another line to remember

"Tell me the truth, how long until I find myself
throwing the dog's full bowl of water across the kitchen again,
because you moved on with your life and I stayed heavy-footed
in the linoleum, stupid, trying to resuscitate the broken mop.

[...]

What if I told you I wouldn't want to have an affair with her
unless she slurred and spilled her drink on the edge of my filthy bed,
or if it ever happened, that I licked the librarian's salty back,
I'd still call you afterwards that same night,
tell you to meet me for a drink somewhere,
in some smoky, lonely palace?"

- Ali Liebgott, "The Beautifully Worthless"



it's for a friend who knows what it's like to hear your own sobs echo through the empty hallway, who knows life is an empty box until you fill it with whatever you can and paint it whatever colour you want.

i like that at first, you read "in some smoky, lonely place." but then you find out it's a palace. and it's more lonely because it's bigger and it's empty and it echos so that you hear your loneliness and desperation bouncing back to you over and over again.

it is absolutely no fun being whole

it is absolutely no fun being whole
being that the whole time i was sitting here
at my desk absolutely nothing happened
except shadows receding along the sidewalk

silence

i said 'it sounds exactly like love'
sounds like a song that sounds like a song i used to know
it's sadder when you're alone
even when you're whole

it is absolutely no fun being whole
being that the whole time i was sitting here
i was waiting but for nothing to arrive
just waiting

....

i said 'it feels exactly like love'
an embrace glued to your skin
i shed it off, lie skinless while i wait
and think about the love we didn't make

i said 'it tastes exactly like love'
tasteless
empty
waiting
etc.

no fun being whole
no fun being broken, either
no fun, no fun at all

Stolen: Old bike, probably worth nothing to you

Grey Minelli bike, medium size, used condition. Pretty heavy. Was last seen locked to a bike post outside my apartment. Worth more in happiness points than money. Whatever. Keep the bike, you asshole. I hope you crash and break your bike-stealing arms.

Basically, this:

one day i might begin again

looking out my window i think about this:

is a person who is writing a writer?

okay now the difference between a writer and a good writer is:

blank

a good writer versus a great writer.

is it the conceptualization?

here it is:

a concept realized. question: is everything written planned?


it's a rainy sunday. the curtains are pulled back but the light is dull, gray. the sounds of wheels on wet pavement on the other side of glass. i tap my window pane. what the hell is this made of?


question: why can't i write anything?

answer: i am overwhelmed. with anxiety that what i write is not "good".

here is a giant block of marble. now carve.


let me just say this: this is not conceptualized. what is presented is what appeared in order of thought.

question: edit?

answer: no


here is poetry: i'm sorry.

i gotta tell you, you know, it's been so hard to pull it out of me. the words. all words. i haven't got a thing to say.

but then there's also

it's not like i haven't thought or felt

the full force

of

sadnessangerlonelinessloveetc

it's just that i didn't write it down.

question: ?


"Endings are elusive, middles are nowhere to be found, but worst of all is to begin, to begin, to begin." - donald barthelme

almost done

last essay of undergrad. china and the internet. this + beyonce + toaster strudels. i hate school but still love to study contemporary china. it's weird/of course that the first real essay i did for university was about modern china, and now my last essay is also about modern china.

Chaos / Accidental Physical

I never thought I'd ever know -- you know --

life --

I never thought I'd have it all figured out.

I never thought happiness was a thing that would come to me.

I never thought I'd ever know -- you know --

just knowing, like, absolutely,

any one thing.

I never thought I'd ever be quite sure.

I mean, this is just to say, I still think this way.


It rained the day I went to Alcatraz. Not real rain, more like mist. Everything was wet and foggy. Well, that's San Francisco for you. Sometimes. I took pictures in black and white.


There was a time when my feelings were directly connected to my fingers and it would all come pouring out. There was a time when I wrote without my own critical eye. And it was good. Remember. Now it's a journey through a checklist of metaphors, narration, imagery, concrete imagery, quantity, point of view, conceit, no abstractions, and sense, does it make sense. And the words don't quite make their way out.


Summer is a time for getting drunk. But I want to get drunk in October. And I want it to be cheap and easy. I want to shiver. I want to be looking for a good time do you know when I last looked for a good time. I don't know when. I want to get drunk in October and I want the sky to be black and I want the beer to be disgusting because it's two for $6 Boreale and I want to dance in a dirty hipster bar with young dirty hipsters wearing neon tights and neon sunglasses to dirty hipster DJ playing LMFAO before LMFAO was cool I want to dance like I don't give a fuck that I'm dancing with my backpack on like I don't give a fuck that I'm dancing like I don't give a fuck like I don't give a fuck like I don't give a fuck 'cause I don't give a fuck.


And the words and the words and the words. They're never ending. And they don't quite make sense. There's no need to try and piece them together.


Always sitting there trying to name the feelings. Separate them, label them, explain them. And always the questions when I'm not ready. I don't know yet. And I might not ever know. Maybe leave me alone forever. Maybe leave me alone indefinitely. I can't articulate. I'm not ready.

And I am so spent. And I am so exhausted. And I can't see anymore. Beyond myself. I can't say just what I mean. I don't mean anything. I can't articulate.

And now I shrug my shoulders. And now I am alone. Why articulate?



All we want, baby, is everything.


This body grew like a tree from the earth. This body wants food. This body wants water. This body wants touch. This body wants space to stretch its legs. This body is sorry about some things but not about others. This body is sorry for pushing Tino in first grade gym class but not sorry about being angry. This body is physical. This body and other bodies. This body and the accidental physical. This body is full of insides and outsides. This body is full of spaces for the metaphorical abstract. This body is science. This body is art. This body bleeds every 27 days. This body has a literal heart. This body remembers some things but not others. This body remembers the taste of another body that had just consumed beer and marijuana. This body does not know what it has forgotten. This body and the accidental physical. This body cannot make sense of what is not part of it. This body can count. This body is not sure if it's put its feelings in the right place. This body cannot actually see inside itself. This body does not know what's going on inside itself. This body can see outside. This body can't see in the dark. This body is protein. This body is carbohydrates. This body is vitamins. This body created itself. What is this body but a tree grown from the earth, and every spring there is rebirth.







What happened to the days.

What happened to the things I had to say and then forgot.

Today is the day I listened to "Good Woman" by Cat Power for the 121st time.

I remember you well in the chelsea hotel

[leonard cohen - chelsea hotel #2]

ah but you got away, didn't you babe
you just turned your back on the crowd
you got away, i never once heard you say
i need you / i don't need you

i need you / i don't need you

i remember you well in the chelsea hotel
that's all, i don't even think of you that often

And You Didn't Ask Why

You wake with your face sticky with sweat and you shiver in the chill of the morning. You roll yourself out of bed and you pull on a sweater and you pull the hood over your forehead. And you stumble down the hall to the kitchen to make yourself breakfast. And your feet on the cold kitchen tile make you shiver in the chill of the morning. The blue light of the morning crawls through the window which faces an alley off a street you've never been to. Right behind your own home there are places you've never been to. And the building on the other side casts shadows all day long. There are squirrels eating through the plastic garbage bags on your balcony and there is a cat in the kitchen with his face pressed to the window and you eat instant oatmeal in the middle of the kitchen watching it all. And you shiver. And you shiver. And you shiver. And you know no profound things.

Things I Care About Having On My iPhone

Recently, my iPhone 3G broke. It was my second cellphone ever. I'd had it for over 3 years meaning that my contract had already expired and I'd been paying month by month.

I went to the Apple store and the guy told me that I could get the iPhone 4S for $0 if I signed a contract (the other option was to get a replacement 3GS for a fee (which was more than $100 but less than $700) but no contract). Actually he strongly suggested I get the iPhone 4. So I could, you know, take advantage of all the new technology. I said I'd had the iPhone 3G for over 3 years - do you really think I care about new Apple technology?

Basically all I want is all the basic things the majority of phones have nowadays, with a wifi connection. Why do I bother getting an iPhone then? One: I like the size and shape. Two: phone + ipod combined.

Things I care about having on my phone:

+ ability to make phone calls
+ text messaging
+ the weather network app
+ ipod
+ email app + wifi
+ calendar + alarm
+ calculator

Bonus:

+ facebook app
+ maps
+ camera
+ instagram app which I actually rarely use
+ safari

I Don't Care

I don't want to write anymore.

No, sorry, I mean, I don't care about writing. I don't give a shit if my poem is "good". I don't give a shit about the standards of "good". I don't give a shit if anybody reads my poems and thinks they're "good" or "bad" or "meh" and I don't give a shit if I subjectively think my poems are "meh" because they are "meh" and I've decided not to give a shit.

I don't care about writing. I don't care about research papers and academic articles and databases and paper outlines and meetings with the TA.

I
don't
give
a
fuck
.

I don't give a fuck.
I don't give a shit.
I don't fucking care.

Here's a degree at the expense of your mental health and desire to do anything with your life.

I want to go to sleep.