This is a must see. Entrancing short film.
6/22/11
6/19/11
Time to Start
It's time to start over.
You see, I've been half-way someone else's for so long that I forgot I even was -
Forgot that -
while I was still smiling to myself about playing with how the skin can sweetly work - that it was disappearing entirely.
Forgot that -
while I was still smiling to myself about playing with how the skin can sweetly work - that it was disappearing entirely.
And if months and moments disappear - then hey - did it ever really happen at all?
That's how memory drips. . . . . . .
And oozes. . . . . And greases my eyes with such a milky viscous that everything is thick with falsehood.
In the cold I couldn't see it.
In the cold I found plenty of other motives, and desirous souls to touch and build a make-believe humidity in refuge with.
But now the heat is pouring in through my 2 inches of window-pane again.
It's softening.
And it's strangling, as I walk through the city with the faintest dowsing of sweat all over.
When the city seems so much louder, so much more powerful - so very devoid of my foolish plans.
(This heartbreak city)
Because "Plans", such stupid things - are just mockery to our wallets, our minds, our hearts and our entire brackets of "Lives" that just didn't go the right way.
They all went haywire in a million directions that no one can tell if it's good or bad.
Now. Well, now they say I've got scars.
They say my body is building up bad things.
And I couldn't help but laugh -
when the doctor called - since, well, that's always been the case.
So could you spare me a little more of the summer evenings - when the sky fills up heavily - and I catch the warm amber strokes against my blue eyes, and colored metal bracelets, and last night's hair - and the car keeps driving - and there's tall grass and stars awaiting.
Cause I want to feel like how it is when the sun drowns into the horizon. Melting days into a fleeting twinkle of adventure.
Melting so many resolutions, so many mistakes and misreadings - into just another couple stories.
Just another time it didn't go one way.
It went another.
Headphones: Hootie's "Innocence", Dylan's "Times they are a'Changin", Adele's "Lovesong"
5/30/11
Memory
Ya know, I went back to our old place yesterday.
Walking softly, barefooted, I traced my city-bleached hand along the soft, weathered&worn amber hatch. Smelled the whooshh of scents still stained into the wood, the fabric ..and the now-cobwebbed corners.
It still smelled of everything before us.
It was still mine, ..once - as the waves swooshed outside.
It all looked just the same.
Lying down on my old side of the bed we shared - atop the very same old sheets (I realized) that I'd quickly thrown atop it the day we packed up - it was as if, all of it, had been another story written once for fun - for passion - for satiating, maybe a never-ending desire.(Written with scratched out places and underlined love scenes) as I would have laid here like this spilling over with want.
There went - there it goes...another one of those weird, excruciating moments I've come to live beside - when your old self slams against the "grown-up" with such force that the rigging SNAPs and the boom swingsss, and POPS.
But you laugh.
And I'm remembering again how to duck in time.
Remembering again my old reflexes.
Old joys - that go like, like "happy thoughts" when I'm...sailing, tugging the line just right, leaning my whole upper half off the side; peering into the sunset. Studying the waves for what's to come.
Backwards cap and old freckles. Back again.
That's where I love from.
Even if I've been forgetting lately just where I belong. Where should it go?
See, the waves can only tell you certain things (when you demand too much) - They can only rock you,
and only throw you,
-only sadden you,
and only ease you into temporary peace...
it seems.
Cause they scatter
into puddles
on the CONCRETE.
Ohh, how they do s.c.a.t.t.e.r. At the shattering point when rain hits the same screened windows and falls again, and again...
How we fall again...and again...
But what's the last one? - the last bead of Bay water - that runs down and immerses the path of it's little trail.
I'd like to know a new story like that.
Maybe I just need a new city again.
Daily headphones: Adele's "Rolling in the Deep", Matchbox20's "Real World" and Bob Seger's "Turn the Page"
Walking softly, barefooted, I traced my city-bleached hand along the soft, weathered&worn amber hatch. Smelled the whooshh of scents still stained into the wood, the fabric ..and the now-cobwebbed corners.
It still smelled of everything before us.
It was still mine, ..once - as the waves swooshed outside.
It all looked just the same.
Lying down on my old side of the bed we shared - atop the very same old sheets (I realized) that I'd quickly thrown atop it the day we packed up - it was as if, all of it, had been another story written once for fun - for passion - for satiating, maybe a never-ending desire.
There went - there it goes...another one of those weird, excruciating moments I've come to live beside - when your old self slams against the "grown-up" with such force that the rigging SNAPs and the boom swingsss, and POPS.
But you laugh.
And I'm remembering again how to duck in time.
Remembering again my old reflexes.
Old joys - that go like, like "happy thoughts" when I'm...sailing, tugging the line just right, leaning my whole upper half off the side; peering into the sunset. Studying the waves for what's to come.
Backwards cap and old freckles. Back again.
That's where I love from.
Even if I've been forgetting lately just where I belong. Where should it go?
See, the waves can only tell you certain things (when you demand too much) - They can only rock you,
and only throw you,
-only sadden you,
and only ease you into temporary peace...
it seems.
Cause they scatter
into puddles
on the CONCRETE.
Ohh, how they do s.c.a.t.t.e.r. At the shattering point when rain hits the same screened windows and falls again, and again...
How we fall again...and again...
But what's the last one? - the last bead of Bay water - that runs down and immerses the path of it's little trail.
I'd like to know a new story like that.
Maybe I just need a new city again.
Daily headphones: Adele's "Rolling in the Deep", Matchbox20's "Real World" and Bob Seger's "Turn the Page"
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