electrical wires shrink and freeze. then crack and shatter.
the lights go out. the street turns dark. metallic feet walk through the ice. and then they meet.
frozen fingers touch frost bitten faces. "now i see".
the ground crunches. the air stretches. wine glasses smash and the moths chew through sheets.
"there you are".
there.you.are.

the tall umbrella rests against the wall. in the roach infested kitchen of an apartment that is regrettably 50% kitchen. 5 stories from the street and 1 story from the clouds.
in a bed. of desert wool and indian patterns. spare wire and electric tape. no sheets and a stained mattress. he slept and she finished the wine. staring out imaginary windows. skin burns and they both remember underground rain, leather boots weighed down with water, falling from the ceiling. and. my god, not enough coffee to last the week.
eyes staring at teeth, teeth biting at skin, and skin feeling selfishly like nothing.

there was something about that bus ride. blood running through the transmission and leather seats breathing like lungs. a general sense that novocaine was being run through the vents.
back on the fifth floor. suitcases hit the tile. records scratch and echos bounce off walls. ghost coffee is served in broken tea cups and calls returned on the telephone whose wire was cut three days ago.
all the while clouds hang just below the ceiling. filling up with dreams sad enough to make them rain.
a week later, a window is left open and the clouds ran away with your dreams. and also some of the better china.

old love songs crackle through the radio and dreams crackle through the mind. like thousands of tiny hands punching the back of eyes until they are forced to cry.
remember.
a ripped dress. a skinned knee.
blood on the floor and a struggle over peroxide.
messages you only read in the morning. if only you had found them.
.
messages you only read at night. remind you.
tomorrow it's black coffee for two.
and you haven't ridden that bicycle since.

eyes peer out from around the corner. fists pound on ceramic doors and you escape out the window.
a note taped to the icebox. containing a very important map. point A to objective B.
you didn't get far. in the smoke shop below the apartment. drinking the coffee meant for distinguishing cigarettes. that explains that addiction. this happens every tuesday. you hide to be seek-ed.

on the floor.
there are spiraled telephone cords. from a phone that never worked.
spiders. that were named after you.
leather. that wraps and locks.
brown paper bags and saddle shoes. from school girl memories.
rabbit fur. where there are no rabbits.
chili leaves. in the dead of winter.
and sense memory. of head to hardwood. flashes of light. and waking up to nothing.

and then you switched. to the other line. to speak to that opera singer. surrounded in brick walls. the electric line took your thoughts away.
standing and extra 4 inches high. dropping fur to the floor. exposing tattoos of desert snakes and paragraphs in french.
listening to letters. holding letters. hoarding letters. in the deep rabbit skinned pockets.
crushed as a result of hourly fists and anxiety.
'tell me i am next'.

10.2 hours until landing. 2 and 1/4 bottles of emergency wine left. 27 letters to be delivered by carrier pigeon.
wake up to the amazon river and 723 minutes later count arctic stars. recording them on page 13 of a travel journal abandoned 12 pages ago. finish the 1 book brought along for the 22nd time.
10 hours until landing. wonder if she will remember.

outline every crease of skin. draw internal bones externally. because you want that exoskeleton.
don't be jealous of beetles.
as silent sound waves pulse through white cords filling heads with distractions. wings form under rib cocoons. snap bones. break skin. dry out. learn to fly.
burn up. fall down.
erase the outlines.

"fuck fate"
he said. then immediately went back to appraising old furniture.
too obvious. but book dedications and lyric renditions mean too much. walking over bridges with skipping records in the background.
"it's too obvious"
she wrote. and slowly went back to staring at the ceiling.
not obvious enough. but sideway glances and jars filled with dead baby sharks. just explain everything. sailing under bridges with whales and old broken bottles.

it escaped through the eyes. crawling out and back into skin. and out again. moving like an old black and white movie on the surface of arms and shoulders. down ribcages and through scars and around bruises.
but that's not really what we're talking about.
that was thread wrapped around organs. switch blades used to remove old teeth. and just the general consensus. that. once you use it up. it's old. no good. ready to be turned into glue.
glue that fixes ripped organs. and. puts back old teeth.

fingers. fin.gers. f.i.n.g.e.r.s.
tapping with the sound and frequency of some mechanical chain assembly line. metallically sliding. covered in oil. razor. sharp.
each upcoming strikes of letters and marks and punctuation. each electronic letter. each industrial story book sentence.
rusts the bones. makes the heart beat one last time. fills the lungs with more smoke.
much more damage. done. than progress. created.

formaldehyde in the medicine cabinet. preserving memories and memorabilia.
that matchbook from last february. the hair from two years ago. the gravel from your street.
most importantly the dreams. you wake up with. and also feathers for when you fly away.
thus creating an apartment that smells like dead frogs and a person who never forgets.

bones. snapping bones. snapping toe bones. that is why you don't kick the furniture.
bruising. melting. ripping skin. and internally pushing out the external cartilage.
spinning around in a kitchen littered with. fur. leather gloves. bloody lace. happy dogs and insurgent mason jars.
there is 92% by volume something. or. other. the sweet southern tea that happens to be flammable and sterilizing.
and 4 sets of eyes all wanting to say something. 4 sets of eyelids covering over the thought.
there is 53 degrees left.
take that whichever way you choose.

there was not much left. all of the ink on the pages of every letter he ever wrote was gone. or just separated and turned abstract in that flash flood. though neither of them had anticipated a flood on the fifth floor. so. there it is/was/will be.
hanging paper out to dry. on the makeshift clothing line. while the ocean knocks at the windows. and the fire escape. turned to rust. with fish ghosts and snail skeletons. walls sweat salt. broken glass grew out of the floor. and you could hear the room breath.
it smelled like burnt out matches. but really. they were just waiting to drown.

apathy laced with intense fear. of past. of future.
presently you stumble around the 300 square foot rabbit hole you filled with too many old books, porcelain cats, and maps to places that no longer exist.
rib cages stab organs. 3-4 pain killer capsules.
dreams of biting rocks until teeth splinter up into your mouth. 16 oz. of coffee.
crawling/scratching under your skin and inside your entire body. 1.5 bottles of whiskey while sitting in a bathtub full of india ink tainted water.
everything that happens is because of you. everything is fact.

sitting in the dining car on a transcontinental train to berlin.
using butter knifes to open long lost letters.
you'll always be my captain
he wrote while sitting by the southern ocean, listening to the sound of sharks laughing and crabs paying the fiddle.
i never asked to be captain. she replied. then crossed it out.
i know.
she wrote while stepping out onto the cobblestone and into the northern air.
there is natural light. and. there is artificial light.

indeterminacy and chance operations.
conducted in a command center 430 feet above the ground built to withstand winds of up to 235 miles per hour.
or.
conducted in the mind. or.
through sight and sound. the smell of the pavement and/or pressure in the air.
or. just chance. but.
the one thing that endures all. hidden in a suitcase. or a jar under the sink. or half burnt in freak matchstick accident.
would never. will never. should never. be left up to the weather.

the sky will open up. and drench you. and your skin. and your hair. and every piece of clothing you have.
until your eyes are leaking black oil. and bones are outlined in fabric.
and skin burns due to a high percentage of acid in the clouds.
too much electricity. not yet enough voltage.
leaving the wires and the outlets out to dry. the hand written letters on the clothing line. the kittens in the washing machine. and yourself under the heat lamp.
resulting in bloodshot eyes. bleached skeletons. the smell of burning hair.
all set to the soundtrack of wireless buzzing and static electricity and short circuitry.

really, what else is there.

watch the top of the world burn. or maybe. just the solitary plate of fire 5 stories above the moderately damp ground.
3/4 of a syringe of concentrated caffeine. 48 ounces of novocaine. 1/2 liter of sharp words.
here. you shed your golden skin. and lay crumbed on the ground around the intoxicating shreds of what you once were. fumes of the past making you forget the present.
then. between dream conversations and electronic letters. you grow new skin.
now. you are a nice shade of pewter.

steel doors slam down. just beneath the skin.
sliding through the body, stopping: entering.exiting.movement.and.thought.
turn into stone. out of flesh. and back into dreams.
below. the monsters stare up with various bloodshot eyes. gaping mouths. gasping for air. or a glass of water.
the solid. the liquid. the gas.
these are what we are made of.

stare out to the street. at the electric trees. the glaring moon. and a cityscape.
you came on a taxi sailing through the river of oil. now you are stuck. in one out of fifty three rooms on the twelfth floor of the granite building on two hundred and fourth street.
the trees buzz and flicker. people yell. alley cats yell. pigeons yell. it is all burnt coffee and the smell of old book pages.
'i want to stab my eyes out'
why, he replied. but she already turned away.
the trees blew a fuse and the street turned black.

skin fades away. leaving you with a mouth full of bone and a ribcage full of cartilage.
this is when you climbed up the outer walls. sitting in a rusty wheel chair. gazing at the glossy eyed children.
soaked in rubbing alcohol with lungs full of smoke. lit with teas lights and flags from various countries. minds fill up with the past. eyes fill up with the present. bottles fill up with the future.
i'm not. where i am. but where. we will be.
in egypt you can get any prescription drug over the counter.
i have already bought my ticket. the year of self medication. is among us.

the smell of still wet pavement. is all the comfort you get.
the road was rough. gaping holes into the earth. exposed piping. water. sewage. tunnels. everything that ran through it.
was visible. the smell of sulfur and other chemicals seeping up through the ground.
then it was scratched and ripped to shreds and gravel. the surface. or what was left. groped and dragged and destroyed.
and now it smells like still wet pavement.
everything that didn't make it out in time is forever cemented beneath the earth.
inside. enclosed. encased.
forever.
hesitation. will cause asphyxiation.

the feel of the twist. shredding muscle/tissue.
the feel of the tapping. taptaptap. on the keys. with the keys. and bloodsoaked fingertips.
the feel of the endlessness. wrapping tape around limbs. and walking around eternity in shoes that might not be yours and that make your feet numb.
it is the least you can do.
feel pain. feel nothing. feel everything. but all at once. and all together. it is the least you can do.
every shooting star is you. falling. to death. or. back to earth.
back to what killed you.
but.
she is too busy cooking dinner.

dress in all black. with fringe at your feet. and glass in your eyes. no.
not glass. but a scientifically enhanced soft plastic shield made to support evolutionary repressed people.
we are/i am/you were. evolutionary repressed.
and so; there was mint. and the freezing process. the sun. the sunshine. the porcelain that did not break and the mechanical drawing machine. red lips and head butting parked cars.
the people that are known best. minus maybe one. or two.
i am sorry about the thieves.

sky turns black. in the middle of the afternoon. ride in on a pale horse and a dark cloud.
on the wooden floor. life is spread out. all over. all in front of you.
pick the card. and execute. executions. expulsions and explosions.
and.
so it will be. now. and. forever.

three point five years ago. was a world of solitude. hidden in the basement of a hundred year old house. world stripped to almost nothing. when you learn to survive. off of. old novels. a jar full of magnolias. turpentine. the morning newspaper.
nothing was consumed. except ideas. words. and the occasional martini and cigarette. thought the martini was mostly used for smoking and the cigarette for melting flesh. there was minx coats and orange silk. painted black eyes and beaten black eyes. ignored telephone calls and torn up letters. visitors crept up the walls. using all six legs. transients peered through the glass and the toad came to call at 4am. sunrise was champagne and sunset was endless cups of black coffee.
this is when you learned the most. what insides looked like. how burns heal. how the skeleton looks through skin. how time passes when passing doesn't matter.
thenyouopenyoureyesunderwatertakethecakeoutofthebathtubandwalkoutthedoorbreakthesurfaceandgetonthebus.

when you reached the middle of the bridge. suspended. in the air. above the air. below the air.
it escapes. from inside the lungs. mind, esophagus, and pupils. part bone marrow, part memory. half past. partially present.
stumble out to the pavement. over the broken glass. through the burnt rubber fog and antifreeze mist.
you are the deranged. 100 miles up. laughing. and. crying. hysterically calm. in the middle of the wreckage.

but.

today i saw a rainbow.

at 12:53 am. cat meows. hot air balloon shadows creep up white walls. the other cat meows.
the empty feeling. after dreams of imaginary songs. you should leave. glass on the floor. scissors in the frying pan. horses in the trash cans.
this is the age of the disposable.

all i smell is old blood in the air.

paper covers rock. scissors cut paper. metal cuts bone. muscle. and flesh.
and there you have it. the soft sound of blood dropping on the pavement. and gravel crunching that slow spinal crunch. that it makes. when it has been dampened. with water. or blood.
'smoke one last cigarette. because you will need it' she laughs. 'at least it was only your left eye. hand. or lung'
bones snap. skin melt. hearts explode. the sky is vomiting water. all over. and forever. thank god we bought that arc in a panic three months ago. the end of the world is not the same. with out one last bon voyage. and a wave good bye.
it is 10:50 am. and the sky is pitch black here.

the sky shoots fire. in the gray and green world. whileinsidetheorangewalls. everything is stale and/or cold.
so there is. hanging in the sky. the long sound of flying whale songs and drawn out sirens of warning. floating through yellow/gray clouds and looking down on the kaleidoscope earth. and then they set it on fire.
there is electricity. in its most natural form. you see. standing three stories up. consuming:
black coffee. the sound of the sky. and sight of angry clouds. as seen heard and spilt through the wall to wall glass.
watch the earth scream and the sky scratch at it.
anything. can be delivered in 3-5 business days.
even. the. end. of. the. world.

listen to every song you ever loved to.
like it was said before.
he feels like a child. while. she has yet to grow arms.

days are long. when you only sleep three hours. and wake up to ghosts standing at your head. on your head. in.your.head.
days are tough. when words cut through your heart. and veins. and arteries. and memories don't go away. because you are ruthless. seven hundred miles. you said.
then two hours behind. in the past. is the future. you replied.
we are not alone. you are. not alone. i.am.not.alone.
there will always be the ghosts.

and then. there are things that fly.

all that is left. is what was. left behind.
one roller skate. two point five brown paper bags of clothespins. negative one switchblade. thirty eight books minus the one that meant the most. two empty suitcases. fifty percent empty space. to start. something else.
open your mouth to scream. or sigh. but only sharp silence comes out. because it has been a year since you had those vocal cords removed. for secrecy. or. to. keep. secrets.
'i will be back in three days' was the reply. to the silent voices.
and you are left. with the ghost. and one roller skate.

crack open shells. crush the mantle. snap the jaws. scratch out what's in. this was a mussel.
keep feathers in your eyes and dead flowers. in your pockets. this was a nest.
this was the nature of things.
'it's been a while'... 'yes, a long time'.
but you were in the cargo holders of that airplane headed to the savannah. and i was. in a room. surrounded by bricks. and cement. and a million strangers.
they wrote. letters on walls. letters in suitcases.
wallpaper and brush fires lost them both.

so. well. in twenty five years. maybe.

meanwhile you freeze your image in photographs. taken. to remember. and to forget.

there is the air. turns eyes. red. tired. off.
she spent the time drawing houses on the wall. turned fall. out. shelters.
then the atomic mushroom cloud. to match the one on the skin.
it is 4:22 am. stare at the ceiling. from the floor.
it is 5:40 am. t minus 2o minutes, she replied. 1 hour to sleep.
.25 to drink one last cup of coffee. then draw back the shades and watch the smoke rise. and. shape. and skin melts. and hair burns. the world turns white.

the door opens. was it a long wait.
thank fuck for coffee.

eyes melted. sockets empty. but somehow you are still alive.
or the heart doesn't move, but the circulation still circles. the muscles atrophied. but you still twitch about.
this. is. besides the point. the eyes are empty. look at blank walls and see everything. look through a pair of WWII M16 binocular separators. see nothing.
you are nothing but a mind attached to a galaxy of nerve endings.
we used. to hold. each others. hand.
now.we.only.hold. telencephalon.

it is the least of your worries. the least. it. is/was/will be.
hold 243 ml of it in your mouth. wait. ing. to spit it out.
but by now the wait is so long that it feels a part of you and you can't. can't part. with part of you.
the letters come. the invitations go. the dark eyes. dark fur. dark finger nails. that scratch and look and blink and bleed at each other in a whirlwind of what was. once was. will be again. or never was. through the glow of the screen you can see. everett evelyn. tinted in a pixelated, buzzing, humming, flickering atmosphere. sitting on that wall.
that was.
built by.
you.

the past hour. for work. i have writen. art. bleed. art. bleed. art. bleed. in front of the orange walls.
bleed. art. is it that easy. was it that easy. are you this easy.
there is gravel in the veins. gravel in bones. gravel and brain membrane. coursing. scratching. rumbling through everything.
lit by a low buzz/hum and to the soundtrack of a high pitched squeal squeak ring.
this is/was/will be my impression of you.

bite your tongue. while you bite my tongue. and she bites. his.
close up the esophagus. seal over the eyes. block the tympanum. don’t let any thing. any thought. glare. gl.an.ce. d.r.e.a.m. out.
do. do not. scare things away. with how you are. how you were. how. you could be.
turquoise glasses are stole. media is ripped off walls. memories are taken. and. their impressionalized ink is smudged and moved and skews what once was real. now. not now. not never.
so you say. and i do too. i. am. as. well.
a formulated ending to an affectionate letter.

so there it was. there it is. and there you are. or where are you?
eve. ry. da. y it. 's. gett. ing. be. tt. e. r.
fall asleep to a voice that isn't yours. or human. or it is human. but not in the normal sense of the word. or it is just you. in your second form.
do we only get one hour. and why is time flying. and the passage of time stretches out. into much farther. longer. lengthier. than it ever was. but maybe will be. time plays tricks. or souls play tricks. or we play tricks on the soul of time.
and then there is the hinge horse. mouth swings open. or just falls back. exposing throat. esophagus. molars. jugular veins.
tears pool to the back of the eye socket. nostrils gasp for air. all membrane dries up. everything burns. andallyoucandoishum'lovelovewilltearusapart.again'. the only song you know.
without neck muscles, how do you get your head back on. again.

the sky cries.
the cat is lonely.
fuck.
butthenyoujusthavetomoveforwardnotlookbackrememberthefutureandthingswillbeok.
there is a reason for everything. or is there... maybe. probably. does it even matter.

in the middle of all. of it. an end. or. a beginning. is equal distance. from one another. and transition. is above. and transcendence. is below.
sleep on floors. under floors. over floors. with black coffee and strangers who won't give you. the. last. cigarette. and strangeness who tells you that you don't even want it.
sleeping in between the pit bull and the chihuahua. apologize to the baby birds. and smile with them. and hear little chirps. little snake chirps. scorpion songs. and crocodile lullabies.
i don't know what i am doing. do you know what you are doing. know one knows what they are doing.
27 days 11 hours 59 minutes and 17 seconds.

the world might end. a world might end. your world might end. our. world. ends. protons neutralize. you. sit there drinking 500 ml of coffee out of that measuring cup. i look up from the 7th page of the paper while all ions vaporize. "we did the best we could". and then. milionsofatomsjoindtogetherandwearetogetherandyouarestillstogetherandtheniamtogetherwithyouaswell.
but then there is the matter of blood. on the floor. on the walls. on your shirt. turn right side up. there is still blood. but. it. still. runs. through. the. veins. where it belongs.
into the heart. through the atrium. the ventricle. through tricuspid valves. right to where it belongs. and then it leaves. again....
also i believe you. and also i am too.
having a sense of satisfaction.

and it's kind of like this.
hands grabbing the inside of you lungs. gathering up in the ribcage. plus the tail end of the esophagus and some shoulder bone.
and. latch on until. all muscles feel like water. hair attached to skull feels heavy. numb rising in the head. stretching and sinking in the stomach. the break. is not a quick shatter.
a small crack. grows. stretches. pulls. more. and more. m.or.e. everyday.
you close your eyes. wait for it to pass. clench your teeth. bite your tongue. let blood pool in your mouth. in your mind. in. your. heart.

i take a photograph of myself everyday. while working. because i want to watch myself age. or see myself change. look more tired. seem less calm. everyday. things change. you.change. we.chan.ged. l.i.f.e.c.h.a.n.g.e.s.
we sat on the street corner. in the rain. on the grime. watch strangers pass by. smile to yourself. frown at you. wrap elongated fingers through the folds of your shirt. humtheonlysongyoueversing. while i read that book on the atom bomb.
remember.that.everything.can.change.in.one.day.
e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g.

stand in front of the lamp. skin turns white. eyes turn black.
consume large quantities of ink and oil and water colour and spray paint. shoved down your throat. beautiful.chemicals.pigment.re.sin.v.a.r.n.i.s.h.
spit them on the walls. swallow them to tint your insides. lose your mind, lose my mind. together we lost every mind. though decidedly did not care and just created a handful of new ones. new languages. new laws. new script. new rhymes.
the lines keep going. though one causes liver damage.
...or was it kidney failure.

wake up with broken toes. broken feet. shattered bones.
the dust of bones filing through your veins. now. now what do you do?
learn to sleep better. quiet. er. m.o.r.e .q.u.i.e.t. and hope the other nine toes make it out alive.
violence in dreams. anger in daydreams. displeasure in real life.
it's just this acute case of paranoia. typically elaborated into an organized system.

well. its a long way down. and. that's a huge commitment.
to which you said. that is a very good sentence. to which i probably outwardly replied. fuck you. but inwardly thought. well. it's. true. if i were to write a bible. when i write a bible. the title of this. b.i.b.l.e. would be/will be/is... just that.

escape. escapism. escapist.
the shortness of it all. but which version of the word.
1 measuring a small distance from end to end.
2 sold. in. advance. of. being. acquired.
3 anoutcomeinwhichonehaslessadvanagethanothers.
or none. none of these. in fact all that i was thinking was that nothing is as tall as a 62 story building. except for maybe a 63 story building.
skyscrapers . don’t thy call them, skyscrapers?

things seems so much better. with space. static electricity. walls. streets. radio waves. between us.
laugh through the static. smile through a glowing screen.
but scratch. claw. bite. at each other. or just you. in a small room. push yourself. down the stairs. out the window. off the roof.
under the pavement. through the wires. on top of the city.
the radio waves are getting the best of us.

fall down. fall through. fall out. fall. out. f.a.l.l.o.u.t.
"meet me at the fallout" this is what you said. to me. to you. or no. was it: "wherever the fall out wasn't". was not. not you. not me. not ever. never? so we met in the desert. with the stars. or a moon? a moon with eyes. black eyes. and teeth. crooked teeth. it was you and me and the man in the moon. and we met. to watch. the world end? or. to. end. with. the. world. or to end our world. but then maybe this is all a lie. and i'm still sitting 5 stories up. waiting. by the window. for you to come home. only you aren't coming home. because you are waiting. on the northwest side of a small uncharted island in the south pacific. waiting. crouched underground. waiting. for this damned war to be over.

.riaffa evol cimota ruo saw siht

conversations while the world ends. conversationalist at the end of the world. the end of the world in a conversation.
i watched the sky turn black and the air turn cold. lighting bolted and thunder clouds clapped. and rain rained and the sky turned red. on a bench, under an over-hang. flinging cigarettes with gesturing hands. walk home, ride home, read all the way home.
yes, i would burn myself again. no, i would not burn you. wait. wait for me?
maybe. i would. then.
does this make any sense. and i hate when life turns into a movie. or every thing turns literary.

cold water. just place your head under cold water. to wake up. clean up. smarten up.
it's horrendous. dirty coffee mugs filling the sink. the bookshelf fallen over. blanket on the floor. no blankets on the mattress. no sheets on the mattress. escape from what you should be doing. to do. the exact opposite. spend money meant for dinner on gin and taxi rides. fall asleep on the concrete. replace your veins with black coffee. replace your eyes with black eyes. replace you with that. or them with you.
take out the batteries.
and place your head under cold water.

when is the last time i slept. it's hard to remember. it's hard to forget. with all the sparks flying inside and outside of my eyes. and you show up at the door at 7:14 in the morning. before there was a night with the neurotic. and a night with red wine at diners. and wooden tables and street corners. plots. and. plans.
visually similar to pots and pans. intended? intentions. was it?
i am so fucking tired. and the light only comes from the right. i can't wake up screaming anymore.
so all we need is good lighting. four cameras. and four bottles.
right. let's get to it. it. i.t.

i've come back to you because privacy is important. or i am afraid of everyone else. or i am just not myself around strangers whose faces i have never seen. what have i been doing. wasting away. running away. wishing to run away. although i am now back, or maybe never left. still hearing phones ringing through the walls. and screaming at 4 am. insignificance. and learning about the future. and futuristic love. robotic love. scientific love. emotionless love. loveless. l.o.v.e.
i wrote out five pages. and i need twenty more. i just need to remember them. i cut my hair too often. you cut your hair not enough. and i'm always hiding from the sun behind black eyed glasses and white sheets.

http://sarahgoodreau.tumblr.com/

something new, that may evolve into the main course.

a mixture of the two.

april 12, 2008

"keep moving. running. jump the tracks. climb the wall."

my body is rejecting my skin. it is now a foreign object and is being attacked. saw spring awakening with david. a good good play. musical. musical play. some interesting choices. and german schoolboy outfits! midnight veggie burgers and laughing. and heels. and destroying heels. adventures with neesa. dancing in brooklyn and making friends with people just to wear their glasses. comic book loser talk. rain. rain. rain and free umbrellas. standing outside, under the porch with multiple strangers watching the rain. the funniest bar where five dollars buys you a pbr and whiskey. strange people start conversations with me. and i laugh and play along. lost for hours on the train. out of the train. back on the train. run across the tracks. up the side. and a long taxi ride home. maybe a prank phone call. in the am, after 4 hours of sleep and with burning eyes. indian food with david. slow slow paces. some sort of fair. iced coffee. lemonade. socks. and flowers.

i want new skin.


wine in the red room.


neesas hat.


a strangers glasses.


with david underground.


this afternoon.

"start being more active. like the little bumblebees of spring."

spontaneous purchases. because i realized i have a salary job. a new camera that fits in my pocket. with a battery that works and in the color scheme of plum. then upon the realization that we live in new york city and i should do more things: 2 tickets to see 'spring awakening' this thursday. for me and david. in the balcony. how grand. next weekend the brooklyn museum to put the plum camera to its proper use. a reunion with darling neesa. out in the streets past dark for the first time in a month. thanks to multiples illnesses. dancing, and booths, and strangeness, and strangers. moved some furniture. bought some fruit. this is what i do, i suppose.

i want to walk around more. and see more of the people i love.

April 2, 2008

i don't really feel like my mind has reconnected to my body.

writing every day proved to be lame. maybe that will change now that i am no longer ill and bedridden and able to frolic about the pavemented streets. but only after work. deep sigh. a desire to start painting again and a need for more literature. i say this often and never act on it. this irritates me. i am going to buy myself a new camera this weekend, so i can take better pictures and document more inspirations. stare at the golden roots growing on the base my skull. think about returning to the natural gold hair. dreaming about the hot air balloon under my skin. red lips, bare eyes, orange walls, too many patterns.

i want a hand full of babies breath.

March 30, 2008.

"you were never dying.
but i'm going to live!"

deep and heavy sigh. body is almost returned to normal body status. caught a viral infection from small in office procedure i had done on monday. only me. after 5 days of antibiotics and a high fever causing-cold chills-hot flashes-ear ringing-head pounding-vein rising-bone aching-muscle aching-nose bleeding-sleep talking-skin rising to temperatures skin should not be-nausea ensuing-wake up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat-shake uncontrollably-all in all body crumbling illness; i feel well again. health never tasted so good. i have oh so many easter chocolates and wines that i could not partake in waiting for me. and videos to watch with david. and a happy little cat. and a fancy new 'been sick for a week hairdo'.

i want a new camera.

March 7, 2008

“it has become impossible to completely separate my thoughts and my actions. I am losing my mind”

I dreamt my kidney rotted out of my body.

I wrote you the longest and most desperate of letters at 2 am. This morning the roads were busy. But not the roads I drove on. I saw a room on the top of a small building that I would like to live in.

I want to know what comes next.



March 12, 2008

‘I took a small vacation from thought. Meditation. Revelation. Vacant-ness. some time to stumble about the globe in a thoughtless stupor.’

Generally I feel better.

Some things did not escape me in my struggle to forget. Here are a few: a morning movie. a little new york diner and homemade pickles. Catching up with a friend. Laying in the sun with david. He little cats running up and down 156th st. the pretty brick apartment buildings winding up the curved streets. Videos and grapefruit juice. Love letters drawn not written. Laughing ourselves to sleep. the small boy at the end of the stairway, bundled up in winter coats and mittens, jumping up and down and up and down. Cream of wheat and pink lady apples with black coffee.

I want to move past this.



March 13, 2008

“Stop thinking everything you touch turns to dust. And you, you stop thinking that you are never happy. Both of these things are lies.”

Black coffee and the shitty little things I tried to bake. At least the jam is good. And honey never goes out of style. Cats meow and I meow back. Listen to the songs of the morning and stumble down the stairs. There are too many windows, just waiting to be jumped out of. Needles and thread and scissors at the desk. The little desk in the orange corner of the orange room three stories above the world.
The days of the week are completely lost. My mind stopped recording correctly.
If you rub cinnamon into your skin, it burns like a poison. This is compulsion.
Scratching through the skin to get to bone. This is obsession.
And dreams leave little to the imagination.

I want a good cup of coffee.



March 14, 2008

“Exhaustion . Fatigue. To weaken by repeated variations of stress.
These things can hit you like a ton of bricks. Then it is stumbling. Falling.
Sinking. Finally into sleep.”

I keep thinking about the end of ‘no country for old men’. I do enjoy talking about dreams. And listening while others recall them. I am beginning to realize my obsession for organic juice. And my fear of sugar. The number one reason I am a terrible baker, I tend to leave more than half if not all of the sugar out. And the number one reason I drink organic juice, no sugar. Added at least. Rockfish and sea water sushi for dinner. Strawberry icecream in coffee mugs at 11 pm. A telephone call from my favorite savannah residents.

I want to go back in time for a day. Back to the south.