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we’ll call it mine

18 Sep

Title should really be “let’s call it a learning experience” or some such, but meh.
I went to a party tonight. Its lasting influences on me seem to include a temporary dose of tinnitus, a bit of a buzz that mainly manifests in my speech, and a healthy respect for those lovely folks who entertain me by being drunk/on their way to being drunk.
Well: I am going to use initials instead of names, since I have no idea if persons who would find this incriminating are reading this. Better to be on the safe side, I’m gonna say.

New milestone: comforted my first drunk person! H, you are fabulous, but please try not to be so floppy when you’re smashed. You kept going “I’m such a bad person for drinking, you, you’re a good girl, I, you should be proud of yourself,” and I tried to support you as well as I could. I met your boyfriend. He seems okay.

SECOND milestone: did a “shot” with G and J. I put “shot” in quotation marks because I kind of poured about a quarter of it out on the floor before, drank 3/4 of what was left, poured the rest out on the grass when you weren’t looking. Sorry, guys, for being a deceitful drinker. Maybe another time. With classier liquor.

Third milestone: or well, not really a milestone but I think it opened my eyes: P and J were forcefed pot brownies by another P. The first P mentioned had also taken several shots of tequila, I’m not sure about J. Anyway, they were bumbling around together high as kites, talking about stuff that I found a little disarmingly unfunny, trying to find the source of the original brownie provider. I tried to get them to write me poetry whilst high. They decided to do so on a tree. I think I am starting to like drunk people.
P is a small guy. He had 3 tequila shots. Tomorrow morning is going to suck for him. I doubt he’ll remember anything.

Fourth: A came up to me yelling about “CANADIAN!!!” and waving a cigarette around. I smiled back. He was drunk, or didn’t understand any of my witty banter. It was ridiculously witty, I am disappointed.

Fifth: ignored K. Suprisingly easy. I think she was hitting on either W or J or C. Possibly all three, though C is in a relationship and was also very drunk.

Sixth: I tried to help P up. It didn’t work. She had a lit cigarette in her hand, I pried it loose and put it out in the grass. I’ve never held a lit cigarette before, let alone someone else’s. The filter end was all sticky and ewwww. She clutched onto my hand and I tried to hoick her onto her feet, but she did the same floppy boneless thing as H and slumped back onto the grass. Hum.

Seventh: Saying “let’s hug it out” to pretty much any intoxicated person will make them completely docile.

Eighth: J-on-his-way-to-being-smashed is scary as fuck. Loud, in your face, drinking Cruzan Confusions and vodka and cranberry, prancing around with MR and EM and others. He did not even try for intelligent conversation.

Synopsis: I like some people when they’re drunk (ie PC, J, W), I dislike others.

Also, one of these days I am eating a brownie and then writing poetry, dammit.

long island sound

11 Sep

(three days before False Priest!)

Firstly, I want to get something out of the way: it’s 9/11. Every blogger is mentioning this fact, this is what I have to say about it: to those who were personally affected by it, I am very sorry. To those who weren’t, well that really sucked. And to those responsible, I hope you suffer from a mindcrushing amount of guilt, possibly more. That’s all I’ve got, back to me writing about me.

Senior year, besides being a little ridiculous, is also freaking me the fuck out. For once in my life I have no one around me who I really need to impress. For once in my life I have no one near me to angst about. It is kind of a ridiculously foreign feeling. It is liberating, true, but it is mostly strange.
Especially because I find myself thinking of The Poet whenever I let my thoughts stray to possible angstworthy personages. In my warped little mind, he is somewhat like a rock I can cling to in my indecision. If that makes any sense.

Iiiin other news, cooked basically all day today, I want to die, my feet are screaming like a motherfucker, I may or may not have started my English project, I drew a bunch of crap for my next print in Art.
Yeah, you read that right.
ANOTHER FUCKING PRINT, AAAUUGHH.
It’ll look cool, though. I’ll take a picture when I’m done.

WILL WRITE MORE LATER

adder sensibilities

8 Sep

gross national innacuracies led to nights spent fretting over the demise of a thousand lovely souls/ try to create proper patterns decayed into kaleidoscope fires/ healthy unheimlich garments draping the modern Xerxes/ piss on lunatic wires arch your back and cry bullshit for the maniac rush of it

&&&&&&&

weighty proverbs crumpling under their own gravitational fields//creating positive modesty into nightshade pupils//queries ignored, poetry made silent and odin and his ravens reigning//yggdrasil is never an eventuality but a constant menacing in the limelight//staple some rulers to the walls + tame the beast

&&&&&&&&&&&

running labrynthian locks through your spider-hands
hansel and gretel coated in moonlight
and diamond dusting nincompoops across the suede shoreline like cavities in the spring
not even the magic of my old haunts could illicit crazy motion sprinklings towards the fuckery of nonsense that is sculpture
you smiled at rodin, i scowled, but the sentiments were shared

&&&&&&&&&

i reeled
and you forgave me

though i’d wish it’d gone so differently back then, swinging the ropes, laughing and talking of vonnegut as the moonlight strived to fight through the windows and reflect off yr eyes
i was simply having far too much fun
and without realizing it kind of
— i don’t know–
Je suis tombée en l’amour?

=============
Today’s been reasonable, I guess. Cannot be bothered at the moment due to sheer happiness. Waiting for magic to descend upon me. Preordered False Priest. I hope it rains tomorrow. The above poems are what spouted from my fingers in a fit of philosophy. I miss the Poet. I am listening to the Phoenix remixes that came along with the real CD, they are fairly good. I had a physics lab to do tonight. I have a sneaking suspicion I did it wrong. Fuck all. I want to play guitar but I also want to learn the chords for Percussion Gun, not sure which one will precede the other. Apathy is already overwhelming my senses. I need to scan my Yellow Book as soon as I’m done with it. My next one’s red. It’s a Moleskine. I look forward to feeling like Kyna.
That’s all I’ve got for you all.

Bloggiversary: imminent.

sun lips

6 Sep

Animalistic crowd controllers fell steaming out of sunlit shacks parading nightingale sweaters off you television racks//inebriated nightsticks and cellophane dreams promoting your energies and catapulting the messages towards incongrouous safety measures

Hell if I know.

forever heavy

4 Sep

i couldn’t breathe in the silence
from the echoes of radarless machines
so i flagellated and writhed
with the effort of it
trying and trying
to control the wild flickers of pain
but it never worked, at least not
when you were
around, the silence
soaring into cacophonies that confused
and at the same time,
at least liberated me

it took time and space
but suddenly i found myself
drifting away, no longer
with any need to swim
against the current
trapped in another gravitational pull
and made boneless
by another’s influence

i never thought anything of it
looking back that was probably
the best thing: somehow
a clean but jagged break,
it cauterized the wound
and let new growth go forth
and let me breathe again
and let me love
and walk into that peach light

he was born with the same blue eyes

19 Aug

Listening to CocoRosie, I am digging their stuff a lot more than I thought I would. The nostalgic effects of hearing Werewolf swirling its hesitant way into my ears are kind of screwing my thoughts up and turning them to mush, wavering and curling to illegible scribbles of things I felt–
I love their lyrics. Seriously, I haven’t heard a single sentiment I didn’t like. They need to compile their poetry and publish it somewhere: I would buy it, read it. I’m sure I wouldn’t be alone.
I suppose now, while the memories are fresh, is the best time to come clean about Guillame.
I don’t think I loved him, that’s for sure. I felt something strong for him, but I can’t figure out what it might’ve been: a deep friendship? Lust? Anger and jealousy?
Well, whatever it may have been, he set the tinder ablaze and created something he didn’t know how to control. Guillame was used to being able to control people through his words, and he outlined the technique for me near the final days: how he enjoyed it, it was like chess-
I told him I was terrible at chess and he laughed.

But I’m skirting it again. Let me come back to the reason: the first night he had me put on his jacket for no apparent reason, and I asked “why?,” puzzled; he only replied “just, could you?,” so I shrugged to the voices in my chest protesting and slid the fabric over my arms, zipping the silver tab up over myself, encasing. Warm and suddenly sleepy, we talked with the others until the curfew, when I took the jacket up to my dorm and draped it gently over a chair.
The second day I gave it back and he looked at me with a question in his eyes I couldn’t understand.
That night, lying/sitting on the bottom bunk (my head ducked because the bunk above was far too low for any neckroom) watching his videos that he’d made, laughing and offering ancedotes that invariably fell flat (I am bad at telling stories but significantly better at writing them), I realized our hips were touching, shoulders too– and how warm–
the third night it all went to hell. well, it didn’t seem as such from the start, but I look back and pinpoint this moment (or series of moments) as the start of the things that broke me down a bit by bit. But I can’t change it. It’s the way the moment was structured, and so it goes:
Three people talking on the bottom bunk, Guillame and I on the top, lying/sitting with our legs hanging over the edge of the bed, me trying not to get my feet in the way of the conversation downstairs.
We are listening to music. Andrew Bird, to be specific (I only remember him, and CocoRosie, but no one else): I am being lulled into a deep calm by the violins and decide to crack Guillame’s knuckles for him. I do so, him smiling and almost laughing, and then our wrists twist around each others’ and we lay our hands between us on the bed.
A moment passes. Tense. You can feel it in the air.
I gently, so carefully, decide to strain or break that tension and cup his hand in mine.
Another moment passes. Sparks begin to slowly drip down my spine, molasses.
He slowly opens his fingers, moving my hand, and threads them between mine: the webbing of our hands touch and we cross our thumbs over each others’.
The sparks fly like bats from hell.
A few moments pass before he slowly separates our hands, then runs his fingertips down my palm, feeling every line and scar and callous, memorizing the hills and valleys of my knuckles, turning my rings and touching the hard tips of my fingers, worn from guitar strings and stained from that afternoon’s art class. He stops, waits, and I carefully run my thumb over his, feeling the delicate bones of the back of his hand: pianist’s hands, I remind myself, and they are: big, slender, flexible. His palm is soft and unmarred. His fingertips are like velvet and I wonder how he’d ever take to playing a stringed instrument, marring the softness and creating something new, maybe specialized, out of his digits.
Then another moment passes and my thoughts swirl on.
We clasp hands again, thumbs gently rubbing against each other, CocoRosie’s hesitant poetry poking and prodding at strange parts of my conciousness, creating momentary poetry that vanishes in a blink.

We sit there for a while. I couldn’t tell you how long.
Curfew comes and I wearily, unwillingly extract myself, but I look at his eyes and he seems to be saying “je sais, je sais” so I take it as I see it and leave.

Two days later in the Chapel underneath the winter palace he says “I don’t feel the same way, I’m sorry,”
and there is utter silence for a few minutes as my mind searches for the words that I had thought I had, forgets them, slips them around, and eventually makes do with an “that’s okay, I understand,” suprisingly without a cracked voice or something else that would give away how I have my heart deeply embedded somewhere around my stomach and sinking quickly.
He proceeds to outline all the reasons and I want to shut him up, say “you don’t need to prove your feelings, I don’t care,” but I sit and wait until he’s finished before I take a breath (it shudders–there–) and try to explain the long and ridiculous battle I’d had with this foe called requited love, and he listens silently until I’m done.
Now I’m sniffling. He says “you can talk to me about whatever you want, I’m sorry–”
I wish he would stop apologising, we’ve got that sorted already and I wouldn’t mind if he’d just get the fuck away from me.

He doesn’t.
We go up to get food and I wipe my eyes on my sleeves and paste on a smile, hoping no one will notice the crack in my façade.

Then a week later I met The Poet and talked for three hours and I realized that the world hadn’t quite ended but just taken a breather.

That’s all I’ve got for now.
Later? Maybe.

how far, how long

18 Aug

I tried to make some art today.
It didn’t work.

I have days when this happens, it is frustrating and makes me want to throw my papers and pencils at the walls. If you’re not a creative person you might not know the feeling: so, imagine the best, most amazing idea you’ve ever had. It will change the world, it will cure diseases, etc. But as soon as you try to tell someone else, all the words that come out of your mouth sound like birdsong and are utterly incomprehensible.
Hopefully that doesn’t happen to anyone, it would drive me crazier than the current creation-block.

Anyway, I decided to try to paint and it didn’t really work out all that well. I am a lot better at drawing than I am at painting, but for some reason the watercolors that I got in Paris love me and make the things I create with them look gorgeous even when they’re super messed-up.

I also wanted to write some poetry, and I scribbled down a few stanzas in my Yellow Book before realizing that they all shared a single thread:
The Poet.
“Fuck,” I thought.

I try nowadays to keep people from sticking too deeply in my thoughts, after what I went through with Wil, and I’m not very good at keeping them out but I try. I tried very hard with The Poet. I recognised the potential and tried to keep my conciousness guarded.
That was a joke and I didn’t catch it until I realized on my 8-hour transAtlantic Flight From Hell that he’d burrowed into some ventricle of my soul/heart and camped out there from the moment he opened his mouth and the words “Hi, nice to meet you,” poured forth.

The fact that I clung to that like a safety blanket is a little frightening.

But the thing that gave it sticking power was that night in the auditorium, my legs beginning to turn to jelly in anticipation of my act: he carefully uttered two words, the same two words twice in different poems- “peach light”- and that sank a steel pick into my spine and ran obsidian fingernails down my ribs, creating sparks I’d thought could never reappear.
Five minutes later I found myself singing for him and who knows how many other people, and my mind meanwhile chewed over and digested the things he’d said before settling on keeping that spike embedded in my bones and relishing those unheimlich-feeling sparks.

Unheimlich.
Do you know what that means?

((((((((un-canny))))))))
—-
Will write later.