, 2013
8.11
Whenever I think about how the Egyptians had 3 names that functioned on different levels of privacy, I think about my telephone number.
Especially now that our numbers are just saved away, hidden behind names, nicknames and emoji drunkenly typed to help you remember that Holly is the sexy dancer and Alice is the raccoon hunter, I feel like I am hosting some sort of secret life. Especially now that most of my private conversations are done through my phone, or can be accessed through my phone, and that phone number is connected to a giant, nameless corporation that can make enough excuses to look at those conversations and only possibly be breaking some sort of privacy law. Because, let's be honest, I have no clue what terms and conditions I have accepted.
Especially now that technology has matured to a point where I document my appearance daily and my diet fairly regularly, and can privately show them to my friend and probably some giant, nameless corporation in an instant, or let them sit on my phone until they go into my computer to sit until that computer dies, and I forget about them.
Especially now that I usually get someone's phone number as soon as I decide I would ever want to see them again, or I feel to awkward to say no. Because who says no? and that means I've agreed, on some level, to have interest, on some level, in the idea of sharing aspects of my life with them, or that I already have shared those aspects, and I liked it enough to want more. My telephone digits are almost like an approval stamp on our shared aspects as well as a welcome mat for more. But, somehow, it is as if we then threw our mats from our doorsteps and tossed them in a basement to live on a giant pile of floor mats, because I will literally never look at that mat until some one asks if they can copy it. We are literally working on resolving that issue entirely with tapping our phones together technology.
Especially now that I remember practicing, on those brown carpet stairs, introducing myself to police officers if I was ever lost. I'd say, "hi my name is booga booga, and I live at ladeedah doodle do. My telephone number is bipbipbipbipbipbipbip. Will you help me call my parents please?", and I let those things shape my identity as a 5 year old. I loved letter writing practice where I rehearsed drawing those beautiful 10 numbers. Their curves and angles were the road map to my communication.
Especially now that plugging my phone in at night, so that it may recharge while I sleep inches away, is seriously the last thing I do before I also attempt a recharge. Then, together, we tell my loved ones how much they mean to us and how much the bullshit they experienced must suck before we decide we are done for the day. Two minutes later my phone says "buzz buzz" which stands for "well maybe", and sometimes we squint into the bright abyss of notifications before it becomes too much.
Especially now that our numbers are just saved away, hidden behind names, nicknames and emoji drunkenly typed to help you remember that Holly is the sexy dancer and Alice is the raccoon hunter, I feel like I am hosting some sort of secret life. Especially now that most of my private conversations are done through my phone, or can be accessed through my phone, and that phone number is connected to a giant, nameless corporation that can make enough excuses to look at those conversations and only possibly be breaking some sort of privacy law. Because, let's be honest, I have no clue what terms and conditions I have accepted.
Especially now that technology has matured to a point where I document my appearance daily and my diet fairly regularly, and can privately show them to my friend and probably some giant, nameless corporation in an instant, or let them sit on my phone until they go into my computer to sit until that computer dies, and I forget about them.
Especially now that I usually get someone's phone number as soon as I decide I would ever want to see them again, or I feel to awkward to say no. Because who says no? and that means I've agreed, on some level, to have interest, on some level, in the idea of sharing aspects of my life with them, or that I already have shared those aspects, and I liked it enough to want more. My telephone digits are almost like an approval stamp on our shared aspects as well as a welcome mat for more. But, somehow, it is as if we then threw our mats from our doorsteps and tossed them in a basement to live on a giant pile of floor mats, because I will literally never look at that mat until some one asks if they can copy it. We are literally working on resolving that issue entirely with tapping our phones together technology.
Especially now that I remember practicing, on those brown carpet stairs, introducing myself to police officers if I was ever lost. I'd say, "hi my name is booga booga, and I live at ladeedah doodle do. My telephone number is bipbipbipbipbipbipbip. Will you help me call my parents please?", and I let those things shape my identity as a 5 year old. I loved letter writing practice where I rehearsed drawing those beautiful 10 numbers. Their curves and angles were the road map to my communication.
Especially now that plugging my phone in at night, so that it may recharge while I sleep inches away, is seriously the last thing I do before I also attempt a recharge. Then, together, we tell my loved ones how much they mean to us and how much the bullshit they experienced must suck before we decide we are done for the day. Two minutes later my phone says "buzz buzz" which stands for "well maybe", and sometimes we squint into the bright abyss of notifications before it becomes too much.
Monday, July 1, 2013
7.1
When I left for breakfast, I could tell this was a mistake.
I was too new. I had no idea how he could trust me with this. I could feel my eyes glued to the preceding brake lights. This was hell. I could feel the weight of the phone in my pocket against my heart with each beat. I wiped the corners of my eyes with my index fingers. I could do this. I knew how to do this. He'd walked me through it multiple times, but only within his apartment, leaving my fear of "public speaking" hanging to dry. When I had expressed this to him, he seemed disillusioned.
I laid down calmly and looked up at her face. She had the nostril hairs of a man. For a moment I was snow white with prince charming leaning down to save me, and she touched my shoulder. She brought her mask over her nose and I searched her eyes. She brought her hand above me and we looked at it. "This," she sings softly, "This will protect you."
and with her hand she ties my toes to my ears through my belly button. She slides her fingers beneath the strings. I can see her breathing suck the fabric in and out, leaving a faint wet spot from excitement. I want this as much as her.
When I wake up, I turn to the mirror and see her smiling behind me. My legs sit in the chair, and my torso is slumped against it. I am aware of pressure beneath my eyes. "How'd it go?" I inquire.
"Well" She replied cheerfully.
"You are beautiful"
I was too new. I had no idea how he could trust me with this. I could feel my eyes glued to the preceding brake lights. This was hell. I could feel the weight of the phone in my pocket against my heart with each beat. I wiped the corners of my eyes with my index fingers. I could do this. I knew how to do this. He'd walked me through it multiple times, but only within his apartment, leaving my fear of "public speaking" hanging to dry. When I had expressed this to him, he seemed disillusioned.
I laid down calmly and looked up at her face. She had the nostril hairs of a man. For a moment I was snow white with prince charming leaning down to save me, and she touched my shoulder. She brought her mask over her nose and I searched her eyes. She brought her hand above me and we looked at it. "This," she sings softly, "This will protect you."
and with her hand she ties my toes to my ears through my belly button. She slides her fingers beneath the strings. I can see her breathing suck the fabric in and out, leaving a faint wet spot from excitement. I want this as much as her.
When I wake up, I turn to the mirror and see her smiling behind me. My legs sit in the chair, and my torso is slumped against it. I am aware of pressure beneath my eyes. "How'd it go?" I inquire.
"Well" She replied cheerfully.
"You are beautiful"
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
6.11/2
He was still there when I woke up. I thought he had left sometime around 3, when the door was opened and closed. But now, in the clear light of 6:27am, I could see him laid out on my couch. He was turned facing the back, my mother's blanket covering him and a good portion of the floor. I tried to pull off my best fake sleeping (perfected in the days of not getting up for church), but I was pretty sure my breathing had already changed due to my surprise, dread. He was also much too quiet to be alseep, but was not making any noise.
I counted to 100, being very aware the sound my eyelashes made against my pillow, waiting for him to move, cough, anything. At this moment, I wanted more than anything, not to have a studio apartment. I breathed deeply through my nose and started to "wake up". I saw his back tense as I sat up. I checked my phone for about 30 seconds trying to see how this would play out, and once it became clear he was going to keep playing the sleep card, I swung my feet off onto my floor.
Nothing.
It crossed my mind that he was dead.
I checked for and found signs of breathing, but even with me staring at him for a good 8 counts, he didn't turn over or open his eyes.
Whatever.
I made my bed quietly and went in to the bathroom.
- he's still here
- ....
- what doido?
- is he next to you?
- no, couch
- well you can't take it back now
- hah thanks you cunt
- xo come rub mine
I took a shower, because what else do you do in the only other room of cramped, city apartments? As I scrubbed my scalp with citrus shampoo, I hoped that, with the loud white noise, he would take the opportunity to wake up, leave, whatever. When I stepped out of the shower, there was only the water running down the pipe and silence. I took pretty long showers and certainly didn't rush this one. Hopefully, he was gone.
But as I opened the door, it became clear that he was far from gone. It was darker, which was common during storms in our area, but it made my unlit living room very dim. All the boxes I had flattened and put in the trash corner of the hall were stacked together in the middle of my apartment. His head stuck out from the middle of the makeshift room, and I could tell he was bare chested. He looked surprised to see me and expressed concern while pushing a stack of boxes to open an inviting "door". I laughed and inspected the creases of my forehead with my fingers to avoid his wide-eyed gaze. I asked what he was up to, and he beckoned me in the boxes.
As I stepped in, he unwrapped my towel, and I noticed he was naked. His friend, Alex, was sitting at his feet, smiling at my body. He always pulled shit like this. He gently wiggled the box door back into the wall, and I sat down on my discarded towel. Alex finally met my eyes and smiled sweetly. I kissed Alex softly on the cheek. I explained that I needed to go to work in an hour, and that he needed to decide whether or not he would give me a ride. Alex replied first informing me that I had plenty of time. They were laughing at each other. Their inside jokes killed me. I realized that Alex was still wearing her shirt, and I looked at him for answers. They told me I was stuck in my head.
I felt a little bit of guilt as I stood up and broke down the box fort with my shoulder. Their shouts asking me what my deal was went unanswered. I picked up my phone from the bathroom counter.
- their hair is too spiky
- lol waht?
- alex's here, come here
- dude [?]
- lol shut up i need a ride plz?
I pulled some clothes out of the hamper and dressed. He was rebuilding the fort. Alex was watching me through door, I had forgotten to close, while she started to brew coffee. I looked like a mess. It was getting darker. When I asked how bad the storm was supposed to be, they both seemed surprised and raised their eyebrows in unison. I was becoming fed up. How could they not see out the damn window?
I counted to 100, being very aware the sound my eyelashes made against my pillow, waiting for him to move, cough, anything. At this moment, I wanted more than anything, not to have a studio apartment. I breathed deeply through my nose and started to "wake up". I saw his back tense as I sat up. I checked my phone for about 30 seconds trying to see how this would play out, and once it became clear he was going to keep playing the sleep card, I swung my feet off onto my floor.
Nothing.
It crossed my mind that he was dead.
I checked for and found signs of breathing, but even with me staring at him for a good 8 counts, he didn't turn over or open his eyes.
Whatever.
I made my bed quietly and went in to the bathroom.
- he's still here
- ....
- what doido?
- is he next to you?
- no, couch
- well you can't take it back now
- hah thanks you cunt
- xo come rub mine
I took a shower, because what else do you do in the only other room of cramped, city apartments? As I scrubbed my scalp with citrus shampoo, I hoped that, with the loud white noise, he would take the opportunity to wake up, leave, whatever. When I stepped out of the shower, there was only the water running down the pipe and silence. I took pretty long showers and certainly didn't rush this one. Hopefully, he was gone.
But as I opened the door, it became clear that he was far from gone. It was darker, which was common during storms in our area, but it made my unlit living room very dim. All the boxes I had flattened and put in the trash corner of the hall were stacked together in the middle of my apartment. His head stuck out from the middle of the makeshift room, and I could tell he was bare chested. He looked surprised to see me and expressed concern while pushing a stack of boxes to open an inviting "door". I laughed and inspected the creases of my forehead with my fingers to avoid his wide-eyed gaze. I asked what he was up to, and he beckoned me in the boxes.
As I stepped in, he unwrapped my towel, and I noticed he was naked. His friend, Alex, was sitting at his feet, smiling at my body. He always pulled shit like this. He gently wiggled the box door back into the wall, and I sat down on my discarded towel. Alex finally met my eyes and smiled sweetly. I kissed Alex softly on the cheek. I explained that I needed to go to work in an hour, and that he needed to decide whether or not he would give me a ride. Alex replied first informing me that I had plenty of time. They were laughing at each other. Their inside jokes killed me. I realized that Alex was still wearing her shirt, and I looked at him for answers. They told me I was stuck in my head.
I felt a little bit of guilt as I stood up and broke down the box fort with my shoulder. Their shouts asking me what my deal was went unanswered. I picked up my phone from the bathroom counter.
- their hair is too spiky
- lol waht?
- alex's here, come here
- dude [?]
- lol shut up i need a ride plz?
I pulled some clothes out of the hamper and dressed. He was rebuilding the fort. Alex was watching me through door, I had forgotten to close, while she started to brew coffee. I looked like a mess. It was getting darker. When I asked how bad the storm was supposed to be, they both seemed surprised and raised their eyebrows in unison. I was becoming fed up. How could they not see out the damn window?
6.11
more work on identity
for her, I will always load freshies
when she cries, I will curl around her and trace over her tummy with the tips of my fingers
I will smile when she looks good and stare at myself in the mirror, over her shoulder, when she's complaining about so and so doing such and such.
for her, I will sit down during conversations and take my time listening to every side of the matter
I will always make sure she is satisfied before I fall asleep
the last piece of chocolate will always be left for her
for her, I will always load freshies
when she cries, I will curl around her and trace over her tummy with the tips of my fingers
I will smile when she looks good and stare at myself in the mirror, over her shoulder, when she's complaining about so and so doing such and such.
for her, I will sit down during conversations and take my time listening to every side of the matter
I will always make sure she is satisfied before I fall asleep
the last piece of chocolate will always be left for her
Friday, June 7, 2013
6.7
She said that I needed to write about identity.
I realized identity is fake.
We are our actions. Our actions are life.
but then there is all this bullshit in our head.
My issue with identity?
I can't recognize myself.
In the morning, it is "to whom do these legs belong?"
Catching myself in windows feels more like "CREEPY STALKER, oh that's me"
I guess I wanted her to pull a Tyra and force me to look in the mirror and name 10 nice things about myself. However, this never happened. Instead she formed this habit of placing her palms under my ears and staring sweetly into my eyebrains. This really ground my gears. All I could think of during this caring moment of self acceptance was how much neck fat I had lost in order for her to be able to feel my jaw (along with "how much longer can I get away with seeing her?"). I felt bad, but really there is no way to be able to explain.
It is like phantom limb.
but phantom body.
I realized identity is fake.
We are our actions. Our actions are life.
but then there is all this bullshit in our head.
My issue with identity?
I can't recognize myself.
In the morning, it is "to whom do these legs belong?"
Catching myself in windows feels more like "CREEPY STALKER, oh that's me"
I guess I wanted her to pull a Tyra and force me to look in the mirror and name 10 nice things about myself. However, this never happened. Instead she formed this habit of placing her palms under my ears and staring sweetly into my eyebrains. This really ground my gears. All I could think of during this caring moment of self acceptance was how much neck fat I had lost in order for her to be able to feel my jaw (along with "how much longer can I get away with seeing her?"). I felt bad, but really there is no way to be able to explain.
It is like phantom limb.
but phantom body.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
6.6
I don't know what she
makes me want from myself
- - - -
I can always remember this day 6/6/6 because the perfect thing happened. It is strange to think that this will once bring me to sound dated, and that 6/6/1906 and my 6/6/2006 were probably very different.
I had flunked a bunch of high school. My computer addiction was full fledged. Smosh videos were what I was about, along with buying cake mix from Walmart Neighborhood market for 79 cents. I could pay for it in my spare change. Every night from the hours of 8pm-1pm, I locked myself in my tiny tower of a bedroom, pulled out a tupperware, mixed a little cake mix and water (a trick learned from summer camp), and youtubed until passing out.
I had failed English because I had little to no interest in Alaskan dog-sled racing, and a hearty dash of teen angst. My dad said he would pay for summer school, but I had to ride my bike there and back every day. School was 7 miles away, and there was a separate bike-trail for most of it.
There were a handful of issues.
1. I am a girl. Sweating before and after school as a teenager wasn't really in my hair's favor.
2. It is June in tornado alley with big storms happening almost every night. Wet road= wet streak up your butt when arriving to class.
3. I had to cross over a lot of creeks between 6:40-7:10 am.
Pretty much every morning I am trying to pull a windbreaker over my ass, keep my hair off my forehead and blindly peddling through dense fog on bridges.
So it is around 7 am, 6/6/6, and I am finger-combing out my wavy, cherry red locks with my left hand while my right hand is squeezing my handlebar in rhythm with pirated Karen O screams. I've been kinda excited for today. As a young, alternative adult, I'd entertained some possible happenings with the local hooligans, but "gotta get up early for school lol kk tootles". It was perfectly foggy, like milk was mixed in the air, and I turn up onto my last bridge.
Just right there. Just right in front of me. A babies arm.
lols, wahh?
I decide the middle of the bridge is probably the safest for the last 15 ft, and as soon as I make this decision my front tire pulls a moses on a pentagram with baby parts piled in the middle. I jerk to the left so quickly that I immediately fall off my bike and smear myself in the sticky red substance.
I begin weeping. I can feel the curtain close as I pick up my bike, backpack and dust off my jacket, further smearing my mess. I don't look back as the standing ovation begins. They are sucked into the fog as I push my peddles down. I am sobbing with so much suction that the gnats are getting stuck in my throat.
Walking into class after a performance like that was like floating on air.
I showed those kids the man's blood on my jacket from my fight last night. Told them he'd lost 3 teeth. I just got out of jail. When it was my turn to read out loud, I could hear the metal kids whispering about me. My voice was steady and strong. I got some girl to buy me skittles.
All in all it was a good day.
makes me want from myself
- - - -
I can always remember this day 6/6/6 because the perfect thing happened. It is strange to think that this will once bring me to sound dated, and that 6/6/1906 and my 6/6/2006 were probably very different.
I had flunked a bunch of high school. My computer addiction was full fledged. Smosh videos were what I was about, along with buying cake mix from Walmart Neighborhood market for 79 cents. I could pay for it in my spare change. Every night from the hours of 8pm-1pm, I locked myself in my tiny tower of a bedroom, pulled out a tupperware, mixed a little cake mix and water (a trick learned from summer camp), and youtubed until passing out.
I had failed English because I had little to no interest in Alaskan dog-sled racing, and a hearty dash of teen angst. My dad said he would pay for summer school, but I had to ride my bike there and back every day. School was 7 miles away, and there was a separate bike-trail for most of it.
There were a handful of issues.
1. I am a girl. Sweating before and after school as a teenager wasn't really in my hair's favor.
2. It is June in tornado alley with big storms happening almost every night. Wet road= wet streak up your butt when arriving to class.
3. I had to cross over a lot of creeks between 6:40-7:10 am.
Pretty much every morning I am trying to pull a windbreaker over my ass, keep my hair off my forehead and blindly peddling through dense fog on bridges.
So it is around 7 am, 6/6/6, and I am finger-combing out my wavy, cherry red locks with my left hand while my right hand is squeezing my handlebar in rhythm with pirated Karen O screams. I've been kinda excited for today. As a young, alternative adult, I'd entertained some possible happenings with the local hooligans, but "gotta get up early for school lol kk tootles". It was perfectly foggy, like milk was mixed in the air, and I turn up onto my last bridge.
Just right there. Just right in front of me. A babies arm.
lols, wahh?
I decide the middle of the bridge is probably the safest for the last 15 ft, and as soon as I make this decision my front tire pulls a moses on a pentagram with baby parts piled in the middle. I jerk to the left so quickly that I immediately fall off my bike and smear myself in the sticky red substance.
I begin weeping. I can feel the curtain close as I pick up my bike, backpack and dust off my jacket, further smearing my mess. I don't look back as the standing ovation begins. They are sucked into the fog as I push my peddles down. I am sobbing with so much suction that the gnats are getting stuck in my throat.
Walking into class after a performance like that was like floating on air.
I showed those kids the man's blood on my jacket from my fight last night. Told them he'd lost 3 teeth. I just got out of jail. When it was my turn to read out loud, I could hear the metal kids whispering about me. My voice was steady and strong. I got some girl to buy me skittles.
All in all it was a good day.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
6.2
"Nothing we had in common was real or genuine, " he says to me as I do the dumb thing and stare at my hands. "You realize we fucking hate each other?"
It had been a long weekend with my uncle. The crazy.
No one really knew what he did.
He drank.
He smoked cigarettes, but I swear they were a different brand last time we visited.
He had this orange shirt that had faded into this strange terra-cotta/salmon color thanks to his organic sodium mixed with infinite hot washes.
He had a name, but no one really seemed to use it in conversation. You just knew who they were talking about when you walked up to the table. Or the conversation would be started by some object being glared at by more than 2 people in the room. One person would raise their eyebrows and the other would nod.
He was what you talked to the cousins about after you ran out of the obvious questions and everything else seemed like it would awkwardly point out how far you had drifted apart.
But now?
He hated me.
He was supposed to be watching me while my parents did what ever it is parents do when revisiting their hometown after 15+ years living elsewhere. So I was sat down in front of the tv on some corduroy masterpiece of a couch he had managed to keep clean. To be fair, his place was pretty clean.
He was clean in scrubbed-raw way. The sun-bleached way. Everything smelled of boiling water.
He watched tv with me for one 30 minute segment, and then we started some movie. It was a film I, apparently, was a minority for not seeing, and now I must remedy this fault within myself. So we chilled. I'm pretty sure he was drinking. I'm also pretty sure that he had jokingly offered me, a minor, a drink earlier. I'm really sure it wasn't that much of a joke.
He left partway through the film and went to this sort of half basement/spare room that was allowed for by the house being built into a hill. Sometimes I could hear some shuffling, placing of things, typing, but never much else. I was still pretty uncomfortable around him and wasn't quite sure where the restroom was. After the movie was over, another one began playing. This one I had seen before. I needed to pee. It was getting dark.
He had started murmuring to himself. At first I thought it was the film, but then I noticed there was laughter during inappropriate parts. I turned the volume down. Not all at once. I took maybe a good 10 minutes to get down 5 even numbers. They always have to be even.
He wasn't so much murmuring now. His voice had risen to normal conversation mode. I heard a beer open. I heard him talk and put the can down on the table several times over the rest of the second movie. As if on cue he started to come out of the room right as it ended.
"He looks happy" is all I can think. I realize I am turned, open mouthed smiling at him with the volume very low.
He realizes too and becomes a shade of scarlet I have only seen once before.
He takes me outside and sits me on the tail gate of his truck and starts pacing in front of me. I'm not quite sure what is happening at this point, but I fantasize about romans dragging prisoners behind chariots. "Am I in trouble?"
He is throwing his hands up and pacing this awkward oval in the driveway.
He has mastered this drunken mumble yelling. I have no idea what he is communicating. I ask "is that room why you are upset?"
He says he needs advice
It had been a long weekend with my uncle. The crazy.
No one really knew what he did.
He drank.
He smoked cigarettes, but I swear they were a different brand last time we visited.
He had this orange shirt that had faded into this strange terra-cotta/salmon color thanks to his organic sodium mixed with infinite hot washes.
He had a name, but no one really seemed to use it in conversation. You just knew who they were talking about when you walked up to the table. Or the conversation would be started by some object being glared at by more than 2 people in the room. One person would raise their eyebrows and the other would nod.
He was what you talked to the cousins about after you ran out of the obvious questions and everything else seemed like it would awkwardly point out how far you had drifted apart.
But now?
He hated me.
He was supposed to be watching me while my parents did what ever it is parents do when revisiting their hometown after 15+ years living elsewhere. So I was sat down in front of the tv on some corduroy masterpiece of a couch he had managed to keep clean. To be fair, his place was pretty clean.
He was clean in scrubbed-raw way. The sun-bleached way. Everything smelled of boiling water.
He watched tv with me for one 30 minute segment, and then we started some movie. It was a film I, apparently, was a minority for not seeing, and now I must remedy this fault within myself. So we chilled. I'm pretty sure he was drinking. I'm also pretty sure that he had jokingly offered me, a minor, a drink earlier. I'm really sure it wasn't that much of a joke.
He left partway through the film and went to this sort of half basement/spare room that was allowed for by the house being built into a hill. Sometimes I could hear some shuffling, placing of things, typing, but never much else. I was still pretty uncomfortable around him and wasn't quite sure where the restroom was. After the movie was over, another one began playing. This one I had seen before. I needed to pee. It was getting dark.
He had started murmuring to himself. At first I thought it was the film, but then I noticed there was laughter during inappropriate parts. I turned the volume down. Not all at once. I took maybe a good 10 minutes to get down 5 even numbers. They always have to be even.
He wasn't so much murmuring now. His voice had risen to normal conversation mode. I heard a beer open. I heard him talk and put the can down on the table several times over the rest of the second movie. As if on cue he started to come out of the room right as it ended.
"He looks happy" is all I can think. I realize I am turned, open mouthed smiling at him with the volume very low.
He realizes too and becomes a shade of scarlet I have only seen once before.
He takes me outside and sits me on the tail gate of his truck and starts pacing in front of me. I'm not quite sure what is happening at this point, but I fantasize about romans dragging prisoners behind chariots. "Am I in trouble?"
He is throwing his hands up and pacing this awkward oval in the driveway.
He has mastered this drunken mumble yelling. I have no idea what he is communicating. I ask "is that room why you are upset?"
He says he needs advice
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
5.29/2
after house hunting
last night, she took me places. And as I watched the grey smoke curl around her silky hands, I brought my eyes to meet hers. The flames below us were warm, and lit her stomach in a soft, pleasing manner. I smiled as she noticed my stare.
"who are you?"I laughed.
She grinned and spit smoke into a bush. "His name is gypsy", flatly fell from her lips.
"okay, but who are you?" I think my hand was reaching out to her by this point. She didn't move away or flinch when I touched her. In fact, the opposite occurred.
We walked further.
I hadn't been quite sure who she was for a while now. I thought we first met at some party 2 years ago, but she swears it was before then. However, I can't remember learning her name until tomorrow and I swear her hair was blonde at some point. I think I could find a photo if I stalked hard enough.
Anyway, it was like I could feel her forehead against mine as I watched her footsteps fall in the wet pavement. This simultaneous presense was some new power she possessed. I tried to slow down and fall a few more paces behind, but she would not have it. Soon we were barely walking and stopping seemed like the obvious thing to do as we were both laughing every time we took a step in slow motion. She went from taking a drag every few steps to taking a few drags every step. The last mile was littered with filters sizzling in the street.
I turned to her and said, "okay. what do you fucking want?"
"to show you something"
"Is that where we are walking?"
"yes, are you injured?" she was still giggling.
and lighting a new cigarette, she asked my silence "hey? why are you so upset?"
but I could see that we would probably never make it.
last night, she took me places. And as I watched the grey smoke curl around her silky hands, I brought my eyes to meet hers. The flames below us were warm, and lit her stomach in a soft, pleasing manner. I smiled as she noticed my stare.
"who are you?"I laughed.
She grinned and spit smoke into a bush. "His name is gypsy", flatly fell from her lips.
"okay, but who are you?" I think my hand was reaching out to her by this point. She didn't move away or flinch when I touched her. In fact, the opposite occurred.
We walked further.
I hadn't been quite sure who she was for a while now. I thought we first met at some party 2 years ago, but she swears it was before then. However, I can't remember learning her name until tomorrow and I swear her hair was blonde at some point. I think I could find a photo if I stalked hard enough.
Anyway, it was like I could feel her forehead against mine as I watched her footsteps fall in the wet pavement. This simultaneous presense was some new power she possessed. I tried to slow down and fall a few more paces behind, but she would not have it. Soon we were barely walking and stopping seemed like the obvious thing to do as we were both laughing every time we took a step in slow motion. She went from taking a drag every few steps to taking a few drags every step. The last mile was littered with filters sizzling in the street.
I turned to her and said, "okay. what do you fucking want?"
"to show you something"
"Is that where we are walking?"
"yes, are you injured?" she was still giggling.
and lighting a new cigarette, she asked my silence "hey? why are you so upset?"
but I could see that we would probably never make it.
5.29
I thought that I would be mad when I saw her, heard her.
But, tbh,
I felt resolution.
Her solid footsteps fade away and I have pulled all my thorns.
But, tbh,
I felt resolution.
Her solid footsteps fade away and I have pulled all my thorns.
Sunday, May 26, 2013
5.26
text from andy: I had a dream that I had long hair in a pony tail. Did I tell you that already?
larn: Did you like it?
-picture of a smoothie-
I just realized, fully realized and understood, that unless something truly terrible happens, my children will be able to look at every single day of my life.
And to be honest I am thankful for that fact. I am so jealous. I wish I had some idea what my mother thought/lookedat/did at my age and I would give anything to understand.
I don't know why. Not for validation, or for some sort of unity. I feel genuinely curious as to what she was interested in.
My texts[letters] would be what I really want them to have access to if I died. Maybe not at the same age, I would probably have been a NIGHTMARE if I had validation from my dead mother on my outrageous actions that I am sure all teenagers will make anyway. I would probably want them to never ever see my preteen aim/aolchatroom messages. lol. I got a cell phone when I was 16 so they could probably have access to my 16-17 year old one when they turn 17, my 17-18 when they turn 18, and then I guess continue in that pattern? Until maybe 30? Jeez, I just, who the fuck would really want to read all this bullshit. But my text/letters would probably be pretty interesting threads. I would be interested to read my friend's messages with their friends [if they were dead and we would all be spared the embarrassment]. I feel a HUGE connection to people when re-reading messages. also a weird sense of self discovery when pulling a paranoid parrot and re-reading my sent mail. haha. fuck.
But the fact that I take photos of things around me on a daily basis and sent that shit to my friends and then we talk about it like we are sitting next to each other even though we haven't looked at each other's faces in 4 months and some how when we are actually irl it feels exactly the same and it makes me wonder how friendships worked before technology.
I would give my ring toe of my left foot [I decided this right now, and I gave it a good, honest think-over] if I could see what my mother cooked for dinner last night, then how her cat, in the bathroom, looked while she took a shit [that she also considered photographing but decided against], and then what she saw at work and the different outfits she tried on, her checking her teeth when she couldn't find a mirror and was to lazy to get up. I would shave off all my hair [yes, another honest wager] if I could see Photobooth video-diaries she had made in order to get things off her mind in the middle of the night.
I don't feel as though I am curious for some sense of validation. I feel like the rest of humanity pretty much got that covered.
I just miss her.
I would give most of everything if I could have some sort of conversation with that woman.
It would be funny as shit.
larn: Did you like it?
-picture of a smoothie-
I just realized, fully realized and understood, that unless something truly terrible happens, my children will be able to look at every single day of my life.
And to be honest I am thankful for that fact. I am so jealous. I wish I had some idea what my mother thought/lookedat/did at my age and I would give anything to understand.
I don't know why. Not for validation, or for some sort of unity. I feel genuinely curious as to what she was interested in.
My texts[letters] would be what I really want them to have access to if I died. Maybe not at the same age, I would probably have been a NIGHTMARE if I had validation from my dead mother on my outrageous actions that I am sure all teenagers will make anyway. I would probably want them to never ever see my preteen aim/aolchatroom messages. lol. I got a cell phone when I was 16 so they could probably have access to my 16-17 year old one when they turn 17, my 17-18 when they turn 18, and then I guess continue in that pattern? Until maybe 30? Jeez, I just, who the fuck would really want to read all this bullshit. But my text/letters would probably be pretty interesting threads. I would be interested to read my friend's messages with their friends [if they were dead and we would all be spared the embarrassment]. I feel a HUGE connection to people when re-reading messages. also a weird sense of self discovery when pulling a paranoid parrot and re-reading my sent mail. haha. fuck.
But the fact that I take photos of things around me on a daily basis and sent that shit to my friends and then we talk about it like we are sitting next to each other even though we haven't looked at each other's faces in 4 months and some how when we are actually irl it feels exactly the same and it makes me wonder how friendships worked before technology.
I would give my ring toe of my left foot [I decided this right now, and I gave it a good, honest think-over] if I could see what my mother cooked for dinner last night, then how her cat, in the bathroom, looked while she took a shit [that she also considered photographing but decided against], and then what she saw at work and the different outfits she tried on, her checking her teeth when she couldn't find a mirror and was to lazy to get up. I would shave off all my hair [yes, another honest wager] if I could see Photobooth video-diaries she had made in order to get things off her mind in the middle of the night.
I don't feel as though I am curious for some sense of validation. I feel like the rest of humanity pretty much got that covered.
I just miss her.
I would give most of everything if I could have some sort of conversation with that woman.
It would be funny as shit.
Friday, May 24, 2013
5.24.13
my philosophies are surfacing and record of them feels necessary
I agree with the statement "we are the life force of the universe"
I agree that the subconscious world is just as important as the conscious/shared world, but that our subconscious worlds have some sort of shared notion.
I don't know what that notion is.
See, my obsession with Shamans stems from my belief, assumption, that their idea of the "Spirit world" is just what I am referring to as the "subconscious world". I think that the subconscious is the extra details, information, we have absorbed radiating off of our memories and ideas. This is our gut feelings, our ability to be attracted to others, why dreams seem to prepare us for things and how we know who is coming up the stairs, who is standing behind us, who we need to contact. This is why buildings with unsteady foundations and vibrating pipes give us the heebie jeebies.
My issue with Shamans is the abstraction, religious aspect, "gods" and other trunkjunk that society has taught me is unnecessary and delusional. In today's world, meditating/yoga seems to be taking the place of church. These breathing exercises, internal thinking time, "relaxing" are allowing our brains to rest and communicate more than just our conscious self's opinion. We really do trust our subconscious by sleeping on important decisions and having positive attitudes and going with our gut.
I agree with the statement "we are the life force of the universe"
I agree that the subconscious world is just as important as the conscious/shared world, but that our subconscious worlds have some sort of shared notion.
I don't know what that notion is.
See, my obsession with Shamans stems from my belief, assumption, that their idea of the "Spirit world" is just what I am referring to as the "subconscious world". I think that the subconscious is the extra details, information, we have absorbed radiating off of our memories and ideas. This is our gut feelings, our ability to be attracted to others, why dreams seem to prepare us for things and how we know who is coming up the stairs, who is standing behind us, who we need to contact. This is why buildings with unsteady foundations and vibrating pipes give us the heebie jeebies.
My issue with Shamans is the abstraction, religious aspect, "gods" and other trunkjunk that society has taught me is unnecessary and delusional. In today's world, meditating/yoga seems to be taking the place of church. These breathing exercises, internal thinking time, "relaxing" are allowing our brains to rest and communicate more than just our conscious self's opinion. We really do trust our subconscious by sleeping on important decisions and having positive attitudes and going with our gut.
Friday, May 3, 2013
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