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his goal in life was to be an echo
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| stuff. red notebook. |
[15 Oct 2005|10:46pm] |
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music |
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harvey danger - cream & bastards rise |
] |
pppppppps i'm sick & fucking tired of it. why i am so high-maintenance? why i do continually stumble into peoples' lives & then immediately end up somehow dropping all my bullshit on their shoulders?
i'm not good in society. i don't talk. i don't want to talk. i don't want to exist. i'm always fucking miserable. do you think this is a sign. perhaps even though life is going well i should go see a psychiatrist to get some drugs. drugs numb it all out. gray static wonderland.
or maybe this is like what josef was talking about, the low-dip of serotonin withdrawal from speed. MOST LIKELY DINGBAT. i'm so hard on myself. in that, i mean that i hate it when i burn bridges & i always spend too much time thinking about what the other person's thinking about, & then get sad when i read someone's livejournal userinfo & find out i'm not on their list anymore. what is that? they don't care about reading about my life anymore. they have no interest in my doings. & yet i'm always interested in theirs.
i just want to be an asshole sometimes. & be totally self-oriented. but i never can be. fucking world.
here is some poetry. i wrote it.
( there is a lot. they are also long. )
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| mrow. |
[15 Oct 2005|10:15pm] |
| [ |
music |
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neil young - walk on |
] |
ps when cats sit on my lap i always get a little warm & get really paranoid that they're peeing on me.
pps i also feel like, in my life, i need to start taking more responsibility for the bad things i've done. i'm kind of scared of that. i don't like thinking of myself as less than a righteous person. what a cop-out. no one's righteous.
what's hard about this break is that it's not only the tenants of 135 clinton st. that i feel i broke from, but it's also from chris, and to an extent, lindsay. the two places that have basically composed my life for this entire summer have been sort of broken off, like a dead tree branch. & this feels really, really weird. i don't like it. i feel isolated. i also feel pent-up. i'm scared of admitting my failures or my vulnerabilities ... although i don't seem to be scared of doing it here. maybe this is because i know that people on the outside (in the real world, outside of LJ) have to sort of maintain this veil, as if they don't read your livejournal, as if they don't know what's really going on inside your head - they just know you on a surface level. how fucked up is that? it's the little white lie syndrome. or the mother-at-the-bank-teller's story that i told once before. how you can't say anything other than a vague positive to the question "how are you?" - especially when it's posed by a stranger.
this is also why i've never been in a relationship. or been in love, really, i think. i do not think i was made for this world sometimes. but then i realize that's just me being melodramatic & stupid. of course i was. i'm here, aren't i?
ppps i need to stop posting
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| broken bones & bad blood. |
[15 Oct 2005|06:13pm] |
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music |
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the verve - the drugs don't work |
] |
i left a lot of shit at clinton st. gonna have to go back to get it.
i don't understand people. i don't know how i ever thought i did. a human is never something to be "understood" because to understand something means you can see & have the knowledge for the way that it works. implying that in order for something to be known it must be at a standstill. humanity will never be at a standstill. we mutate day by day faster than the fucking hanta virus, or ebola. there is no way anyone can ever know anyone. no one will ever understand anyone.
we can sympathize. we can empathize. & then, frustrated & alone, we can make judgements & stereotype. we can go with our basest instincts & we can block out all rational thought. or we could just become a massive dick-shaped tool whose name is gabe.
no break is ever a clean break. & there is always bad blood.
& i'm scared of using other people. if i did it once, how can i stop from doing it again? i am filled with this nervous, jittering urge to get my own place as quickly as possible so i can be prevented from committing another crime. i don't like feeling this way. not at all. but i guess it's penance. it's punishment for doing the things i did.
but the straight-up truth is that i never got a job in time because i was always out on speed. i was always in the car, and the first thing i said was "today i need to get a job, that's all i need to do." & eventually the day would wind up, and i hadn't done it yet. then it was too late & chris just wanted to go home, or lindsay had to go somewhere, or other things had come into play - distractions. i just never did it. even when i asked someone to help me ... nothing. i don't know what my deficiency is. & it's scary. but now i have a job. & it's not one i'm going to be leaving, since i kind of like cashiering jobs. then, well, i'll just work on my book on the side. get an apartment with katie like the original plan was, then maybe move to california.
what a shitty fucking feeling this is.
stormy clouds, new horizons
come & get it, if you want to
so hop on the train 'cause it kills the pain
blues player going to another town
believe me this boy here is sinking
just drinking
so, remember that song "bittersweet symphony" by the verve? turns out it's on this CD called "Urban Hymns" which is an explosively good album.
"Listening to the Verve's third LP (Urban Hymns) mimics the feeling one gets the day after being bedridden-sick forever and walking out into a 59-degree-cool, fresh, lung-numbing October morning to have a picnic of herbal tea, citruses, and damn good donuts with your lover (who was too afraid of catching your bug for the last week)."
- pitchforkmedia.com
they're absolutely correct.
my odometer: you're the type who's got the strength the destroy the world, but you're also the type who is easily distracted from that.
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[15 Oct 2005|02:43pm] |
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music |
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black rebel motorcycle club - awake |
] |
1) Bold what is true about you.
2) Italicize what you wish was true about you.
3) Add one true thing about you to the end of the list.
4) Tag five LJ friends.
( the thing )
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| make up your mind. |
[14 Oct 2005|09:51pm] |
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music |
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steve on the KORG. |
] |
new crash. not bandicoot.
good decisions, bad ones.
guaranteed a job at hannaford. either forest ave or mill creek.
weird nights, rainy days.
a bum sang "go away sunshine" to me on the street today. well, me & knate & kaylee. then he stole my book of matches. his name was ziggy & he told a stranger in a striped sweatshirt with red hair that i once had great bud. big green bud.
then i asked for a cup of hot water at BNG & made my own tea. it was immense. johnny bummed me a lucky strike filter & it was toasty.
also, i got my stuff out of clinton street but i think i am still missing some things. i'll have to make a return trip to it at some point. have to call ahead so i know i'm not making a big intrusion. i'm kind of scared of them. i don't know what happened. they'll read this. or hannah will. maybe jason.
weird. i don't like bad blood. i dislike gabe. but that's okay. i also hate burned bridges.
the end.
ps (you know it's never the end) i got foodstamps today. tomorrow they start. $88 until i pay rent etc. or whatever. my case worker is a nice black man named e. loro. he speaks swahili or something i think. he was very personable & i left in a much improved mood.
also, showers are good. so is stability.
that life is good,
moment to moment,
and bad on the whole, for lack of design
- jack kerouac
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| good. |
[12 Oct 2005|06:43pm] |
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music |
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even all out - slow down |
] |
i apologize wholeheartedly for the nature of the last post.
i am updating hurriedly from the Newbury apartment, using johnny's little powerbook to send november/december to billy & to say these things quickly so no one's worried i'm dead or something. (sorry & thanks johnny. hope this is okay.)
but i also .. don't know how to thank all of you who replied. it means a great, great deal to me to know that there's people who really care.
cliche, i know, but it wouldn't be cliche if it weren't true.
things are looking up. looks like i'll be moving into the house on haven street with steve. i'll have a job at hannaford tomorrow, the lady called me back today. i have to go in for a cashier-test tomorrow, 8AM. i figure it'll prepare me for having to wake up early anyway. then i meet with steve's landlord at 2pm. possibly put my name on the lease. the house is nice. big in some rooms. the room i'll be occupying is comfortably small, just my size. i don't need too much room. & it's just good to ... have a direction. feels nice.
it's a cold wind today. got my winter coats from savannah's closet. am comfortably warm.
sometimes, brooke, you're right ... things have to crash completely before they get any better. i was too comfortable where i was. hannah, i love you for your honesty & respect your opinions & agree with you somewhat. i'm not too worried about the drug problem, because i can handle myself. it's just not having direction outside of the drugs that kills me. i need to have my addictions & get over them in time. i'm becoming more of my own person by learning that it's okay to know a lot of people & know some of them better than others. i'm a person who knows a lot of people but someone who knows myself the best.
what an odd season this has been. i'm steeling myself for the winter, but in a calm, offhanded way. i am excited. i am ready.
because there's something we love in the mystery
of a man in the midst of a change
oddly enough the lyrics of even all out have been a source of strength as well:
so just slow down
because there's nothing wrong
so just know now
you'll be twice as strong
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| live on location. |
[12 Oct 2005|02:51am] |
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music |
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the dissociatives - somewhere down the barrel |
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so i was given The Ultimatum, the one i knew would come.
i have to be out of 135 clinton by friday. they're only doing what is necessary, i don't blame them whatsoever.
got into a fight with chris again today. don't know how much i can talk about it here. i'm all pent-up because i'm coming down from speed & i didn't sleep last night (& then, i wasn't even on speed, just focused on what i was doing) ...
so i go out to gorham. so many people. i remember why i left the dorms. i see ian in the street in portland, talk to him for a brief few seconds. i go to gorham, see corey in the halls. an ice wall. i wonder what memory he projects, what perception he has of me when he sees me walking through the halls. he hasn't lost his stride, it's kind of funny. as we go down the stairs & pass him by, he says "hi jess rosario," and pointedly "snubs" granting me the pleasure of exchanging familiarities. i found it kind of third-grade.
i don't know. i'm not who i used to be.
so tomorrow .. today. i'll catch the bus out of here back to portland & wander my way downtown until i eventually ask lindsay if she still wants to go check out steve's apartment on the other side of the bridge. i don't know. i hung up on chris because i didn't want to say the same thing again, for the millionth time. i'm scared of society & people right now. i don't think that i'm equipped for a social environment.
got high with pete geneva after bumming him a bummed cigarette & listened to the new fiona apple record. GOD i want to have sex with that woman. her music is like nails being raked slowly down your back. i can't even imagine what she's like in bed. then tumbled out of portland like spilled leaves gorham-wards with jess rosario. saw pont & despres, chilled with them, chilled with hillary & autumn, and had a surprising conversation with travis curran, regarding the presence of my ghost in the theatre department ... he mentions my name, gets a variety of replies: crossed arms, sighs, rolled eyes ... i giggled because i achieved a sort of immortality.
this is why i left. there are so many people here. you get overwhelmed. but it's nice, every once in awhile, i think.
i almost posted some of what i wrote tonight. it kind of hurts not having the outlet that i had with chris to constantly be creative, but i have to remember what that's like & just bear it, moderate it. maybe his way is better.
i'm probably what's termed suicidal right now, because the rest of the year just seems like a graveyard to me. how melodramatic. i'm just coming down. i just hung up on the person i called my best friend for the entirety of this summer, the person who called me "soulmate" & the person who was inspired by me & the person who inspired me ... i hung up on him because i don't like talking to brick walls. nothing i say gets through. everything is double-edged. everything is a controversy. i have to constantly weigh doubts vs. fears vs. reality vs. drugs.
i am afraid, tonight, that i have no support network & i'm going to end up in a hospital. i think that's what the proper end would be, starting over & fresh in a place meant to bring me back to a semblance of static life.
so yes. i'll be drifting in portland's harbour for now, without access to the 'net again for awhile. i have to figure some shit out, now, & i have to do it mostly on my own, i have to do it on my own, because i've just come loose & undone by my own twitching fingers. i'm always so eager to untie something. but i'd like to hang onto the fact that this is not my fault. i am not a bad person. these little affirmations are so weak in the face of a crushing depressive tide. i am only coming down. i am only coming down. i just need to sleep.
order from chaos tomorrow. provided my muscles will oblige.
i'm trying really, really hard to just stay alive right now. why is this so difficult! it's gotta be the drugs. lay off the drugs, kiddo. lay off the drugs, ser streetwise. lay off. lay off & lay down. (you see how i have to tell myself these comforting things because i'm a) the only one who will & b) i'm the only one i trust? i am a sick, paranoid individual. damaged goods.) lay down & lay off. soon will come. later will come. now is here, deal with now, shrink it down to size & beat it off with dreams. relax.
that's me, talking to me.
goodnight.
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| movements in mood. |
[10 Oct 2005|02:19pm] |
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music |
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the constantines - you are a conductor |
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i definitely listened to bob dylan's "meet me in the morning" when i woke up this morning.
i've graduated to moodier songs, like those of our friend the glass kat from auburn (who put on an amazing show last friday)
& songs of halloween, alaska.
ultimatum, job by friday or i will have to find other accomodations. i shrug this off, as i will have a job by tomorrow.
i hope.
in other news, the everysmithever website is coming along.
that link is to his myspace. i am hoping to find him his own space, hopefully with his own domain.
lately i am finding that i am misplaced.
however, i don't wish to leave because i like the people i've met here while being misplaced. i want to take most of them with me. i would like to be in a big city.
unless something like this happened to me. then i would not be able to cope.
little steps, christopher robin. little steps.
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| the color girl. |
[10 Oct 2005|03:12am] |
|
i just summarized the past entry into a half-lisping, halting monologue for a pretty girl named 'teal' in the kitchen. she made ramen soup & i ate the leftovers of some cake. she offered me the rest of her corona & told me she'd be going out to san diego. gave me a job tip.
she kept asking me "why?" & seemed genuinely interested in my conversation.
now there are some dreadlock'd folk on the other futon who need to get up in the morning early, & i think i'm keeping them up with my typing. so i'm going to go to sleep.
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| i don't know? |
[09 Oct 2005|11:44pm] |
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music |
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pedro the lion - the devil is beating his wife |
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this is as much a security blanket as anything. my life is composed of these small defense mechanisms – distraction is the main one, which is the reason why i have developed & honed my multitasking abilities. i am exceptionally good at listening to one conversation & be doing something else. i have been able to develop a dividing ability in my head, kind of like rubbing your head & patting your stomach. it’s why i feel more comfortable with a notebook or something to devote my attention to, so it looks like (out of idleness or personal provocation) i’m not currently engaged in the social climate simply because i have other duties to attend to. i think more often than not that my motivation for these activities are very transparent to some onlookers, but they either a) understand & wisely say nothing or b) understand & feel largely apathetic. i feel mildly confused lately, also, as i can’t seem to be able to enter into or have a conversation that just seems to be so irrelevant. even conversations with passion or fire seem remarkably transparent & even futile, as simple language & communication are not enough to transmit passion to the level that it is contagious. it’s doomed to be forever a frustration burning helplessly in the air from one person, unable to reach the other. what’s immediately sad, that initial blast of unrestrained passion & seemingly indescribable energy, is only followed by the sadder, the more frenzied & useless efforts of the receiver to try to get exactly what the other person means. this, in a nutshell, is communication – or the failure thereof. it seems impossible in these contexts to ever communicate anything to someone directly & literally. language is an imperfect medium, an invention created by man (an imperfect being), and is therefore inadequate to convey any type of pure energy or emotional wavelength.
having noted this, it is also important that we define the usefulness of attempt through this imperfect medium. as the old adages go: try, try again & practice makes perfect. i believe that through careful use of this powerful weapon, speech & language, we can perfect it eventually by seeking the lowest common denominator of language in order to make it as universal as possible. to further elaborate: the interest in finding the most universal system of language is integral to our search because the critical flaw in language is its diversity. as a tool, something to further our evolution & propagate our race, Darwinistically speaking, the most efficiency in language is also the most efficient form of communication. it is important to make another of our species understand, and this is achieved – generally – through a variety of media of language. however, as noted before, & especially today, in our slang-ridden world, we are using a remarkably dull & strange tool to achieve this goal.
i don’t know what else to propose, to be honest. it seems that the less & less we focus on & analyze the intent of most conversations & most social interactions, the more & more we will all be living in separate houses of society, and in different rooms. it just seems to me that we repeat ourselves all too much, either out of a fear of being unheard, or we speak too abruptly & abrasively, out of any number of Freudian insecurities, or any number of things.
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[07 Oct 2005|09:44pm] |
i am being haunted.
i don't know how i know that.
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| speed bump. (HAHA GET IT) |
[07 Oct 2005|06:26pm] |
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music |
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deftones - digital bath |
] |
no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. no more. because tonight i feel like
more
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| i stole this. |
[06 Oct 2005|05:28pm] |
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music |
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cursive - staying alive |
] |
"you get a strange feeling when you are about to leave a place, like you'll not only miss the people you love but you'll miss the person you are now at this time and this place, because you'll never be this way ever again."
- azar nafisi
i would like to rephrase that quote.
"you get a wrenching feeling when you are about to experience the terror of change, like you'll not only miss the people you love, but because you'll miss the image of the person you remember yourself to be, the one that they keep with them. it leaves you with only yourself, & you're suddenly a stranger."
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| sad is a stupid word. |
[06 Oct 2005|05:14pm] |
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music |
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aimee mann - wise up |
] |
today i hurt.
last night i thought i was going to die. literally. i was afraid to fall asleep because i thought i was not going to wake up.
i think i keep waiting for my "wake-up call" but i've slept through three or four of them now. they're not too loud, these wake-up calls, & they can go undetected if you live too loudly. (or sleep too soundly) so maybe i should just start doing it myself & stop relying on unspoken friendship.
the mirror that i look in to judge myself, etc, broke last night. & the night before. had a talk with jason about how i just can't seem to get motivated & i feel so bad about it, but can't seem to stop, and notice people getting short with me, but i'm trying. tomorrow, shaw's. tomorrow. tomorrow.
it should be raining outside, because it's raining inside my head. i'm making a website for chris' solo project, everysmithever, & he's playing a show with sparks the rescue & kaffir (another excellent band) this saturday at 6.30 at the deering grange hall in portland. if you're around & life doesn't require you to be anywhere else, you should come see it. i'm trying to get into marketing & publicity again, because i like doing that, & i think i'm pretty good at it - at least on the computer. my visual art skills are limited to CGI.
lord, can you hear me now? some days i think things would be so much easier if i had blind God-faith. but i'm glad i don't. it's more interesting this way.
this post is sort of a ruin. i think it adequately reflects my temperament.
i keep saying "i'm not doing adderall anymore." & then doing it. i think, i hope, i want yesterday to be my Sayonara Day to adderall. as much as it makes me creative & shit, i'm creative enough on my own ... i think. something.
it's not
what you thought
when you first began it
you got
what you want
& you can hardly stand it, though
by now you know
it's not
going to stop
till you wise up,
no it's not
going to stop
till you wise up,
so just
give up
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| the great ghost hunt of october. |
[05 Oct 2005|06:41am] |
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music |
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everysmithever - two lions |
] |
i have not slept in two days.
currently, pi is on the TV & chris moulton is stretched out ready to enter sleep on the other futon.
however, i would like to momentarily enlighten you on the situation here at 135 Clinton St. during the past few hours. after a rousingly good conversation discussing friendship & the benefits of being a decent person in humanity, chris abruptly says "dude, i don't mean to freak you out, but there's like a witch or something over there standing in that driveway."
i turn my gaze to the short asphalt driveway of 136 Clinton St., which is an empty house with a small FOR SALE sign from re/max stuck in the lawn at the bottom of the driveway - & indeed, there is some pale, ovoid shape floating in midair, appearing to sway slightly from side to side, followed by a thick dark blot cascading down to the ground. chills strike the cord of my spine & we hurry inside, pulling the blinds down & retreating to the kitchen. a cigarette, the supposed-to-be reserve sitting quiescently on the table. after a few more bouts of pure, sheer terror on chris' part, i was still not yet convinced, & argued that it must be a trick of the eye, or the streetlight. we go down to the front porch, surprised & mollified that we can't see anything from that vantage point - no hovering, staring spectres & nothing new. however, we hurry back upstairs as chris reports abruptly, terrorstricken, that he saw a shadow pair of what looked like legs running down the street.
a few trips to the back sun porch, which now doesn't let in sun so much as a thin infiltration of fog & rainwet. the trees tick & drip with the moisture. could be haunted with ghosts. the ... thing is quite clearly standing right by the driveway, behind the ominously swinging FOR SALE sign, the figure seeming to sway still. we smoked the last half of the saved cigarette ridiculously fast, then hurried back into the living room - i put a movie on (horrendously apropos) - the last twenty minutes of poltergeist - which, before your mouths fall open, we hadn't finished the night before.
we go back to the front window, peering through the blinds. i am banned from going down there, & across the street, to see what's going on, although chris seems absolutely dead with sheer terror.
(anecdote: when chris was little, his brothers took him to a house in presque isle which is factually known to have been the domicile of a woman who went insane & killed her children or something. he somehow ended up in the bathtub, & his brothers put a chair up against the door of the windowless room. for the hours & hours we spent in there, voices & whispers invaded his ears.
"do you know what that's like?" he asked me, eyes glassy with tears.
"well, i ... " truth is, i could imagine it, but i could never ever see myself actually in a situation like that. i'm not really sure what i would do - probably wait, sleep, until someone got me, & then enact a terrible revenge on the perpetrators (family or not.) "no, i can't even begin to describe it. jesus."
"yeah, dude," he said. "so i'm like, terrified of ghosts." a moment passed. "want to look out the window again?"
"what? no!" i said, keeping my voice down in respect to the sleeping tenants of 135 A. "i'm all set."
"well, what do you want to do?"
"can't we just .. take our minds off of it?"
"no."
"well, i'd go look & see what exactly it is, but i want to make sure you're okay - i don't want to freak you out any more than you've been freaked out, so ..."
"okay. well, then we'll just have to watch it till forever."
"or till sunrise."
"right.")
i'm slightly concerned he's going to have a heart attack, or a stroke. we look up at the upper left window (the house is fairly square & white, with three windows on the top row, two on the bottom (door in between, with small windows at its top) & then a small extension leading to the garage out from the right of the house.) & there, what seems like curtains has suddenly been closed, halfway - and minutes later, all the way. or so it seems.
we slam the blinds closed & look at one another. at this point, i've convinced myself it's a ghost - after all, why not? we do some hilariously brief searching online for "October 5" / "October 5" "Portland, Maine" / "October 5" "portland maine" "murder" - needless to say, nothing turned up.
i was possessed with a sudden reckless curiosity. chris' argument was that
(anecdote: earlier in the evening, fast on drugs, we stare at the front screen door of the lower apartment. it's dark & cold, the metal is dented in places, oddly. chris points out the one that looks like a face, & i abruptly kick it in.
"there, i fixed it." i said)
the face i'd kicked had something to do with the sudden appearance of this spook.
it appeared to be moving. slowly. down the driveway. sunrise was maybe a half-hour off, but the sky was still venomously dark. we fled into the sun room. "is it .. pointing at us?" chris asked. we bolted.
"this is ridiculous," i said. "we've got to be hallucinating."
"dude, we're seeing the same thing - how can we be hallucinating?" the dark blot under the floating "head" appeared to be a priest's cassock, & a small termination before the chin seemed to be a white collar. he was an old man. the thought occurred to me that perhaps the tenant was just restive & eccentric, standing out on his driveway in the middle of the night & not moving for a few hours, terrifying the neighbours. we climbed out onto the roof to see anything clearer. looked like people jumping up & down in the windows of the front door. looked like someone crossing the window with the drawn curtains. then the tree before the house was wriggling & alive with hanged people, and flying a skull flag over the top right window.
i blink, rub my eyes & stare at the sudden grotesquerie. there's a group of four dark children clinging madly to the windowsill of the top right window, lifting themselves up & down in the manner of circus calliope pipes - & then i blink again, realizing it's simply the wind through the silhouetted branches & leaves.
my nerves are iron with tension & fright. down on the road, an early morning biker zips by - & i call out, "HEY IS THERE ANYTHING IN THAT DRIVEWAY -- GOOD MORNING -- ASSHOLE."
he didn't stop or even reply. (in retrospect, i think this was a good thing, as i think we both would have been deemed insane, possibly legally.) determined, i came back inside, to the wideeyed chris, & stepped over everything, walking resolutely down the stairs. "where are you going?" he said as i passed him.
"to dispel a myth," i replied - quietly, as it was 5AM. i push out of the front door & stride across the street, diagonally toward the driveway. before i even got to the neighbour's territory, i discovered the terrible truth ...
... a lamppost. a big white-bulb-covered lamppost on black iron support, stood stoically behind the swinging FOR SALE sign. i laughed, & called up to chris, who had ventured to climb out onto the roof. he looked really badly shaken up. i walked over to the front door, glanced into the windows - nothing but the ascent of empty stairs leading to the level above - where, as i walked past the top left, discovered that it wasn't a curtain at all, but rather, further into the room, the white frame of a door opening, which did seem to "slide across" as one moved across the house's front.
"it's a LAMPPOST," i called up again, laughing. chris was not amused. we popped in the movie & i brewed some coffee. then i think he fell asleep wrapped in a red blanket.
i glanced out the window through the blinds once more, just to make sure. we were hallucinating.
rapture. i felt a little empty. i had kind of hoped it would be a ghost. just not like that. you know, the pointing terrorizing kind. or the hanging children. could do without that.
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| so just know now. |
[02 Oct 2005|01:52am] |
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paperface - geronimo |
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exhaustion montgomery. the hotel disappointment. tomorrow sunday.
scintillation chord A. freezing in a hot climate. my scrambled mind. killed with a gun that didn't fire. your finger on my pulse.
the 1st of October: fall canto in Bb minor
(an excerpt from "HAUNT")
when the seasons change, elongating just before snapping like a rubber band, everyone can feel the tension in the air & hurries a little faster in the world. the vengeful cold allows no escape from its obseqious sneer, & envelops everything in a sarcastic embrace. it's that, reminding us all of the horrible empty entropy of an uninvited hug from a stranger, that causes us all to walk quicker & find warm havens in-doors. every day, in every way, we try to battle the cold in a futile war by adding layers, buffer zones against the wind's predatory, zealous attacks - & not even simply clothing, jackets n scarves, but layers of other people as well; we add the burning spiced cider of love to our lives just so we can feel warm in our stomachs, sate another hunger.
this will explain the cider they served at the Gala, the night that Faye and Jon spent at the Hotel Invictus, a liquid that warms the insides to summer & fills the mind's eye with golden orange sunlight. the faces of the guests all seated around the long, wooden table grow dizzy & eyelids fade closed in long moments of nostalgic reverie. the vulgar term to describe its effect would be "magic." the gray, blank colour of ubitquitous melancholy paper the walls of everyone's mind was gently dissolved, like rice paper dipped in water. a dreamy, sonic music trickled into their ears, unexpectedly. no one could have expected this dazzling cerebral ballet from such a dead, barren hotel (or perhaps manor) - but even as Faye tilted & slid down into her own golden bath, the question began forming in her like a stormcloud: who was the wizard behind this curtain? & then, quite simply, it no longer mattered.
but even a strong beverage like love cannot keep anyone warm for long in a gripping cold, and regrettably, once that beautiful heat has faded, the cold suddenly seems more vicious & grabs at your skeleton that much more rabidly, (often becoming the reason that so many become so addicted to love) & it is also why we find Faye & Jon together in the big fourposter bed in their room after the swirl & tilt of the Gala of this first of October. neither can sleep, in a slow wonder of fingers & eyes meeting briefly before sliding away, they undress one another beneath the thick blanket - the backs of their hands scrape against the inside of the fraying yellow materials, his knuckles bumping into her iliac crest, her fingertips grazing his jawbone - eyes meet then draw away, no music in the room but the sharp, sudden crescendoes of their awkwardness: shrugging & fighting out of his gray corduroys, getting her shirt over her hair & hair without losing eyecontact - a button pops, the quick movements become quicker as the dark blue monster of lust begins to swallow them - this is the point, when more flesh than just hands is touching, whole landscapes of skin rubbing & colliding, earthquakes shivering subcutaneously, this is the point when Faye forgets the numb sense of lonely (how can one logically say they feel they're the only thing in the world when someone so foreign as another body appeals loudly to the sense of touch?) - in these momentary, ephemeral kingdoms of beauty, the future is shrouded and the present moment glows a million kilowatts brighter, casting no shadows - & though both of them are so fluorescent on the inside, the rain still tickles a strange pullulation, like a cat, against the windowpane & night swallows everything around them. jon grits his teeth, in delirious fear that if he smiles or opens his mouth, all that light would sear out of him & tear the room apart like a wildfire, or a tornado. he is seized by a browbeading terror that they too will become demons, crawling & desperate alongside the other desperate tenants of this crumbling manse - but Faye beside him, then on top of him, seems entirely lost in that world already, bursting with her own treacherous light, seeping out of her cracks: the corners of her eyes like tears tracking down her face, gathering in small pools at the corners of her lips, glowing frustrated behind the thick windowpanes of her fingernails, & everywhere all around her, ghostly faces murmuring, drifting around her head &
jon tooth is no hero, just another asphalt kid from a downtown kingdom with white dusting the rim of his nose & a jangle in his pocket. he seems old but is young, like unvarnished wood & bristlin with splinters. this is why he cannot contain this exploding feeling & his teeth fly open as though a barbarian's battering ram has punched exultantly through - the room doesn't flood, as he expected it to, with incandescence, but the suddenness of his own voice like a tree being felled in the woods, wrapped around with Faye's own release, a dissonant & strange harmony that races for every corner to vainly hear their own echoes - & they fade after, like a gas, filling its container, like flowers wilting in a frost.
the windowpanes glass over as the convention of ghosts sighs collectively, sated, & dissipates back into the cold air. Faye falls like a tower, crumbling by jon's side & he instinctively holds her as one would hold the shattered pieces of a glass heirloom which met with sudden accident, stricken. for a long time in the dark they hold one another with no solace or relief, because their fingers & arms realize their touch is nothing compared to the electrical consummation that just occurred. but the retaining wall built hastily to block out the stoic landslide of the future is now losing the war & crumbling apart, stones worked loose by the blue, thinlipped demon Fear. in the next room, twins sleep soundly with a dim light still on, leaking timidly into the cobweb shadows at the corners of everything, & in the room next to that, a man stares suffering out at the growl of the sea & the lash of the rain - no lightning to warm (however briefly) this open, hollow chill of a night. the dark becomes too much for faye & jon, & they slip between the cracks of consciousness to float endlessly in the cellar of sleep -
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[01 Oct 2005|03:29pm] |
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congratulations on your decision to become a pilot - sgt. carter |
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Q. it's getting old, isn't it.
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radiotower's journal