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Sunday, June 3rd, 2007
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8:50 am
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Cadence of thunder:
I have a distorted and sometimes preoccupation with filling my bedroom with the world, it's strangeness and vastness. Hence the earth and moon globes, the many plastic dinosaurs to remind me of impermanence and previous living things, my animal skulls and my mother mary of the dead, relics of religions I don't believe in and never have, compasses and plants lined up on the window sill, glow in the dark stars inching up past the windowpanes, plates with foreign faces and names, and creatures from the deep, like sharks, whales, and glow in the dark jellyfish. My closet, too, is an exercise in alienness, it is mostly foreign to me. It is hard for me to understand what a "basic" article of clothing is or how to buy them, though make no mistake that I want some. Now that I am moving again all of the self edifying detritus must go and I am finding the task of redefining this junk as not sacred almost impossible.
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| Thursday, September 22nd, 2005
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10:41 pm
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We come from the shadows. I miss I miss I am tightly wound I wound I want to give something of myself other than body/companionship/love and I have no idea where to start. I better start by keeping some kind of record. I am barely alive, that is the truth. My honesty was put out with the rain water. I am in a jewel box, the deposed prince, used to ruling countries and now only ruling myself.
There is beauty here, beyond the simple material beauty I compulsively cannot stop causing to happen. The rat sleeps the same and my habits do not change, everything fails to change and there is beauty there.
What, do I figure out shit now? My life is sorted, except for everything important. Why do I try to bring large predators into an ecosystem without any game?
I will collect money and shells for a while.
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| Monday, January 17th, 2005
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9:13 am
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Missing quietly like a madness untellable.
Touch again and again my mind to the cat that slept in my bed, sat on the porch and the rooftops, brought me dead roaches, and drooled lovingly on the spines of my books.
Little crushed bodies on streetcorners.
Broken spines.
Happy cat tongues in the corner of my mind.
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| Tuesday, January 4th, 2005
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12:31 pm
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Make my own monastery?
Rent a purple hotel room?
Choir for hire?
Ride a horse or mule?
Carve a pumpkin?
Miso soup?
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| Wednesday, December 29th, 2004
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10:59 am
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All of my movements were ones of remove.
In Hattiesburg I holed up with the cherry trees and water fountains, wanting people who knew good music and wore dark pants and thick glasses. The "indie" movement was completely unreal for me, I never encountered it there. I took it at the core of it's values: you have to when you only interact with the idea of it.
I mean, dirty converse, faded jeans, tshirts, and old man glasses seem to be the perfect expression of casual remove from society, old values, and an alliance with the working class. And I expected "artistic athiest anarchists".
Bah.
So when I went to Chapel Hill I was confronted with a nightmare made out of my wants. Silly shallow indie people with bad taste and trust funds. All appearances that I was living in a dream of my Mississippi wants. All crazy fun stores, ethnic restaurants, music shows, marvelous looking people. And it was all fakery, and because of the strength of my hope, the strength of my distaste was overwhelming.
So I turned to Russia and hard academic things. I turned to my spider, Hans Christian Anderson, and hours in thick libraries. The dream swallowed me and I stopped looking at human things. I was a mermaid with teeth of silver and rot, with double eyelids and webbing between my fingers. I went to Shimer as barely human.
So when I arrived to the Evwill Dorm, an old haunted tuberculosis hospital, saw the foreign snow and trains, the chandeliers in classrooms, the humming pipes and strange faces (for the first time, strange faces) of course I faded in and out of being with others. Spring came and broke out all over my sleeping.
Until the summer came, and I fell out of a dream, literally, and walked into a bedroom.
Relationship, relationships in the specific meaning and the general meaning of relationships, has pulled me into the people world.
I don't think I could possibly be a fish any more. There will definitely be a human reaction when I see some faces, I will definitely notice them and come out of immagining the trees as algae.
Why does this make me so sad?
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| Saturday, December 4th, 2004
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3:24 pm
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| Wednesday, November 24th, 2004
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10:11 pm
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Spell check is complete.
Subject:
What are these for, anyway? Cataloguing my day seems somewhat self involved and beside the point but I'm not up to chorusing praise and endearments. This will have to suffice. And you left, and it snowed, gloriously. It has stayed on, covering everything, leaving the house quiet rather than full of creaks and echoes. The wind is just loud enough outside to let me know that I am inside and that I can say for certain that I am exactly where I want to be. Made a sort of lunch/dinner thing with all green and white vegetables and white cheese. Incredibly classy and color-coordinated. Of course, as I go to savor my repast it is brought to my attention that halepino peppers are a seasoning, not a course. So all of that food and nothing to eat. Out of boredom and mild desperation (all of the stores closed, nothing here to eat) I begin to experiment with my poisoned dish and make a great discovery. Soy sauce is the antidote to spicy food. Amazingness and a plate of newly edible food. Calls from several people to make sure that I am happy, well. I am. Morgan tells me about the brokenness of our family, about the impossible dynamics and unfulfilling relations. She and Hannah are seriously talking about visiting here sometime. All of my people are coming here, it seems, at least to see. It is strange to be so loved and invaded. And after all of my talk of invasion this morning I will be taking tomorrows meals with the Smiths. Interesting discoveries. O horrible desire to passive aggressively eat Nate's food. I nobly resist you, even if he plays loud Anime porn and angry frat music AT THE SAME TIME. Put up the constellation poster and solved some of the clutter problems. Why am I inundating you like this? At some point one of us is going to get bored. Communication is a strange thing. Reading today about communication as almost solely an "I don't hate you" statement, in that book you recommended. It seems that this idea should be modified into saying that things are usefully and meaningfully stated other than this, but that it is a by product of the "it is ok". It is ok. I love you. It is more than ok. Everything is white.
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| Sunday, October 31st, 2004
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9:25 pm
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| Friday, October 29th, 2004
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12:56 am
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We have our little chicken hut that carries us from the places we have gone (we have got to sleep my chickadee, and when that comes over us, you'll find yourself in strange climes.) When we wake the water in the bath will be frozen and we will sit upon the large stovetops strewn with pillows and decorative painting and shiver and shake. Where are we you ask, as I don my large fur hat and stride out to make cold morning air breath and smoke a cigarette.
It is not that I haven't stopped smoking, but that when we are carried away by this grandmother's contraption of a domicile, that will be a grand time to start scaring you with my excesses.
That is when you find the pomegranate tree. You pull out the ribbon you were given by.. a fox?.. and throw it on the ground in disgust. Up springs a river and in it is a tree.
I am still outside smoking and you are still fussy at me and very hungry so you try to get at the fruit and don't come and get me which is WHAT YOU SHOULD DO when these things happen.
Oh well. I throw out my cigarette when I hear you yelling as you fall in the damn river and as I run into the frigid room your feet are sinking into the floorboards. What the hell.
And now because you were so impulsive I can't wash my clothes or look into a mirror or sing any songs for a year and a day. On top of that I have to walk around the world backwards and find a black cow with silver feet and brush it three times with the damn feather the fox gave me when it gave you the ribbon. I begin to get impatient and frustrated as I think of these things you put me through. On top of that, how did the fox know to give you a ribbon and me a feather in the first place? Was this all that planned? And the house just walked off.
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| Sunday, September 19th, 2004
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9:29 pm
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If I could give something to a someone, it would be the complete sense of the things behind my words. This is impossible, and movement toward it works like a lever, moving us violently away from it. I guess that is what it is, not resignation, but the possibility of it.
All these things are the most important things, the most important things before us are becoming the most painful.
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| Saturday, September 18th, 2004
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11:02 am - [Is there something actually wrong?]
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And I say: Stop being afraid of being a child. You can't discover new places without that leap, and all systematic revelations, grand as they may be, miss that essential piece which is in the [must I say 'execution' for the fortieth time tonight. Oh, morning. Right.] execution. [Said it.]
To do:
Stains must be applied to my windows in the shapes of skeletons and jellyfish. Obvious.
Yams and collards are being brought to the potluck, of course.
Chalk drawings, kites, tent set up at parties. These have become a staple of my to-do wishlist.
Oh and a. get an instrument so that
b. you can finally write the Ballad of Aristotle and the Tortoise.
And all of those clothes need to be torn up into little bits and resown. Another obvious one. Shoes, too.
And plants. I want two plants named Clarence and Georgette. Great lovers.
All of the other plants, the human ones, those need watering too, springing up all over the goddamn place.
Puerto Rican Bingo. Hot damn. Of course cardigans and all granny gold jewelry.
This all must be done sequentially so that then I can CARVE A PUMPKIN.
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| Saturday, August 14th, 2004
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12:16 pm
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Feet are swinging over the rims of tables, chairs, in cars on the highway feet swing like pendulums trying to prove relativity. Fate must be allowed for, at least for the purposes of making juice that will make you feel alive and will taste like zucchini. Four chilrun round the table with a bowl of pasta and a window at each back. New rooms for girls with teeth that chatter: all things shift to the side but stay in their relative positions. Coordinates change but the sequence won't seem to.
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| Saturday, August 7th, 2004
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3:04 pm
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She's a gentle soul, she laughs at inappropriate moments and people leave for Ohio. Yep.
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| Tuesday, August 3rd, 2004
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10:25 am
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I told the story last night of the little girl with pomegranates.
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| Saturday, July 31st, 2004
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6:31 pm
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| Thursday, July 29th, 2004
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4:41 am
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That sweet blond bombshell California girl, back from Michigan. Us drinking our lemonade and Jack, sitting in Euclid's mind, out in the quadrangle, our feet probing the wicker in chairs and the missing lit up months. We are discussing many varied drug histories, we are making superpower names, we posses movie star eyes like secret celebrities.
It is left when the low breeze blows past cut grass, when I am thinking about numbered codes which spell out love, when the redheaded boy who loves Aquinas comes to bother. I have no spilt milk with her, I go and cripple the phone. Backs give out, reasons give way, I am remorseless and amusing, touching all the callouses.
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| Sunday, July 25th, 2004
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12:47 pm
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| Saturday, July 24th, 2004
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9:41 pm
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Oh and oh and oh. My period started, after ten months I can definitely say I am not a 12 yr. old boy. If you're a woman and you know it .. [the rest]
Oh sure, foolish wonderful, here again.
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| Thursday, July 22nd, 2004
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7:52 pm
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I was buying a bottle of water and a fingernail clipper with two rabits embossed on it from the Mexican drugstore. I was pointing out visual objects to people not wearing glasses. I was counting keys on my engorged keychain(13). I was reading in the failing light, hearing fans and doors and cicadas and trying to not be distracted by the small red bug climbing up a wall. I was abandoning the crucifix I found in room no longer standing. I was tracking sawdust everywhere, always.
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| Tuesday, July 20th, 2004
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6:29 pm
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I wake up early, earlier than expected, and sneak over to the house that is tearing itself down to steal my own clothes. There is a small closet room, theoretical, and the larger hallway room, equally theoretical, both not mine at all. Tore cabinets off of walls, nothing keeps, not the vodka left by the last resident. It is all stucco and flaky, the stains on my feet are white dust, tracks are everywhere and the evidence looms. I am present but not presentable, which is the case on most days but on this day I am caught out.
Front porch, bowl of food, buy flowers from young children, actions that are superfluous to their developement yet essential to mine. Camp out at various spots, reading and staring at things, trying to make my incredibly unstructured afternoon a relative secret from those people expecting work from me. I am submerged by the pull of edited writing and conversation, small bits fly off, outlining rivulets of pressure not as apparent previously. Of course I resist, which only provides more tension, struggle and sink but that is the pattern I have established.
I'll stick with this. This is nice.
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