:update:wednesday:
HEY! You're fucking it all up. Wasn't that the last thing you wanted to do in the first place? Weren't you worried about it?
Paranoia is sinking in. We all know the one. That gut wrenching screaming of the heart which cries out "Something isn't right! Something is different! Things have changed and you have no idea what it is!" I can't explain it. I feel indifferent, estranged, alone, isolated. Sinking, sinking, abstract, sinking. Pain, lots of pain.
Oh Matt, I wish you'd call me more. I miss our talks. I could use one of them right now. I could use a shoulder to cry on.
Shorter than usual. Pain. Perhaps I am a creature of habit. Such is the life of a wanderer.
New art. Someone told me I should make comics. This is a good idea, but seeing as how I can't write fiction worth a shit I don't really see it as a possibility.
Honestly, I can write. I can. I'm a damn good writer too. However, most of my writing is either the rantings of a petty little school girl who doesn't have an ear to spew her vomitous complaints into, or the academic sort of writing that has a due date less than three hours away. I have produced fiction before. Good, descriptive fiction, full of dark humor and wit. I like that sort of thing.
Today, however, writing fiction for me is like taking a huge shit. I don't mean one of those uncomfortable shits that wreak and make the room moist either. I mean the ones where you really need to go so you start going and it seems like a good idea, and when you stand up you realize that what just came out of you is a giant pile of shit and needs to be flushed down the toilette. That sort of shit (tasteful, isn't it?).
Speaking of writing, I tried reading the writing of my cadaverouse philanderer today. I couldn't really stomach it. Not that he can't write, which I know if I ever said something like that and truly meant it some sort of devine power would unleash all hellish fury down upon my persons out of pure spite for speaking such nonsense, I just could not stomach being reminded of horrible memories. Horrible horrible memories. I haven't blocked them out. I still cry about them sometimes. I haven't come to terms with them yet. I'm trying to.
Be careful of bear traps, little fauve, be careful.
What I'd really like to do (which is actually me picking a thought from a long list of things I'd "really like to do". One of the things that I'd "really like to do" is make an art book of all the graphitti scribbled on the girl's bathrooms in the art-building of my school. A lot of it is really rich.) is create a liberal magazine filled with comics reminescent of the 1920-1980s Underground Comix. For those of you who aren't familiar with Underground Comix, they are the baby-booming bastard children of post WWII, VietNAMhippies, and the artistic orgy that happened when the West met the East. Or rather the visual orgy between the Great Wave off Knagawa and Mary Darly's A Book of Caricaturas (and its descendents). These comix still exist, but are harder to find.
Except it'd be online ... and free ... because I'm poor ... and everyone else is poor.
A poem, by eightneights
i.
i am so convinced that you are the most beautiful death,
you are erratic. erotic.sharp, uncensored. raw.
i want to read you over and ever again,
i want to watch distilled sound seeping out of your lips,
i want to feel your words bubbling out of your mouth and dripping onto my body like hot soup.
ii.
you dispose of my clothes quickly, efficiently, articulately,
they roll off me like polygons and triangles and sometimes a circle
they collect on the floor.
i must remember them in the morning, or you will
iii.
first i study your anatomy, a torso, a hand on my stomach, my leg, my
face, my hair, a strand of hair that cuts the blue of your eye,
fingerprints, toes (all 10), a neck, warm wet lips, pulsating, delectable.
there are parts of you inside me now, and it
makes
me
feel
delicious.
cuts my mouth and my throat as I swallow.
iv.
then i think about you. but only for a moment
and it never lasts very long.
plant within me, seeds of what would never grow between us.
a good morning kiss,a static phone call, a wednesday, questions
like ‘how are you feeling?’ or ‘have you cleaned the shards of glass from your kitchen floor, from your bed, from your skin?’ '
a morning garden, a contorted beam of sunlight. photosynthesize me.
turn me into air.
turn me into the pigment of your eyes,
so that I may fall asleep under the color of your eyes, and I will
blanket myself with your breath,
and I will let you slip your fingers in between my lips..
v.
then I count the ceiling tiles. 147.
Paranoia is sinking in. We all know the one. That gut wrenching screaming of the heart which cries out "Something isn't right! Something is different! Things have changed and you have no idea what it is!" I can't explain it. I feel indifferent, estranged, alone, isolated. Sinking, sinking, abstract, sinking. Pain, lots of pain.
Oh Matt, I wish you'd call me more. I miss our talks. I could use one of them right now. I could use a shoulder to cry on.
Shorter than usual. Pain. Perhaps I am a creature of habit. Such is the life of a wanderer.
New art. Someone told me I should make comics. This is a good idea, but seeing as how I can't write fiction worth a shit I don't really see it as a possibility.
Honestly, I can write. I can. I'm a damn good writer too. However, most of my writing is either the rantings of a petty little school girl who doesn't have an ear to spew her vomitous complaints into, or the academic sort of writing that has a due date less than three hours away. I have produced fiction before. Good, descriptive fiction, full of dark humor and wit. I like that sort of thing.
Today, however, writing fiction for me is like taking a huge shit. I don't mean one of those uncomfortable shits that wreak and make the room moist either. I mean the ones where you really need to go so you start going and it seems like a good idea, and when you stand up you realize that what just came out of you is a giant pile of shit and needs to be flushed down the toilette. That sort of shit (tasteful, isn't it?).
Speaking of writing, I tried reading the writing of my cadaverouse philanderer today. I couldn't really stomach it. Not that he can't write, which I know if I ever said something like that and truly meant it some sort of devine power would unleash all hellish fury down upon my persons out of pure spite for speaking such nonsense, I just could not stomach being reminded of horrible memories. Horrible horrible memories. I haven't blocked them out. I still cry about them sometimes. I haven't come to terms with them yet. I'm trying to.
Be careful of bear traps, little fauve, be careful.
What I'd really like to do (which is actually me picking a thought from a long list of things I'd "really like to do". One of the things that I'd "really like to do" is make an art book of all the graphitti scribbled on the girl's bathrooms in the art-building of my school. A lot of it is really rich.) is create a liberal magazine filled with comics reminescent of the 1920-1980s Underground Comix. For those of you who aren't familiar with Underground Comix, they are the baby-booming bastard children of post WWII, VietNAMhippies, and the artistic orgy that happened when the West met the East. Or rather the visual orgy between the Great Wave off Knagawa and Mary Darly's A Book of Caricaturas (and its descendents). These comix still exist, but are harder to find.
Except it'd be online ... and free ... because I'm poor ... and everyone else is poor.
A poem, by eightneights
i.
i am so convinced that you are the most beautiful death,
you are erratic. erotic.sharp, uncensored. raw.
i want to read you over and ever again,
i want to watch distilled sound seeping out of your lips,
i want to feel your words bubbling out of your mouth and dripping onto my body like hot soup.
ii.
you dispose of my clothes quickly, efficiently, articulately,
they roll off me like polygons and triangles and sometimes a circle
they collect on the floor.
i must remember them in the morning, or you will
iii.
first i study your anatomy, a torso, a hand on my stomach, my leg, my
face, my hair, a strand of hair that cuts the blue of your eye,
fingerprints, toes (all 10), a neck, warm wet lips, pulsating, delectable.
there are parts of you inside me now, and it
makes
me
feel
delicious.
cuts my mouth and my throat as I swallow.
iv.
then i think about you. but only for a moment
and it never lasts very long.
plant within me, seeds of what would never grow between us.
a good morning kiss,a static phone call, a wednesday, questions
like ‘how are you feeling?’ or ‘have you cleaned the shards of glass from your kitchen floor, from your bed, from your skin?’ '
a morning garden, a contorted beam of sunlight. photosynthesize me.
turn me into air.
turn me into the pigment of your eyes,
so that I may fall asleep under the color of your eyes, and I will
blanket myself with your breath,
and I will let you slip your fingers in between my lips..
v.
then I count the ceiling tiles. 147.