(songs of yesteryear)
4:32 pm 19 November 2006…
To make self feel better? Douse the flames in the eyes with hot coffee and endless headaches. I’m slashing around inside myself and running around crying & let out a few screams, too. Because no one is here. No neighbors coming around suspicious, no one wanted to know. Am I alone or lonely? do I want to be alone for a week or do I want to be with someone consistently, one who Cares with that Inner Depth Care that goes down from his core and penetrates into mine? like that. Trying to decide if I can ignore dehydration induced headache and still take a cold ride on an old silver bike to Skylark for tater tots and beer and to read Cormac McCarthy. Isn’t the best plan… I cried and cried and then I quit after talking to charles on the telephone who really does care and I made coffee and read some geology… enough, or I tried to, at least. I can’t make anymore lists of things to do. I can’t chart out my day. I can’t say I have to do this or I have to do that and within these hours, though sometimes it works okay to do that. Because there are too many possibilities and variables, and I know that. And I should drink water because I want to know hydration. And I want to have a clean room, and a sufficient knowledge of geology, and I ate something so I’m alright there, but then there’s wanting to get out of the house which I haven’t done in two days, I know that would be good for me, really good, and I could get a bit of exercise on that big rickety bike and see something new. Reading in a bar, a warm bar with beer and cigarettes and tater tots for only an hour or two. Make a new friend. And not have to be here all day- I absolutely have to do it. And before charles gets home, though it doesn’t seem like he’s running to get home anytime soon. For which I cannot blame him. I’m okay, you’re okay.
Saturday 10 November 2007: 4:46 pm
Unable to decide what to wear to work, as a stoned girl tends. Wishing I didn’t have to go, could instead go to see múm play, again, which was most beautiful... Felt like it was true to me, so I went all and by myself especially, knowing especially to be by myself. Lovely, smoking a spliff alone in the londonesque new york city rain, on the steps of the beautiful old myrrh-scented cathedral. And I haven't really a notion of the smells of myrrh, truthfully. And the days drifting away… silly me, I have this pass, the unlimited MTA pass I found in the stonehome wine bar bathroom. Could have taken a tour of something lovely today… but perhaps tomorrow I’ll go to coney island by my c Aw cut it out molly, always you by your lonesome. Cry me more, if you can! Because it’s not true, of course. I’d prefer oftentimes someone to be around when I see and hear things. Amazing things sometimes better shared. Maybe I’m disillusioned with my best friendship, whether or no it’s still developing… I suppose it is, but won’t I be irritated by it? When we have energy, still; it doesn't provoke a thought. That’s because the boy with whom I’m spending my time is… ? He constantly spews new-age clichés then I remember the lines of poetry spotted in his notebook and I can say, I could never love you. I definitely can’t justify that! So the idea was to throw something of mine at his new-age reactions (R.W. Emerson, friends), so that maybe he could get his face out of that celestial psychedelic haze. But most likely not, and who cares I guess if we never talk about anything that makes me think or know or react… aside from emotions, facts, histories, feelings. His thoughts and relations on such subjects are definitely worthy of every attention. But… bla bla bla. If he’s not soft to me, and he’s not warm, then he’s a buttery knife. And leaves me uncut and greasy. I’m a slut for lovely uselessnesses. I’ll keep inventing romances where I can. With urgent frequency!!
13 November 2008
I feel rather like I should initiate a part two for this thing, as the days have passed into months and it’s a wonder I can type. Still. And now to open the journal, not for the sakes of pleasures or poetries, but for plans… Although one can see it, plans equaling plans & poetries, really. Because as I intend, I do to find Portland my new home. And I want to, am very ready to leave New York but instead of energy it makes me tired. I am tired of wanting to, just want to already, of course. But there are many things a must.
18 November, 2009 1:02 pm
This is a different story I want to start. This is, it’s the newyear. As you probably know, I am nearing on twenty-five and a half. Do you understand how sad it is to say that I have kept a diary since the age eleven except for the year around two-thousand-nine? What! I am supposed to be smart, ticklish. Maybe I have lost it all, myself, desire, in a flood of adult-hood. which of course I don’t even have. Oh! But I need to, must, have to. I am 35 years old, seeming. This is serious. I absolutely must, like whenever I finally get my fucking belated period I’ll start taking my own temperature at the birth of day. Everyday, then afterwards, since I’ll be awake and it will be eight am, I’ll start to write. Just a little at first, maybe, but it will be like stretching, or praying. I have this in me still. And when I read them all, the beauties, the geniuses, they make me cry and make me think how could I ever do it. Thank you, thank you solemn baritone. Thank you letters & words abounding. And thank you, self! only five pages into the year! is everything that meaningless & dead, grown away to float with out a feeling. Is it, then? and the inspirations, how will you really thank them? and can you. I saw her the other night, kari, last Friday. I rode my bicycle to her house. Before that I met adan to eat. He was certain to order the foods before I got there; my arrival was nearing six o’clock. So I did and there a spread lay before me; a quesadilla with a sweet jam inside, a plate of nachos with sweet oregon cheddar, and a lovely little macaroni n’ cheese on an ovular plate, with those charming crumbles of baked bread. Oh, my! Such unusual justification. What of this? I dressed in the coat, but it was cotton, but it didn’t matter for it wasn’t raining at all. At the Alberta store we found a pair of magic gloves. The gloves fit around my hands, I could tell I’d be warm. I kissed him for awhile; his neck was warm and pungent of him, and I loved him all the more. He is so good sometimes & and lately. The ride was west down Alberta street, and a left on Vancouver. Down the lovely hill and across & over to broadway, that gorgeous view from the broadway bridge. The darkness of the river water, the warning clouds above in grays and cobalt. And nearing upon her adult apartment, and she in her tall high-heeled boots, and her black leather couches and large screened television set, and blonde professional roommate who reminds us of course of a girl we know of a different era. It was like always it should be! After she applied a liberal application of bronzer to my face we were off on the street – should we take the streetcar? – no, let’s just walk – in new york we walk this distance five times over just to avoid the train... And to a bar where we sat all dark & redlit, and talked of the girls of the past, those names of the eighties. One is nearly engaged, depression & mania. I almost nearly made reference to a buoy, on accident of course. And thanksgiving, in Boise, across the mountains: the Blue Mountains...
