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[26 Nov 2009|11:10am] |
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What is the responsibility to a dying family. Is a family a culture; should it be respected and preserved? Where are we allowed to place the limit; where are we allowed to say no.
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[16 Mar 2009|02:21am] |
a life build a life build a life
a home of yo'own a bedroom for guests
a skull on the mantle a drawer full of candles
a home of yo'own a home of yo'own.
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[18 Jul 2007|09:41pm] |
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I wonder what I remember when I remember a house by the sea. If it is To the Lighthouse, if it is the Babysitters' Club, then why is it a smell, why is it a cool humid wind on my arms?
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[01 Aug 2006|02:19am] |
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I want to spend time with a piece of paper, with a box of pins, with a gift, a sparrow's gift. I want a friend.
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[13 Sep 2005|02:53am] |
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I wonder if anyone can recommend to me a good poem in English.
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[30 Aug 2005|11:04pm] |
Living through air thick and heavy. I would like to crumble and burn. A splinter of lava, right through my brain.
If you're going to have characters, be generous to them, I say. Let them have their say, as hateful as they may be. Give them their chance to cry.
So many incompatible dreams. A farmhouse in the city, on the ocean, in the sky.
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[13 Feb 2005|04:03pm] |
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bragging rights is all mines, M'sieu le DA
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[09 Feb 2005|11:01am] |
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All can be quite well, sun out and clouds, and suddenly on the homeward train a knife drops down your throat, an abrupt sadness. Tiny cigarettes from one hundred years ago.
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[25 Aug 2003|01:44am] |
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When what you are groping for, stretching for, is not comfort or happiness or love or ecstasy but just to cry. To drain all this syrupy pain into the groundwater.
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[19 Aug 2003|02:51pm] |
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"Beneath us lie the lights of the herring fleet. The cliffs vanish. Rippling small, rippling grey, innumerable waves spread beneath us. I touch nothing. I see nothing. We may sink and settle on the waves. The sea will drum in my ears. The white petals will be darkened with sea water. They will float for a moment and then sink. Rolling me over the waves will shoulder me under. Everything falls in a tremendous shower, dissolving me."
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[19 Aug 2003|02:50pm] |
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"The wave breaks. I am the foam that sweeps and fills the uttermost rims of the rocks with whiteness; I am also a girl, here in this room."
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[10 May 2002|08:35pm] |
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Stiff and cranky and feeling insubstantial, a bit unable to eat. Contemplating a party; friendly faces will be few but dear. Could I possibly want a one-night stand, a short-term fling, to wrench my insides inside out again? With a stomach ache and a glass of wine and a scan of the wardrobe for a dress to make them drool...and a thought towards leaving myself behind...
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[09 Dec 2001|12:47pm] |
I should like to have lived a hundred years ago, the age of Cubism and cafes. Sending wires and stumming ethnic instruments, sneering behind twisty columns of cigarette smoke. Indulging in a bit of scandal, discreetly ignored by the newspapers; various lovers who perhaps sometimes share each others' beds...
& yet conversely I have placed all my dreams and desires in amongst the annals of the future, a future I imagine vaguely Catholic and technologically charming. I call to it and yet I live behind mediaeval walls and compose my works on a typewriter. If only I could get one in Cyrillic, made of organic materials...
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| Fuck |
[18 Jun 2001|03:42am] |
I'm trying to stay busy without you, but I feel just so worthless. I want you here to talk to, to touch. I am so full of bad things, my love. But they cannot harm me when you are with me. When you are here I have the courage to be good. I am trying, I am trying, but it is useless without you.
I am going to delete this LiveJournal when you return.
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| Any day now, any day now... |
[16 Jun 2001|09:29pm] |
Been listening to Nina Simone. I don't know what to write in this damn journal since I've been in love. I have been cleaning the house for weeks, a Sisyphusian task.
Perhaps I am too afraid of bad taste. I never fill in a "current mood" or "current music" option because I find them tacky. I buy expensive cigarettes that taste the same as cheap ones, because I like the packages better. And if I do go for something not so classy, it is always because I am being ironic, and I buy or do something that makes me miserable because I am winking at the camera all the while. I would like to be a person who does not think so hard about the things she does, before she does them.
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[13 May 2001|02:13am] |
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Seething.
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| Excerpt from a story I will never write |
[12 May 2001|03:30am] |
[Idea I've had for years: young, life-bruised nun is haunted by some kind of evil spirits, possessed even. I suppose some suggestion that it's all in her head as a result of her terrible life. You know, genre fiction. It's all very hazy, I don't know. But I do know how it starts, and here it is. It's always been in English, in my head.]
and deep inside the dark chocolate nighttime of the nunnery she places the blade the shining sharp dessicated blade up against her pink-white skin which is pulsing, pulsing, beat beat beat with every breath she takes and quickly, so she won't stop slices and pulls and tears and gashes her arm at the wrist, trying to stop the things inside her which are not herself but screaming evil Other by killing, alas, killing the host body: her own, and the thick and sticky and slimy gross blood is oozing out of her, not spurting shit she's fucked it up, but her head is going light from the blood pouring out onto the floor, all over her wracked thin bonesome frame, her dry fingernails bitten off her small soft breasts her dappled ribcage her slightly bowed legs and all over her floor and sheets and the ancient beautiful painting of the Annunciation in her room.
She even she hears the hard wooden thunk or thud of her head hitting the floor as she slides gracefully off of her bed, the blood smearing all over her face and up her nose and in her eyelashes and on her teeth and tongue, tasting like blood mixed with some kind of horrible, delicious, addictive spice, and the non-sliced hand which holds the knife now drops it into the puddle and twines itself behind her body and over her jutting vertebrae to clutch desperately at something which is not there. And she is going giddy and numb and wishes she had just a little more time of light left to masturbate with and as the red and black crawls over the sides of her vision she hears and somewhere percieves the other nuns bursting into her room and praying and crying and calling an ambulence and she snuggles in, wrapped around herself, into the pool of blood and goes to sleep.
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[10 Apr 2001|12:45am] |
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The slowly dissolving morning mist. Eating breakfast and watching it snake around the tree branches. Driving across the bridge, it was like I was flying, with nothing but white on either side and all around, suspended motionless in the air.
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[27 Mar 2001|02:11am] |
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Balinese incense wafting down the hallway.
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