the punishment of, oh, the knowing of your eternity (thanks for obsessively keeping track, girl)

on love before, 3 august 2008, in brooklyn ny

In and out of bursting in and out of flames. Hiccups, and contractions, and a need to drink water, but I have wine now. And a room which has never been more perfect. And flat tires continuous, almost daily, without a doubt weekly. Because of these roads, these pieces of glass and trash and everything. A siren chirps. They party all over the streets. I don’t like that my tire is flat and I can’t walk my bike the two miles home, that instead I have to pay a car to take me, and paying is what I’m doing, whereas before it was silly to think about not paying, paying paying what, let me pay, who cares. And it’s like that still, the everyotherday kind, of devastation at least it isn’t constant. It’s beautiful to think of him like this. It also helps to devastate my state, in particular a new york state, at why shouldn’t I walk alone at midnight home, where someplace else I could, and could easily & should gladly, maybe not minding so much. It’s just the feeling I want, to be in love and the rest seems excessive, like the trash, the city, the pressure, the job of boring useless. Wow! Did I just scream that? Okay then bye bye. It’s just getting me & has been since we met that I could be close to someone again, so inevitably close. And of course so all I want at this moment, and how long it’s been since, and SO LONG it’s been, and yes I am ready, have been since the day charlie & I broke up. Really have. It seems better, more intelligent, all the wiser for a body to say things to self & others like, oh I’m just not ready to be close to someone again… so I’ve adopted that (subtly, and in a lie) by saying it aloud & to myself, and even at times knowing I’m not great or interesting enough at this particular point in my life. But let me interrupt: why then is it so easy for me to be endlessly interesting to him, and for me to want to listen to him for upwards of eternity, and for me to feel in every bone the truth that what I say & do & feel and all the ways in which I respond & act are right and True and completely unnecessary to justify or explain or support. They are little enigmas on their own, and even I don’t feel selfconscious, when he tells me he thinks I’m brilliant I know it is because I am. I want to say no, I’m a genius- which I am. Bright & lit up. Radiant. Omygod I am such an asshole, it’s about time I smoked that last one and went dark.

But first: I wanted to gush; how about the women with huge gigantic bosoms wearing tshirts like JUICY printed across them in three feet of block lettering, oh wow, and gushing, like I do. I go in & out, back & forth with him there, yeah, he’s a boy but must be dumbly romantic like I or else this wouldn’t work out so well. And I trust the fuck out of him, can you imagine? Is it because I know he thinks I’m brilliant, maybe, but not because I’m afar like I worry I might find him, appealing in such an impossible way, and I don’t need to know the mileage to know an approximate latitude, a latallure he has to me, so far down in heaven country where my heart thrives like a succulent, sits baking in a sun so close and thriving, fleshy, on all the blood love lust fluffing out its puffy tufted paws. My heart is a simple succulent, so simple in fact it’s just the leaf of one, nevermind the plant; what I’m looking for here is the whole rest of me, a stalk & a root stuck down into the dry rocksoil. My damn little affable heart in all its bliss stuck into the Arizona dirt, forever.

I once when a child made fun of people who wanted to live in Arizona like they were afeared of the cold, but look at a strong creature tucked beneath a prickly pear and we’ll attempt to uncover a coward.

I want to gush at the productions I’ve had, contractions too. It has been: Only about 15 days since my last sexual encounter with anyone. I happened to find my vibrator today after it had been mysteriously missing for decades. We went at it for about 7 minutes, afterwhich I groped at the sky and mouthed questions. I love him a little bit. He is better than anything I have else. And that is the worrisome. That I could possibly tear my own existence to shreds for some fantasm I’ve producted from years, birthed again anew & from pieces of my own flesh memory.

I still look forward to it, yes.

3:18 am

Dear diary, I am obviously not speaking or gesturing with a wineglass to his child’s portrait in a photocopy stuck to my wall. I am glad. Ovenmouthed, glad. I understand that Tucson could very well mean instrumentals and recordings. As long as I have A. Beard and someone who has instruments and happens a musician to be, a pretty future holds. In a climate such as, nonetheless, healthful habitat all hot and hearts helped.

I am tired. I poured another wine, and fancied what if I could (and I could) make a disc for him what would it be. A poem from titles, nonelse, happenably unwritten by me.

12:57

The desert landscape is associated with a pain one might choose

I read this just a minute ago on Ron Silliman’s bog. He’s talking about a poem called “It seemed a similar choice although in an adjacent register” by Martha Ronk.

Today I’m less than joyfilled, a lot I’m sure having to do with my sleeping a lot later than planned, maybe the whispers of a hangover (fucked up upon going to sleep last night but happy, I felt happy) and again having that crisis of, what the fuck am I doing again? Wanting to abandon NY right away… but the desert? What the hell am I going to do in the desert? Live in a hot, dusty apartment, have a succulent garden, spend time with the desert, look at sunsets, be happy, be in love…

So completely unlike what I’m doing here. I wish I had chosen something else. Well I still can, news for you.

things we know about me:

I am 26 and a half today; it means that at every moment I come closer to being 27. 

Really, at every moment I come closer to being 28, and 31, and 46.

I have a dog. She was dirty, but then it snowed & she ran in it, and suddenly she's crystal clean.

I usually call Fat Tire Flat Tire but it's often the only beer in my mother's refrigerator. I unpacked it from her luggage; she moved the beer from california in august.

I am no longer sick.

I can wear pants, if I like.

I'm wearing these pants I got & wore everyday in london. I am wearing wool tights underneath.

There is snow & blue sky outside, and it reminds me of chicago at its wintry best. The crunch beneath my bootheels satisfies.

I am not hungry.

I am aware of my jobs.

I am ready to play pool & to drink pitchers. 

I am ready to wake up in different places, like colorado, and a tropical island, and new york.

I will paint my room the colors of the painted desert, once I have a room to paint. 

My fingernails are way, way too long.

I hold no grudges.

the invention of romances

(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... 

meanderings

don't know why I'm listening to it... nostalgi. Leaves on the tree outside drooping, sad. New york cried yestersday, sits silent, emotionless now. Only I know there's a missing. My own spirit heavy. The heft aware of it I am and also that to work hard & up I'll have to. Just to not sorry myself away, oblivionwards. My little room scented still so thickly, my bed still sunk in the middle & sanded, crusts. The little articles laying about. Dropped & left in their places like to walk in the room he will @ any moment (just noticing the sand lizard & the sand turtle in an apparent 69, a yin and yang), the musics, my unsmilingness can't help it. You are too worthy for let a haiku to belittle you.