i'm back in ny.
i now have a tattoo.
damn camera is still broken.
evidence soon.
everything smells like burning. there is hair caught in this rubber band, and I've got two earrings in the same hole. we're a pile of shitty sexual metaphors. we are way too much acid and not enough paint. recalling something someone once said about a kettle of fish, if that's not too creepy of me.
cedar beach tomorrow, city thursday, and friday- I'm off to Montreal! back... the 30th? the 2nd? I'm not sure. I'm all about risking electric shock these days, and sleeping with rock stars.
Once again, questioning my motives.
Having to ask the dreaded question: what boundaries am I crossing?
There are always unspoken rules. There is nothing forbidden, but...
There are things that are, as she said, frowned upon.
In these waters, thinking is discouraged, but wondering embraced.
I just think you talk too much.
A word of advice:
Let’s turn all your lampposts into crouching figures, and turn your all your trees into challenges.
We’ll use this fire to light your page! And use this screw to turn your heart!
Instead a falling branch became a phantom and I put a star out on the pavement.
The night became a fortress which became a woman, and when I looked she laughed.
We smilingly took advantage of streetlights with fires in our mouths.
We were not without a tinge of fear, though her eyes, the size of sunbeams, never said a word.
We ran through artificial thunderstorms, we trampled unknown grass, apologizing for the crudity of our handwriting.
I proceeded to get lost in the town of my birth, and feel the better for it.
It doesn’t matter much if I found what I was looking for. I had escaped those few extraneous answers that had caught me.
All that time I thought I had caught them.
The Big Dipper was glad; I was walking North.
Such was the evidence of my drowning– a few fenceposts, and bugs landing on my shoulder.
Wrong turns are rarely wrong, they are merely poorly timed. Regardless, I may have to run home in the lightning. Maybe the clouds of the night sky are drawn to the smell of blood. Written in the dark, this is the way things are. Crickets marginally agree, hanging from the edge of my glasses like ribbons I forgot.
I empathize deeply with heat lightning. You need to find some word, some color, some light to express so much intensity. There is always the sound of a pebble kicked down the road to fall back on. So check the gate, you might as well, though I don’t know how much of a difference it makes if there’s nobody there. Headlights explain the darkness, but in poorly written layman’s terms. The drunks soar by on VCR directions, explanations of a thousand dials. From this distance it’s hard to tell if anyone’s approaching. The trees here smell like sweet young women wearing just a little bit too much perfume. I am unsure of the way back, but I not concerned. At a fork in the road, I feel a vague sense of familiarity, although there may be echos from another time that we got lost.
I have walked face-first into these cobwebs before.
the killer heat is finally broken.
running through thunderstorms,
smoking cigarettes and eating chocolate,
waiting for a tiny woman in a blue car.
there are numbers everywhere,
countdowns pouring from people's eyes
when they look at you, feverish.
yeah. whatever.
August 3rd, 2005
You get strange looks when you walk at night;
you get spiders on your arms.
You get offers from the warm dark guts of vans,
you get night rabbits fleeing from you at top speed.
You learn the prayer:
“Please don’t rain until I get there,”
as well as other useful chants not spoken, but drummed out with the feet.
Getting there is vital, but the destination is not always important.
Sometimes you just want to see the yellow bird compacted on the sidewalk.
And what if you go too far inside to notice?
The Interior is a place with strange groundskeepers, they work when you should be sleeping,
instead of standing fever-eyed in your neighbor's lawn.
They usually work with the tiniest of knives, measuring the grass, not even, but as it should be.
The Interior has no borders, it is abundantly clear where you are.
Most outside observers will make crude assumptions, such as:
“You are so fucked up right now,”
or:
“I am frightened.”
But they can’t hear the music that comes from the windows of dark houses.
Whatever they know is not the same as whatever you know.
We are not yet certain that these ideas can be reconciled.
However, we do know that one does not have to contradict to differ, but it is frequently preferred.
Like I said, the destination is not always important.
I’ve made this walk two thousand times; the end point moves a little further every year.
Regardless, all roads lead to the ocean here. This is true everywhere, but here more than most.
Such concepts of road and of current flow together well.
Caution tape, like dams and signs against swimming afterhours, can only be so effective.
(there's more, don't worry. ha. editing and rediting.)
August 3, 2005
This is a song called falling asleep. If anyone asks, I wrote it for you. If anyone knows, they won’t say a word. But I know the truth about how we work, I know the ticking of our late night clocks.
This is for every shoulder stuck with sweat to someone’s cheek. This is for everyone who’s ever helped me sleep. There is nothing empty about this. It’s not like brutal honesty makes me less sincere.
I want to make you something beautiful, but I want to tie you up, not down. I want to tell you the truth and make you love it, but I like it more when the truth makes you laugh. I’m trying to commend myself for being innovative, instead of feeling cold. I’m trying not to feel shame just because I think I should. We just like to make people happy.
This is a song called laughing out loud, dedicated to every time everything bad was funny, and everything good was too.
fuck. my internets are broken. not for too long, I hope. but yeah, it's not like there was a lot of updating anyway, but still. maybe fixing it will motivate me to actually type all the crazy handwritten adventures of the past week or so.
since my ethereal written presence won't be (as) available (as usual), if you need me: call 839 1769 or IM a busy sea, since that goes to my phone.
The hallucinogenic drought is over, and I have lost my mind.
I've become the official stenographer of all my alcoholic friends, and have taken to writing strange rants on long walks. Transcripts to come soon.
I love Long Island in summer. As soon as fall hits, I'm gettin' the hell outta dodge.