what? Rory is a bitch. She's such a mess, eww. If I wanted a girlfriend that would screw me around and was ridiculously inconsiderate... wait a sec...
and then every good day is made irrelevant by a bad day or a sentence or two these things erupted automatically, he didn't know why perhaps the long, unthinking past lay buried just beneath the surface
the violence the frenzy the fear
it creeps up your throat and sits there
I can't seem to settle on a thought. they repeat like a broken record.
a thousand anecdotes that lead me nowhere loveisvalium noonefeelssadnesslikeyoudo
you can't run away from this no you can't
I don't know what I really mean.
I can't really feel anything. the heights of emotion are muted and nulified until words and sentences are lego bricks. a kiss is a cough. I am brimming with measured dread and panic and bottomless sadness.
and you have loved me at my very worst
don't go. don't change. I loved you just the way you are
I don't know who I am without you. I don't know who I am without you. I don't know who I am without you.
what scares me most is all those uncharted nights and unrecorded hours we spent alone. I'm scared I've wasted my heart in the dark behind closed doors and I have no proof but I swear, I didn't make this all up. and every thought that scatters across my mind like a rat scared by light ends with I don't want this I don't want this or
him turning up at my doorstep with a 12 dollar bunch of flowers
but that would never happen
but he wouldn't even bother falling out of love with me
WHY CAN'T YOU SEE YOURSELF
-a sucession of dramatically mediorce events-went to pats drank alot of beer, caught alot of taxis ( one with that dan bombings guy who is a FAGGOT I think I remember not remembering you) and spent alot of monay. gave sonia her key and she at least she loved it and the trip was worthwhile.
saw that boy from the train with all the piercings and he has a girlfriend and I hope he doesn't think I'm in love with him or anything. saw mark and emma at erina I kept my back turned and it was okay because I was dressed well. he looked boring and she not interesting enough to hate anymore. mixes on repeat (no one's gonna love you/ no one's gonna love you/ no one's gonna love you more than I do) waiting. not sure what for. an oppurtunity to yell HOW CAN YOU ACT SO BLAMELESS but not really. apparently I need to bite my tongue. meg didn't get the schlorship so I hope she stays in sydney.
you think it's like this:
but it's really like this:
(where they hide)
in half light
in broken english
in that tent
in all those horror's songs
in a stranger's car
in some message I never read
in some message I was never meant to read
in some double dump
in some unrecoverable 'long long ago' ago, etc
in some fucking taxi going nowhere
in that hour in locked in that bathroom
when you said marry me marry me
when I called from the airport that day from a payphone
when I looked pretty next to a stranger a million miles away
when sydney girls took up your time
when you walked 45 minutes in the wrong direction
when I was never your priority
when you said 'they were playing daft punk'
when you said '
when I was going to forget you
pg. 4. Models and badly sketched diagrams of non-existent room; pictures of kites, frames, locks and keys.
pg. 6. A letter to my past self
pg. 7-8. Tracklists, phone numbers, addresses,
pg 9. Quotes, piled on top of eachother 'it's easy to get lost when you already know the way', out of all the lies in all the towns you had to walk into mine', ',turns out I like eating much more than I like dieting'
pg 16-21. various lists;
pg 29. Entirely insignificant details of a night in new york (the pianos bathroom, the plastered ceiling, you said mine were mechanical, like I didn't already know)
pg 47. Declarations that I, in fact, had died, that I was a zombie, who hated themself.
pg. 56. Instructions how to get back to a thrift store in paris and some bad translations.
pg. 74. 'Frankly, I could spend every sunday morning I have left quite happily in a mess of sheets and a mess of you. Veins protruding like electrical wires, and I say "look how alive you are" and you say "gross". We lay with knees touching and I'm so awake, so impossibly full of blood and I can finally catch my breath and fall in love with you again, like I do every morning. '
pg. 81. Fleeting proof of vanity: 'you know what i'd rather be pretentious than fucking fat'
[some pages missing]
yeah, I'm smoking out that hole in my screen again, and yeah I never used to smoke this much or people never used to call me a 'smoker' and yeah maybe I just do it because it reminds me of you and I have to find a more discreet way of killing myself.
I found this new diet. all you need is for some asshole to leave you for another girl and every time you eat you feel like throwing up.
i could have made you happy, i swear
'..far too external, and derived from nothing you really mean; anxiety with no real center or validity. you try to pass off being self-indulgent as self-aware, belittling the heights of emotion in an off-handish, exaggerated way eg. "why I’m obsessed, to the point of hysteria, etc" creates an overall affect, in attempt and outcome, of destablising itself with a watered down version of futility. language violently switches between inanely basic and excessivley verbose -trying to disguise and fulfil social adequacies in fictional ways with commentry that doesn't translate/connect to anything on a wider spectrum of existence.'
I have a distracting headache which I convince myself is from stress and not caffeine
and the message I just got wasn’t from rob and my disappointment swells as usual; and is quickly replaced with hostility; as usual. I stare at something I got in the mail today, wonder what in hell I am going to do with it and then throw it under my bed in an attempt to seem indifferent but it came off as insincere and rehearsed. I lit a cigarette to ease the transition. Movements and thoughts kept transferring themselves into script; plagued with the tritest insecurity possible (is he actually in love with me? Have they kissed, really? How often did they have sex? How many times a day? How long will I be paralysed by this? Scared to think of why he hasn’t asked about the scars on my arms, because, more likely than not, he doesn’t want to know or care. Why isn’t my hair like hers?)
Suddenly I am thinking about that boy from my English tute and even I am confused about how I got to this digression. Wait, isn’t he gay? One time he was wearing a sleeveless shirt and I try to think of a good word to describe how I’m feeling, and the only thing I can come up with is unimpressed. The smell cooking is arresting and I am going to miss it. Someone asks me a question I don’t want to answer, “ I don’t think so, wait, did I?” Leaving the room abruptly to avoid any follow up, laid down but turned up my music so I couldn’t fall asleep and waited and wondered if any one knew I was alive. And it was the same reason people drew graffiti, It was the same reason we hide ourselves in the lines of some awful fucking poetry, why I’m obsessed, to the point of hysteria, to leave my fingerprint on some part of this earth
because we’re all so desperately scared of being forgotten.
do you remember when you took me to the beach that day? We got lost on the way down and in a clearing in the wood you told me you could kill me here and no one would ever know and when we finally found the water we stood on the cliffs and it felt the edge of the whole world. you fell in mud and I counted rocks and tried to see home.
Well, I don’t remember anymore.
1. Someone else said this first.
I don’t know, something about never being able to change the things you want to, about never having any real control over anything, always switching between two completely different mind sets, feeling constantly inadequate, inept and not well enough dressed.
Fate’s a bitch. I’m driving somewhere else. She needs it. Lost her sense of direction. You would terrify her. Can I borrow 10 dollars.
I hate this machine inside me. I hate its nerve endings; its quick lip; its purple prose.
I told you
-I hate this machine inside me.
and all you say is
-it’s not a machine it’s a fine art.
My father taught me that not all things follow a map; most of what I never wanted to know; and that Annie Hall was by far Woody Allen’s masterpiece.
My mother taught me that a nightmarish temper is not always expected.
Cigarettes have taught my stomach to stay empty.
Novels have taught me that I’m not a good writer.
and nothing has taught me that nothing can’t help you when you need it to.
3. The table.
Picking up things from the table I feel like a thief, destroying the only context in which this conversation existed.
the silence like a slow scream and
you have such perfect recounts of every out-scene
but your body
4. I’m not sure what I want.
I see a picture in my head and put myself inside it. A louis faurer photograph, maybe a man ray. I want to be that girl who doesn’t sleep. Who crawls into your bed and annotates your dreams. see appendix I’m finally coming to terms with the fact I won’t ever have a heart shaped freckle under my eye or that I can’t fit everything into a 6x8 frame above my bedroom dresser.
i) ii) iii)
5. Am I wrong?
and just to make things worse
she’s like: so-whatever
and I miss you like: I-wanna-rip-out-everything-that-matters-and-stretch-it-into-a-bridge-from-me-to-you.
See also: Escapism , internal compromise, shooting dust from a gun, lighting invisible lights in wrists, the middle of six blocks left and six blocks right, giving the nameless a name, plan b, ' make it stop'
I bought you all your favourite clothes
I wish I never left and I wish you never met her.
my mind;; a snapshot
-----if i could be anywhere in the whole world right now, it'd be with you. and if you were here i'd
tie your hand and feet together and roll you down the steepest hill i could find. cuz i'm in love like that.
I'm waiting for the world to end.
I have drank the tap water in Brooklyn. I have done blow off a bathroom floor. I have had cigarettes teach my stomach to stay empty. I have stared at a celing long enough for the cracks in plaster to look like words.
I still haven't learnt to hold a honest word on my tongue.
"one day you'll realise every cup of coffee you've put sugar in is a cup of coffee you've ruined. "
you have alot of empty notebooks considering you're a writer.
yeah well you have a pretty empty schedule for a prostitute.
wh-wh-what would you do if you knew how much i wanted you? (yeah yeah yeah)
someone else's words
most of the sentences on livejournal start with "i..."
i can't really think or breathe.
i'm so fucking tired and i want to lie down inside a crisp hymn book and get mailed directly into his arms.
or slide down the world's longest wrecking ball cable into gravel and get severe fucking rope burn on my hands and wait to be fixed.
Thus far I have been speaking of the fourth and last kind of madness, which is imputed to him who, when he sees the beauty of earth, is transported with the recollection of the true beauty; he would like to fly away, but he cannot; he is...
Nothing is ever out of place in the city, full of dirt that crept under my fingernails and I kept it there, not washing my hands of anything. Pavement are mirrors. Concrete crevasses that look like wrinkles and veins. And then paths led to no where in particular but we follow them with shoes that cut and previously swapped wardrobe.
Then there was dancing with strangers with familiar faces, frauds, irks and devotees. Perfectly timed interruptions followed by cigarettes followed by estrangement followed by cigarettes. We need no bullets or bridges; smoking away the future because no one wants to take a chance on forgetting nights like these somewhere in old age.
Then I loved crooked teeth (decidedly and deliberately).
Then we layed awake for awhile like we always do.
And after that the simplicity just stretched over everything like plastic wrap; suffocating all the white lies I weave into this story because they're just so obsolete.
When I get older I want burns/scars/cellulite more than anything. I can't imagine having nothing to show for getting exactly where I am . At first it's easy to blame it on co-incidence but then I think there had to be something to write about before war poetry and historiography ruined everything.
There was one who abbreviated everything. Talked trash and saw straight through but I can not pinpoint what makes him perfect. Now he is just an undeveloped photograph (impending truth he ever even existed.)
One bit his lip for me. I told him to bite his tongue.
One kissed me to ruin my life. (Or so we'll say)
One thought he knew what love was though I knew better.
One's bone structure made me forget he was boring. (And that the lines between us we're blurred and swallowed in the shadows. Seats down, kitch as fuck.)
One caught me off guard. Let me miss the way his hair didn't fall and how he wasn't my type. (Too many late nights climbing into his arms and losing brain cells.)
One redefined my type. And the term "infatuation."
One I miss; to an extent.
One or two aren't worth remembering. Or hating anymore.
And one broke me. Made it so I can't think or see or read.
And it gets to the awful point where all there is to think about is subtext of words that don't exist and throwing up.
The truth is
I didn't meet you for the first time in a mess of phones ringing off their hooks and crying onion tears when the sky was sweating.
We had to walk a little faster and you waited. At least I thought so then.
This is how long it has been constructed in my head: I've been following you in my sleep. The way you pronounced a word, something senseless I could read into.
But I know there was no foreword. No clumsy misdirection or fumbling in the half shadows, no flowers/chocolate/jewellery.
There was just harmless coffee and phone calls and winks and looks and words. There was me, drowning in cigarette smoke and being 17 and in simple terms the sheer thought of you.
And there was definitely no mention of her name. I thought I heard you say it once, to someone else. Ashley. or Ashleigh. Who cares. She gets to sleep in your shirts and smell your hair and I hate her for that. I can't bear to think how much prettier she is than me. I can't really compete with my own imagination (or two and half years.)
And well of course the night was bad in general. After about 1am I couldn't feel my legs and the realisation of how pathetic I was swelled into the shape of a headache which didn't stop my hands from shaking while I finally had the drunken courage to kiss you on mouth.
But this was the worst part.
You were driving off, lining the horizon but I'll stay stuck with that kiss on my forehead forever; petrified.
I'm so scared that you are perfect. I know I have all these plans that fall apart and I didn't and I'm not but I was planning on falling in love with you.
All the time with the "maybe I should hate you for this" and "they don't love you like I love you" blah blah when really it's just pure, uncensored disillusionment. So why do I make up all these words to say I miss you already.
small details I've collected and built into something truly awful
banausic, blah, boring, colorless, dreary, droning, dull, flat, ho hum, humdrum, monotone, nothing, pedestrian, plodding, prosaic, recurrent, reiterated, repetitious, repetitive, same, samely, sing-song, soporific, tedious, tiresome, toneless, treadmill, unchanged, unchanging, uniform, uninflected, uninteresting, unrelieved, unvaried, unvarying, wearisome, wearying
i wrote in a book with a red cover half-described insignificant details of a night:
the pianos bathroom is good to do blow in the only thing I remember feeling is not feeling anything
but we did ecstasy and went back to some artisit who didn't sleep's loft in th lower east side and meg slept with the drug dealer we were using so I went home with patrick and did a line as the sun came up and
the next day we slept in a dirty park and I forgot how to move. None of this seems particularly glamorous in hindsight.