||[05 Nov 2010|09:56pm]
You still cry too easily, but without your tears, at least, everything would burn. You are Spring in your jeans, in the laughing leaves. I think pearls melted over your bones.
||[20 Aug 2010|09:48am]
I haven't written an actual entry in here in so long. I've pledged to begin writing again every day for at least an hour, even if forty minutes of that hour consists of me starting into space. For as long as I can remember, I've had a journal. There's one from first grade that barely makes sense with my shaky letters and incomplete sentences, but I can still understand the images I was trying to evoke just as clearly as when I wrote in it. My favorite is the journal I had in fourth grade right after the movie 'Harriet the Spy' came out. I used to put on a raincoat, grab my "spy kit" and run around my neighborhood investigating- just like Harriet. One time I even sneaked (snuck?) into the assisted living home up my street, and was walking around unnoticed. (In hindsight, they probably saw a gangly kid in a blue raincoat attached to a tool belt that was barely hanging on to her hips; they then decided they were either tripping balls, or I was some patients granddaughter. I was ignored. But I thought I had the power of invisibility.)
The journal from that time is full of observations of the most mundane things, but some sound mysterious or even sinister, even if all I was describing is someone walking their dog. Those are the best observations because they are so pure. In school, we were just learning what a simile and a metaphor and an onomatopoeia and a motif were. Those images and musings weren't trying to be anything, they weren't affected at all - just Laura telling Laura how she saw Laura's world. Like 'Harriet the Spy' it also contained honest opinions of my friends and peers. Luckily, no one ever saw it and attacked me with trashcan lids or purple paint like the story went. This is a good thing, because one sentence reads "Addy is stupid. Like, really stupid." Yeah. Good thing no one ever saw it.
I had several notebooks in middle school, but then I opened this journal in 8th grade. That's when anyone could read it and comment on what I had to say. I still wrote for me but knowing others would see it, maybe talk about it, and I think that's where I went wrong. Not that I don't love my friends reading my work, but a there's a difference between a blog and a journal and that difference is the privacy to say things like "Addy is really stupid."
That being said, I've started keeping a journal on me again. I'm writing down my thoughts and jokes and anything I like in it. The online stuff, I'm going to screen. Differentiating between the two will be a good exorcise for me. Another thing: I'm no longer going to give a fuck about sentence structure, what you guys may or may not think, or what my peers in my "writer's critique class" would say about not understanding me. Writers workshops are great and a helpful outlet, but I know I took one too many in college, and now I no longer trust my own voice. I'm getting back to basics. As Thoreau would say, I'm going to "simplify, simplify."
|That Summer Day
||[29 Apr 2010|06:50pm]
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
- Mary Oliver
|if you know the author please comment
||[04 Mar 2010|11:05am]
Let fall your soft and swaying skirt. Let fall your shoes. Let fall your shirt. I’m not the ladykilling sort enough to hurt a girl in port.
Marie’s gone blonde and lost a stone. She lay on her lawn, spun and alone. And, when the morning sun it rose upon Marie in her lacy clothes, it lit her up, and she walked around the winding streets of Camden Town. She doesn’t know who she wants to be, and if I knew, I’d tell Marie.
Cindy tells me she’s had fun sitting backstage, someone’s plus one. Up in her room the records spin, needle in the grooves that she’s worn thin. She lifts a sleeve and sees a name, and she’s got a smile on her face, and she’s got a story you can’t see: it’s just between that name and Cindy.
And before Holly made her way over the sea and far away – she’s telling me, inside her car, driving us back from the Crystal Corner bar – “I lost it there, I fell from health, cut some fresh pieces from myself. And then, for a second, something in me said, ‘Leave today. It’s time, Holly.’”
Well, I’m a weak and lonely sort, though I’m not sailing just for sport. I’ve come to feel, out on the sea, these urgent lives press against me. I’m just a guest. I’m not a part, with my tender head, with my easy heart. These several years out on the sea have made me empty, cold, and clear. Pour yourself into me.”
Let fall your soft and swaying skirt. Let fall your shoes. Let fall your shirt. I’m not the lady-killing sort enough to hurt a girl in port.
||[03 Mar 2010|04:56pm]
“I love you as certain dark things are loved, secretly, between the shadow and the soul.”
Pablo Neruda, Sonnet XVII
|Riskay "Smell yo' Dick" vs Emily Bronte's "Wuthering Heights" - a rough draft
||[19 Nov 2009|03:18pm]
"Why you commin' home at 5 in the morn'?/ Somethings going on/Let me smell yo dick."
This song hits at the crux of human relationships, especially those between lovers. We can see clearly see from Riskay's tone that she is upset with her lover because she believes he has been cheating on her. She starts a fight, claiming he is coming home late and was out with a "stripper ho" by the name of Diamond. In fact, Riskay's friend was up in da club and took pictures of her man with Diamond: so she has proof undeniable. Riskay 's possition is similar to that of Cathy's in the Emily Bronte classic, Wuthering Heights: her lover is unattainable and yet part of her very being. "My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath-a source or little visible delight, but necessary. I am Heathcliff-he's always, always in my mind-not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself-but as my own being," Cathy states. In a similar statement, Riskay announces "Nigga this the fifth teeth muthafuckin time that I called and left yo ass messages/I dun text yo bitch ass and you aint responded to nothing/What the fuck is you doin who tha fuck you out there with you think I'm stupid my girls dun already put me up on yo ass tonight night nigga when you get home I got som news foe yo bitch ass."
||[29 Oct 2009|09:19pm]
"We're all born with a box of matches inside us.
We can't light them by ourselves,
they can be lit from a melody, a sound, a caress, our lover's breath,
anything that pulls the trigger and sets off one of the matches.
Every person has to discover what will pull the trigger and enable him to live."
-(Como Agua para Chocolate)
||[11 Oct 2009|02:38pm]
Our love rhymes with: cub scout, clod-hopper, trouble-shooter, sore
thumb. Sitting in the kitchen with our fruit cocktail skin.
Who says love can’t last? A little syrupy, yes, a little soft;
a can of exploding snakes, yes, a dissolving eros-aspirin. Yes,
I could be your silent auction-all that old lady furniture
delivered from the house on the hill: velvet drapes, china poodles,
chintz, chamber pots on your doorstep. Now & Forever, like
an interstate. Why not jackpot everything-imagine
those satin pockets in the dead ancestor’s tuxedos. Imagine
the cool slide of your hand entering-imagine yourself dressing
before gilt mirrors, the wool seams unthreading, the smell of wet
sheep, and your hands moistening like pudding cake
on fine bone china-it isn’t proper, but could you please
pass that candelabra? I need to check the laundry in the basement.
Meanwhile, try to imagine a mansion of fabric against your skin.
Already the branches of the family tree have forgotten the itch
of your amputated limb. As a precaution, I’ve welded the keys
to all our doors into matching bullet-proof vests. Did I say
forever? Yes, I guess, so then you’d better
sew all my openings shut with thread pulled from the bed sheets-
you’d better bury me beneath you, our hands
and feet tied. I want to be trapped by the cage of your ribs
as it slowly sinks into mine.
||[08 Jun 2009|04:06pm]
Today at work I had to whiteout names of former employees on their business cards, then write in the names of new employees.
|How I Became A Supervillan
||[27 Mar 2009|11:19am]
I'm sorry we can't be together. You see, I'm actually Batman. An enemy of Batman will be an enemy of yours, and...well, I just love you too damn much to do that to you. To us. You deserve better. Better than me. Better than Batman.
||[19 Feb 2009|05:36pm]
Kanye West "Heartless" and T-Pain "Buy You a Drank" are kinda the same song.
|"just to be next to your bones"
||[19 Feb 2009|05:29pm]
*I wish I could find the original poem in Spanish.
EVERYTHING IS FULL OF YOU
Everything is full of you
and I am full of everything:
the cities are full,
and the cemeteries are full,
you, with all the houses,
me, with all the bodies.
Down the streets, I will leave
something that I will retake:
pieces of my life
come from far away.
I go, feathered by agony
against my will, to see myself
in the threshold, in the bottom
hidden since birth.
Everything is full of me:
of something that is yours and memory
lost, but found
once more, some day.
Days that linger behind
golden upon your body.
Cast from your hair,
everything is full of you:
of something that I haven't found
and look for among your bones.
THE ARCHIPELAGO OF KISSES
We live in a modern society. Husbands and wives don't
grow on trees, like in the old days. So where
does one find love? When you're sixteen it's easy,
like being unleashed with a credit card
in a department store of kisses. There's the first kiss.
The sloppy kiss. The peck.
The sympathy kiss. The backseat smooch. The we
shouldn't be doing this kiss. The but your lips
taste so good kiss. The bury me in an avalanche of tingles kiss.
The I wish you'd quit smoking kiss.
The I accept your apology, but you make me really mad
sometimes kiss. The I know
your tongue like the back of my hand kiss. As you get
older, kisses become scarce. You'll be driving
home and see a damaged kiss on the side of the road,
with its purple thumb out. If you
were younger, you'd pull over, slide open the mouth's
red door just to see how it fits. Oh where
does one find love? If you rub two glances, you get a smile.
Rub two smiles, you get a warm feeling.
Rub two warm feelings and presto-you have a kiss.
Now what? Don't invite the kiss over
and answer the door in your underwear. It'll get suspicious
and stare at your toes. Don't water the kiss with whiskey.
It'll turn bright pink and explode into a thousand luscious splinters,
but in the morning it'll be ashamed and sneak out of
your body without saying good-bye,
and you'll remember that kiss forever by all the little cuts it left
on the inside of your mouth. You must
nurture the kiss. Turn out the lights. Notice how it
illuminates the room. Hold it to your chest
and wonder if the sand inside hourglasses comes from a
special beach. Place it on the tongue's pillow,
then look up the first recorded kiss in an encyclopedia: beneath
a Babylonian olive tree in 1200 B.C.
But one kiss levitates above all the others. The
intersection of function and desire. The I do kiss.
The I'll love you through a brick wall kiss.
Even when I'm dead, I'll swim through the Earth,
like a mermaid of the soil, just to be next to your bones.
||[14 Feb 2009|08:35pm]
My hair caught fire in my birthday candles.
||[04 Feb 2009|01:28pm]
Shuffling/Off/the Radiant/Object of Desire
How lovely it will be the day I get to do you
some/all the way/to the hilt/how awful the day
you fully blush/crush/shrink/shirk/from my hard
on in the closet under the staircase surrounded
by old coats/vacuums/in the attic’s stale air
dissected by planes of mote-mottled light/
by circular bullet hole light/split you/open
like the time I pressed you in the closet/like
the time you cried/no/just cried/turned from
me/turned over in my hand/bloomed like blood
in a bullet hole/filled with water like my lungs/
like your lungs/like our lungs/more like our
lungs/than my blushing/hard on/groaned/worried
aloud Am I boring you with this shit?/and knew
the answer/knew no such thing/whispered I’ll break
you accidentally like a cheap wine glass/the man
you marry will be taller than me/certainly you
won’t shrink from his bullet holes/won’t not
rub suntan lotion on his hard on/certainly he
will move you just right in the closet/like
a seizure will/he burn you?/bum you out?/how
terrible it will be the day you marry/the blood
in the army men's bullet holes will run through
their eyes/my eyes/bloodshot/and not one/as
half/as good/as me/to you/as half as luminous
as you/opening up/and blinding/blinded by/
the luminous luminous you.