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Friday, February 22, 2002
3:20 PM .:.
Christen as her ABC's
I am Acclaimed for my Bold and often Charismatic sense of humor. I Diss people with Every joke, be it a Father in the priesthood, or a Good samaritan wearing funny ties. I Hope every day for Ingenious strokes of Joy. Hovering over my mind are Kind words and pictures with Laughing voices Mellowing my sometimes confused and Neurotic mind, Opting always to be Paranoid and Quake-y. I often Refuse help, but am Secretly begging that it Tower over me in Unbounded amounts of Verocity. It could rain on my head in Wondrous X-rated fashion and in the end, You and me are the only ones the wiser...skipping in a Zealous frenzy.
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Thursday, February 21, 2002
2:00 PM .:.
New day, new stuff.
I want... (inspired by SARK)
I want candy in a bottle with a spout that tastes like chocolate (only it doesn't melt). I want a watch that leaves me love messages. I want to write a love letter to myself, say I'm beautiful, smart, sexy, and that I fill myself with desire. I want to forge that people are watching. I want to write a letter to SARK and then be offered a job as "creative coordinator." I want to make projects, get paid for it--it's my job. I want to have twinkle toes. I want to love glitter nailpolish and wear it every day. I want to be Cinderella at the ball for just one day. I want to have pajamas that feel like nakedness. I want to feel rain on one part of my skin, snow on another, a tornado in my hair, and a kiss on my thigh. I want to be a kiss for one day, snug between the lips of two people. I want to be a fly on the wall. I want to know why pink is called pink. I want to know everything about grass. I want to memorize how to say an Inuet's 200 words for snow. I want to speak German, Italian, Russian, and Georgian with the same grace as English. I want to draw pretty pictures without looking. I want to sip tea from a cup, always at the ready, perfectly steeped. I want a cabin in the woods with pretty trees and birds chirping (not only do I want to know the names of the birds, and where they come from and their mating rituals, but I want to know the tune they are chirping). I want to hear three seconds of a classical piece of music and recognize the name and title of that piece. I want to play the cello (because it looks sexy) and I want to play the piano (because hands are sexy). I want to be friends with animals and I want to not be afraid of huge ass iguanas (look at the first picture in the second row).
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Friday, February 08, 2002
4:01 PM .:.
Happy day to you, happy people. Here's one of my favorites; it's a good stand-by when you have a mind blank (or are at work and can only add a line or two between --nobody's looking!-- moments).
I remember/I don't remember
(Fantastical): I remember eat pink shoes at my eighteenth birthday party; a delicacy and treat. The kings wore robes of aluminum foil and chewed on straws made in fantastic colors, from hardened silicon, a valley of hopeful futures lying before them.
There was Misses Merry Mack, with buttons--all down her back! She loved elephants and let baby 'phants dangle from her ears, digging their tiny trunks into her ears, causing her to laugh abruptly during serious conversation. I was slightly embarrassed for her, but with all the green soup I drank, I really ended up forgetting much of it.
I don't remember when the dog flew to Austria and returned (in one half hour) with a tombstone reading, "Ich kann keine Sprache." Apparently, my father collapsed after cursing the dog and kicking it in the tummy. The dog didn't let up, despite my father's pathetic appearance: Sir, says the dog, Diese Schreibung ist sehr komisch. Halt!
My father refused.
The dog killed him.
I remember when I was fruit loop, shivering at the breath of my eater. I don't remember what color, but felt wonderful in the sugar. I remember when I took a bath in Turkey and talked to geese to pass the time; I was not considered weird or out of sorts.
Get real. I remember nothing of fruit loops, but eat plenty of fruity pebbles. I don't remember, each timeI buy a box, that they make me feel nauseous, my mouth feels fuzzy, and I feel I've only really enjoyed a small bowl, maybe three weeks earlier.
I remember holding a pen over the page and saying, "Today, we will become famous!" and the pen would nod and the page would smile and the little guy on my shoulder would laugh, stomping his tiny foot, "but how?" he'd ask, "when you SUCK so much?!"
Funny little guy he is.
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Wednesday, January 23, 2002
4:35 PM .:.
Here we go then:
Butterflies and Un-faces
Flitting like a lily on a tepid waterfall (get it)
I wonder what color your eyes are.
Every see your foot land on purple grass and feel the prickles in the pads of your toes, then wonder quietly in your head, cause you don't want any other walkers to look at your strangely, "Why are my feet so pale?" Why is it that the purple grass is the only normal part of the dream-atmosphere, and the people with un-faces trotting by are friends you've spent your life with?
And yet in life, when an un-face approaches your home, domain, world, you spit and yell, say "get the hell out" because something unexplainable repels you? What of the green sandals in the closet that you used at the beach last summer in which a sharp shell had coasted and split your foot?
What of those green shoes?
"colorless ideas sleep furiously" and here we are in this promenade, on an island.
I hate un-faces. Stop it.
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Friday, January 18, 2002
3:33 PM .:.
Whoa, it's been a day
Oh dear, it's been a day, one we won't soon remember.
the boredom, the drone, the desire to add unnecessary letters to words and make up new colors
if only for the newness of a color
or a word
how could sublime sound so sad? how could it sit on a page in all its lowness
the sticking jab of b and l are painful reminders of its status
sinking on the blue line of a page, easily smushed in a rush
and yet it speaks loudly
sublime sublime
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Tuesday, January 15, 2002
4:21 PM .:.
Oh, let's guess what fun topic I choose today.
Depression
Oh yes. First it's an insult. An attack. How dare you blame your problems on my depression? How dare you suggest that I don't have a strong grip on reality? How dare you, sir, suggest that all I see wrong with the world is merely a figment, an augmentation, an unrealistic and therefore wrong perception of the world? This is a ruse. A figment of your imagination. A mistake of your perception.
I cry. So I'm crazy. I scream and beat my fists and I splutter all the indecencies I've received from you, all the ways in which I've been hurt and walked over and most importantly, ignored. But that's because I am depressed, you say. You do everything correct. Everything is right.
When do I stop trusting me? When do I start? When it's clinical, when a doctor-man looks me in the eye and says, "you have a serious problem," depression equals crazy. I'm afraid to make judgements. I'm afraid to discern whether an action is normal or abnormal. I fail to see what love is. Do I make it up because I long for it? Is it gone and non-existing because I'm depressed and feel chemically sad? Where's the truth?
Which way is up?
Looking down on me walking between the hedges, through the cemetery and beside rushing cars in their blues and browns, I swing to the left and right and dodge beneath my own chin, look at my face and investigate the clues. How do I know I'm not just sad? Just plain ol', good natured, run-of-the-mill sad? Someone dies. Do you not feel grief? Isn't that normal? You are shunned. Do you not feel hurt? Is that not normal?
First it's an insult. Then it's a confusion. It instills doubt in me. I doubt myself because of your and your and your observation. Then it's neglect. Who cares? Nobody can tell me.
Which way is up?
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Tuesday, January 08, 2002
4:52 PM .:.
Today, I'm going to use a line from Sylvia Plath's journals. I'll pick it randomly right now:
"Outside the window it was dark, and the light from the kitchen was on the undersides of the tree leaves."
I could hear only my breathing, a raspy and soft breath that seems as if it will catch at any moment, swallow something, and then simmer until all is quiet.
The leaves were beautiful. Broad red and orange leaves swaying slightly on their small twig-like stems, wavering. People outside can see me, standing her at the sink with a glass of water, almost falling from my hand. They are watching me and thinking of scenes in a movie in which a woman in a robe goes crazy or sees something entirely frightening and then suddenly drops the glass of water and she can't scream but she can't breathe and all that is in her escapes in a flash, a loud silence, an inserted scream when the screen goes black; the scream the audience was waiting for her. In her scary death (a man outside the window looks in and kills her with is malevolence), she relieves the audience. Yes, the scream. It frees them.
She blinks and looks in her glass at the water, the tiny water stains on the rim of the glass, the prints her lips have made while pressed against it a few moments ago. Water. Crystalline.
She read once that if she tapes words to her water in the fridge, it will be more pure. Happy water. Like "thank you" or "I love you." The pureness is read under a microscope by a small, happy japanese man who probably is not only a genius, but spiritually intact.
"Spiritually intact," she mumbles into her glass. Why was that something to say to herself?
She's a reader. Because she reads, she searches for the same meanings in life that book plots insist exist. She is not a story. She should know this.
How does she stop looking for meanings? She starts, she guesses, but looking at water and seeing...water. She grins: not a little japanese man. Water.
The leaves outside twitched and so did she. Already, she thought it meant a moving on. A "good for you" from nature.
But that isn't what it was.
"Just leaves," she said...glumly. "just leaves, I suppose."
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