Things have been strange but nice. I am trying to work on a piece of so called vignettes of the breaking moments nothing more or less I'm sick of fluff these days the actual story part. I am interested in nothing more than the moments every person shares no matter how old they get or how stupid or inexperienced or ugly or less than. we are all less than. Problem is who wants to see a bunch of absolutely true and depressing moments where people ache to have someone hold there hand. I was thinking in the end to have one person finally help the last person--or who I begin with to have the other vignettes be in her memory as if the stories people do share with us really do help us along the way if we remember they felt this way it could be some kind of armor that when we truly are alone we know someone once or even now has suffered in such a way--and by suffer i mean the moment when we either remember, reaffirm or just learn that ultimately we only have ourselves. Yes how depressing oh so french new wave of me but really. maybe I need to deal witht his concept too...

what's your problem it is not mine! no sir it is not!

tired, but productive mentally--my mind has been in overdrive I am thankful but im sure tired. I have to find new ways to manifest who i believe myself to be-even if I am nothing more than weight-definite space--pushing through indefinite space-- honest and articulate no more guilt six shooting hoodlum smoking over indulged fakester pushers--why hate the ones who need it the most--

the will to change

I picked up in the library the other day THREE BOOKS not even apart from each other--used books--it was a beautiful sign from well myself outwardly manifested through three of my favorite writers of all time

Adrienne Rich's THE WILL TO CHANGE

Joyce's Dubliners

and a collection of moliere's plays

I got to meet with joe Zucker which was amazing but I will post about that later because he deserves more than a fucking blog entry because it is the fucking real deal--what a wondrous and quirky inspiration I love his art his way of life and genuine sincerity...that may be redundant but when am I not?

Anyway I feel as if lately I wish I could sleep stop being in a god damn transition waiting period, but on the upside I am exploring such beauty in concepts--reading being in nothingness, Adrienne rich's exquisite and bone chilling poetry--

I think it is so interesting how much I latch onto words--how the order of such a system can bring us to such places not only mentally but physically-- the importance of words, they are under the illusion that talking effects GREAT results..or at least i do with the amount of words that I exhale a day--why can't i shut up? words are as a rule the shallowest portion of all the argument..when the distractions of the tongue is removed the heart listens.... hows that for a quote--from the oh so painful sister carrie--wonderful piece from such a terrible piece of literature.

how can someone lie to themselves for this long and still exist--if no one knows the truth of ones actions if no one ever hears or sees them do they really never matter? i know i know if a tree falls and no one hears it fuck me in the ass did it ever really fall...

i am so fucking determined to find out.

I am so determined to find out why legitimately fictionalized concepts: guilt, fear, judgment, hate, right, wrong, it all can have such a physical effect on me--can rule all aspects of my life

how can i run from institutionalized and a marginalized life I really know in my heart I do not want...

what do I want for that matter? What do I want to be--not what do i want to do but what do i want to literally be--human? spirit--water rain and the moon? or simply nothing but something that needs to exhale, inhale and repeat--a conditioned and ordinary structured human. I wish i could reject all my emotions--attachments. we all crave freedom--- where can I find it

je m'en fois !!!!

I'm still into the Born Ruffians lately--it is just too good to stop its like the right "teenage" but i graduated college angst I need right now-- I got the internship at Tamarind Gallery--its a contemporary indian gallery which is amazing and eye opening-- and tonight mom and dad and I talked it was open and calm and i feel really grateful right now-- it feels nice that they want to support my decision to move to brooklyn and they are saying start! so it feels good. im drinking tea and it feels nice as well. I have been thinking about Dash Snow lately--it makes me as sad as it does angry to say Fuck you Dash snow--if you are an artist why am i not you fuck. It's not his fault but aeriously? it is fun in the words of dreiss to enjoy the ride of hedonistic drama that is his polirads or body of work if you can call it that. Anyway Greg is leaving soon and I am going to miss him so much I am really lucky to have such a grand and smart brother who is truly in everyway sincere and kind and the fucking funniest person ever-- I just hope he does well and that he actually is in bliss-- no one deserves it more. seriously NO ONE. Im going down to d.c. soon i think but im starting to feel old feelings of hate and a need for acceptance which really bothers me. And even the thought of James trancendes me into a hang over--tequlia, vomit, and stale beer filmed over my teeth, that moment when the breaks pull forward and your waiting for the release backward, which aches your brain and makes vomit rise in your stomach. I can't even think of him anymore--why can't he just be kind? I hate never knowing what goes on in his head--and its funny cause hes the only person I can't figure out so therefore I think hes meant for me? What am I a lifetime movie--I just wish we could be friends and could smile in each others honor--for real though no in some way where we both die a little after or one of us does at least--which may be worse

now kevin devine is on and therefore I can no focus on anything but the DOLCENT TONES OF MY FAVORITE GINGER WOLF MOUTH LOVEYYYYYYY

now i can laugh--

the last few weeks--

Guns and smoke

Today I found a letter james wrote me nearly two and half years ago-- thats how long it has been since we were actually anything and we still talk still pretend--it makes me sick, he makes me sick but most of all i make myself sick. I really miss the feeling of loving someone but then i start to think did i ever really love him or did I love the feeling? Did i love being able to never feel alone and if I for a second doubted this life or myself--he was there. I guess thats all it is a distraction. A good one at that. I'm angry and upset I resent everyone and mostly him, I just wish I could feel like that again for someone else--that I could also make someone feel really good--we could talk about everything-- how lame I know I know. I just don't get how things get so far gone--he wrote in a letter how much he loved to kiss me make love to me smell me or just talk because nothing was like that for him--no one or anything in his life meant more than our relationship. And the funny thing is I never asked him to write the letter or say any of it. I believed it so much and I still do, what I can't believe is how much on person can change. Where does all that love go? I feel nothing sometimes I cry but most of all I just begin to feel tears or that panic set in when you actually start to wish tears could come. I stare myself in the mirror less and less and every time I am back in this room the ghosts appear and I am all alone--I have to get back to oblivion I must, I must. Do we really have choices in this life? Why can't I be enough--why must i be a woman. Why must I crave intimacy, or even more to my shame, crave that ache of bliss in my stomach when nothing could be better than a look a look I know all to well. In the beginning-always--which inevitably ends--an adoring tempted look which tells me how much I am worth.
How pathetic can I be? If I know this all to be true--How can I still do this--An udder disappointment I am. What I would give to be a man, an island
i took these yesterday to remind myself how much I mean to the opposite sex--How much i mean in this life--I'm nothing but noise and fucking smoke

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9kveFPYbUek

I don't know how to put a youtube video on because im fucking stupid. i love this song.

im feeling nostalgic because i of course looked through a lot of pictures-- anyway here is one of erika which sums her up so well-- i know you can't really see her but she is very hands on--even when she was little--this makes me happy and makes me miss when me and her were at the psych center EVERYDAY OF OUR LIVES--i hope one day we get back there--

a poem for the discussion on women i have been thinking about

The Rundown: Concerning Self Respect

You are a pronoun.

There is One-woman awake-Three o’clock a.m.

A part of speech

Three cigarettes Left

One loutish light Left on

You— erased with a pencil.

There is One tattooed man,

A depiction of the expulsion—(Left) upper Chest.

Two think promise love.

There is one man at the bar,

One woman in the doorway.

Your smile burns

Two Cigarettes Left—

`

Left myself back with the phrase

I love

(Preceding the verb)

you

are not the fool

There is One-woman awake –Three o’clock a.m.

Your restless sleep is his restless sleep.

The sirens of city life are clockwork.

Your restless sleep is your restless sleep.

I is a pronoun

.

old stuff for the next two weeks

Today you shout that the trees “don’t look any good, not anymore any hows, it’s not right damnit, it lost all that color.” I calm you down with a promise; I would paint them first thing tomorrow. I paint every leaf as if it were my own son —carefully like all mothers who coat fresh babies with lotion and light cakey powder. How can I set myself on a color— the mania appears to me as a chasing sunlight I have never experienced. The thought makes me laugh, how satisfying. I tell myself I make such glorious pigments—

I thicken handsome synthetic paint that is so profuse it clumps in, on and off my brush. As I sweep the leaf I send pillows of the finest examples of turmeric, indigo and annatto straight onto the gray cement. I look down off the aluminum ladder; I reckon the paint resembles the star scene I’ve prayed to see when I go to heaven. I once learned that the stars are dead—the dead are categorized into reds and blues and even yellows. You are not home and I am thankful. I remember that time we were both in the field. I am not even sure if it is true anymore or if I dreamed it up so many times to become a heroine no longer exclusively in my fantasy life. I recall thinking about something I had read

once that most stars we see don’t exist any longer; the stars have some how burned out—Hundreds, millions, billions of dyeing light Capitalizing my sky. “What’s on your mind?” you once said.

“Nothing,” I once said. I put my mouth to yours

Quieting the conversation. “Impossible,” you smiled.

Such a fool.

I remember that there was not a damn cloud in sight, insight.

“Nice Night isn’t it?” you say to me.

I thought my own eyes deceived me—I could see the stars even though they no longer exist.

I laugh at how far I am from that moment, how far we are and how far off the ground I am that I can see the paint like stars. I look up at the tree. I look down at the stars. I am in rapture, and I close my eyes telling myself to please remember this moment and scene.

You eventually come home. You are disappointed. You explain the trees are supposed to be green. You never look at me as you point to my stars all over your cement. And now I find myself, hands and knees, rubbing the cement free of any color remaining.