all those things

life is shit and shoepolish
necessary poles
experience on repeat

a lack of color

i've been dry for a year now, officially. i don't mean from booze, i mean from attachment. i've been dry from co-dependence. it was an unofficial goal i'd set for myself, and i have achieved it. i've spent the last 12 months getting to know me better. figuring out my wants and needs, instead of hanging around being whatever someone else needed.

i miss being what someone else needed. mostly because it's one of those spaces that i'm comfortable in, because i know what to do when i'm there. but i was tired of doing it for reasons that weren't mine, other than the need to be needed and not feeling that i was allowed to need anything for myself. i don't know what to say anymore about it, so i'll end that ramble before it starts to annoy me.

one night to be confused, one night to speed up truth. we had a promise made, four hands and then away. both under influence. we had divine sense to know what to say. mind is a razor blade. to call for hands above to lean on wouldn't be good enough. for me, no. one night of magic rush. the start, a simple touch. one night to push and scream and then relief. ten days of perfect tunes, the colors red and blue. we had a promise made, we were in love. to call for hands above to lean on wouldn't be good enough, for me, no. and you, you knew the hand of the devil. and you kept us awake with wolves' teeth sharing different heartbeats in one night. to call for hands above to lean on, wouldn't be good enough, for me, no.


it's things you have to do for yourself, see. no one approaches it the same way. what's that riding on your everything? it isn't anything at all. gotta see, gotta know right now. what's that writing on your shelf in bedrooms and bad motels? i wanna go back to sleep. the emotions, and the things that you say, it all will fall, fall right into place, as fruit drops. everything will fall right into place. gotta see, gotta know right now. what's that riding on your everything? it isn't anything at all.


we settle down to cut ourselves apart. cough and twitch from the news on your face and some foreign candle burning in your eyes. held to the past, too aware of the pending. chill as the dawn breaks and finds us up for sale. into the fog, another low road descending, away from the cold loss, your house, and summertime. blind to the last cursed affair, pistols and countless eyes. trail of white blood betrays the reckless route your craft is running. loiter the whole day through and lose yourself in lines, dissecting. we've turned over stones, looked for all our inventions. in matters of love lost, there's no recourse at all. lose yourself in lines, dissecting.

ransomed

i am home. i am exhausted. and when i have time tomorrow, i am going to talk about What Happened In New York.

stay tuned.

poem in october by dylan thomas

for my favorite month of the year, one of my most favorite poems of all time.

    It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
    And the mussel pooled and the heron
            Priested shore
        The morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net webbed wall
        Myself to set foot
            That second
In the still sleeping town and set forth.

    My birthday began with the water-
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
    Above the farms and the white horses
            And I rose
        In rainy autumn
And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
High tide and the heron dived when I took the road
        Over the border
            And the gates
Of the town closed as the town awoke.

    A springful of larks in a rolling
Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling
    Blackbirds and the sun of October
            Summery
        On the hill's shoulder,
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly
Come in the morning where I wandered and listened
        To the rain wringing
            Wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me.

    Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea wet church the size of a snail
    With its horns through mist and the castle
            Brown as owls
        But all the gardens
Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales
Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.
        There could I marvel
            My birthday
Away but the weather turned around.

    It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky
    Streamed again a wonder of summer
            With apples
        Pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning so clearly a child's
Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother
        Through the parables
            Of sun light
And the legends of the green chapels

    And the twice told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.
    These were the woods the river and sea
            Where a boy
        In the listening
Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy
To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.
        And the mystery
            Sang alive
Still in the water and singingbirds.

    And there could I marvel my birthday
Away but the weather turned around. And the true
    Joy of the long dead child sang burning
            In the sun.
        It was my thirtieth
Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon
Though the town below lay leaved with October blood.
        O may my heart's truth
            Still be sung
On this high hill in a year's turning.

- Dylan Thomas

no hmo

ensurance.

i'd rather be shopping around for that.

too bad no one sells it.

damage's weight

i almost went to sleep without writing something. i decided i was going to stop doing that.

i noticed you were looking around, for a few minutes, the other day. 4 pages in, anyway. 4 pages in isn't enough to find what you were looking for. if you were looking for it. go back a month or two, it's there. there have been more, but i haven't posted them. saving them for a rainy day years hence, when you no longer burn at the back of my throat, when you're no longer barely obscured by clouds.

when i've untied the emotions and can look at it all without them. when i'm "familiar enough with my ghosts to no longer care when they leave me." as i said once, once upon a time.

i've had my moments of it, too. moments of weakness. of wishing forgiveness or absolution. moments when i have scoured the corners of the interweb for a glimpse of you. but you've erased those trails surprisingly well. and all that ties me to you currently are the spam emails i keep getting from your (old?) gmail account, with some long and dubious link in them for some magical thing that has changed your life.

even though i know they're not really from you, when they show up, i still get that strange lump in my throat. that's how i know it's too soon.

that's how i know i probably shouldn't post this, that it might be a bad idea to let you know that i know that you were here, even if it was only for 4 minutes and 38 seconds.

i miss the way you could make me laugh so easily. i miss laughing easily. i miss being close to you, even though i wasn't. oh, damn nostalgia. it's always the shiny luster over everything that was wrong. makes it all look good from so far away.

i just wish we could be friends. it's come to that, at least. i'm not bitter anymore. regretful, but not bitter.

run

these words 
are an exorcism.


i distill myself 
in poetry,


until you have: 
me,
complete and
enigmatic enough


that i
no longer need
to be here.


and when
that is done,
like sylvia,
like emily,
i will 


run


to the quick
and eager dark.


heed the call
of some need
to discover


if i can still
be,


without all
the masks and
the voices.

jezabellin'

bright white cockatoo,
baby how i ponder your
shadow

how you rip me off my feet,
rape me of my time to sleep
shallow

though i was equipped
with a rainship,
and a fireship
and a starship,
all come to dance
no one told me the end of the line
could only be emptiness

that would swallow all my love.

i fell beneath the company,

now shall i sleep in a bed of blood
down in the deep, the rolling sea?

and in my angst for cool hips or
softness or
morning glow confidence,

i took it to the dog,
took it to the plants,
took it to the beach,
i took it to the shark...
i found tenderness.

but when i took it to the sky
to the bright white
cockatoo on a satellite,
she looked down on all my years

but with a click of a finger
she goes higher than the call for children

higher than the stand that kills it.

should've flipped it off,
i should've known there and then.

but she swallowed all my love.

i fell beneath the company,

and now i sleep in a bed of blood,
down in the deep
the rolling sea...

oh pristine,
my hopeless thing.

there was a place in the town
a statue
she'd made me wait beneath

but its magnificent archways,
archways,
that's where i'd go to weep.

that night up under the starlight,
you call the great blistering blue

a strange formation came down from the ceiling
and it began to move
and so the shattering shards of glass fell
and glistened this way and that,

but she would say
i won't find my way
through the plaster.

i'm am empty hourglass in the sand.

but she loves me
more than anyone who wouldn't speak like that.

she keeps mace spray,
for you can't rely on the common man.

but it is alright,
here in the time and the place i am.
you leave a light on all night.

just to remind me of the place i am.

how long
it seems i've waited
i've walked a thousand
to see you to heaven
to see you
where heather grows

and i know
know you divide

between bringing in the light
playing in the height
of the sky
with sweet hope

and playing in the pools
with the broken lines

and i get this in winter
get these visions,
visions...
i get the feel
you can't kill these visions


there's a cold
easy glow
dancing over our street.

i could have chased it down.

i could've held your love,
but wouldn't you think me weak?

of all, i should know
how the streets
come and go

when you chase the kaleidoscope dream.

but,
stranger,
baby,
always keep me
in your sweet memory.

biting cold
thrashing scolding
drowned me under our street.
perfect lips, pieces of your heart,
splattered off the cliff.

tell me, can you feel the beat?
getting loose,
getting loose she was.
letting those feelings loose,
she was
becoming a monster.

she drew the line
in the mind

she was not
holding on.

all that really matters is love

but if it's all that you really care about,
then tough.

i'm all out
for the war
i guess love wasn't what i'm looking for

i don't care
when you cry

i think self-pity is a state of mind.

i'm so hard
i'm so hard
i'm so hard

she's so hard
she's so hard
she's so hard

and maybe you're just too
good for me.

good for me.

or maybe you're just no use to me,

used to me.

i'm all out for the war.

i guess love wasn't what i'm looking for.
i don't care when you cry.

i think self-pity is a state of mind.

...and were silenced

i got

fifteen
hundred
bucks

and
all
i
want
to
do

is
sell
the
rest
of
my
shit

and
start
walking

anywhere

improv, 1am

the wind is nudging my blinds
through the screen;
reaching its long arms through the room
to my door,
to nudge it, too.

metallic taps against drywall;
small thump of doorframe;
tap right,
thump left.

the wind wraps around
my shoulders.
i shiver
i savor september
every year, the small crisp
edges it puts on things,
enough to erase summer's
long, dry bake.

it is the a la mode
month of junejulyaugust
cherry pie.
smooth sweet after
too-warm tang.

but this september
is not the old friend
i know so well.
the caress of the wind
so much more hollow
ghost-like. or i

am more hollow,
ghost-like. i am
empty glass bottle

as september whips over me
echoing a deep moan
from all my sides,
far more animal
a sound
than i have been able
to make in all
the heavy heat of
august.

every night, the wind
kicks up and i
howl my low cry
to a moonface waxing full,
tugging the inner
tide of me out of
myself and leaving
this empty
glass feeling.

i wait for october
when the wind will grab strong,
bite me, reassure me
with presence and movement.
when the moon will wane
and my fullness will return.

when i will write,
and be,
and be glad.

about time

so some of you may or may not be aware that i was laid off from my job of two years at the beginning of august. it was quite a frustrating thing. also, i have been sick all this week with a combination of tonsillitis and laryngitis and have been trying to sleep it off and drown it because i no longer have health insurance.

right now i am sitting at my computer eating some ice cream because it's the only thing i can swallow tolerably. i sound like a throat cancer victim.

i know i complained about my job a lot. well, not my job, per se, but the people i worked with. but after being unemployed for nigh over a month now, i can tell you this: i would much rather have a job that i hate than no job at all.

i have been super discouraged. like, probably more discouraged than i ever have been at any other point in my life previously. and a while ago, i decided i was going to stop posting such depressing whiny blog posts here because nobody wants to come read about how sad and miserable i am - which is why i haven't been posting too much.

despite how familiar i am with the feeling of discouragement, i don't handle it very well. not well at all.

i guess i just figured i should write something to say i am still around. even if the definitions of "around" and even "i" are shaky and hollow lately.

that's all.

when life hands you lemons... forget them and find something to laugh at!

song of the day

who's got the crack - the moldy peaches

shuffle along

i can't remember what is wrong. we got a lot more to go. i put a trash can by the road and filled it up just to lighten my load. i got nowhere to go. someone's alone, fell asleep on the phone, waiting like a dog for a bone. a fish in the sea can feel like it's completely alone. the world may never know.

i woke this morning deep in the earth, laying there with the granite and the moss. i was met by the sun. it was then i saw you there, down on the street my love. such a long way. no one to comfort you, to tell you you're needed. what's there left to believe in? so i signaled off to the high and crumbling moon. closed both my eyes and crawled under the sink. i felt you in my arms again.

we can't ask how. crowds jump to their death from the bridge as i walk by tonight. the whole jist of it there as we fall. you're not expected to know why in such a short time. and there are stanzas never meant to rhyme. we've marched so long. and we've much farther than we've gone to go.

this is not my day. and nobody really cares anymore anyhow. nobody called again. cause they said i'm too lazy to stay alive. every day it's another world and every change of tomorrow hungover and hungry to fix it. a miracle cure for my sorrow with pillows of  self-esteem. alone in a satellite dream. but i can't forget about a world where every beam i choose is shining alone on you.

all i wanted was a chance to say i would like to see you in the morning, rolling over just to have you there would make it easy for a little bit longer. but here, closer every year, so near the fear is coming clear. hottest summer in a hundred years, but summer didn't bother getting up this morning.

slipping on through the sensors, tripping over rails and fences made in the mists and the abyss. superheroes fighting crime with love and broken fists.

i can't stand to see your picture on the dresser where i left it. another sunny day and you're miles away. i could stand to be a fixture in a faded family picture. but i can't see the sunset. all i know is that you'd be perfect right now. you'll come to stay in my arms, you'll come sway in my arms. who cares if there's a party somewhere, we're gonna stay in.

ariadne sleeping - the clientele

listless

tree house
indoor swing
job worth waking up for
someone else worth waking up for
more time to be creative
more will to be creative
a breakfast croissant
nicer fingernails
nicer fingers
more musical talent
motivation to do something with what small shreds of musical talent i have already
beach
beach
beach
beach
beach
beach
beach
beach
ocean

cautionary tale

some days, it takes all of your will
just to feel indifferent.

roald dahl is muh fraverite

I began to realize 

how important it was

 to be an enthusiast in life. 

He taught me that 

if you are interested 

in something, 

no matter what it is, 

go at it at full speed ahead. 

Embrace it with both arms, 

hug it, love it and above all 

become passionate about it. 

Lukewarm is no good. 

Hot is no good either. 

White hot and passionate 

is the only thing to be.

roald dahl

my uncle oswald

smooth liquidation, good dividends

lash out,
irresponsibly.
look as
hardcore as
it feels inside.

as deviant
during the day
as awake
at night.

rough edge,
rough edge,
roughage.

scars,
cars,
black lines
under skin.

wear your art
heart
start
smart

on your sleeve.
distortions behind
glass. holes
assholes
to fill the holes.

fly in a jar
no honey or vinegar,
buzz buzz buzz
wingbeat repeat.

throw yourself
against the wall
over and
over and
over again,
might get you
out sometime.

holes, needles,
burn words
into your skin.

feel something
with this body.
this body so used
to feeling
nothing,
nothing
physical
anymore. or ever.

back to back-
door rebellions,
window slip

and slick
quick
lies
like silver,

mercury beads
off the tongue,
poisonous,
expanding.

flux licked
lip drip.
quick trip

lights off
lights on
no covers
just coverups.

she drop,
drop,
drops.

pools red
in a fool bed.
dirty boots,
natural roots.

11 o' clock
desk shimmy

in the work chair,
scratch the itch
that's not there.
not there where
it can be...

scratched.

its all in skin,
beneath skin.
buck with a whim,
instead of against it.

it's fly
or die,

but

the ink
runs dry.

shore

white leaves shiver in
white branches that bend
and sway with unnatural
and discordant rhythm.

small dervishes of fog
move heavy, crowded
against the ground.

invisible arms
gather flotsam and
pull it back.

there is salt
in the opalescent air,
shimmering,
you can taste it when
you breathe.

it tingles at
the back of your
throat.

time is every
second tremble,
of every leaf;
the mealy squish
of wet sand
between your toes.

the retreat of
love, or affection
in the wet, white moments
of the morning.

rope chafes, hands
cling to a heavy line -
hold fast. waves slap
loud, unseen against
wood sides.

you caught the boat
just in time,
this time,
before other arms and hands
could pull it back, fast
out to sea.

impressions and impetus

a surprisingly good mood, for a monday. overcast, low clouds on the east horizon. by low, i mean they're skirting the mountaintops, so perhaps "low" is relative for those who don't live in a valley, but when the top of this giant bowl in the middle of the rockies is covered with clouds, i feel snug, blanketed. overcast grey days are a rarity in the summer, especially around here, and despite their stigma, are my favorite kind of days. the greens get deeper, everything's a little less yellow, a little less dry and baked feeling.

slept good, weird dreams, but good sleep. i remembered them when i woke up, but not anymore. it's all good, they weren't significant, just my brain spinning off. unwound. it's amazing what a three-day weekend can do sometimes.

i've been watching hell's kitchen, season 8, the last week or so, because it always fascinates me to watch the way other people cook, the way other people mesh. and despite his sailor-mouth (which, after all my years of gaming, i myself seem to have acquired) i actually quite like gordon ramsay. i've seen his softer side on kitchen nightmares, and i think he's actually a pretty great guy. doesn't hurt that he's a hottie, either.

anyway, the reason i share that is because i've been thinking a lot about life the last few days, my life specifically. the direction it's going. my manager wants me to go back to school this fall. he's one of those people who think that it doesn't matter what you get a degree in, as long as you have a degree, a piece of paper that says, i kicked four years' ass by jumping through more hoops than anyone should and made it out the other side. because apparently a degree makes you a better person. so, despite my own personal feelings to the contrary about this, everyone i've talked to seems to think it's time for me to go to school, or at least do something beside spend all day sitting in a warehouse doing mindless drone work and bitching about how discontented i am. because, let's face it, it's a pretty miserable job, and i DO do a lot of bitching these days.

so, i was looking around at graphic design classes at one of the local colleges, and it's like... i don't want to do that. drawing is boring to me lately. it's flat and you can't... get IN it, like i don't want a job where i'll be stuck in front of a computer tweaking crap in adobe all day - how is that fulfilling? maybe it is for some people, but not for me. i just want a career where i can do some of everything, as long as it's expressive and involved, right? but what kind of career would that be? i want a little art boutique/restaurant/music place. i want it to look good, i want to make things that look good, and taste good, and have everything sound good. i want expression and creativity and fun and i want people to be there interacting, enjoying, sharing ideas.

so what do i have to do to get that? culinary school? i know i've got the art down. i just need to practice it more consistently, and honestly, art classes drive me crazy, it's why i quit school in the first place. but then, maybe i need to just get my associates in something, so that i can have a job that i enjoy even a little, while i'm working on my crazy "career" dream.

iunno. i just have to go do something, because sitting around waiting for some great guy and all the "plans" that i thought would be in place already to fall in my lap isn't cutting it anymore. so what, if i'm not married? so what, i don't have a house or kids or a car or all those things i expected of myself at this stage of life? i feel like i've been hanging around hoping some magic door would open and that life would be there on the other side and it would be cut and dry, 1-2-3, simple, open, shut, done.

but that's not life. life never works like that, and if you think it does, then you're just lying to yourself. and i'm tired of lying to myself. life is dynamic and fluid and expressive, and when you're not willing to go with the flow and figure out the twists and turns, then it will keep going without you. it'll wash right past you, like a river. and you will be that stubborn rock stuck in the current, slowly eroding, wearing down smaller and smaller and smaller.

i'm tired of eroding, of feeling myself washing away in path of time and life that i'm too scared to let take me to all those places that i should be.

no more rock, it's time to roll.

a dream disinterred

from a letter written in october of '09

I dreamt I was back in Stamford. It was autumn, the trees had all turned, but the leaves hadn't dropped. Early evening. You were with me. We were walking. Walking along the side of a long, twisting and narrow road. One side walled up by huge boulders, that jutted out into the road... I remember walls like that in Stamford. Roads like that. The other side was a sharp drop into a ravine. Stamford is hilly, forested. Everywhere is trees. And every tree was yellow, orange and red. The wind was blowing, but the sun was still out, just setting. Just starting to set. Bright orange rays breaking through leaves and branches. The waving currents of the wind in the leaves, and the long glow of sunlight made it look like the trees were on fire, but it was cold.

You were holding my hand. Our fingers folded between each other's, alternating, interlocked. I remember turning my head to watch you as you walked, watch your face as you looked at the trees, the leaves, the sunset. You looked happy, content, interesting, intrigued. You turned your head and smiled at me with the corner of your mouth and pulled me closer to you. Letting go of my hand, and wrapping your arm around my shoulders, I reached up and held your hand again, as it hung over my shoulder. I played with your fingers, turned my head to kiss your hand and leaned against you as we walked, grateful for how warm you were. Grateful for the way you held me close. I tilted my head back against your arm and looked up at the holes of sky between the trees, watched the way the top of the sky was turning purple, and the long arms of light reaching sideways through the tree trunks had turned red.

I heard a small laugh, noticed for the first time small skipping footsteps on the other side of you and leaned my head forward, craning my neck to see a small boy, 3 or 4, jumping over the rocks and leaves on the road as had his small hand wrapped tight around two of your fingers to hold on and keep from falling. The familiar brown, curly hair, and eyes pierced my heart when he looked up at my face and laughed as he jumped over a rock AND a leaf at the same time, the laugh a small squeal of delight. I smiled back at him, laughing softly, and looked back at you, your eyes moved over my face, watching me, beaming. That glow of your smile more fitting, more perfect than the setting sun behind you.

That moment felt so real, everything accentuated. Everything seemed to burn itself into my senses. The weight of your arm on my shoulder, the twist of your fingers in mine. The way the wind was whispering strands of hair against my cheek, the streaks of dirt on the white of Max's little black sneakers as he kicked and jumped, the warmth of you and your smile. The trees and sunset reflecting in the dark of your eyes as you looked at me like nothing made you happier than knowing that I was happy, that you'd given me everything that I wanted, and that everything that I wanted was there in that one small moment. None of us said anything, words were superfluous. All that mattered was there, your hand in mine. Our small son laughing, beside us.

And the dream faded, cut out and something else took its place, like my mind changed channels, and it was shapes and a situation that I knew was a dream, and I couldn't recall colors or people or whatever else happened when I woke up, but I remembered that dream of us, of you. I wish you could have seen it. I wish that it had been real. Perhaps it will be, one day. Maybe not exactly the same... but close. 

babysteps, i need...

a vacation.

you don't have to be backlit to be the villain

insistence gets you 70% of the way. 89% if no one really notices or cares. it's why you can't look people in the eye. too personal. it makes them notice, it makes them care.

tonight you've been thinking about what your dad said to you - two, three - years ago about not loving the wounded place. about how you can't ever be whole and happy if you use those soulholes to comfort yourself in some way.

the hole as a crutch, the hole as a means of separation, difference, distinction. the hole as some antagonistic gathering  place of artistic or passionate integrity. you can exist with a hole easily enough, people do it every day. you can't exist, truly, if you let the hole fill with gravity and suck the rest of you in some slow spiral draining.

if, as you say, who you are is based on the riding of your emotional waves, then the hole with gravity is your most dangerous foe. the emotions center on it, swirl and are swallowed. around and around and around until you're sucked in and still spiraling. is it any wonder you feel that your life has been lived in so many circles?

your wound can close around the bullet. skin returns to flat skin, heal but never be fully healed. you can carry the bullet inside secretly like some badge of honor or memory that you are solely cognizant of, but if you want to recover, you have to get the bullet out. there has to be some extrication or the memory will always be there, will always fester, no matter how things look on the outside.

this is obvious, this is what doesn't really need to be said. this isn't what you do.

what you do, actually instead of ideally, is rip the bullet out, identify it as a bullet and then frame the bullet and focus on the bullet and keep pulling the scab off where it was, keep slicing the stitches back open, to see if you're healed yet. and you can insist that you don't love the wounded place, but love was just a semantic. it's the obsession with the wounded place that will suck you in. it's the attention and the headspace you give it. sometimes - lots of times - emotionally, you have to slap a band-aid on it and keep on playing. or it will never heal, and you will never get anything done.

you'd be better off collecting scars and stories, than sitting on the bathroom counter examining the blood and the pain and the progress that will never come.

it's not an epiphany, and it's not supposed to be a lesson or a lecture. it's just the space you are in your head tonight, trying to glean tiny bits worth biting off the last scraps of leftover advice.

you always talk about more red, wanting the more red. the blood isn't more red. especially if it's your own.

you can't find new colors in yourself if you haven't spent enough time outside of yourself to gather any other colors in the first place.

you can trip over your favorite temptations, we all have them. those vices that we say no to all day, and then let in at night when it's dark and they're familiar and the familiarity and the habit are a comfort in their own way, regardless of the thing.

how hard is it to make a habit, a familiarity, out of a good thing? harmony is opposing tension. there is as much emotional truth, as much - if not more - artistic integrity, in making it all a good thing, or shone in a good light.

your life is hard, but it is not as hard as some. take heart, and whole, and pull in the edges. there is substance is the nothole. substance and discovery and the tiny-veined weavings of truth.

the lines are not always cracks. somewhere, and sometime, you will turn on again, in darkness, and the beauty will have been right there in front of you all along.

you can build as many good things with tiny stones, as bad ones. make the mountains of your molehills majestic, challenging; climb and overcome.

it's not the mountain that changes, it's you.

you have to trust yourself enough to say, i can't see it, but it's there. i expect to see it, therefore it is.

the cat in schrodinger's box is dead and not dead. stop beating the dead cat and pick the other side for once. it's just as real, just as valid, especially when the box is still closed.

even if you don't normally listen to the songs, listen to this one. 

waiting for the beat to kick in - dan le sac vs. scroobius pip

silently i step up with a subversive subtext
trying to feed the need for more than just remedial subjects
place my faith in the belief that the general public
will open up their minds to more than just an industry puppet
i ain't a preacher preaching doom and gloom
well, not just yet, 
but if there's something i feel strongly about then i'll discuss it
and if i only make one album before i kick the bucket
i'll hold that album to my heart in my grave and say fuck it


waiting for the beat to kick in, but it never does
waiting for my feet to grow wings that lift me above
all of these tiresome things that we know and love
waiting for the beat to kick in, but it never does


a lot of my poems i write seem start with me waking up
or being in a dream, or dream-like state
now this implies a certain level of abstraction in my work, 
you might say i'm keeping it surreal, but i'd rather you didn't
fact is, i sleep a lot, it's as simple as that
i like sleeping, man, it's a nice place to be


i was walking along through unfamiliar streets
and it felt strange because there didn't seem to be anyone else around
i don't know where i was but it had the feel of new york,
but not new york in real life, the new york you see in old films
i can't really explain why, it just had that vibe
every step i took felt somehow more dramatic
so i kept walking, and down an alley behind a bar sitting on some metal steps i saw a man
from the look and the smell of him it was clear he enjoyed the drink
but he wasn't in such a state that i felt him to be any kind of irrational threat
so i approached him, with due care


ah, mister pip, he said out loud
we've been awaiting you, my name is elwood p. dowd
now just what he meant by we i didn't really get
but all the same i took a seat next to him on the step
he said you'll meet a few people before this day is through
who will administer advice and guidelines to you
now what each of us says i'll tell you now is true
but whether or not you take that advice is for you to choose


at that point he acted like someone had whispered in his ear
which, since no one else was there, was pretty damn weird
awkwardly i looked away and kind of played with my beard
he cleared his throat for a second and then said listen here


in this life you can be oh-so-smart or oh-so-pleasant
for years i was smart, i recommend pleasant
being smart can make you rich and bring respect and reverence
but the rewards of being pleasant are far more incandescent


with this information i was encouraged to walk on
i continued along through these empty streets
thinking over what elwood had said,
but at the same time, thinking over how fucking strange the day had been so far
i was in my own little world when a hand was placed on my chest
and a man said look out, there's some broken glass on the floor there


i looked up


he said hi, pleased to meet you, my name is lloyd dobbler
i'll get straight to the point, won't take too much time from ya,
i'm probably the youngest person you'll get advice from today
and you may think a guy my age wouldn't have anything to say
but it's said that observation not old age brings wisdom
and i observe every single life lesson i'm given
i won't attempt to tell you how to love or be loved
because you get a different genie each time that lantern is rubbed
but i will offer you advice from dealing with life
it's ups and it's downs, it's trials and it's strife
and i'm sure you've had times you've felt down and angry
and you wanted to lash out and punch a wall and be manly
but the question i pose now will offer you a plan b
and maybe some peace and quiet for your friends and family
how hard is it to decide to be in a good mood, 
and then just be in a good mood?
that's all i have to say, because it's a straight-up fact
you control your emotions, it's as simple as that


he walked off then, 
leaving me to contemplate this brief encounter
i barely had time to realize i was being taught something 
before he was
gone
and i was back on my way


on i walked and almost immediately i spotted the next guide
and he couldn't be clearer
this guy was standing on the street corner and pacing back and forth
skinny lookin' guy, leather jacket, tight jeans - retro look
i'd rarely seen someone look quite so uncomfortable in their own skin,
twitchin', smoothing his hair back, kicking the floor and looking up and a down the street
he clearly didn't enjoy waiting around so i approached him quickly
to put him out of his misery
and to let him start his
spiel


hi my name is billy brown,
i ain't gonna give you some quote
instead i'm gonna use some stuff that YOU wrote:
always had the feeling i could never be the villain
'cause the villain in the films is always backlit
now i find it pleasing
to defend myself with reason
but the clock is always sitting on my back
tick tick tick
then, no explosion but persistence brings erosion
like a picture overly exposed and
like a fox that's been run over in the road and


basically what i'm trying to say to you is
you don't achieve anything by letting the past rule within you
getting all pent-up and angry about stuff just eats away inside you, 
what's that other line of yours...


if you can't forgive and forget, how's this?
forget forgiving and just accept that that's it
see that's how it's gotta be
then you can fall in love, get on with life and be free


almost before he could even finish that sentence he was off down the street
hands in his pockets, hurrying away


now quite accepting of the total surreal time i was having 
i rounded a corner and continued on to my next encounter
resigned to the fact this was some dream or hallucination, 
i made my way through the now dark street, 
to the one window that had a light on,
i walked through the unlocked door which incidentally had blinds down
and a silhouetted figure like a film noir scene,
but sadly no sign saying private eye
as i entered a voice promptly said:


this journey's almost over, i'm the only one left 
allow me to introduce myself, my name is walter neff
the other guys have taught you things of great positive worth
but i'm afraid i'm here to bring you back down to earth
see you can live your life in control and be nice
but even that will not promise you a happy life
you may think yourself in general to be a nice guy
but i'm telling you now - that right there is a lie


even the nicest guys have some nasty within 'em
you don't have to be backlit to be the villain
whether it be greed, lust or just plain vindictiveness
there's a level of malevolence inside of all of us
you can paint yourself an image and live in your own little dream
but this ain't a dream, it's one big silver screen
so when you think you've got your happy ending don't ever forget it,
it ain't over till you hear the sound of your end credits


you'll be waiting for the beat to kick in, but it never does
waiting for your feet to grow wings that lift you above
all of these tiresome things that you know and love
waiting for the beat to kick in, but it never does

pyre

stepped on, ground underfoot,
the twist
of skin flayed by asphalt.
rock, hard place.

withdraw.

fingertips on edges,
walls were too hot.
outside the room, it burns.

tired.

of being ashes,
of being burnt-black
and blowaway.

of words
piles and piles
of words and wishes
of work and wanting...

nothing,

at the end
of these fingers
but more words
more black

more buried.

withdraw.

tiny stones build
an altar for this
holey heart.

a sacrifice:
self and
satisfaction.

by time,
with tiny hands
and tiny hammers.

so many tiny stones.

when the pyre
is complete,
there will be
no angel of god,
staying the knife
saying it was just

a test, a test
and you passed.
there will be

just
a mountain
made

of tiny stones
around a room
of tiny stones

around a tomb
of tiny stones
around a sarcophagus

of tiny stones
around tiny,
tiny stones,

and smoke

and nothing.

all my troubles

in a burning pile.

je sais, je sais que je sais jamais

you can't write lyrics for songs you don't sing
you sure can't keep track of every loose string
the wind will blow
notes come so slow
and holding on tight is how to lose everything

it's not just the good songs that get stuck in your head
and sometimes you're glad to sleep in a cold, empty bed
the catchiest tune
or the loneliest room
can both be full of words that no one should have said

what you never had will be what you miss most
it's easiest to be haunted by nobody's ghost
empty can ache
stillness will shake
what rips you wide open are those doors that stay closed

rambleraft of cognitive consommé

pardon me while my nartissticist spews...


jewelry-making? really? that's what it's come down to? the most blasé corner of artistic poserdom. anyone can bend some friggin' wire and string some stupid beads. we know this, because the internet is full of every no-talent dropout trying to make 15$ off 2$ worth of beads and wire, not counting shipping. but because i can't write or draw or sing or whatever... any real artistic thing, i have to drag my ass to the carnival fishing booth for some hobby-of-the-moment to distract me from my lack of integrity and the desperation of my dayjob and the soulsucking hypocrisy of my life. look! soap! i can make soap, that sounds fun. 2 days and $300 later... yawn. jewelry! i'll make earrings. 1 month and 450$ later... is this what i've become? what's next, scrapbooking? shoot me now. 

music... augh, i can't listen to one single damn song without skipping on to the next before it's 2/3 of the way through. i put my itunes library on shuffle and wonder what the hell's wrong with me that i have so much stupid music. no pleasure, from anything. can you literally die of ennui? i always thought that page in the gashlycrumb tinies was just a joke. 

blah. i can't write anymore, i can't write out all the crap in my head at the moment. my head this week is just like that picture in my postsecret submission. 

ooh, was that a confession? maybe.

she cried - frank yamma

braindead nailbed

moanday monday. complete apathy, or ambivalence. i'm only aloof because i'm bored with all the unrewarded effort, see.

you spend two and a half days erasing and can't quite make it. last an hour into the morning holding pattern, trying to hold on to some holdout, save yourself the heartache. but existence is an ache, so you just have to grit your teeth and deal with it. make the grimace look like a smile for the people who don't look closer.

itunes knew i was writing in here, so it shuffled up some arcade fire just for me to write to. but i have to change that, can't write to the same thing - even inadvertently - all the time. bon iver's got a new album out. so does agent ribbons, but i don't want either of them. i loved for emma, forever ago. and i loved on time travel and romance. and i don't want to tinge that love, vandalize the memories with the association of some new thing that's not as good. i don't need any more musical associations in my life right now anyway. it's getting to the point where i can't listen to anything in my library without skipping it before it makes me resentful. and i refuse to be a resentful person.

tiny little hammers building tiny little walls. some one's got to bridge the gasp and the sighs. and maybe to the untrained eye i'm sitting on my ass all day and biding time until i take you on. i like my orange juice with a little pulp. mmm. even when it's a bit tart and the orange is off. it's just like in the old days. i used to compose my own critical notices in my head...

at least i can leave little bows on all the knots i can't untie. if you can't fix it, at least make it pretty. so it looks good before you come at it with the scissors, with the fire. weird dreams about fire, about things that don't matter. i loved the premise, or the assignment that was mine at the premise. the execution was lacking, but the creativity, the ideas were there. and they were good. and i couldn't remember them when i woke up.

i have 8 key limes in the fridge at home that i don't know what to do with. 8 key limes isn't enough to do anything, if you don't have stuff for them to go with, and i don't want to go hunt down something on epicurious  because i'm not creative to come up with my own recipe. well, i am creative enough, i just... like i said, i'm bored with the effort. not the failure, i can handle failure, despite insistence to the contrary. if i can ace all this shit, i'll eventually have run through the entire gamut and come out on the other end ready for success, right? or is this more cyclical than they let on?

cyclical. geez, the cycles. it's a spiral. or a whole series of relapsing concentric circles. and the neuroses are firing on all six cylinders, but i'm hanging on by a thread to the thought balloon overhead and thread isn't very conductive. and i'm not conducive enough to pull things down, to be accommodating in my own little way. well, that's a lie. i'm always accommodating in my own little way, i'm just never accommodating enough for everyone else. and i get tired of trying to explain the jumps between my associations.

back to running laps. lapse.

it's a shame it's a pity - moondoggies

dream of piercings and overpasses

i had a dream you were supposed to meet me at a local convenience store, not the airport.

i was waiting for you on the bottom row of one of the refrigerated cabinets they keep the drinks in. the door was propped open, and i was curled up and clutching a pillow that half-obscured my head from view, so i was far more immune to public scrutiny than someone would be if they were camped out in a drink fridge in real life.

i was observing the people who kept walking in through the door, keeping an eye out for you, when i saw you come in and look around. you didn't see me, i buried my face in the pillow as you walked past looking at something else. you walked back out of the store and i kind of sat up to watch you leaving, when you turned around and locked eyes with me.

i climbed out of the fridge like, oh, sorry, i was napping... like this was totally normal, because it was a dream, and it was. you surveyed me as i stood there hugging my pillow and pretending you weren't looking at me, pretending you didn't have that disappointed and then completely removed look in your eyes that you did. i watched you hesitate, shifting ideas in your head, and then you said "car's out this way" and jerked your head toward the door.

i picked up my bag, still holding my pillow, and followed you out. you didn't even hold the door for me, trying too late to put all the distance back between us that had been there for so long. you were at your car already, holding the back door open. ah, you'd brought friends. "these are my friends, [name] and [name]. guys, this is...(you pause, biting your lip, and then shrug) chelsea."

i wasn't expecting more people than just you. i'm taken aback a little, but trying not to let it show.

i wave to the guys, say "hi, it's nice to meet you both," and put my bag in the trunk, but decide to keep my pillow with me as i climb into the front seat. as i get in, the car starts to shrink, it's so small my knees are up against my chest - or would be, if the pillow weren't in the way and my head is cocked to the side, ear pinned to my shoulder, because the roof is so low i can't sit with my head straight.

you get in and start driving. i'm fidgeting with my bottom lip, feeling for the holes from the piercings, there should be two of them, i freak out that they're going to grow back in all of the sudden, so i find some wire (i don't know from where) and twist it into a spiral, poking one end into the left hole, spinning it  so the wire wraps around my lip and into the hole on the right. i twist the ends up so they wrap around my lip too.

i pay attention to the dialogue going on in the car, now that i don't have to worry about my pierced lip growing back in.

the three of you are talking about the girl, another girl, the one i'm going to be replaced with once we get to her place. i feel sick, and sad and all knotted up, but act cheerful and offer to help with directions. you decide to let one of your friends drive. we pull over and he climbs into the driver's seat and we take off again.

the car goes back to normal size at some point, but i don't notice.

we're driving down a tall, steep overpass/exit ramp. i tell your friend, [name], to turn left. instead of waiting until we get to the end of this giant, tall, terrifying ramp to turn, he turns right then, driving us off the edge.

we fall in slow motion, i panic inwardly, apologizing that you're going to be stuck in the car with me when we hit the bottom and die in a fiery explosion, instead of someone less disappointing.

i feel my stomach rise in the back of my throat as the vertigo paralyzes me. my mind says nothing. i say nothing. nothing will stop the landing, the explosion, i bury my face in the pillow and wake up.

dear blog,

i haven't forgotten you. i just haven't had anything to say! well, that i didn't have some other place to say it. but just for you, tonight, i'll write you something extra special after work. awwwww.

<3 chels

all weirdos

tuesday evening shufflebored, anyone?

surfin' bird - the ramones
let there be more light - pink floyd
something to talk about - badly drawn boy
i feel fine right now - dj bc and the beastles (beatles/beastie boys mash-up... yes.)
big love - lindsey buckingham

i'll find links for you when i get home from work...

dumb pluck cluck luck

down hair
twigs grass
expertly woven
eager circles drawn
in natural lines
around the tender
things that need
to be kept safe
and soft and
sheltered

you can't trust your friends
they will betray you with a love less blinding
and then at the end
they may admit that you were
missing something

marvel me
in this nest the parts
of me kept secret
kept away
from the wind and
all those things
that would grab them
in the dark
in my absence

and no one remembers 
even one word that left your mouth
all the melodies were stolen
from songs by someone else
you're out of time and inspiration
filled with self pity and fear
and all the dreams that haven't dried up
are slowly drowning in your tears


more yellow birds,
more yellow birds
the dim interior

but i have walked on
too many eggshells
and despite my best efforts
the only things hatching
in my tended circles
are brown and broken

stillborn in the silence
and the wind
of too many words

just don't forget
that it's dumb luck that got you here
don't fool yourself,
misfortune's waiting for the best time
to appear 
to make it clear
that all the courage
and the talent that you had
was just in dreams
and when you wake up
you will beg to get it back
to get it back

the wrong girl

so the floodgates open
but nothing comes out
i'm feeling no relief in my head, just doubt
but my heart keeps telling me
hold your ground
you'll never learn a thing if you bail out now
and i'm lonely again tonight
i can feel it like a knot in my side
they keep saying this is part of the ride
but i'm not getting stronger
yet hold me against the light
do you see any bullet inside?
wouldn't find one if you magnified
because you've got the wrong girl
put my fingers around the back of your chair
you never miss a thing
but you missed me there
and i just kept thinking
am i prepared
to pull it out from under your trusting stare?
and the house is quiet as a hollow head
and i'm walking around bumping into things you said
this has not been as easy as i thought it would
i'd be cooling down with fire
if i thought i could
and i'm lonely again tonight
i can feel it like a knot in my side
they keep saying this is part of the ride
but i'm not getting stronger
yet hold me against the light
do you see any bullet inside?
wouldn't find one if you magnified
because you've got the wrong girl
yeah you got the wrong girl
i see you there
and the floodgates open
but nothing comes out

fortunate advice, unsolicited on a bad work day

missing faces at 3 am

it's raining, and i can't sleep. and you're hurting in all the old places tonight.

the hardest part about crying is when you can't stop.

shimmer

she calls me from the cold
just when i was low,
feeling short of stable
all that she intends
and all she keeps inside
isn't on the label
she's, she's ashamed
can she take me for a while?
can i be your friend?
we'll forget the past,
or maybe i'm not able
and i break at the bend.

i found these on behance by some girl in edinburgh and i love them.

brushfire

waves of white and wheat
subtle tints the lavendar
weaves in mountain,
in more wheat.

vincent, you tidal
ebb and flow of
mercurial man,
sink low your misery.

drown it in this work
of color, washed in wind
with beauty you console
the short lines, rips
and soultears.

with tiny hairs and
so much swirling, you
mask the missteps
of purpose
of everyone else's
expectations.

some too-late corners
envious green at
how you see your world.

the balm of beauty
in nature, in good-natured
love of life and mankind:
a salve to your emptiness
your doubt.

there must be
opposition in all things.
but you, poor, tortured man
that you are and were
and are still in
every stroke of colour,

blaze bright,
the center of self
stoked.
the keen spirit,
depth and sweep
no ember glow. no,

brushfire.

and every wheat field,
cottage, still life
inhaled life and is left

exhaling ash,
sweet, but with a slow burn,
bitter, peppered
on the end of my tongue.

grey day runaway

six shots this morning -
and everything i listen to -
leave my mouth tasting bitter.
it was sent in a rush,
some desperate inner push
reached for reaching,
arms too short as always.

so you fall back, you know.
back into the things that hold you.
back from everything going on outside.
pwn noobs, hunter.
don't give a damn,
it only hurts till the pain stops,
the familiar gutwist
knifejab of all the
things you wish were more real.

plain old not enough red.

a call from the old australian
went straight to voicemail
because i screen
everything
and thought it was a telemarketer
even though i jumped
eagerly onto the do not
call list bandwagon
they still slip through.

i should get off again,
just because i want
people to call me.
some people. i need to specify.

anyway sorry, adam.
good luck in weipa.
it looks pretty in the
google images.
when you said poeser,
i thought you said bonza and i
was almost flattered.

as you were, gentlemen.

every day i wake up
alone because i'm not like
all the other boys.

i thought the net was
lifting me out of the sea.
it wasn't.
i'm stuck in an 800 lb crabpot and
it's dragging me down.
a lure for big boys
who like to grab things
in the dark.

freezing and trapped,
pull everything else down, is that it?
wait for the haul-in.

i'd blow my money on
some triumph
and break out
of this one-trick town.

drive north. to a no-trick town.
settle down.
marry a fisherman.
alaska alaska alaska
it's always been there in the back
of my mind.

i remember eighth grade.
who remembers eighth grade?
the guidance counselor asked
me what i wanted
to be when i grew up
i said a hermit who published
books through the mail for a living.
whaddaya know, i could
be halfway there.

i am halfway there.

twist and whisper the
wrong name, i don't care.
fists out. impotent ghostfighting.
all i want is
to punch holes into nothing.
bite something corporeal.
i'll run back and shake him
tightly. fight me.
miss your face like hell, but
refuse
to admit it.

a year from now we'll all be gone.
my family lives in a different state.
if you don't know what to make
of this, then we will not relate.

calloused fingers won't make you strong, edith wong.
something isn't right.
when you're kissing someone new
but you know your heart's not through
with the last boy
do you say to yourself 'this will do?'
practice all day long
till the notes are perfect
but your heart's all wrong.

doubledown the slow drown
more music, more riptide, more numb
sit in the window
but don't answer the door.
the phone rings and rings.
and rings and rings
and things.

split ends get straight
stuck at the gate
you'd run
but you missed the starting gun.

maybe we'll sing that song that we
liked the most.
maybe you'll forgive me.
maybe i'll forget.
i'll sing along to the national.

it's just these pieces that i give away.
straight cinnamon on my lips again.
i lied, it was cayenne.
not honey.

back from temporary leave, it's the monday music shuffle!

(p.s. since when can you not embed youtube videos anymore? that's bollocks.)

"Stay Close" by Delorean
each secret you keep
keeps me a bit far
but i want to know
burn down the mysteries
though i know i won't
i'll never know it
i could never stand not being closer
how come
we argued again?
you suggest i didn't grasp it
it got dark some time ago now
now i'm lost
where can i reach you?
get up get up get up

"Lipstick on Your Collar" by The Saints
when you left me all alone at the record hop
you said you were going out for a soda pop
but you were gone for quite a while, half an hour or more
you came back another girl and this is what i saw
lipstick on your collar told a tale on you yeah
lipstick on your collar says you and i are through
coz lipstick on your collar is coming down on you

(love that old school aussie punk. mm.)

"Il Cielo In Una Stanza" by Mondo Cane
quando sei qui con me
questa stanza non ha pi? pareti
ma alberi,
alberi infiniti
quando sei qui vicino a me
questo soffitto viola
no, non esiste pi?
lo vedo il cielo sopra noi
che restiamo qui
abbandonati
come se non ci fosse pi?
niente, pi? niente al mondo
suona un'armonica
mi sembra un organo
che vibra per te e per me
su nell'immensit? del cielo.
per te, per me:
nel cielo

"Welcome Home" by Idlewild
i go outside to find the middle of nowhere
everyone needs their own empty stage
just like the sky with no beginning or ending
or like reading a book without a last page
as we live our lives through a series of glances
and you smile without smiling for a whole 'nother year
i think we need a little bit more understanding
i think the future is already here
stop, turn around
and say it with your eyes closed
you don't need to welcome me home
stop, turn around
try looking with your eyes wide open
welcome home
welcome home

"La Gloria" by Gotan Project
una tarde espectacular
un partido impresionante
toma la pelota nini flores de corrientes
un verdadero duende
un mago del bandoneón,
hábil y musical, siempre inspirado
la va dejando para el ruso wasserman, gustavo wasserman
auténtico gaucho judio de venado tuerto
un sabio, quizás el músico argentino
más importante residente en europa
va dejando la pelota para lini cruz, 
la violinista danesa tanguera, 
dinamita en lose dedos y en el alma, bellisima
va tocando la pelota por el costado para el beto müller
beto müller se acerca al área, 
la va dejando para philippe cohen solal,
phillipe cohen toca para eduardo makaroff, 
que está frente al arquero, va a tirar, tiró,
GOOOOOOOOOOOOTAAAAN, 
GOOOOOOOOOOOOTAAAAN.

so much want!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=im1iNq02Kz0

today i am in love with vincent van gogh

"What am I in the eyes of most people — a nonentity, an eccentric, or an unpleasant person — somebody who has no position in society and will never have; in short, the lowest of the low. All right, then — even if that were absolutely true, then I should one day like to show by my work what such an eccentric, such a nobody, has in his heart. That is my ambition, based less on resentment than on love in spite of everything, based more on a feeling of serenity than on passion. Though I am often in the depths of misery, there is still calmness, pure harmony and music inside me. I see paintings or drawings in the poorest cottages, in the dirtiest corners. And my mind is driven towards these things with an irresistible momentum." 

 ~

"Just slap anything on when you see a blank canvas staring you in the face like some imbecile. You don't know how paralyzing that is, that stare of a blank canvas is, which says to the painter, ‘You can't do a thing’. The canvas has an idiotic stare and mesmerizes some painters so much that they turn into idiots themselves. Many painters are afraid in front of the blank canvas, but the blank canvas is afraid of the real, passionate painter who dares and who has broken the spell of `you can't' once and for all." 

~

"One cannot always tell what it is that keeps us shut in, confines us, seems to bury us, but still one feels certain barriers, certain gates, certain walls. Is all this imagination, fantasy? I don not think so. And then one asks: My God! Is it for long, is it for ever, is it for eternity? Do you know what frees one from this captivity? it is very deep serious affection. Being friends, being brothers, love, that is what opens the prison by supreme power, by some magic force." 

~

"Quick work doesn't mean less serious work, it depends on one's self-confidence and experience. In the same way Jules Guérard, the lion hunter, says in his book that in the beginning young lions have a lot of trouble killing a horse or an ox, but that the old lions kill with a single blow of the paw or a well-placed bite, and that they are amazingly sure at the job... I must warn you that everyone will think that I work too fast. Don't you believe a word of it. Is it not emotion, the sincerity of one's feeling for nature, that draws us, and if the emotions are sometimes so strong that one works without knowing one works, when sometimes the strokes come with a continuity and coherence like words in a speech or a letter, then one must remember that it has not always been so, and that in time to come there will again be hard days, empty of inspiration. So one must strike while the iron is hot, and put the forged bars on one side." 

~ Vincent van Gogh 

tick tick tick tick tick tick tick away

my friends don't really get me, think i'm the only one. well, i sold my soul to jesus and since then i've had no fun. behind every tree's a cutting machine and a kite fallen from grace. inside every man is a heart of sand, you can see it in his face.

i was in an indoor forest, and there were spiders everywhere on the ground. like... real spiders. spiders the size of your foot. those giant bird-eating spiders, and those nasty funnelweb spiders. and i was with some other... ladies... i think? we were walking through and they were all freaking out, but i was trying to not be the littlest little girl screamer of the group, so whilst my mind was overwhelmed with highpitch hysteria, i wasn't making any noise. and then a man in black slacks, and a white button-down with black suspenders and a low black fedora came in to take us out of the forest. and when i looked at his face, he had no eyes. just empty sockets. black as black as black. but they weren't off-putting enough to distract me from his chiseled features, or how attractive his hands were. i was only going to walk behind him, why did it matter what his eyes did or didn't look like?

the wind and i, we speak the same, but he don't hear so well. you're gonna have to curse him, well you're gonna have to yell. the sky and i we've had our fights and i'm coming round to rain. if the rain come round and i don't go out i don't ever have to speak again.


such a rainy, grizzly grey month april has been! the weather report says we might be getting valley snow this friday. that's ridiculous. i remember my birthday, in 9th grade, when i turned 15, it snowed and that felt super late to me and i couldn't believe that it would snow in april. now, don't get me wrong, i love rain. i adore rain. the snow and the cold? not so much. but spring rain, when the rain finally turns warm and you can go play in it and run around and get soaked to the bone, but not frozen - that is some of my absolute favorite weather. and one of the multiple reasons i feel so drawn northwest these days. the weather up north is mah fraverite. i want the pacific coast, i just don't want california. everyone else can have california, it's never been the place for me. and if portland weren't the mecca for every pretentious indie hipster poser, portland would be the place for me. i thought it was gorgeous when i went. like someone stuck a city in the middle of a rainforest. but no - portland's too inland. coast coast coast - i need the coast. i remember sitting in the trees by the heceta head lighthouse. on the side of this coastal mountain thing, and i could hear the wind in the trees, and the waves at the same time, and smell the ocean, and i remember telling myself i could live in that one spot for the rest of my life and be completely content. my... all of me... yearns for the coast and the ocean. some soulpull riptide keeps trying to drag me further west. and i feel the need to succumb.

the captain's got his boots on and he's heading out the door. leaving his lady alone, thinking "he don't love me no more." he's done with all his bullshit, he's going back to war. if heaven is as heaven does, then this is hell for sure.


oh, it was a month for remembering and forgetting you. jamming straw in all the chinks of the walls that you tore down. torn down or... exploded. it seemed like a major detonation, really. other days it only felt like it was a minor collapse. every so often i see it for what we really were. a long, slow deflation. after all the hot air ballooning up in the sky is over, it's back to earth, a bit of a bumpy landing. and you have to lay it out in a huge flat open space and watch it fall into itself until there's no air left and then you fold it carefully, and roll it up, and cram it into something so much smaller than it was. and you drive off and the thing that's occupying that small space in the boot of the car seems impossibly different, wholly alien from the massive colorful slow grace that carried you in the sky. funny the things you can do, the places you can go, with a load of hot air. i will polish that metaphor and hang it on the blank wall in my mind to stare at for a while, and realize that's exactly what it was. i can live with that image. i can let that one go. i can come back to it and it will remind me of never, ever again.

the captain and the hourglass - laura marling