Friday, August 31, 2007


This morning there was lighting and scattered sprinkling rain. And yet, my world is not aclatter with rain. Sometimes I feel like the universe is split: two parallel universes, one always wet, one always dry, and we merely fit between the two at appropriate times. When the clouds crack open, we are ripped into the wet world, which is brimming with umbrellas and umbrageous people crouching in doorways, running here or there, covering their heads. People act unusual and disioriented by this change of worlds, and they act accordingly; they run to windows eagerly and write sappy poetry or light fires in the fireplaces and snuggle. Sometimes the rain will make you grab the hand of someone you don't know very well, the rainy world is crazy; you must be careful with the rain's weird powers!
Personally, I love. The rain. My bones creak and crack with premonition, the world is wet and waterlogged and dreamy. Diamond drops are sliding down the twisted electric lines in my parking lot, gathering bulk until they fall, too gluttonous to stay. In the rainy world people are placid, and subdued, and they notice their surroundigs. And then we singularly drip back into the old, dry world, where things are normal again.
The sun is shining bright today through a sky less patchy with clouds than I would like. I've just gone on a jog and the water from the morning dew dripped from tree leaves to my face and sometimes it's nice to imagine that I am in a world where people are soft and sweet like marshmallows. These people only exist when the moon is exactly aligned with the echoes in my heart. These people never exist.

Saturday, August 25, 2007

Millions Now Living will Never Die

Usually my mind is on my money and my money's on my mind, but I've been thinking so much of people lately. At four thirty this morning I was lying down in the park under a rotting tree, drinking some very cooled down Darjeeling tea, and I felt like the only living human, the only breathing person, the only thing stirring in the whole world. My brother, Ale, had shown up on my doorstep with two raggedy friends caressing a large watermelon, hours before. I lead them to the new DVDs in our cabinet and proceeded to my bedroom. I feel like people are squeezing and suffocating, breathing my air, speaking their thoughts, arguing amongst themselves. I don't want to be a part of it.

Underneath the hushed, halcyon surface of the gene pool where Wal-mart workers and slave-wage earners ripple gently in the cosmic breeze, there are crags and crevices, uneven places from which unusual genes spring. Rossini and Faure immediately leap to mind, but there are so many I've never heard of and might never know. I read books and watch movies, but what do I really know about the lives of others, of epidurals and starvation and declaring bankruptcy and suicide? I am trapped inside of myself, governing my own rules for empathy, filtering all of the thoughts that come in and out, I might as well have John Ashcroft for a brain. I always thought that a true religious conversion would be like seeing outside of myself for the first time, but I find that consolation in sleep-deprivation, not God. Blah blah Holden Caulfield, blah blah Esther Greenwood, blah blah my petty problems. I'm mawkish and maudlin, there is an Ayn Rand perched pushily on my left shoulder, and a Saint Francis on my right, and I have no internal moral compass, no way of knowing what is truly right or wrong.

Friday, August 10, 2007

Everything In The World Matters To Me

I am alive and eaten alive by a busy lifestyle. Livid and living, but to you I do not exist. This is why I haven't written myself into existence lately: I like to play with words that can be sculptured, words that are substantial and defined in their dreaminess, in their inherit, abstractly physical qualities. Words that are real and weighted. Words that are written down with your hand. When I read the dim, limed words that are projected glowingly from my computer screen, I feel pressure on the front of my brain, as though every thought is sliding forward, pushing, pressing. Words printed on paper seem to have a palpable crispness to them, like you could gather them up and crumble them in your hands. But the words that appear onscreen due to technological processes that are a mystery to me seem insubstantially delicate and filmy, undefined like wet newsprint, magnified from a hazy, fishbowled computer screen. But enough silliness about words, which aren't even real!

I want to think in friendly ways, in wistful and wonderful ways, in ways of colorful flashes and splashes.
There is a pretty, platitudinous party going on, but I can't be a part of it. I don't want to be a part of it, another mechanical machine, talking about mundane things. Sometimes I am the only friend i want to have. A girl threw herself into the pool and expected someone to provide her with pants, and that is what I cannot stand and that is what I cannot live for.

I forget sometimes, that I live for love. And I won't give up, but I think it's time to forget about it, to set it in the back of my brain crumbled underneath old thoughts, images and memories. It's time to not be so set up and let down.

World, stop encouraging me!

Saturday, August 4, 2007

Lack Of

I feel like a violin with strings too tight; a few more turns and I will pop.

Stomach Chords, Gears And Gadgets!

Last night I dreamt that I woke up one morning and was made of newspaper. A particularly interesting news story was blocked and wrapped around my thighs, and I tried to turn round to read the other side of my leg when it occurred to me that I might be unfortunately fragile. I stuck my finger in my mouth and when I pulled it out it was smudged, damp and soggy. My dreams and my waking life used to exist on tectonic plates transiting miles apart, but they met on the other side of the world, crashed into each other, made mountains of confusion. There are inchoate, undefined memories I have that I can't attribute to my dreams or to reality with absolute certainty. Oaosiureaosiuar. Can't find the words. Feel lost.

It's funny how silly it seems to want a hug, because it seems such a silly thing to ask for when you are an adult. But that embrace between two people forms a connection. "yes, i understand your pain." "no, i don't understand your pain, but i care about you and would like to understand your pain, maybe take it off your shoulders for a bit"

I need a hug. Epic.

Up there are photos of my hands and the new addition to my small family of pets... Ceratophrys Cranwelli, or Argentine Horned Pac Man Frog. He is currently nameless. I'm working on that.