| Dearest |
[07 Oct 2007|10:29am] |
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The sandbox is there as it always was outside the idea of age.
What is it I want to say?
Dearest,
I was born during a blizzard. I wore a scarf made of flesh. It comforted me during the long and quiet sleep of mutation. Before I understood.
but now
Yes but here.
Now I am yes. A figure so outside reason I dream the opposite.
I take a deep breath and hope for a better passage. My heart beats irregularly. My hands are named monkey hands. Always moving back and forth and grasping. Make them remember my eyes. My eyes which are silent and black like ink poured into a flask. They look at everything.
He didn't call me. I didn't call him, but the silence is painful. Not even a whisper. I talk about the past as a virtue. I pray that it will return. The future can be relived.
Make it love. I'll stop apologizing then. I love my mother.
I succeed in ten years against this youth and their disregard. I come out of nothing and plant fantasy. In one hundred years, or a billion different choices, I stake a claim onto my current disposition and run.
Being a mess, a fuck up. Living the nightscape of coke head.
I'm good. You know I care. Not evil.
Lives for the peace of sky. Loves it like purple. Form of jelly.
They lied like us. Lied for forgiving. Can't blame them. Not even pity.
I caress your sentiment. Feel your joy. That is what it will become dearest.
-
..
..
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| the firmament of comfort |
[05 Dec 2006|05:21am] |
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Between words and before theirs thoughts, if the latter ever existed, I stand alone. Forgiveness never happened. - Transition. Say it. He did, but I only saw eyes and the lips. Pieces of matter mentioning something else. Flopping like hapless fish lost in the cool air. Words spoken under the influence of futility. A jaguar waits in a bundle so tightly wound that it fails to remember its endurance, like you. Scant room for truth. Always hiding. Believe my breath. Watch me forget my manners and look down upon my dry hands. An effective lotion would only diminish a certain appearance. Soon taking leave and giving birth to what once was.
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[03 Dec 2006|04:03pm] |
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[03 Dec 2006|04:00pm] |
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| Is it easy? |
[28 Mar 2006|01:04am] |
Passion's cove. A crag. The rip.
I bled in the ocean,
and held the sharks to my throat.
All for you.
Committing nothing more than my bodily sacrifice.
What else could I do?
Where is true love but in my last thrust upon the shore
and in you as you cry over my ideal.
The gulls above screaming and framing the moment in bliss, under the sun.
The mute reception of shock that it happened.
Witnessed by the natural earth,
which has always given us a backdrop of beauty.
They will say it was in vain, but in love there is nothing but absolute depth.
The courage to show more than we can see for ourselves.
Only they notice its truth :
Birds circling above and a lover's last image,
masked and made watery by a dream he remembered -
He had wanted to help,
but forgot his way home.
The moon ascended and lit a smile which whispered a key.
Then it was gone.
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| the pearl |
[19 Mar 2006|10:24pm] |
A forest loomed up ahead in dark mystery. Its infinite depths of foliage masked in a fog of green hues. The night was young and the sky bore an inky miasma of purple colored lights. It had been a long journey for him. Many things he had witnessed, but it was only until now that he understood the fragility of those sights.
He stood his ground for a long while, absorbing every second of color, and never letting go of his senses. He wanted this experience to last forever. An imprint of his past desire and his present joy. His future serenity.
The wind held a faint scent of yesterday, and he smiled knowing he was home.
Before entering the forest he took one last look at his arm, his feet, his hair and his torso. He then cried for their passing. The tears dropping onto the soil.
A flower began growing on that very spot. It wrapped its love around him and whispered sweet dreams into his ear. His heart stopped then and his wrinkled soul started forward. And in every step his soul began, a fresh smoothness unfurled a new piece of him. Soon it was firm and taut.
Ready.
The forest was ready. It gave him a sign of welcome and once there his place was born. The tiny crevice under the branch his paradise. Even the leaves. The leaves we so often overlooked because of their abundance. They touched him fine and gave him a place to rest calling him a loved one. Together they asked for his continuity.
With them and the stars above.
Their eyes.
The soil, the body.
The wind, their voice.
The green, the soul.
Acceptance amidst the many who came here too. Away from the tempest. The journey here not without confusion, but glad to know it anyway.
Now all is well.
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| Thereby she defines herself |
[11 Mar 2006|01:34am] |
| [ |
music |
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stone in focus |
] |
She left him on the platform and turned to go upstairs. When it came time to make the first step she looked back and saw him leaving into the car. She remained in place and began to observe the many faces that flew by her. She wanted to tell them all something that she couldn't even tell herself. She was tired and viewed this moment with uncertainty. She believed her destiny to be no grand adventure, but the next minute in this station. She told herself that everything that will ever happen can happen here. Then she looked behind her, again, and realized that all those things she would do, she would do alone.
Near the last step and onto the passageway. Through the gates and into the kiosk. The paper. It will be sunny today. The wind a wisp. She bought some gum and unwrapped it with prestigious care. Her uncle would have been proud. She didn't even like mint, but this wasn't the point. There was no point. And the clown in the corner with a red hat for collections had no point as well. The old maid, Maria, holding her orange bag full of baby clothes was the silliest thing she had ever seen. In twenty years that baby won't remember her gratitude. She bought the bib herself. And she bought gum. The paper stayed where she saw it. The brick too.
She sat down on a bench and opened her bag. She pulled out her black book and fingered through the small pages until she came to a name. There was no distinct point to this action except she needed to know that there was a person she once knew. The pens were at the bottom. Old cough drop wrappers. More wrappers. She could tell what she did last week by the wrappers in her bag. Some flyers. Numbers written on flyers. Numbers she meant to call, but would never. She disliked the phone.
She whispered to herself the dream she had memorized as a dutiful child in Ms. Hall's class. That day when she was nine. Her teacher asked her with such dignity and blind naivete what it was little Miss wanted to be when she was all dolled up and no longer a virgin.
She had said Mary. The teacher laughed and pointed to a little boy down the aisle.
Time to find. To unwind and unwrap little scraps of believability.
She slept in that minute. Her dream was intense. The fiery kiln absorbing all elements into a proper fixture. Then it will cool, these dreams, and solidify. Then it can break. Shatter on the ground. She woke up.
And stood up and walked to the other side. It took a long time, and in between, the beginning and the end, everything. She looked behind her and saw a woman sitting on the bench, and it was her. And they smiled at one another, but not nicely, vainly. As if it were improper to stare a second longer. She smiled for no one but herself this day. She moved forward once more and saw the end. At the end, her again. And this time the smile was waxen and speckled with hot saliva.
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| The Beyond |
[07 Mar 2006|11:18pm] |
There isn't a quote I can quote to begin this, a story, involving the many day dreams and night time sails of reflection. In how many seconds can you sum up your beliefs? Or, is it possible to organize chaos and speak the language of its definition? I've tried to but my sincere conclusion always comes out looking like an empty desk cluttered with too many papers on top. The papers are anchored down by an elephant. The trunk is not straight ; It hangs like an old panty hose.
After walking for endless steps through very familiar streets, I consciously glanced at the sky knowing that nothing was going to be there.
No, I'm not happy. Nor am I content. The world inside me is a God who can tsunami my love and blink the next second into the sterility of small,warm kisses spread over many faces. Doctor Acquaintance.
"Pleased to meet you."
"As Well."
"So."
"So."
"How are you? And more importantly, what do you think about this weather?"
"Oh fine. Yes the clouds have disappeared."
"And the weather?"
"The weather, yes."
"It looks like it will be nice tomorrow."
"Yes, nice."
"Yes."
"Yes."
"Can I suck your cock?"
"Well... only if it rains"
"I'm tired of bathing in mud, lets take a shower."
"Well... only if you clean the tub."
I'll just use that old fucking panty hose over there to wipe up the mess.
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[25 Feb 2006|02:52am] |
The purity, the windswept stone, overcomes the merest idea of doubt and fearful tirades I may portray.
I may if the day is away.
If I let my tears determine a route. Let them condemn my mind to a soggy bottom. When it is too hard to walk another step.
I love you.
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| I live by the ocean |
[11 Jan 2006|09:06am] |
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Iulian,
I'm here by the window. You know which one. I'm dressed in a yellow sweater, a cowboy shirt and my mother's old scarf, which is wrapped around my thin neck. The scarf has gold threads interwoven with common cotton, or so it seems. It feels like cotton.
The gold threads were woven in with common black cotton so as to stand out beautifully.
I am still wearing the same pants, but my socks, well, they're different. These socks help warm my feet and keep the cold of the hardwood floor from invading and numbing my toes.
But still I cannot rest. I cannot sleep and as much as I need them to, my eyes will not close. My mind will not dream in these days. These last few days.
And although I'm not upset about this fact, I do wish I were able to dream.
I love to dream, you see.
-
This is the mere course of things.
The mere course of a mind cultivating those thoughts with which it needs to understand.
I'm thinking a lot these days dear friend. Thinking about the cause and the effect, or the future.
The future of my own self and the future it needs to become in order to begin.
This is a phase, I know, thankfully.
I am.
Like God?
Or perhaps the clouds above who always appear calm, but in fact are in an everlasting motion.
-
When I stare at the night sky and uncover a star, I see myself in that star.
I see my guard against all the things here, on earth, that persuade indifferent ideas about myself and others from obtaining strength.
A strength that would mask that star.
The night sky is the place where we all want to be.
In the daytime, I notice people. I observe their movements, and in those movements I observe a subtle artifice. People in the daytime defend themselves against others because at night they disregard the reflective force which God gave us in the form of stars.
Sad really.
And while we may dream our lives away on this planet, or live a life's destiny, or modestly deny its progress...
...there is a star for all of us in the heavens which never forgets its mission. The mission.
You know,
Though we may fail to see this inspiration, it still remains in control of its own powerful outlook. It still creates a constant edifying force which shines for eons and journeys for light years.
It doesn't give up until it has to.
It doesn't deny its reason for being.
Unlike many of us who wilt so easily.
The stars, they never give up.
They never give up and never give up on us.
Like God....
Or the cat who purred relentlessly in our youth,
the dog who wagged its tail because it saw us,
the stream which provided us with clean water because the glaciers saw fit to melt when it was supposed to,
the soil,
the soil which gave the seed a home.
The stars nursed these facts.
The whole universe, I think, is a mathematical equation which can only be deciphered when we are decipherable,
Like God.
Iulian, I am changing..
I am changing because I am now starting to face my own obstacles.
Obstacles that I always knew existed, but was incapable of realizing.
Their brutality.
I think I started to understand this once capable individuals allowed, permitted, me to confront them.
Individuals who told me, in few words, their own stories.
You gave me a page to write.
You and Noah. Candice too.
Sean told me once to grow up and start behaving like a man.
My own father never said that to me.
This is my confession. My winter solace.
Did I ever tell you I was born during a blizzard?
I came out of my mother when the sky was heavy and the moist surface of mother earth was full of compact crystals. The space between the clouds and earth bore billions of identities. Each different from the other, but each still composed of the same compounds.
Similar substances.
I think of this relation often when I'm alone.
I go back to the beginning of my story. The story as it was told.
7:03 a.m....January 17th....1980.
Today, I'm fine.
Tonight as well.
Loved.
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| comrades |
[28 Dec 2005|09:29pm] |
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Noah and his pony
The end result
These beautiful forms give me so much pleasure in life.
They are all blessed with an insane brilliance which completely amazes me.
With them the stage is set for the drama of infinity.
Iulian hails from the dark interior of Transylvania which, for those of you who may have forgotten, is in Romania, not Blockbuster Videos (die debasement, die).
Kelly is from Santa Cruz hippie country that time, and consequently all of us, have forgotten ... well ... except when we buy ice cream, t-shirts, cereal, and a year's subscription to an alternative health magazine that will more than likely fold in two months....
( "Yes two months, because daddy will by that time have rightly decided not to financially back his crazy vegan daughter's messianic mission to, yawn, offer up her cheap musings on the virtues of soy cookies served on platters shaped in the likeness of, ahem, kitty cats." )
....and end up being recycled into a porn magazine. The same one the daddy will buy in the meat market.
Oh, the irony.
And Noah ... Our Noah, the androgynous fashionista destined to become a geisha (sans memoir), is from ... "ah yes" ... Nebraska which, if memory serves me the right facts, is a square state squarely located in the middle of this continent.
Understood
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[28 Dec 2005|08:22pm] |
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music |
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bjork - debut |
] |
Really
Bondage
Yes, Martin, of course I'd like a glass of pinot blanc
Noah knows
Kelly Kelly
Darling
Son of Sacajawea
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| unrequited love is a poor man's prose |
[22 Dec 2005|08:34am] |
| [ |
music |
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something he has to do |
] |
The mock self enters a cauldron filled
with the stare of indifference and the discomforting embrace of a mere commonality
which churns the trick of denial into a horrid soup which, when swallowed, grants the consumer a rapid death
and swift rebirth into a form :
Whereupon this recreation, he would see the truth of the matter.
Hopefully.
My eye transmits the feeling with which your eye translates into a myriad of ideas, but none seems to be the one I want looking back at me.
My one becomes an infinity of forms, but you like them shaped differently and in a composition outside my normal range.
When tsunami love comes pouring down from heaven's sewer system, the only relief is an umbrella made of steel, topped with spikes and capable of breaking the fall of broken bodies, lest they crush my life.
Before the waves drowned my humility and brought me into the arms of a mannequin,
the cold street was warm during certain moments..when..I stopped myself determined to recreate Miami.
But then as soon as I saw his simple smile, I forgot Florida and began to imagine a life in Russia.
In the icy tundras the temples of industry quietly slept. Their size and steely demeanor intimidated only the wind. They were skeletons waiting for an answer that would never come. Their idiocy being the blind acceptance to this fate.
In the emptiness of these temples, one could sometimes hear frozen tears wail through the air before hitting the ground.
One night, which was to be my last in Siberia, I caught one with my bare hands and crushed it by squeezing it between my fists.
When I had finished tearing up the tear, I immediately began to hear footsteps in the darkness surrounding my small campsite. The footsteps seemed to mimic the sounds soft boots make while trudging through slush. It was coming closer.
Waiting for it's arrival, I also had time to eat my last cupcake.
Eventually it appeared from behind a tall column. It was a small creature ; The size of a minion. Though this minion wasn't after my soul or even in the guise of a flesh form. It was, in fact, a bundle of my old clothes shaped into a silly parody of a man.
He wagged his hat and pointed his glove towards my frozen tears.
The tears I had forgotten.
"You may begin now."
-----
I placed an icicle in my hand and stabbed my temple.
I stabbed my temple and felt the warm blood flow down my cheekbone.
Warm blood flowed down my cheekbone.
I began to deconstruct the lonely temple of cold, hard angles and use it's steel bones to create a pathway going in the opposite direction.
My pathetic sorrow and selfish mindset died the night my tears melted and mixed with the blood of exercise.
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[16 Dec 2005|04:02am] |
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[16 Dec 2005|02:52am] |
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music |
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God with no tear |
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A man who looks through plate glass
when the sun comes through
in the middle of the day
Love lives in my eyes. And at the top of my throat.
The forest during a rainstorm:
I made sure to breathe the clean, fresh air.
The smell of God's good cleansing.
And every fluttering wind swept branch and dew drenched flower living the quiet life on the drier side of heavy boulders,
I saw them.
I can remember them.
I did this for me and for you.
I'm in love and I only know this when I look at you, then look away.
Because.
I'm alone in this emotion and its better to see it in reflection rather than a reality which cannot exist.
So the forest, I'm walking. There is a plane above collecting the rain in a giant net. Ridiculous pilot.
The plate glass faces this forest. I'm inside at the fireplace watching the fire illuminate every sputtering twig. The chamomile tea is in the pot above. The smoke going up through the chimney. Back to where it all began. Like souls.
Soon I will sleep and remind myself what a funny life it is.
Funny and sad.
No where is where I find resolve.
No place is home.
No body my love.
No wonder.
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[11 Nov 2005|03:52am] |
the veins of your hands
the blood the flow i want to see it run
down my chest everlasting with me
and you there holding my knee
wet and red with the wind making
a case for resusitation
you
and your eyes when they look
for a minute second the knowing
glare and i knew too but i remained
quiet as silence when the movie ends
that feeling of
what?
do i say
nothing much more than everything at that moment
i'm tired of looking at you.
just looking.
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| 4:28 |
[04 Nov 2005|04:28am] |
There is a new idea floating around the city. I think it's fascinating. No dating. We just fuck each other. Him. Her. When we talk we fuck each other. The only thing we don't do is make excuses for our actions. My group of friends. The names. Do you want the names? Some are from former communist countries. One is from Texas. He may be gay, but he's definitely fucking a woman right now. Another one fucks anything that moves (so stop moving). Anastasia cries over Slavo. Fuck him.
There are a few supporting players but they don't fuck me so I don't know much about them except that they're "nice."
I forgot to mention Noah.
Hello Noah
Hello Martin
Slobbing the knob like it's corn on the cob
No, he just wanted to drink 40s on his roof and jerk off
Iulian thought it was a touching gesture though
I knew he would*
When he thinks about me he touches himself
That was funny
No it wasn't
Well you can do better than that?
Better.
You're thinking sex. Of course.
-
A recluse reminds himself, daily, that the only way in is out, but this frightens him so he remains caged.
A recovering recluse minds his manners outside but viciously insults them inside.
A recovered recluse is frightened that the cage existed, but in a aggressively fearful way. The braggart. Proselytizer
The one that never became a recluse never existed so never mind.
This is all becoming a bit sadistic.
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[20 Oct 2005|04:38pm] |
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[20 Oct 2005|04:24pm] |
Neutrality is beautiful and so is the small, simple life which compliments it. I've met a few interesting fellows this year who've helped me understand the futility of ubiquity. The overvalued lives amidst a world whose sallow light perfectly outlines their mumbled mimes. Where everyone is a star, but a distant one billions of light years away. Maybe black holes.
but then again :
"...forsaking passion for nirvana headache
which is the shadow of Hiroshima..."
-Ivan Arguelles
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| "I wanna be me again!" said that fucking bitch |
[09 Sep 2005|02:50am] |
People behave horribly to one another in the same manner that they behave humanely to each other. This is why she hates you. This inverted nature is due to a rather illogical world which treats only one simple life scenario, individualism, with the reverential accumen one would normally accord to a non plussed life design based on the soil and the stars. All or nothing? All is nothing and something is always wrong. Or at least I used to think that way.
Solitude never brought me further away from the world, but it drew me further away from setting standards. Standing out of the crowd will never make anyone more artful or ingenious. Standing out of the crowd prepares your mind only for competition. And what is failure but the expected outcome of a farcical imitation of expression. Eh, creates highly flawed people who cannot process a simple decision let alone find it's ethical and base busting answer. Expression is fed by collaboration. I should know. I've seen you silly fucks make pudding together on several occasions. And when you all left the room, I came of my high horse and made a bowl. It was delicious.
- Inspirational prostitute
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eudoxus's journal