life; life
"innocence can't be lost it just needs to be maintained"
"I want to go on living after my death, and therefor I am grateful to God for giving me this gift, this possibility of developing myself and of writing, of expressing all that is in me."~ Anne Frank
preface
"Why do I feel like I had more to say during sophomore year? Maybe I did. Trivial high school bullshit can do that to a person." Sun, July 9th, 2000
will our necks look like giaraffes?
this time capsule: memory box of us
2 souls, both cast in alabaster
Chaos: the day was littered w/ it, making our stomachs have difficulty in digisting the simplest of things. I was aching in the end! holding my sides as if w/out the aide of hands it would collapse- spilling contents between my fingers. love isn't that bad; words from mouths are.
luke: the quiet beetle, unfolding his wings in a hum that sounds as angelic as a harp and as sinful as cigarette smoke. addicted? maybe. but we don't mind. numbers help compensate, so naturally it is allowed.
footlight: it's all coming together so perfectly like stars that randomly collapse on cue- that's how well the glue sticks. even chairs attatched to our hips work! toes eventually match, and regretfully, JP steals the show w/ his rubber face (as rubbery as the tongue jammed in my mouth).
it's okay; i have breasts, fat, and what- my god- a vagina? which is more than i can say for what he wants...
and my blondes. of course they love our scent. they're protective as lions, but safer. it's just that their manes don't get stuck in their eyes.
The sky looks bleedingly red and I think I bleed too; but not for jeff, for he is too thick for my blood and he wipes my face in it defiantly; he makes me lose.
words can't convulse out of my pen tonite- violently- the way they would have yesterday, or even a week ago. instead, their vowels tremble, shattering teeth and bones from leftover limbs, salads, junk food. love is meant to fall off of- not fall into.
or so matt told us (willingly for some reason tonite)
or jeff told us (shoving it in our faces that: we are forever "crawling back" and he is too good for us")
or JL (who calls us "pretty" and we're too scared to believe it; he, being to nice to unveil it).
which is why letting go of the blistering rope of love is so, so hard to do.
Love is like clockwork, continually pacing her busy hands as if she's tying flower to her wrists. analyze poems? okay, for what price? will he give me blood? tongues? a massage?
No. all i want are hands: caressing my bruised heart, bathing my limbs in lite that keeps my skin fresh as petals, but still beautiful.
and i think i see a lite.
(doors unhinging, an exposed nakedness of events; futile coughs)
I could fall into this blackness- this envelopment of fingers; i could take it. it's the eyes i can't take. it's the voice behind it that leaks my pearls.
love letters is the only place to go to salvage what's left of my sanity. when hearts start melting and revolving doors become glued shut, the one thing left is the museum of past loves- a monument to them. seriously, no literature is more raw than the precisely written love letter: it's angular jaw, misplaced words and nods that seem to laugh as you read them in the present. it's a shock! like, i really felt this way?! in reality, love should abolish the horrible idea that couples are "inseperable." give me a break. breathing is good too.
the bracelet: "i need to look pretty... you don't need it."
and wrappings are unwrapped in the pales of his eyes.
12:28 am: sometimes writing is the only place i can go; and when i see her sticky smiles plastered everywhere in a mocking tone (and his arms are still around me in a slight, hypocritical way)- i just can't take it. Laying on the other side of the couch or running away is always the easiest, since it's not the best, option.
but i love him: like my statue, perfectly sculpted w/ hands that are tender, having so much respect for every feature; like the needle jabbed in his arm- the expression, pure words, something only words could provoke or create.
the sillohette stamps in w/ a disturbance so loud my teeth shatter. and looks kill, his eyes holding the trigger, her blood-drenched smile spraying air freshner over the crime scene.
i read "the kid's guide to divorce" [Lorrie Moore] thinking: this is me, these insane words that flutter about like drunk lightning bugs- this is me.
and why does it suddenly smell like andrew? i am holding my nose up in the air sniffing his remenents, quietly wondering: ...will our necks look like giraffes becoming defreckled, a paling of the sky?
everyone is such a nutcase. people have to be the funniest creatures that have ever been dealt w/. still, somewhere frozen in chilled darkness is that old mammoth carcass, and maybe, w/ the right seasoning, we'll taste just as good.
this is my history: all in it's richness, in flesh and blood, the labours that crossed rivers for me. for me. and th e lives of slave owners and jewel sit in my hands, somehow basking in the eerie glow of the deep south, whispering "my secrets are far and wide; our stories bow to you." and fertile soil has never been so productive b/t my fingers.
this is history. this is my history. and here, we are able to produce more history for future zygotes to comprehend and learn from (i only pray they are not slave owners).
.....
sick of this ghastly indenture. or is it adventure? endeavor.
my love for him pours like something waiting to explode: a storm; the sky gurgling like an upset stomach. i miss him a lot. my heart misses him; my hands miss the way he feels; my body misses his as it would hold me, telling me that everything fucked up would be okay. oh andrew! you know how i bleed for you - i hope.
....
i'm happy; so how can't i be healthy?
.....
so i pour for him int this time capsule: memory box of us, b/c he is so wonderful and i don't want to forget it.
need: a voice, a breath of "i love you's," a heart, arms, body, all together in confunction; b/c i have words and imagies and a voice to translate them....
Maruy: so disturbing watching these stick-straight girls trying to flaunt their sexuality- they're so thin! underdeveloped! curves haven't sprouted yet; angles don't move in to create tiny waists; they're un-used flesh used all the wrong ways. it's like over exposing a fucking plant.
.
sitting there: kitchen, the moon floating around like a lost iris, the clouds her lids, and there was a moment where everything was so eerily blue and breathtaking that tears could've sprouted except for the fact that i was so tired, the only capable movements were my hand crawling towards the lap, seeds of everything. In that instant, that second- those clouds arranging themselves symbolicly not only caught our attention, but a blur in time where there wasn't just a man and a women witnessing this imagery, but 2 souls, both cast in alabaster-seperate, but interlocking.
and breathing softly, our souls: so naked, fresh in pink, seem to whisper things our mouths can't yet (thin and tight); that even though we may not be equipt to last, at least this memory is: too thick to run through my toes, y hands not having it either way.
the water looked like glass as we slid down the hill. I could almost touch it, except from flesh through air it was further than my brain could reac, so the scenery had to suffice. i don't know; i really don't. what do i do w/ my life? i need to find a way to funnel my words while i'm there so they don't spill from the neck: a mess on shoes, floor- hard to clean up. jesus, if i can do it here i can do it there! it's all in how you cultivate your garden; how you plant and sow, reaping fruit that is not only fragrant from a distance but pleasent as it rests on your tongue, sliding down your throat in one delicious gulp. i mean, it's not that hard to do.
what do i want? chilling in my bones: the fire to melt the mantle. i desire the balance of a christian telling me "no." and the boy from the pictures freeze framed, forever pusing the little blonde out of the way. an older breath of him looms overhead, running whispers through my hair, opening up cuts where only memories of blondes had held the oozing blood together before. it is he i desire: the illusion, the cut out scrapes from old photographs; an unwrapping of aortas from cupped hands.
I can almost go home! spread myself across not having to do anything for a full month.
...........
Andrew smooths over the rough edges w/ slippery words and the hue of his eyes (blue, like the winter lite) saying "i never cared," the simplicity wahsing doubt away: the shimmer; his breath curling as fog does in crisp, darkening 3:30 skies.
I think of him often. cigarettes are discarded haphazardly, as if to echo the effect he has on our mind except it doesn't come close. Those embers burn into us a memory so calculating it imprints us in pink- a scalding reminder of who, what, when, and where he was. he's not just some boy toting microphones- he's Andrew, that boy wearing exotic looks (the nose, his nose!) and shoulders that hang clothes perfectly: and i love him. I know i've loved him forever, it's been ono secret, but everytime i actually look at the ink blotted words and feel the footprints of it's meaning it's as if my heart has been massaged, un-stepped on by heavy boots. we are light, airy, our secretive parts covered by flower blossoms, the others w/ stems. and i miss that fragrance- the togetherness- we feel when folded together, pieces of a puzzle, our blooming ceased at the second the nector drips.
I miss those fluffy paragraphs held behind his eyes, unleashed as the damn is lifted, life concentrating on what he cannot explain, only the eyes that are dreaming, the colored parts know the answer.