n: vb: the spice of imagination
Life is doing it again.
Yesterday I wake up somehow entangled with a boy. Fifteen minutes after arriving home, a friend arrives crying. This continues until she’s better, she leaves when it’s dark. Hours have passed, but not minutes pass until I find out that Jon is dead. The phone rings as I feel myself dying. Then the ex arrives, who also cries. It is a long hard time.
I discover this morning that I have been beautifully painted by riotlounge who posted it here.
Today the boy is moving in.
I’m sorry to pass on this news. I can’t tell you how very sorry I am.
Jon Gaasenbeek is dead.
He hung himself on the back of his bedroom door. His family held a service in Ontario. I’m considering holding one here. I’ve left my number where he was living for anyone who calls. I have his mothers address, if you would like it, please e-mail me. He meant very much to me. I’m sorry.
I remember, I used to be like this. There was a very basic lack of understanding that still persists in curious ways. Of course, in very many ways I’m no different. I’m missing your filters. I’m still the same, but more myself. The deepening of soul and senses, it’s like learning. I don’t want to be like you, but I want to understand you. I want my communication to work. I’m AIDS generation. I’m this and that and not the same.
I suspect that the younger folk in the article will fall into the flesh later, though I continue to hold that preferance colours opinion. The body can be wretchedly annoying.
All in my mind.
Back breathless from the bi-weekly poetry slam. My pulse is ready to tear through my skin but I push it down. Lately I run the last block home. I don’t know why. It’s dark, in front of me is a field, I run. Anyone watching would think I know what I’m doing but I can feel my body’s still broken. It’s frightening to run. Feet hitting the ground in such delicate pounding balance, this ankle’s going to go. My faulty eyes can’t see the ground so I focus on what’s ahead of me. I feel like I could go forever. I feel like I can pretend to be whole again.
I’m lying.
Mine from the stage. His words rolling so skillfully on skin that he could almost talk me into loving him. “I was sick for you, but I think I’m better now. Recovering.” I worried last time I saw him, his illness a sheen on his skin, a catch how he looked just barely at me. It hurt my soul. There was nothing I could do. Nothing that would be honest. I’m going to wait for him just a little more. Keep him close to watch him. Skin to taste and bones to break, these words can’t tell what he means to me but not, might I add, enough.
Something will die the day I break a poet.
Victoria posted T. S. Elliot today. I need to post it as well, as I know the same things. It’s a wierd sad place to live my dearest, and a strange road to walk. Lonely when it’s supposed to be home, but it’s not, because we know how beautiful the rest of it is.
“Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow”
http://www.how-to-hide-a-corpse-on-federal-land.com/
I’m dancing on spider’s wings. My phone’s died, leaving me without voice to the outside world. Shameful, really, that I allow it to get into such a state, but oh! To send my glittering nets out skimming facetime. See who appears at my door. Being both needle and thread, tatting an evening out of a peculiar miracle. Chaos controlling, my favourite. Under the skin conditioning, supple and smooth. I assure you that your name is important to me, you sweet wordsmith beauty queen. The broken smile’s fixed, replaced by a mild “you make me feel rainbows”.
Call any time you want.
Outside my window the world’s been cunningly replaced with christmas card cut-out of trees.
I don’t know if it will ever be okay again. I shudder inside when I hear your name. With permission, I’d like to slip sex into your morning coffee. Quiver and gasp, silent in my eyes. Clever compromise, I never had any choice in the matter. Come to my window, I will pull you in. Conduit heat and passion. I’ll learn for you. Brief chances at happiness, I know. Forgive me in my youth. Allow me this, I have a habit of bringing back immortality. Impure dream with me, trace the curve of my hip with your fingerful gaze. Done right, there’s nothing to corrupt. This is pristine, made of whispers in darkness and an ocean between.
Hair-dye hum, all of it’s plum purple yours to curl fingers into. A shipment of my things arrives today, every packed box a mystery of it’s own making. People to help me haul know less maybe then I do. Words never said, dresser drawers emptied into cardboard surprises. Later I finally record my voice. Jagged notes maybe, burrs to catch in clothing and stumble over. Clearly, enough to bind me by.
I’m outside, trying not to look down the road too intently. There’s cars sweeping past, but only your headlights will crest the hill. I’m happy because I know you’re there in the dark behind the wheel. This is going to be the last time I wait for you, same as last time. It’s raining a little and I like how the lights scythe through the water, creating the illusion of something solid. You took me by surprise last time with the roses. A perfect movie moment and I hated you. You gave your life to that church, how could I respect that? You and your holiness. Glowing hands after dark, letting me see what my flesh felt like under your hands. The tracers were sexy, visible trails from your tongue, but I didn’t want you as a Saint. I wanted you as Mine, not theirs, every whisper and caress. I cried when it was time to drive the nails in.
When I grow up, I want to be the God Of War. That, and maybe pretty.
Which brings me to a question. It was brought to my attention today that a few people have apparently been using me as a desktop. Just for brevity, might I know if anyone here is also doing that?
The candy is gone. Dark is softly closing in at four:thirty in the afternoon. My obsession needs to kiss me, needs to draw out my tongue. The rain has hid the sky, it looks grubby out, the sky painted gray-white by children with dirty hands.
I protest.
Today I can’t really stop hitting Send/Recieve. Hopeless, but there are no greater fools than those who work with children. I want to start work on my costume. Finally an idea that thrills me a little. The sort of thing that’s hovered in my brain since I was little. Ray has my sewing patterns. Hopefully I’ll get them off of him tomorrow. Then I’ll find out what I’ve got to play with.
Donations of fabric, however unlikely, are welcome.
The horses were tired, their brown coats flecked with foam. That’s how it goes, doesn’t it? Always flecked with foam in the stories and their hooves have to spark against the cobblestones and the carriage has to clatter. The coachman flanked by lanterns which sway wildly. At the convenient corner, one will smash to the ground, spreading flame. This is our opening scene, the same one we’ve seen many times beofre. The house will catch a litte, then roar up the walls of the house. We won’t see that part directly, but we’ll hear a child crying and see flame through the windows. If we’re lucky, a shot of the smoke will fade to black.
Music sting. A tiny flying cello humming past on graphite wings. I swat for it and miss. It gets me later on my knee. I scratch until it’s a sticky scab, but my leg won’t stop singing. Damn metaphor.
There’s been something wrong with me the last few days. It’s like the Strange Machine project downloaded too much information into my head. I can’t interact with the world without it spinning off into a thousand stories. Descriptives clinking up from the ring on my hand touching my water glass, the susurration murmur of the restaurant conversation drilling into me, seeking attention. Narratives spiralling off the most simple of things. I bite into my free-range beef burger and multi-plex layers of mad-cow, Briton, and end of the world shotgun scenarios unfold wetly like butterfly wings. Chemicals dripping from the udders of not quite cows. Something has snapped inside me. “I’ve never understood why girls date Boys With Cars, but Boys With Motorcycles I understand completely.” I wake up beneath an off-white ceiling, the window a blinded rectangle of dimly glowing light. I’m only one cigarette away from crumpling. Daddy said to marry someone richer than you are. The stars are spinning, the world is yawing off course, lean away from the turns, not into them. Momentum approaching torture. I stopped by a hideous house-party last night where everyone there was a caricature of a real person and it was like anthropology. I wanted to take notes.
No one should have this much ego conflict. Climb aboard, the train’s leaving the station. It’s not quite a problem, but I think I might be slightly broken. Like there’s a crack my thoughts are leaking through, dissolving me in acid fairy-tales.
Bill’s been calling lately. He’s been reading here, he sent me a letter. Three in the morning, surreal to sit reading it in darkness with Gavin leaving in the morning and Strange Machine going up in an hour. I’ve talked him into getting together Tuesday evening. We’re going to go over the B&W’s from eons ago and he’s going to bring me some dishes. I miss him quite a lot, the person underneath, I mean. However it goes, it will be interesting.
All dressed in uniform. Bone machine get-up, scintillating genius went into the design. Couldn’t you tell?
Looks like I’m going off in other directions for my halloweening. Warren, (who I recently saw described as “Our Cruel Overlord”. Thumbs up for collecting some odd people), sent me to a haunting site today: http://www.alternity.co.uk/
Depending on time and material contraints, I’m thinking a Steampunk hooker would be terrifically fun. Blue lights on black stockings and edging a corset with something improbable. I used to have little sparkers, if I could dig those out, it could be as wicked as a Jack-In Jack the Ripper of Velvet InfoFeeds.
I’ve always wanted an excuse for naughty underwear.
