LINKS
I want to lie and say that I'll be alright, that I don't remember everything. That I'm not so lost without you.
****
Eight days until you return. Heavy plastic sits untouched pushed back against the wall greeting me each day, balance misunderstood.
****
I want to capture everything. I think in thickened paint. You study me, eyes glinting with light overhead. It is easier to describe things that are not so familiar, things that have no emotional attachment to them.
****
My head is tired. I think about sleeping until 8, 9. I think about this skirt and how you hate it. I think about wearing it every day for a year. It reminds me of fireworks.
****
It gets harder to distinguish between new and old. The carbon copies become more realistic daily.
****
I like sitting outside of a used record store and looking at the fliers for upcoming shows, smelling people as they pass. I like staring, observing. It's hard to differentiate between the two. I like the old men the best, with their gated stroll. It reminds me of old westerns. There are black splotches on the sidewalk. I imagine the owners of the now hardened gum and how many people got gum on their shoes, how many realized, and their reactions.
I like to look at children and wonder who knocked who up, are they still together, or were they ever together?
****
I wonder how many women have been in love with him and how many he's loved?
****
They wear their socks high, pulled up, not folded. I think about dying my hair some absurd color of pink but instead I leave it with a dab of anti frizz lotion. It resembles paste with the consistency of lotion.
****
"Now you're gone, I wonder why you left me here, I think about it on and on and on and on again, I know you're never coming back I hope you can hear me I'm waiting to hear from you, until you're here you've gone away, I'm left alone, a part of me is gone and I'm not moving on so wait for me, I know the day will come, I'll meet you there, and even if I need you here, I'll meet you there, I wish I could have told you the things I kept inside and now I guess it's just too late. So many things remind me of you, I hope you can hear me, I miss you, this is goodbye, one last time you're gone away I'm left alone, a part of me is gone and I'm not moving on so wait for me, I know the day will come I'll meet you there no matter where life takes me to, I'll meet you there, and even if I need you here, I'll meet you there...and where I go you'll be there with me, forever you'll be right here with me"
****
I still think of him daily, contemplating his whereabouts, his moods. I dream frequently, encompassing daily events, happenings, wishes. I dream of becoming Amelie. I dream of Woody Guthrie, of his face, his hands, his eyelids - mainly because it's all I know - all I remember. I can no longer place his smile. It occurred most often when he was drunk, spreading silently across his face. I curse myself for not remembering. I tried to place it all. It slipped from me like bars of soap so often do in bathtubs or showers, marking a faint scumtrail along the shower curtain.
****
She is on her fifth cigarette, inhaling slowly.
****
Everyone here tries to be angry, dark, mysterious, intellectual and poor. They come from suburban middle class families. They continue to pretend, try to make it their reality. It slowly eats at them, this lie.
I continue small smiles, trying to be less maintenance. Eating less, cutting back. I am down to a bottle of Redkin, a tube of concealer, mascara, deodorant, shoes, bra, underwear, shirt, skirt. I have whittled down my needs. Perhaps it is easier to love someone if they are not needy or demanding. Maybe that is where I went wrong. I try to correct it even though it's too late to go back.
****
Scribbles. That's really all writing is - scribbles, hieroglyphs.
****
My eyes remain open though I become weary. I am conscious still. Abrupt, sometimes spontaneous.
The sidewalk is swimming with bodies. I think to myself that it would be nice to have a pill, a capsule to take to escape all the bullshit.
****
Ok you win, I am broken now. Is this not what you wanted? You will say it is not, but if it is not, what did you want? You are gone now. I am barreling down blacktop, lines wavering, blurred by tears, the speedometer steadily climbing. They say it goes faster than the painted on white numerals. It's a mixture of sweat, sand, blood, and the smell of sex. It is too silent in this room and everything reminds me. Unopened oatmeal sits untouched on the stereo, maroon tie hanging like a noose on the blue coat rack. The paint is chipping, half moon indentations on my palms, one more bracelet added to the growing calvery on my right arm. I scream, vocal cords stretched, spinning together the lies. I reach out, grab at the air, holding onto these invisible lines that bind us. Windows are streaked, unconvincing as the smiles I practice in the mirror. The tears come freely in the darkness, illuminated only by the soft glow of the nightstand lamp. Fingers brush the glass, press against it, proving nothing. I am on the outside, unable to break in, unable to crawl out. The soap dries in streaks, bubbling into silver dirt stained tears.
****
I call myself a writer, the word on the outside of my lips, unconnected.
****
The more catcalls, the more looks, the faster I sink. The attention doesn't matter and I'm the only one who can see that all this doesn't matter. I feel so trapped. I average about five pages a day lately but I can't get any work done. It's all in my head, every word, experience, but somehow I need something or perhaps someone to push me past this roadblock.
****
I don't watch you anymore, not that my interests have turned elsewhere. There's just no good place to hide.
****
Too many people take things literally.
I lost something that day, some shred of my soul, maybe bigger than I would like to admit. I keep saying I'm better off without you, trying to convince myself I no longer need you, that I never needed you for anything. You're making up excuses while I stand offshore. You wanted to be the jerk - wanted me to scream, yell, call you an asshole. I know I'm denying you of it; not purposely but because I know you are none of these things
****
she stares at me
eyes cold, hard
red hair glinting in the light of the street lamp
smiling confidant, as if she's won
in on some secret I will never understand
or care to know
she laughs
double chin shaking
****
This smoke is clouding my brain. I think I'll fast this weekend. No real reason, but what else is there to do? Everything seems so set up, so ordinary. I am waiting for some catastrophe, some monumental event to define life.
****
She sits, edge of the bench, 9:02, curling her legs under her body while taking another drag from her cigarette. She looks over, slowly, and I stare back. Her eyes are hardened, glaring. Pen meets paper; I glance down at the paper, back to her. Her eyes are still on me and eventually she gets up, walks past me, limping a bit, her right foot lagging behind the left. Within thirty minutes she is back, fingering the splintering wood.
****
I'm lining up the pills, small, round, on the counter, trying to attempt a trick I once saw a magician do. I am my only audience. Cover up the last pill with my finger; switch it with the third from the left. I count them up to thirty three, sweep them back into the small pill bottle, shake them, swallow, think of the chemicals I am releasing in my body, wash it down with some leftover tequila, head back to bed. I have short sheeted myself, but I am too tired to care. My steps are deliberate. I balance on the asphalt line, fingering the caulk with my eyes, studying my hands along the rough brick wall.
****
I wish you had left me as a one-night stand. I would have never loved you back. I would not have studied you, would not have remembered the scar on your chin, long fingers, strong arms. I don't stalk you; I don't even attempt to find you. If I looked I'm sure I could, knowing all the places you frequent. It takes some time to get over you. I keep telling myself that I'm doing better on my own, that I shouldn't have to be worrying about if I'm good enough, that you're over this, were over this before it started.
****
Today I woke up at 9 in the morning after going to bed at three. I was planning on getting up at 10, had even set my alarm to ten but somehow I got up at 9 anyway. I went back to sleep after listening to Madonna gave me a headache and woke up again two or so hours later when I said to myself that I would only sleep for one. When I looked in the mirror I realized that my hair looks like I slept on it and also realized that what little mascara I had applied had worn off on the bedspread, but it's not the bedspread that matters because it's dark blue and black won't show up - instead it's the fact that I care. I woke up with a bad taste in my mouth and ate a chocolate to correct it. Then I put up an away message on AOL instant messenger because everyone else was gone. I have been talking to myself all day today. Not out loud, but in my head, which is perhaps worse. I talk like I would write, as if there's some mental typewriter, typing everything I think out. It's at these times I wonder if writing really controls my life, and if I the writer am in control or if it's the words who are the dictators.
****
I don't know why I refrain from dating these entries. Someone stumbling upon them could be very confused because I tend to mix reality with fiction. I have been relatively happy lately without any reason. The chocolate by this point has gone bitter in my mouth and I realize that there is no way a person (or even myself) could separate the entries out into days because I just add a line wherever I want, wherever seems fit. Sometimes I wonder if I even have a reason for adding a line, and judging from some of the past entries, I don't always have reasons.
****
Speaking of raw, I finally saw Fast Sofa. It was a dizzying compilation of scenes that remained unlinked for the entirety of the movie. I don't know what the director was thinking. I saw it mainly because Crispin Glover was in it, and although it did get horrible reviews, I thought it might be worth it. The majority of the film deals with Rick’s (Jake Busey) addiction with porn stars and sex, which interested me for about the first twenty minutes, but then it simply became tedious to watch. The plot is neither funny nor intellectually stimulating (just watching some of the heinous acts that the characters partake in might lower one’s IQ at least 10 points). The ending is the only worthwhile part in the movie (unless you happen to be masturbating), mainly because Glover's character, Jules, gets more screen time. Glover's performance is probably the best performance in the movie (which isn’t saying much). A lot of the brilliance lies within Glover's character; an eccentric bird lover who has no friends or sex life until he befriends Rick for a spur of the moment road trip. Glover manages to breathe life into his character and in doing so brings a hint of life to the film - if the sketchy plot and array of loosely strung together porn scenes can even be called a film. My advice? Skip this movie, rent a porno instead (it would probably include a more developed main character). If compelled to rent Fast Sofa, do yourself a favor and fastforward to Glover's scenes.
****
my legs are finally smooth
lathered my hair up in the shower
still avoid that strawberry shampoo I am saving for you
but my legs are smooth
though you aren't here to feel them
****
In the back of your car
I felt too sick to move
so you didn't move me
but got a thick blanket
and tried to convince me it was alright to vomit
In the morning
when I didn't remember much of anything
you said I had nice legs
while searching for your pants
****
after my stomach had worked itself into knots
and the typewriter keys rusted out
I sat on the front stoop in the rain
watching the cars
every time a butterscotch one passed
I'd have to catch my breath
and slow down my heart
Eventually I get tired
of searching these streets
of walking the same route over again
trying to make sense of the words
I think about writing a letter
and enclosing some of the glittering glass
that was littered on tenth and elm
after a near fatal collision
but I decide it would be
far too ironic
****
you accuse me
of trying to run the world
it still sticks with me
(you were probably too drunk to remember)
the night you leaned over with a hint of beam on your breath
(that I know you'd deny if I brought up)
and asked if I knew who was your number one girl
I skitted around the question
naming off random people
until we'd pulled into the drive
and you whispered it was me
****
I don't understand
why we have our air conditioner set on 80
and last year
when I turned it down to 75 it was a big deal
because it was set on 78
but now when it's a crime
I turn it down to 78
And I don't understand
why I always end up turning to a show
I actually want to watch
but I've already seen the episode
because they play the same ones over
I don't understand
why I have to keep hiding myself away
but I guess
I do it to myself
most of all
I wish it wasn't so hot
****
I was going to make a poem
where I listed of all the things
I couldn't tell you
but then I realized I can't do that
then the poem would be void
so I keep it all inside
and hate myself for it
****
I knew you once
and relied on your hands
kneading me
rough words and feet
battering the concrete
There will be others
with the same intentions
some with no intentions at all
They look at me
eyes hungry, readily devouring
everything I am
I watch them
painted faces
glinting sweat on their brows
When it is not enough
molding bread into balls
I choose instead to think back
over lightning bugs, dreams,
and the reoccurrence of you
At times I wonder
if I ought to send you
the packets of oatmeal
probably past the expiration date
and the tie still smelling of you
(stale smoke and Jim Beam)
that is too long for me
I think to myself that when I die,
the strawberry shampoo is yours
"That's an nice thought," you said
voice coarse, sarcastic undertone
And I nodded
letting the silence bite
****
The oaks turn over
shy white underbellies glinting in the sun
on the horizon clouds gather
billowing hot air balloons
****
the only night you were not drunk
you held me in your arms
because you knew I wanted you to
we didn't speak
your eyes hard
illuminated by the light of the television
shadows danced across your face
I went and lay down on your bed
for the first time
and wrapped the blanket around me
contemplating taking off all my clothes
and waiting for you
instead I sank into the mattress
until you came in holding a cup of water
I got up and walked to the bathroom
and you called after me
something about not tripping
because long dresses make you nervous
I stared at myself in the mirror
and pushed the ringlets of hair away from my eyes
washed my hands
and stumbled back into your room
I climbed over you
because it seemed like too much effort
to go around
I lay there for a few minutes
before your arms found me
in the dark
****
(The Things I Remember)
you kept denying you smell
like beer and stale cigarettes
like it was a bad thing
to have a smell
and you would bury your face
in my hair
when you thought I wasn't looking
sometimes I would wake up
with your fingers in my hair
and pretend to be asleep
we always kissed in the dark
and rarely talked
when your hands were on me
it was better that way
to not worry about conversation
when there was nothing to discuss
you loaned me your shirt once
checkered
when it was cold outside
but I took it off before we reached Addison's
my clothes always smelled of you
for several days
and I would try to smell my own scent
to see if you smelled like me
but all I could make out was Beam
your hair stayed greasy for three days
after plastering your head with pomade
to help out your look
although you looked better without it
you read my poems and thoughts
laughed
and asked if you smelled
like Jim Beam tonight
I lied
and said no
****
I used to go outside
lay on the trampoline in the backyard
find my eyes wandering to the clouds
find my hands wandering to the black mat
and my mind wandering to you
so I'd light the cigarette
tucked behind my ear
and concentrate on the smoke
filling me up
and hear you inside
arguing with Colin over music
****
someday I think I'm going to write a book
and fill it with everything I know about you
I'll send it to you
wrapped in a brown paper bag
because anything else would be too elaborate
****
Keep thinking about how I should go out; get away from here for a little while. Typewriter is not working. I got about four pages in, none of them worth anything. It's a good typewriter - Smith Corona. Ivory keys, black snaking cord that winds itself around the gray base. The L is halfway worn off - as if that was the key that was used the most. Maybe it is the key that is used the most because it's worn off on the keyboard as well.
My mother calls it the typewriter graveyard. It's calming to me - serene - to have them peering out beneath the bedsheets. She never says it directly, but from the tone in her voice I know she wants me to throw them out. Sometimes I take them out, run my fingers across the keys and type out invisible words on paper because there's no ink. It's doubtful that there will ever be ink. Most of the models are outdated and the ink is no longer made. I'm content with pounding out invisible words.
****
Downtown with an unlit cigarette perched loosely between my lips I wish only to be alone. The silence is welcomed. The air too often seems cluttered with words that mean nothing. "What an uncomfortable silence." Discussing silence takes away from the beauty so I sit very still, eyes studying the beading on the wall. It seems when I want something I cannot achieve it, yet when I don’t want something - when I go out of my way to avoid it - it inevitably happens. I sit flicking the lighter, transfixed on the flame. Five minutes pass when I stand up. I gather up my notepad, pen, purse, lighter. Men seem wrapped up in the physical because again he reaches out to take my hand and again I pull it away. I begin to think of it as some conditioned response. The more I don't want the conversation, the more I resist, the more he will talk.
****
There is a red indentation cut - molded - into my wrist cutting off the circulation and I keep thinking back to the days when I molded bread into tiny spheres.
****
Once you go forward you can never return. Once you gain knowledge you can never lose it. The dreams get shattered early on - Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny. They continue on - the disappointment of a first kiss, the realization that fairy tales do not exist in modern society, and knowing that the person you were will never return. Knowledge may be power, but power can mean corruption.
****
It has passed the point of thought. I have passed the hour of productivity. Now the night weighs on me.
****
I realized to get better I had to go on without you. Sometimes letting go is the hardest thing to do.
****
When I sit down and think, I have intense emotions that seem to coarse through my body. Time can be spent so many ways in this world and too often I am scared of that exact thing - of wasting time, whether it be my own time or someone else’s.
Nothing in this world is really set in stone. The laws of gravity may apply, but who can determine for how long? No one can be sure they will wake up in the morning. At times I find it pointless to plan things out. At one in the morning - at three in the afternoon, who is really sure of anything at all? Humans tend to underestimate far too often. Nature is incredibly powerful - human will is very powerful. Our society too often likes to set up boxes. Science does the same thing - classifies things by identifying patterns.
Everyone seems to be caught up in the idea of sex when all I want is a good person to talk to. Kissing should not make up the majority of a relationship. Perhaps I have not found what they labeled "the right" and maybe I never will find him (or her, I am not about limiting my possibilities) but one would think there would be some system to finding someone. There are systems for everything - not that most work, but at least they exist. At least people believe in them. People talk of different so-called "miracle diets" all the time, but no one (or no one I have heard) has discussed ways to find someone.
How would I go about finding someone that is shy, doesn't frequent clubs, and is not involved in activities? The advice I have heard quoted most often is "get involved." But it would be pointless to get involved when the people I want to meet are not involved people. Probably described as "introverts," they spend most of their time contemplating the world and writing. That may not sound appealing to the majority of the world, which would explain why the majority of the world and I don't get along very well. We tolerate each other; act civil towards one another, but the gossip starts when I turn my back. I am not searching to belong - rather for a place where being an outcast is all right or at least tolerated.
I thought for a long time I could find this sort of community or person downtown, but have since discovered most of the people who frequent downtown are either drunks who believe in God and forcefully try to convince people to convert by simply repeating the same five words over and over again, or people who tend to be outgoing and cling together in groups. There are different groups - the girls in miniskirts and tight low cut shirts and men in polos and jeans, who often are seen barhopping or at clubs, and there are the street people, the older crowd, and the emo kids. At first glance the emo kids seem to be a surefire bet at success. Unfortunately, you soon realize that their group is not only impossible to break into (with a strict dress/appearance code) but that you don't want to be a part of any group at all.
****
The breakfast consists of stale cereal, overdone eggs and greasy bacon. Ivy sighs, laying down the morning paper in the middle of a puddle of sour milk. The paper's edges are soon soaked and she leaves the table behind, walking across the slick linoleum barefooted. She reaches the bathroom and half squats on the floor, inhaling a mixture of shit molecules and acidic piss and the day begins slowly. She disrobes, sliding out of her moth eaten terrycloth robe. The water splashes out of the bathtub, dripping from her pruning feet.
No one comes over, and she's waiting by the phone patiently, expecting it, willing it, to ring at any second. Minutes pass and she's dosing away the day, her face cradled in the palm of her unwashed hand, dirt encrusting her fingernails from digging up geraniums. Her left hand is clean, the fingernails chewed down to nubs. She turns the page in her book with her right hand while in the bath, letting her left hand dangle in the water; it's been this way for longer than she can remember. At quarter to five the phone rings shrilly - unexpectedly. She is forced from her deep slumber and gropes with her left hand for the phone. She answers in a groggy voice. "Where have you been? I thought we were meeting at the ninth street market at two?" He doesn't sound mad and she can hear him grinning across the phone wires. "We are." She answers him and he can tell she is still half-asleep and barely comprehending. It's amazing what one can know about a person when you've known them for what seems like an eternity. He's used to her missed appointments and important dates escaping her. "It's twenty till' five." He constructs his sentences simply, but it's not for her. He is a man of what his father used to call "few words" but it doesn't bother him in the slightest. She sits up, rubbing at her eye with her right hand, smearing dirt across her face. She has what her mother has always referred to as "perfect skin" but when she looks in the mirror all she can see is sunken in eyes. "I'm sorry," she says unconvincingly. There's a pause, a brief silence almost as if the phone wire has been severed. "I have to go," she says, her eyes beginning to close, not at her will. There's a click at the other end of the phone line as he hangs up the receiver. She curls up into the fetus position.
They don't talk for two days. They meet coincidentally on the corner of tenth and Broadway. He's on his way to work and she's wandering alone. He tips his head to one side, just barely noticeable. He's imagining her naked. She stares unblinkingly at his face. His caramel colored eyes are lowered and she can tell he's trying to look through her shirt with some superpower that doesn't and never will exist.
****
I approached without thinking he was there at all. Walking down the deserted streets I thought to myself that he had not awoken in time, that i would wait for fifteen minutes and if he had not shown up in that amount of time, I would leave. I didn't have to wait. He was sheltered from view in the alleyway but stepped out before I had reason enough to be scared. Finding a place to go, we sat on the hard cement and talked in hushed tones. I picked at the rocks that had dropped off tires now littering the ground. As the reality of time weighed down I found my eyes getting heavy and stretched out on the hard concrete. I lay on my side, cement cutting into me while we waited for the sun. He began inching towards me, unnoticeably so at first. He wrapped his arms around me, claiming he was cold and that I was beautiful, which I continually denied through the early morning hours. Letting out quiet moans of undecipherable languages he pressed against me, and I could feel his hard dick through the thin material of my skirt straining against my flesh. Sex seems like a chore to deal with, to subject myself to. I lie there motionless, staring off onto the horizon line while he grinds himself against me. Humanity is something I will never get used to. Too often I feel as thought I am not among the living. I do want to go back - back to his arms, back to hopes, dreams, lies that were not lies at the time because I had no knowledge that they were, and back to innocence that has long since been forgotten.
****
For some reason I thought college would be different. That it would somehow exclude all the things that high school came to mean for me. That somehow, miraculously, I would gain new contacts and that everyone I met would have some depth. This is what I have come to realize is not the case. There are still the people who I do not know, but have dubbed as more interesting than me and there are the people who do talk to me, who I don't have any interest in knowing. So I take my book with me to lunch and will probably take it with me to dinner just to avoid sitting all alone... just to provide some sort of solace.
****
It is Saturday. 8:28. The clock's second hand drags lazily. 8:40 and time is still creeping by. She subs her toe against the doorframe. "Fuck," she mutters under her breath. She stumbles into the bathroom and stands bare assed in front of the mirror. Her hipbones stick out a bit as she hunches over the sink. Her hands grip the sides of the ceramic bowl. She begins to run cold water in the sink, raising a handful of the stuff to her ruddy face. The water trickles down her chest. She reaches up, running a few thin fingers through her dulling hair. 8:47. Her face is pressed against the cold linoleum. Her puffy eyes are closed slightly and through the tiny slits she is tracing the lines etched on the floor. It is cold outside, a frozen wasteland. Even the mud is frozen. Yesterday it was warmer and turned the cinder-snow into asphalt slushies. Now it's pre-thawed leftovers that line the streets.
12:50 and here has been no change in position. He tiptoes around her carefully - always careful. She is still lying facedown on the floor and he is wondering if he ought to move her. She's been like this for weeks - sluggish, cold. He figures it's just the weather - hopes it's just the weather.
3:19 Sunday. He stands over her, shaking. The crack in the window is letting in a steady stream of icy air. She is cold to his touch, limbs stiff. He shakes her.
****
Standing in front of the mirror she runs her fingers over her hair, studying her nakedness. His words run through her mind - one liners subject to the utmost scrutiny. Her teeth seem to be yellowing, undereyes sagging, skin becoming sallow. It is not a concious mutilation. The razorblade wanders along skin with no direction. The phone rings at 4:28. The voice on the other end is muffled, farther away than expected. He sounds worried despite her countless attempts to satisfy his need for knowledge.
Feet hit the pavement, blacktop indentations digging deeper into the pale pink sandals. She arrives breathless, makeup smeared, hair flying, eyes dialated. He's sitting calmly in the red booth, chewing on warm pizza.
After she has let go, divulged her secrets, come to terms with her lies, he forces her to eat. The tangy pinapple erodes her gums. They walk slowly to the white miada.
Interruptions in her mind, she climbs the concrete steps slowly. Her sight is blurring together half-hearted images. Details become predominant, at the forefront of her existance.
She can hear him in the early morning. The phone rings twice in short rings. He doesn't suspect she is awake - perhaps the notion has not entered his mind. There is a one sided argument until it escalates to the point where the shrill voice can be heard clearly. The actual words are unclear, but the topic of conversation is clear. When she is sure his eyes are averted she opens her eyes. His hair is down, longer than she has ever noticed it to be.
She walks back, taking her time. She doesn't look at him for the last time purposely. Instead she sneaks out almost unnoticed and sketches out a picture he will never view.
****
....Apparently there is no room so this will have to continue on the 8th thought page. My apologies for telling you that there was nothing on the 8th thought page... there is now...so proceed.. if you wish to.