2012222222

can't stop dreaming
about
hard candies,
their shapes    
under pocket linen

i dream i'm in
a competition,
need to perform
a dolly parton song

paint on red lips
to attract
humming-birds and
soft beard fur

mirror

[via]

and it winters

today i think my soul is boiling

everyone huddles over fire and electrics

i am incandescent

the only relief is evaporation

bare screaming skin to the ice wind

ascend as diaphanous steam

worry small pebbles in your palm

work, work in numb bursts
blast above the grip
of muggy mind-atmosphere,
flutter repeatedly to social media
release calculated distress calls
disguised as wit and triumph,
fantasize of letting your head rest     but you know
once it gets there that it'll just be stuffed
all in your foggy arm-folds and smelling the desk smell,
and you will not have disappeared.

spend concentrated hours
jamming grenade pins into various fruits
beat your fists sharply against your
largest muscle groups for the sweet
narcotic pain-spread

consider your blood a lot
consider tattoos of tigers
consider cheap tickets
consider fine cigarettes

chase the sleepy bliss hours
where you can harbor but not
disembark

good-bye dear leader

we have all been granted
the divine blessing
of tickets to heartbreak hotel.

eight hundred thousand swallows
rain seed pearl spheres
on deserving schoolgirls
and technology workers
dancing in linen and
immaculate cooperation.

my breast is an empty bowl
i beat to the rhythm of their ribbons.
we are howling a grief
we are stronger than ever for the
tide of dark forces at our gates.
but please, don't ask any
uncomfortable questions.

capitalist, dog,
if you don't fit you must
hammer yourself into the script.

[via]

powerful healing spell

i walk with all these limps

my boyfriend is a centaur with charlize theron's torso,
a creamy dappled stallion body

i braid flowers in his mane and ride him
in my hero parade

tire tier

today i am
a small robot sick with rabies
feebly sweeping litter and
blubbering rustily under
mineral encrustations.
take it from me.
these bicycle chains
whip around the gears,
bystanders laughing
and throwing heads of
lettus to shred on my
exposed metal parts.
we are making a slaw.
i am the essence of the party.
we're talking shop sounds,
shank my talk box,
shut me, ow.
set my tracks
to the precipice
for a laugh,
exhaust
sucking
one more mug
to make a shine

brain purifying mechanism

sorry about the font.

thinspo

i wish i knew who did this to credit them (i do not).

some dec. words

i never knew how easy it would be
to become an affectation,
tit for tat

do you notice how carefully
i am half an expert and half a fool

i worry my truest self might be in
the moments when my rage escapes.
i realize now that the toe was broken
and that you should not brutally kick
moving vehicles,
even if they are driven by total bitches.

i walked on it for blocks
with a poker face, ashamed
like i always am of anger,
though not of being angry
which is just comedy
like everything

i get too angry at strangers
when they are inconsiderate,
or cruel, i think that is the thing
i get most angry about.

___

i did not eat lamb as a child,
but i do now.
it feels more honest to eat pigs,
they are more like us, with sturdy
recognizable bones. how familiar,
and appropriate

when i was a child i ate beef
and spaghetti. the dogs ate
hollow bird bones. one day
i wore a lime-green gold glitter tiger sweatshirt
and ran accidentally into the electric fence,
it made a black line on the tiger
and a red line on me
__

i can't seem to write without swerving embarrassingly down tributaries of mental anguish. i want my writing to be more like a joke but it spills out of me all flowery and sensory and earnest, and it only wants to re-hash every heart-break and deep slips into abysses from which i emerged scarred and sharp-eyed.

i never could separate the poeming from my selfness, and this is where i have struggled most in the academic/professional/social poetry world. i am not claiming to be unique, this sounds pretty normal now that i type it. i do the writing like this because it's how i come out, it's the frequency i vibrate to. i'm not so great. i want to try and i want to want to try.

i need to keep increasing my vocabulary. these wet december days make my existence dementedly crepuscular. i actually think i am pretty strong/nice/good to be around. i have always liked feeling strong. i have always had very strong legs for kicking soccer balls but i am just now learning how to punch. i am doing push-ups. i want to be stronger. i want to be faster. i want to be smaller. a modern machine.

i want to be embettered. most of my inner monologue is literally self-abuse and i am trying to say nicer things to myself. i should probably stop trying to explain myself. i think maybe i have a fetish where i like to assume other people are interested in me explaining myself. i want to get on planes that take me across the world and back. i want to be friends. i want to know how to make friends when i can't seem to act unless invited. i want to write poems that make you love me, and make you feel loved. i want to maintain enough flaws to never feel paved-over. i want to think/feel like an animal.

miss attribution learns how to let go

what did you learn about cells
how did your burns heal
why does it all doppler

close your eyes and
take a tour of every place you've lived

don't be afraid
of me or anything

at land, soldier

it's always a shore
where you find yourself
borne here maybe

bury half my head in
lukewarm gray sand while
snuffling blind sea mammals
nudge my sides, whisker the flesh
of my hips, rush salty wet air
in my exposed blue blinking eye

i could thrash til i burrow under,
soak, logged, and with this pressure
be ushered away as bits,
as grains in wee mandibles

i could just begin with i love,
i could just let these gulls take my eyes
and i could climb, could say
remember the first time you broke
along the fault lines, called it art,
could feel a fear of cold

call an eagle down to carry me,
bring me dinner, feed me meat,
you could ring my bell, bell,
my belly knows its grip;
i'm tired of throwing it up,
my guts all fluttering sore tatters

a bluff, i fold,
this is just a demonstrative iteration,
a dualness and hunger that chugs along
like dawns, warms my ice teeth,
quells my eruption some

here on this mountain
i have always been
your smiling oracle,
beseeching, seek me

can't fight this sensation any-more

descending into my dark winter,
uncertain whether this cave's ghosts are too powerful.
there is a screaming high and tight on the wind again
& i get demon dreams, i get hard cognitive dissonance hall-o-mirrors;
i get blusters that won't subside til they blast and gnaw.
i'm gonna try to be nice, i know you're trying to be nice,
this isn't because i don't love
everything, or know what
is, i mean should be real

whoever said

ed. -- turns out this was my 666th blog post, good job me!

placing

it took me a while to learn
i never could settle in
a city that goes on so far
i can't know its edges

admit that you're still
waiting on that second childhood
while forever shaking hands with

this new you, forgetting
names, i'm so bad, with names,
so bad with these new mes

see i thought my magic was
stronger, see each way leads
to the same sick silly eruption

it is hard enough to know one place fully,
putting my mouth to each alley way,
pulling hungry lungs of the
soft brown honeyed smoke

Animation

I found an amazing website of animation sketches that I am going to share here out of guilt for not producing any writing lately.*

I wish I had the patience for my talents. I mean this in the least self-fellating way possible; everyone has talents.** I always felt like a fraud because I have all of this intelligent fire in me and this general skillset of things I'm decent at*** and you're supposed to have a "passion," something that you know, you can't not do.

Sometimes everything I do feels like a parlour trick, like I am very well-trained, enough to be very pleasing in certain ways but lacking something essential behind it all that would propel me to true success. I do not wish to simply ease through life with minimal discomfort (or I do) but no passion grips me, or many do, fleetingly, small sucker fish, silky tentacles.

The animation slides are fun, I do love me some animation. Seeing the intricate skill and work behind films I absorbed as a child is especially engaging. The character design process is, I think, informative on a different level; It's intriguing to see the movement of the character affecting the entire persona, and it makes me consider both my own body language and a larger literacy of "intent" being informed by each subtle movement. Aladdin wouldn't react to something frightening by leaning back and yelping with wide eyes, he would crouch quickly forward and assess the situation, because he is always in control. Ariel's movements are fluid, but her timing reflects her perky impatience and impulsiveness in every head-turn and fin-swish.

Keep a clear line of action. Consider your character.

*Most of my job is composing meticulous email communications and long legal brief letters about software engineers and by the end of the day I'm usually just honestly sick to death of word processing.

**I grew up constantly being told how smart I was and how I could do anything, but suffered the usual mental crisis of puberty and after that decided to firmly browbeat myself into believing I was extremely average in every way. It was how I came to see myself by high school: My hair was brown, my weight was not thin but not obese, I was from the very middle of the U.S.A., I drank a lot of mountain dew, average. I think this may be some kind of partial factor which mired me in an insecurity-fugue that is still ongoing. In retrospect I feel as though I was trying to wring myself of the waves of mental highs and lows that had begun to toss me, and to snuff the anxiety over the potential of catastrophic life-failure and general life-confusion. I mostly feel though that it was an attempt to control my personal image of my physical self, which was overtaken by the comments/leers/awkward makeouts of boys/men when I grew fantastic tits in 6th grade. Averageness was safety, and an excuse to recede into self-comfort instead of striving. Or whatever.
The point is I regret not being ballsier about my ambition. I don't know if it's how I was trained to be or if it's in my nature or if I fucked it up by the above paragraph or what.

***I take great comfort in being decent at things.

i started running

to be an animal again

i am not afraid of anything today

i started running

i want to be stronger for the american cataclysm

biology

is it just me

or has everything been a little much lately

september is the best month. this time though i stopped drinking. for september. i thought i would discover something horrible about myself like i was actually an alcoholic but it turns out i just like drinking a lot. not drinking has not been hard except for the initial prosaic and ox-like determination to prove to myself... something. mostly i am more bored, and slightly more settled into my bones than i remember.

also i have found more fear in myself, of general darknesses that loom. i feel overly crude and clumsy, unable to see anything but someone dull, obese and middle-aged in the mirror, and howl at the awareness of my incessant dysmorphia while not being able to quiet it.

this got dramatic. i am really quite happy. i fear the slope to dark times is downward while grasping my hilt to battle. i have been baking more. i feel like my writing is always too prim, even when i say fuck and shit. i don't know how this got to be my inner voice. i am gearing up to be social again i sware. my birthday is next week. it is usually a day on which i end up feeling stingingly sad for no reason i can discern. twenty-five. my fortune cookie told me to go for my dreams but i am so afraid of student loans guys. news/thoughts of the future in general makes me want to go live in the hills even though laughably i am as much alive on the internet as i am off of it. avatars, etc. you start to feel the big furious boil of generations tumbling over each other. you get a little of the old fear.

boredom gnaws and prods. it feels ultimately indulgent to sate it. i have been reading about alcoholism and cultural alcohol consumption and discovered the most important thing booze does is promote myopia, i.e. it is so nice to shut my brain off to the noise and watch this tv or listen to this friend. the noise is so much. i was born near-sighted as hell, not as bad as some but worse than most. my natural state and ostensibly my formative infant state is/was characterized by myopic vision (a lot of meditative time has been spent studying the thread patterns on sheets). it is obviously not ideal but this macro-lens vision when i'm not wearing correction is deeply comforting.

i am really excited to have a drink when september ends. maybe i will crack that cider in my fridge on my birthday. for now i am boring. winter is coming, the time when i can think best in pictures and fetal twee poetries. that's okay.

fat athiest bridesmaid

I've covered bones already

a stain or a chemical
change, it sloughs or
leeches
I am not exerting any force
this voice dips and holds

unfold an old decalogue
mould the wire frame

run to safety
everything dilates
a round compass, a plus sign

injury from others
thrust yourself toward
a series of thrusts
a regular delirium tremons of a day

get aligned
spend years aligning
suffer from the animus,
mistake it for love,
mistake love for a self-fetish,
suffer from mistakes
pull it all down, break it

the trouble could be breasts,
cut off one tapioca pudding cup/bowl
to draw your bow string back, cut them both
so you can run without
a heavy flesh echo

snow dream

I was on a ski slope mountain and there were black birds flying up in the gray sky. One got closer and when it landed on a nearby pine I could see it was gargantuan, the size of a manatee, with a long magpie tail. I called to it and raised my arms coaxingly, it seemed to grow further, a megafauna, big and pleistocene. Its black shining eye regarded me as it leaned over, bending the pine tree down, and it dipped its slightly spoon-shaped beak into the snow in front of me. The beak was as long as I was tall, but I did not feel scared of the dragon-bird. It flew away in a numb spray of frost, its wingbeats like paralyzing vacuums. Later when my friend came by on skis I tried to show him the marks the beak made in the snow but they were smudged and lost.

[via]

lissen forra minnit

[via]

铜

virginity poem

body muttering a new language
a novel power in knee-high leather boots
freshman spanish estoy estas
estamos estamos estamos

terribly symmetrical aquiline half-egyptian
fucker in his giant matte black truck
that rumbled you from throat to hocks
when he said
cute.

fishnets fourteen and flailing
ghost pilot at the wheel of the
hormone fugue,
the year everyone thought you
and were the german girl,
welcome, your english is so good,
do you like it here,
september 2001 a gray bright
shining crumbling deviant
demi-god throws a chair into
a bank of computers and
meet me in the empty hall let's
go let's go let's go let's go

to his old wood musty-porch house
on the couch kiss me it is raining outside
softly on the windows so
sitting at the piano play moonlight sonata
up on the wall is a framed white
square scrawled in blood
"i <3 u guys"
from his little brother in my class
who four months before had
stuck a rifle in his mouth
left that last message on the wall &
sent us reeling

O I don't believe there is a god
any more
was i born with what you like
do you like my

the sunken center v where my ribs go to my heart
i know you know i knew you
wouldn't love me longer joking
how many girls' virginity you took before
but it's just a bitter joke
like it all is
you'll call me sweet
i'll miss it always

la

this feels different

i dreamed a lot but the final part i scrambled atop a roof, gritty shingles, to see the sunset and the world was just me and the roof and the sunset, broiling black clouds and an indomitable ravishing pink-red sun conducting them in clots and waves as it sunk with the assured steadiness only a sun can have.

last night in a non-dream i was on my roof, letting neighbors beat-box spittily in my harmonica and stealing nips of jack; it was 3 a.m. and so misty the wet white water-park roof-land glowed.

(I was just trying to explain the white slightly cetaceous material the roof is made of and "floor of the roof" got me troubled.)

also i stepped on a bottle cap
hopin' to be tetanus-free!

a mother is good poem

i'm in a warm flannel night-gown, white with sparse pink flowers
fabric pilled, long long hair all static
warmth that is welcome and so unlike
the complicated and cloying touches of your adult you,
without the furtive vibrations;
with knubbly rubber remote control buttons,
she worries a furrow into her front tooth
with sunflower seeds cracked and tongued
like they were eaten by one of the several $8 parakeets
who screamed, neurotic and alone, where the cats couldn't reach them;
teaching me there is enough oxygen in my breath
to make a candle fire glow,
she reads books about christian pioneer wives,
her hand echoing in the plastic popcorn bowl

dream for a cool late-summer morning

i was sitting in a theatre with friends. a girl with long blonde hair came up and started saying things to us, one at a time, getting too close and whispering intensely. when she got to me she was almost in my lap, talking, talking, so i pulled her in and kissed her. it was good, so i did it again, with more intent & tongue. the way dream kisses are all natural and seen from inside and outside of you.

later we were walking. she looked over at me. i said "your eyes are copper." her irises had turned to shining copper bowls with tiny infinite black pupils, rimmed in oxidized blue, glinting like fish scales.

i tried to write today

this happened. i'm gonna put it here i guess. gonna try to do it more. intention announced.

freewrite (blocked)
it's a good thing you didn't
write what you thought back
when it happened those who
you loved with their sweet
silky silk blah fuck cursing
words a cur a butter curse or
a boy who was christian bale
in a newsboy cap or the name
of a medication you were
prescribed, how it sits in you,
what is going on in my
innards; overwhelmed by
hate for strangers instead
of feeling love/embraceful
of them, want to hide
away it is time to be
quiet don't look at me
my hair is ugly right
now but this basil
smells so good. I kind
of hate my dad

How about the sky, that is
trite as fuck and do you want to play I
can't do these gymnastics
gynastic growing
back the hymen so
poetry can fuck it out
again Spend all
your time obsessing on
misfired brain cues,
why can't I see myself
why can't I see myself
shut the FUCK UP
I could never get past
these big NE thighs
The name of a place
you have been.

I'll show you
an image
This is not a
Manifesto. I want it
to be but this brain done
got dumb; I am so
ashamed to bore you or to be misunde
rstood I think --
Would you like to I don't know ask me some
thing I want to draw a cat

(cat drawing)

The cat is drew.
There is someone with
a newspaper behind me
look what I achieve
achievement I
will give you what
you need swirls can
you smell it on my
feeling nihilistic,
anachronistic dichoto
mistic mystic misty
blisty this is lazy
where did my sauce
go brown sweet
tamarind spiced
like we like it, pepper

I fukkin hate your
noisy truck. I fukkin
hate all of it.
Trucks saying
Restoration
Erosion Control
go up in the shade
I want to kill you
your wrasslin and
in-jokes don't TOUCH
that chair. Looking, looking,
looking, looking,

These cues repeat. I
said don't TOUCH that
fuckin
custom shit bro. Don't
pay your money for
something

A concept. Stop me an
during

Don't be silly that is
a learned condition
a tic of solicitation
a stupid party trick

Draw a repeating
pattern coil
into fractal
piss land.

Frittering, frittering.
I want whatever you have that is better
this SUCKS
GFY

Hobbling, I have
a mind and a half but
gut to keep it down
There is a lot of
anger in here. Is it
b/c I hate my dad, and
your mom and anyone
who ever made you
feel bad.

I just want to make
the team. I am so
well rounded.
I am a successful
architect at an
architecture firm
please be less
FUCK YOU ALL
logarithmics hip
hop poppa ya don't
stop
I want to be free and alone today, I
suck @ writing poems
love you
love me
I guess gonna read my book now
Say some smart shit
occupy some tension
between home and the
rest of the world,
sit in the concepts
draw from them
absorbently, seek
new sponge-ing

paper making

A fistful of wasps is brooding under the gutter above my roof-exit window. There is a larger nest in the bulky, aged a/c unit that's resting on the fire escape, kind of blocking the fire escape window. In the hot-box. Bodies silkily throbbing, I imagine them absorbing the heat and compressing it into magic yellow poison. Both factions are the same species and I wonder if they are actually one group with two homes. Either way I feel protected.

Sir David taught me that wasps are ants that learned to fly (order Hymenoptera, Greek: membrane/wing). The Apocrita petiole; a tiny waist.
Ants have discovered my kitchen counter is usually delicious. Damn them. With all-natural surface cleaner spray. Say sorry, sorry. They replace themselves, their ranks' trickle doesn't end.

this is not a, you know. n'est pas. faux poem.
i don't know if i can be like you guys.
right now i can only write the things that are happening, any other seeking of words is like
hazily bumping on the glass

dog-dayed

~

it is hot like religion

& difficult to manifest fully


listen for my thunder

be awake

a body feels diss-lexic
all clotted & word gummd

days of wet sun and smells all a slinky down the calender's stairs

my body went to another land

in the background of someone's photograph
i nestle in data and pixels in a portobello market
stunned, among fur

where else can i go
recalibration husks me
lets it get in a little

new camera time

canon powershot sx200 i.s., refurb on the cheap
life is so much better
esp with 12x optical zooooooooooom
expect endless cat photos foreverrrrrr

hybrid

via

pretty soldier

a period piece

In the least aggressive way, I am troubled with everything feeling passé
- -

Where is your new-ness, find it perhaps on a lingering

quest in hills furred wet & growlsy,

the absorption when you tumble jammy jams you

with mineral bits of soul, fides and fates,

we are all idols & know-know

the damages of dull blades

cool.

all day today there was a beautiful antique wooden mantle-mirror thing someone had left for free on the corner. It was a little banged up and heavy as fuck. I told myself if it was still there when i got home, i'd take it in. it was, but I didn't until it was raining and i remembered it was out there getting all wet.

i accidentally popped the mirror out when lugging it up 3 flights of stairs. behind the mirror is a pristine copy of The Chicago Daily Tribune from 1901. I fuckin ripped it pulling it out though, so mad at self.

update: here's a crappy webcam pic of the beast, sans mirror. i love vintage newspapers, god. QUININE.

springtime friends

pretty lady squirrel who visits every day for seeds (and only eats the sunflower seeds, as you can see). I gave her a dab of chunky peanut butter today and she's currently having her mind blown. as long as the window's down she is not afraid.

i miss having a camera. webcam squirlpics suckkkk. Just for fun let's have a photo of window cat from last fall. I don't have any recent photos but man he gets fluffy like a snow lion in the winter.

some hai kus

i.
decide whether to
mine or harvest, stretch a chord
and reach conclusions

ii.
boots look more like feet
in them than shoes, so you got
married, don't whisper

iii.
stretch you some and reach
conclusions, decide whether
to mine or harvest

iv.
stop it you monster
crimp me every direction
i will be neutral

film-stills: fish tank

yet another in my recent string of films featuring tragic young foreign girls. this one: so good.

Written and directed by Andrea Arnold -- it was funny how this one kept reminding me of Red Road before I knew they were by the same person.
notes while watching:
looking out of windows
hating the group because you are an outsider
"if you came back as an animal"
they all chose wild and strong, monkey, white tiger, eagle
the animals around them are chained to man's will, horses, dogs, hamsters, fish
he caught the fish with his bare hands

girls feeling trapped, young girls with more magic and power than anyone around them who are still somehow powerless

you got my jam

((bonus japanese punk time courtesy of Hi-Standard))

I want to sing again, I can harmonize so good.
I/you have been so afraid of having to be the me/you that you/I think I/you am/are, but I/you don't (have to).
So what if I/you ____, so what.

a nightmare

My new job was a receptionist at a white trash hair salon run out of an old mansion. A little boy showed up for his appointment with Tanya, who was in the basement smoking and laughing with other stylists. I shouted "Tanya your one-o-clock is here!" several times but she and everyone ignored me.

Then, I was at home and there was a blizzard raging outside. On my living room floor was a rubber toy pig, bright yellow with red details, the size of a football, perched with stiff cheer on rounded hooves. It made me uneasy so I chucked it out the window into the snow, watching its trajectory into the alley. When I turned, the toy pig was peeking at me from around a corner. Startled, I threw it out again, harder. Relief was fleeting; the pig reappeared next to me on the couch, and the unease grew into quaking terror. Then began an inescapable nightmare in which the pig continued to show up just when I was sure I'd outsmarted it. I got rid of it a dozen times, convinced myself I was awake and it was just a dream-pig, and then there he was, the most awful, frightening thing I'd ever seen, like the doomy breath of thanatos. The yellow pig began zooming ghoulishly across the carpet at me. I jammed it into the oven and turned it on, watching (the oven spun like a tumble-dryer) its features burn off. The pig came back. Finally, I tore into it with my bare hands, ripping the latexy yellow skin to shreds. I woke up around this time.

the sea and a safe land

this morning i dreamed of traveling under the ocean in a tv-show like cast of characters. we had a vast submarine ship each with our own themed chamber, and went on dives for treasure that were haunted by bus-sized shadows of sharks. if you pressed a button in my chamber a sleek bloodwood box opened and small golden tree emerged draped in my finds: strings of pearls and baubles. "these will lead me to my mother," i explained to my companions.
We found ourselves in a bay surrounded by two arms of rock that met like hands cupping the tiniest opening where water entered and left; the suction created at this opening by the waves and tides meant it was always a tornadic deep-blue whirlpool groaning and roaring. a scientist stood next to it and said to me "The morning glory" and we accidentally fell in a few times and did not die, but it was terrifying to ride that immense power.
Inland I became conscious on a farm, hiding peacefully behind barns and buildings of corrugated metal, playing with nothing like a child. I came out and a man was staring off into the field and said "More haymakers," gesturing to the laborers.
I then was back in an industrial nautical setting, all steel walkways and handrails. many people I knew were there; it was the size of a city but became apparent it was actually a ship. I found the edge of the ship which was not 30 yards from the next ship over; our planes moved against each other like a 2-d scrolling picture show and set up along the edges were all kinds of watchers and entertainers; musicians bleating instruments and sensual androgynous dancers pleasing everyone's eyes, but everyone was only looking across at the other ship's wares instead of enjoying their own.

tqid/lltq

Last night I dreamed I got bison faces tattooed on each of my shins, surrounded by feathery green leaves. I kind of regretted them, but only because of their permanence; my inability to replace them with something new eventually.

the black hair is still foreign but deeply soothing, it feels safe like protection, relief, a cipher, a hole, a cloak. but it is raveny and silken too.

birdsong radio and grass

i dreamed traveling on a globe that shifted under my feet to deposit my hovering body in the new location; of half a dozen small dogs emerging from the surf of the indoor ocean, pugs and cavaliers each with a small gray egg purse to bury in the protection of the palms. when the tide hits the leathery pouches they explode in a froth of dog-eggs.

dogs feature in almost all my dreams now, most commonly a little black pit bull who smiles at me, her face swimming with iridescence. in real life it is snow-land again, pretty tragic only because it gives me the feeling of being on repeat, like i just tumbled from the sun-kissed lip down into the pit again, a little bit sisyphus. i am not afraid so much of the task as i am of its effect upon my character; the largest thing being that this winter makes me so raw, and in forcing myself to be calm for all the work rush and anxiety it oozes out sideways (the anxiety) and coats every other thing i do. this makes me in the world feel like everyone is talking about me, whispering behind hands, eyes low and looking, speaking "awful awful awful." in seeking reassurance i damn myself.

faux springs

"& all my friends were vampires
didn't know they were vampires
turns out i was a vampire myself
in the devil town"
-- devil town, daniel johnston (in 1st season of friday night lights)

I dreamed another blizzard was coming and there was not enough time. my neighbor's horses were thin and freezing and i had to save them but didn't know how, they nosed foggily at my windows in their fluffy winter coats. i had a list of things to get done, like they were my job, except each task was to drive to a different restaurant and order a different thing. it was like a bulimia mission, i had to gather all this food to force into myself and it made me feel guilty and excited. but the blizzard was starting. shit was getting deadly. when i drove in my car i made it to the beatrice strip-mall where my childhood rental store, silver screen video, the only one in town, was still standing. inside i knew were all the best movies, rare and beautiful ones that would fulfill me.

to my man

h. !. l. c.p. t. j. i. I.

it's been a year, you are so loved

p.s. take my hyperbolic imagery with the practical grn of slt

film-stills: la teta asustada (the milk of sorrow)

literally: the scared tit. i still don't know quite how to absorb this film. it was more bizarre in subject matter than the crafting of it would imply; it had a lot to say; about war, rape, the value of women, virginity, love (familial & romantic), botany, humans using one another, etc.. the peruvian landscape and main actress were stunning - similarly chiseled and full of sadness. i will say: there is definitely a potato up a vagina, a lot.
the camera notably fuels the momentum of the film, keeping the viewer at the same distance one expects the protagonist would for the beginning. ... yet it was quiet; i.e. you see the piano on the ground after it falls, never falling, etc. there is real beauty throughout, drama and contrast between lushness/starkness, but the strengths are in the film's music (a lot of sing-song diegetic poetry dialogue) and the motion of the camera, which subtly propels the main character to the climax of her evolution with several long, captivating motion shots.
written and directed by a lady y'all. i seem to be accidentally picking a lot of woman-directed films and it feels good.

found

"Even now your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners, troubles,
follies, costume, crimes,
dissipate away from you.
Your true soul and body appears [sic] before me.
To You, ♥ W.W.2"

Under a tree root walking home today. Tell me more, walt freakin' whitman.

this season's spiritual guide

"if you can't love yourself, how in the hell you gonna love somebody else."