Thursday, December 29, 2005

mr. zimmerman's 115th dream

Ah me I busted out
Don't even ask me how
- mr. zimmerman*

feeling ridiculously hopelessly romantic and also at the very same moment, impossibly, absolutely crying.

let me sing you a waltz...out of nowhere, out of my blues...

baby, you are gonna miss that plane
i know.

sidewalks. cafe lights, tea stains on pages. mascara shadowed eyes in the morning with ruffled hair and thinking of the truth. movie addictions. bananas foster. bursting into tears and then babbling incoherently while pacing. humming and dancing in apartments with wood floors and big windows and record players. [lists]. dr. pepper and diet coke (not together). traffic lights hanging from lampposts over bridges made of steel and suspended like unravelling film.

again with this bullshit? no. i won't take it. are you bored? i am not intermediate entertainment. there was a time when that would have left me begging for more...and i'm not far enough removed to forget how it (still) sometimes makes my head spin...but not now. it's hard to see passed all the promise (because it's there...humming in the background like some twisted soundtrack made of silk and steel wool and rusted barbed wire) but i know what's behind it...and as much as i'd love to ignore it and pretend like ignorance really is bliss, i won't. those 3 seconds, so many months and days and hours ago, ingrained themselves on the insides of my eyelids in inverted colors like radioactive heart beats, and i am not stupid enough to open my eyes and forget. i'm jaded, you're careless, and we're both walking parallel to nothing that will ever be.

"All a writer has to do to get a woman is to say he's a writer. It's an aphrodisiac." saul bellow (awfully cavalier of him to say...but oh so true.)

*bob dylan, of course.

Monday, December 26, 2005


honest eyes in precarious situations
drinking catawba juice straight from the bottle
drinking smirnoff straight from the bottle
small gray puppies with blue eyes and big feet
rediscovering old dusty corners
machinery row and the electric earth cafe
yeruba mate and lapsang souchong (they both smell like bonfires...)
hand written notes
holiday naps
making christmas/hannukah/kwanzaa cards for veterans in coffee shops with my wifey
not knowing what to do with said cards after they've been made
old men singing bob dylan covers
warm skin
recognizing what i don't want

Your mouth is open wide
The lover is inside
And all the tumults done
Collided with the sign
You're staring at the sun
You're standing in the sea
Your body's over me

Monday, December 19, 2005

deadly nightshade

i'm in need of some deadly nightshade.
or maybe a trip to thailand.
possibly a camera, so i can actually take pictures of things.
sleep is another possibility.
a muse? yes.
the bamboo plant i got, but what about the iguana?
bob dylan was right about everything... ani too.
i have the strangest dreams...

we were driving in the car, you with your black down vest, me with pink rubber galoshes, sticking out just past the seat. i remember feeling like it was our secret, that i was sitting in the front, that we were driving on the "wind-y" road, that we had stopped at the gas station and you let me have a sip of your coffee even though she always told you not to. there weren't many other cars, which made the headlights stretch far off into the distance; i always tried to find the end of their luminous echoes, but they moved too quickly, running ahead of my eyes. and around every curve, across every hill and valley, when another set of lights approached, with that glowing above the horizon which announced the arrival of some other being into our universe, i would stare in rapture. incredulous that they would DARE to intervene on our time, our time! and also in terror that they would discover us, tell someone where we were, break the sanctuary of that rusting ford sedan into a thousand discordantly unequivocal pieces...but would that really have been so bad?

because the world owes me nothing 
and we owe each other the world

i have one constant ache in the back of my mind, the pit of my stomache, the middle of my heart... for domino.
no matter how many years pass [has it been almost 4 already?] i look at that picture and i see this rose gray appaloosa with molten chocolate
in his eyes and i still remember the way he smelled in the summer. there was a sort of stillness there, in the way he would come...he settled
my uncertainties, my insecurities, my doubts. as strong of unrequieted love i've felt from no other. he gave me a body to lean against, warm and
full and steady, all the things i wasn't. there is something that horses do which no other creature is as wonderful at doing - as strange as it may
sound to someone who doesn't have an afinity for these wildly beautiful things, the most comforting moments in my life [...surpassing hugs from old
friends and bowls of soup in january and sleeping in on sundays...] were those in which horses placed their noses in my outstretched hands, pressed
their massive heads against my ribcage and just stayed still. not needing to place to be but there, in that place, with me. dom did that a
lot. hugs from horses are like hugs from people, but better somehow. not better, i suppose, because they're different sorts of hugs...but regardless
of the fact that horses have no arms, those hugs are just as good. the funny thing is, dom was not a calm horse by nature. as an appaloosa, he was
inherently high-strung, skiddish, and stubborn. he was even the first (and only) horse to throw me from his back. yet there was this surreal connection
between us, an understanding. i did not hold those lapses in sanity against him, and he did not define me by my faults.i don't think about him everyday...
in fact a lot less often than i used to. but every so often, every few weeks, a prickle appears behind my nose and my eyes start to grow hazy and
i bite my lip for a moment...all because of dom.

David: You're not blind. You're drinking Jack Daniels, and when you drink
Jack, you start in with that...
Frank Sinatra, she shot me down, give
me a cigarette, "King of Sad" thing.
Brian: That I do. Give me a cigarette.

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

buggers, i'm trying to save their souls...

-mental cartoon-
.guy is holding hands with girl as they stroll on beach.
girl: i've never had this much fun on a first date
guy farts
girl:did you just fart?
guy: no, i think i stepped on a duck
-wide shot: duck running away, seriously hurt.
-colin mortensen

the entire world is being erased by snow, one cold-hearted molecule at a time. the world is coming to an end! the stars are falling all around, turned to embers and ash, and no one is making eye contact until they're forced to run for shelter in the warmth of central heating and the indoors. i really would like to be a sarcastic asshole today, but i'm in too strange of a philosophical mood. recognize!

being an existentialist can be either a) the most comforting thing in the world, or b) absolutely terrifying. i like to think that it is both sometimes, but that's just because i thrive on ambivalence. people, for example. my favorites are the ones who have so many levels it baffles my mind trying to figure every angle into clarity...except it never fully happens because they're never fully finished. you can be an asshole and i'll still adore you just as much! in fact, it's likely. as long as you make me realize big bloody-bodied truths and notice tiny infintessimally small details and really understand that you're being geniune. this is crucial.

Cuz I have had something to prove | As long as I know something | That needs improvement
And you know that everytime I move | I make a woman's movement
And first you decide what you've gotta do | Then you go out and do it
And maybe the most that we can do
| Is just to see eachother through it
We make our own gravity | To give weight to things | Then things fall and they break
And gravity sings

i miss my classes.

what?! who does that?!

apparently, i do. call me sentimental, call me a loser, call me what you will. i've enjoyed the people who have surrounded me this semester. maybe it's a sort of bittersweet affection in some cases, especially when in conjunction with the grueling, grating, obnoxiously difficult work that is involved in class, but as i have a tendency to become attached to places when i find a sense of solidarity and connection, that's whats up. to my writing class...thank you for being a friend to my mind. toni morrison was speaking of something totally different when she coined that phrase, but it's really what the class has been to me. not to mention that so many of you are sooo talented i feel like a failing amateur in comparison, or that you've given me some of the greatest compliments of my entire existence, but really...its that i can see bits of myself in all of you and i really crave that. this weird haven of self-criticism and terror and amusement and ridiculousness and infatuation and identity, that only really comes when you find people together who have a surreal sort of similarity haunting their staggering differences. i hope we keep some semblance of that...but even if we don't, we'll all be able to go read each other's sh*t when it's published, eh?

[sh*t being censored because it isn't actually shitty. i refer to it as such because the connotation of that word in this particular context embodies so much more than anything else ever could. talk about a contradiction in the pervertation of the english language...i also happen to believe that fuck really is one of the most versatile words available to our tongues. i adore that word.]

ILS...i've really already discussed the very twisted way we became a group (bonding over the most ridiculous amount of studying and mind boggling information ever is rather masochistic.) but i'll miss that too. i'll miss the class as well, even if allen is a pretentious asshole. but as i mentioned earlier, i usually end up loving assholes. hating, yes...but the love is more important. the entire history of the universe according to...fair trade coffee and tapestries? i guess so. we don't know exactly what we were supposed to take out of it...but i think that's ok. existentialism and solidarity! woo.

history discussion is a bunch of crazy people talking about huge ideas that have eaten the life out of society and are threatening to eat us for dinner and spit us all out in a pile of ravaged trash and apathetic bull. we refuse! and while we're doing it, we'll make all the pop culture references and go on as many tangents as possible.

hot raspberryrum chocolate
the raspy quality of the british voice when speaking of grave things
a new ladies' man, and consequentially, colin mortensen
the onion
buttons and home-made holiday cards
dirty blue shoes
radiohead song titles

wretched little heathens. buggers, all they'll eat is spaghettios. i'm trying to save their souls, but they just won't have it.

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

taking over small countries

walking down the street in the cold snow...hands together

no one ever touches each other when its nice outside, never holds hands until its so cold you need the human contact just to stay sane

down the sidewalk trudging, arms linked, into the building. held beneath the protective arm, just under, up against the collar bone where its safest, most comfortable. having the most peculiar conversation, realizing what is going on - a look from one, silently whispering in the back of your mind
you're done.
down the stairs, still connected. so real! and i hear my name calling from the walls...was it you? who knows, but i'll remember the chills for the rest of my days.

i am terribly frustrated. and also sick of being single [surprise]. sick (and!) tired of writing about the same shit every time i pick up a pen. tired of feeling inadequate at life. i am angry!

least favorites:
.negative windchills.
.early morning lectures that make no point.
.boys who play hot and cold.
.always being sleepy.
.leaving behind people at semester.

something needs to happen. something huge. the taking over of something, a building, a city, a country. we should all be armed and taking over small countries. or rioting. or no: an orgy. there should be an orgy.