Blurry Incidents, White Retina Spots.
February.
[Saturday.As.Usual.]
Noisy past week. Foreign scares, doubts, stuff and tough. I'd forgotten what it felt like. An odd fire inside, eerily still and I don't know if I'm waiting or rushing past. My life could be resumed in onomatopoeia, whoosh. Time is flying by, where are my wings, yknow? I keep waking early but every sunrise seems swallowed by the city. It's growing surreal again. Walking tanks of smoke, air and incense -my body of water colliding.
The skylight has been open all day and I suppose this means Spring. I wouldn't mind having a tree in here since it's all too bright out there to actually see anything. Been focused on writing, tying too many knots which I only end up cutting. Not sure what to do with Edo anymore but it screams nite in, nite out. I forget what I even want to say or which name is actually mine. Reality punches me in the face and it's sick tangibility for a while.
Don't want to point any fingers. Not in that direction, anyway.
Tunes: Bright Eyes, Ani DiFranco, Monsters Are Waiting, The Cure, Joy Division, Milla Jovovich, Radiohead, Garbage, PJ Harvey, Okkervil River, Brokedown Palace ST.
[Thursday's.Child.]
Wake up. Blink. Smoke. Open the window. Bare your teeth at the brilliant sun. My head's been boxing lightweight and out of reach, the ground keeps swaying under my feet. I can hear the phone and all that screaming in the streets; take a shower and scrape off imaginary sand, turning seagull from the heat. Thinking about nothing, eating the birds singing, burning wings wings wings.
Recently: Bright Eyes, PJ Harvey, The Smiths, The Velvet Underground, Ben Folds Five, Tori Amos.
[Friday.I'm.In.Love.]
Two.am -make guacamole and sculpt faces in the green, mix it up with strawberry juice. Ghosts breathing down my neck and whispering about moments' past, hours to come. Bruxelles morphing into a city I've never been to. All I really want is to sit on the stairs near le Mont des Arts and smoke. I used to hang out in the pseudo.park a little way up, I can't remember why. A man played the violin and I'd always give him something. He had a great dirty smile.
I could try to catch up with the past but that would only rush me into some side.stepped future when the present isn't that bad. I was thinking about a story, which I called "Superman" for no real reason and no real writing. The boy smelled exactly like Bruxelles' pale sun and ugly trees; only concrete can bloom there, it seems. I don't know why it reminds me of white because it's hardly pure -it's all weird light, invisible dark.
[I.Don't.Like.Mondays.]
Earlier, I was given all kinds of tarts and fruit.filled waffles. I thought of summer, water, music festivals. There's the academy's artshow coming up, which sounds like une vague ineptie if only because of what defines an artist. I'll probably get lost trying to find the way; I often catch myself staring at the smoke drifting from my mouth and mindlessly following it. Strange places. Spicy mint vapours -alternating with lemongrass, lily of the valley, frank incense. Some things can pretend endless and get away with it.
I'm starting to tape more pictures on my walls and have been dreaming of grey bodies, a spine bruised by cigarettes -the screaming birth of an angel. Accidently burned myself with the toaster this week, the longing was the most painful out of the two. Life's little triggers. I sometimes forget what the fuck is inner peace. I'm coaxed away, though and placed in the middle of balance; me and myself. I can't do anything to stop it but who would, really. There's so much red that smells like shit.
We've been promised rain, man. I throw bombs into Edo and build and destroy and conquer anew. I'm trying to be slow even when Time is making me hurry; I'm as running late as I am waiting. When I'll get submerged, there won't be any roads or maps or wrong turns.
Hello Atlantis. God, you've kept us guessing.