Today I bought:
-the (real?) fur coat of my dreams
-rainbow heart earrings
-red suspenders
...for fifty dollars.
SUCCESS!
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Friday, February 27, 2009
I am used to running rampant, wildly thrashing through woods, life, and stars. I am not used to going to bed early, waking up early, and fulfilling obligations that I do not really feel obligated to fulfill. I am used to spending my time in smoky diners and driving aimlessly while listening to music on my busted speakers. I am not used to a short leash and a choke collar, the looming threat of homelessness if I don’t snap out of my shit. But, this is why I loathe and love mania, because it doesn’t feel wrong. It feels dangerous and hopeful. I bask in these euphoric feelings, because at least I’m not numb. No, I’m not numb now and although it hurts so bad to be caged, the reward is there, my freedom is just a wormhole away.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Welcome to the world of GNPs. Welcome to the world of ambiguous conversation.
I am a mess, but still so lucky. I go to sleep with the taste of illness seeping through my pillow and wake up drenched in blood. God has a strange way of pulling zir children to zir side. I imagine my wings growing beneath my skin, the surface rippling until it tears like paper and they push through, covered in ichor.
Pomegranates are not as delicious as I used to imagine. I thought of Persephone crushing a soft seed between her molars and how the pulp would gush from the ruptured skin in a vibrant rush of juice. In reality, pomegranate juice is kind of brown, especially when bottled and organic. If you shake up a bottle of organic pomegranate juice, the bubbles at the top are rusty brown. It tastes thick and cloys sharply, not like any kind of ripe citrus. I wish Persephone had eaten grapefruit, pealed the thick layers back until she got to the shiny pulp and then plucked up the chunk of fruit flesh with her hands before sucking it into her mouth and bursting it all with a press of her tongue. Maybe then I wouldn’t imagine Persephone as clueless, but still I wonder what would happen if Persephone had gotten sick after swallowing Hades’ seed and vomited. Would she still spend such a long time underground? Would winter be shorter, more bearable? Sometimes I wish Persephone had purged that seed.
I am a mess, but still so lucky. I go to sleep with the taste of illness seeping through my pillow and wake up drenched in blood. God has a strange way of pulling zir children to zir side. I imagine my wings growing beneath my skin, the surface rippling until it tears like paper and they push through, covered in ichor.
Pomegranates are not as delicious as I used to imagine. I thought of Persephone crushing a soft seed between her molars and how the pulp would gush from the ruptured skin in a vibrant rush of juice. In reality, pomegranate juice is kind of brown, especially when bottled and organic. If you shake up a bottle of organic pomegranate juice, the bubbles at the top are rusty brown. It tastes thick and cloys sharply, not like any kind of ripe citrus. I wish Persephone had eaten grapefruit, pealed the thick layers back until she got to the shiny pulp and then plucked up the chunk of fruit flesh with her hands before sucking it into her mouth and bursting it all with a press of her tongue. Maybe then I wouldn’t imagine Persephone as clueless, but still I wonder what would happen if Persephone had gotten sick after swallowing Hades’ seed and vomited. Would she still spend such a long time underground? Would winter be shorter, more bearable? Sometimes I wish Persephone had purged that seed.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
I am a reaction, a combination, and an explosion of so many different components. I imagine I exist as being made up of other existences. It hurts to think this way, but I am still imagining the blurring lines between me and the air, the way I'm constantly growing and decaying, becoming something new before I even know it. Imagine that you feel ever bit of stardust vibrating in your body, the glitter of your words' fiery combustion.
I may withdraw from this semester. I don't know how to function when I am all over the place. I can see so many moments from so many directions through so many eyes. When I am wanting to lash out at every angle, it's difficult to sit still and go into the rigor mortis motions of this daily life I live by choice.
Words are magical in every language. Don't doubt their impact on the vast around you.
How do we feel?
I may withdraw from this semester. I don't know how to function when I am all over the place. I can see so many moments from so many directions through so many eyes. When I am wanting to lash out at every angle, it's difficult to sit still and go into the rigor mortis motions of this daily life I live by choice.
Words are magical in every language. Don't doubt their impact on the vast around you.
How do we feel?
Monday, February 16, 2009
What can I tell you when you're away? I've been meaning to say something, something beautiful that would choke your sobbing in sweetly blushing clouds. Maybe I'm not meant to be a creation, but I'm meant to create. Maybe I'm meant to be a good number of things. Maybe that number is nine, or maybe it is seven, or four-hundred and seventy-nine. Maybe it is so many things you and I could never hope to count them, but they would all be beautiful.
What have I learned since you've been away? More than I can remember, but then again, maybe you only learn what you can remember. I remember that love is a concept and not a concrete object. I remember that camp is only a parody, but I would love to live my life as a parody anyways. I remember knocking over the trash can, falling onto a pile of garbage, and thinking it was a decent place to sleep. I remember how blanched the world was after my fourth day without sleep.
I don't think it's a routine unless it comes in threes. I don't think it's love until I'm down on my knees.
p.s. My hair is growing back faster than I had imagined it would. Pictures soon.
What have I learned since you've been away? More than I can remember, but then again, maybe you only learn what you can remember. I remember that love is a concept and not a concrete object. I remember that camp is only a parody, but I would love to live my life as a parody anyways. I remember knocking over the trash can, falling onto a pile of garbage, and thinking it was a decent place to sleep. I remember how blanched the world was after my fourth day without sleep.
I don't think it's a routine unless it comes in threes. I don't think it's love until I'm down on my knees.
p.s. My hair is growing back faster than I had imagined it would. Pictures soon.
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