I'm a fucking snot nosed kid, with a shitty disposition. On most counts, I ignore my digits and summaries. I'd rather be surprised, when the time is right. I know that shocking isn't considered a good description for entertainment, but I have always entertained. If in secret, if in silent... If without acknowledgment, I have always entertained.
I haven't always been so intelligent, sometimes sitting in the cold for an hour or more. Feeling the snot dripping down my upper lip, I'm too light-skinned to avoid this being obvious. And I work my way towards the inside, where it's warm. And in the meantime I used this piece of antiquity property as an ashtray, I hope that doesn't effect it's value too much. Last night in my dream, I painted a portrait of the face I'd only dreamed of before. Yet last night, I couldn't really see his face. I only had the memory of having seeing his face, and so I painted a blur to me, perfect to the other dream eyes. And for all of this, I apologize to whoever's nameless face I stilled in time.
12.29.2010
the taste of mentholated cigarettes in addition to the taste of mucus always reminds me distinctly of the period of time when my mother passed away. And the dim lighting, leaking all around the softly positioned bodies in my room. Some brought me coffee, some brought me ice cream, they all brought me more comfort that I could possibly describe in my state of shock, though I kept mostly silent. Smoking my menthols, because my body ached with such a nasty cold.. And I only smoke menthol's when I'm sick.
Something about the particles of the mentholated variety and how they help hold mucus in place, which is bad. But feels better than coughing it up on every draw.
Something about the particles of the mentholated variety and how they help hold mucus in place, which is bad. But feels better than coughing it up on every draw.
12.28.2010
I might not have a dystrophy.
But there's no doubt that my lower limbs are still FUCKED THE FUCK UP.
As cold forty-something fingers where where messaging my upper breast, I began to feel very frustrated again. Not a good frustration, at all. I was thinking about how hard it is to listen to songs about longing for love when all you long for is to feel a little better than the day before; and sometimes gaining that much progress is far more a shot in the dark than finding love.
It's all a rarity.
But there's no doubt that my lower limbs are still FUCKED THE FUCK UP.
As cold forty-something fingers where where messaging my upper breast, I began to feel very frustrated again. Not a good frustration, at all. I was thinking about how hard it is to listen to songs about longing for love when all you long for is to feel a little better than the day before; and sometimes gaining that much progress is far more a shot in the dark than finding love.
It's all a rarity.
12.25.2010
xXxmas
It's taken a lot of patience and nicotine gum, but I have to say it's been a decent christmas. That still doesn't alter the fact that my left calf is throbbing with an annoying sort of twitching pain, and also so full of fluid that it's almost twice the size of my other leg. It almost feels as if I'm wearing desensitized, weighted socks as I gently lift my knee, keeping my held up for support - and try somewhat hopelessly to walk from one area to another. I could probably race a turtle and lose hopelessly at the moment, and I wish I weren't serious. Moving is almost an unbearable sin to myself.
I guess if you consider it wholly and truly, you somewhat have to see why I feel like I'm not capable of accomplishing much. Still, I aimlessly wander through the possibilities, hoping that the trivial things I've grown to love will someday inspire a faithful decision. Hoping that the trivial things I've grown to love won't become a regretted waste of time; like my first relationship. Reading all four of the twilight books in high school, actually paying money to see the first movie. Like arguing when you know you're wrong, because it hurts too much to admit you couldn't possibly be right.
My dad is seriously watching that tripple x movie. Samuel L's face looks like a make-up artist was trying to make him look burned or something, but instead accidentally took a shit on his face. The movie itself is making me wonder how hard it would be to intentionally have a five o'clock shadow continuously.
I guess if you consider it wholly and truly, you somewhat have to see why I feel like I'm not capable of accomplishing much. Still, I aimlessly wander through the possibilities, hoping that the trivial things I've grown to love will someday inspire a faithful decision. Hoping that the trivial things I've grown to love won't become a regretted waste of time; like my first relationship. Reading all four of the twilight books in high school, actually paying money to see the first movie. Like arguing when you know you're wrong, because it hurts too much to admit you couldn't possibly be right.
My dad is seriously watching that tripple x movie. Samuel L's face looks like a make-up artist was trying to make him look burned or something, but instead accidentally took a shit on his face. The movie itself is making me wonder how hard it would be to intentionally have a five o'clock shadow continuously.
12.24.2010
Even though I managed to get to a good level of stunken drunkery last night, I wasn't able to get any sort of nice, restful sleep. Today is the 24th, not only am I generally sore... But I have the hangover sort of ache starting at the very tips of my toes, and moving upward through every gene on my pasty, white body. Bruce and I, excitedly waiting for Tyler Brown well into the night took shots of vodka and messaged each-other's shoulders with our elbows. When it became clear it was four in the morning and Tyler wasn't showing up, I drunkenly stumbled into the floor... Knocking my 32. Ounce of bud light over, and it's now stained an almost comically-drawn dinosaur shape in front of the trunk we use as a coffee table.
I can feel a burning sensation on my left breast, and I just recalled that I did actually drop a cigarette down both my hoodie AND my tshirt last night, resulting in small pink burn-marks starting from the base of the neck, down onto my actual tit. Sight.
I have quite a bit to do today before I spend any sort of time with my grandpa/family. I wish I hadn't been so aggressive towards my father for having woken me up this morning, seeing as I initially asked him to. I'm sure he understands that I haven't quite grown out of my routine of anger after being woken up from adolescence. However, there's never quite enough coffee. There just really, never is.
I can feel a burning sensation on my left breast, and I just recalled that I did actually drop a cigarette down both my hoodie AND my tshirt last night, resulting in small pink burn-marks starting from the base of the neck, down onto my actual tit. Sight.
I have quite a bit to do today before I spend any sort of time with my grandpa/family. I wish I hadn't been so aggressive towards my father for having woken me up this morning, seeing as I initially asked him to. I'm sure he understands that I haven't quite grown out of my routine of anger after being woken up from adolescence. However, there's never quite enough coffee. There just really, never is.
12.23.2010
12.22.2010
I went through my mom's baby book today. A seven-year college attendant, notorious party animal, dedicated house wife... Her life, I wish I knew it more clearly than I do now. All I have to go by are finely-aged film-taken photographs, now decades or more old. The stories I won't be told in comparison to the slight, vague versions she mentioned before... The difference in what I understand and what I don't understand is incredible.
It's hard for me to describe the strange fixation I know have on the progression of my mother's life. Without an ability to question her, I wonder how she tackled the uncomfortable uncertainty that often tainted the portrait of a future. Mostly what I do know, is that she was very happy. She was more pleased with her home and her family than she ever would have been with a college degree and a high-paying job. She never wanted things like terribly expensive cars, just sometimes nice... newish ones, the few we purchased were meant to last. She appreciated the usefulness of everything until it was no longer usable, she perfectly understood the unimportance of money. I remember being young on a car ride to school, and her softly trying to explain the absence of normality in life. I had always thought there was a border that made something normal, or not normal before then. And normal was of course how I saw the world. She felt it was important for me to understand that this ideal is physically nonexistent, and you know why? "You do what you have to do in life to get by, baby. Stay sweet."
If I could grow into her bones and become everything she was, I would. But this is of course... never an option. So I do what I have to do to get by, look at my photographs... remember the rough laugh.
It's hard for me to describe the strange fixation I know have on the progression of my mother's life. Without an ability to question her, I wonder how she tackled the uncomfortable uncertainty that often tainted the portrait of a future. Mostly what I do know, is that she was very happy. She was more pleased with her home and her family than she ever would have been with a college degree and a high-paying job. She never wanted things like terribly expensive cars, just sometimes nice... newish ones, the few we purchased were meant to last. She appreciated the usefulness of everything until it was no longer usable, she perfectly understood the unimportance of money. I remember being young on a car ride to school, and her softly trying to explain the absence of normality in life. I had always thought there was a border that made something normal, or not normal before then. And normal was of course how I saw the world. She felt it was important for me to understand that this ideal is physically nonexistent, and you know why? "You do what you have to do in life to get by, baby. Stay sweet."
If I could grow into her bones and become everything she was, I would. But this is of course... never an option. So I do what I have to do to get by, look at my photographs... remember the rough laugh.
12.20.2010
Isn't it strange the way old photographs can sort of make you feel vulnerable?
Like you were at this place at a certain time, and you were doing a certain thing, and somehow it was captured either in digital pixels or on film for viewing at a later time. Or, perhaps for viewing by someone who wasn't there, that someone wanted such moment to be shared with. And though this isn't a complicated concept, if you put thought into it, you're forever captured in a certain position, at a certain place in time. And there will forever be a certain look on your face, of anticipation or otherwise, that you can see. And feel the way your brain was absorbing material at the current time... the thoughts you had. The people you were with, and those who knew you at that particular time. Later in life, you might not speak to.... or even remember such people. But they will forever stay there, painted behind your face in a vivid, lifelike portrait.
A reminder of how something was, and isn't still. As long as the photograph exists, even in storage, far away from thought.
Like you were at this place at a certain time, and you were doing a certain thing, and somehow it was captured either in digital pixels or on film for viewing at a later time. Or, perhaps for viewing by someone who wasn't there, that someone wanted such moment to be shared with. And though this isn't a complicated concept, if you put thought into it, you're forever captured in a certain position, at a certain place in time. And there will forever be a certain look on your face, of anticipation or otherwise, that you can see. And feel the way your brain was absorbing material at the current time... the thoughts you had. The people you were with, and those who knew you at that particular time. Later in life, you might not speak to.... or even remember such people. But they will forever stay there, painted behind your face in a vivid, lifelike portrait.
A reminder of how something was, and isn't still. As long as the photograph exists, even in storage, far away from thought.
12.19.2010
as written in a letter to someone:
" ...and after I passed out completely fucking hammered on my pink unicorn pillow pet;
I woke up with THE WORST hangover t
So then, I collect myself and decide to do some shrooms for the first goddamn time in my whole life. Tripped before, but never on those bastards. And I kept gagging trying to eat them because a huge puss and they tasted like devil-turds rolled in vomit.
But it was the absolute worst timing in the whole world because my fucking SOUL was HUGGING THE UNIVERSE, and then
For the record, high is a codeword for in a good mood. Yeah, backwards code.
12.18.2010
Hungover, facing a toilet, it smells like chlorine as the water I'd just drank less than three minutes before started to flow out of my nose while my throat contracted in repetition pushing it back out of my stomach. Suddenly, I'm all of eight years old, my eyes closed and grunting while the water from my grandpa's pool stings the sensitive inside-skin of my nose. I'd jumped in without floaties for the first time, as I wasn't much of a swimmer, and without holding my nose I found my stomach suddenly full of pool water, thick with the stench of chemicals.
This morning, I woke up with the distinctive stomach ache typical of only two things: influenza or a hangover. I didn't have the flu, no. I was very, very hung over. Crawling onto my floor off of my bed, perched high above the ground, was much more of a task then I had anticipated. By the time I mad it to the bathroom floor, I was already glossy with the violent heat of my vomit reflexes, suffocatingly warm with a fan on me as my forehead collected beads of sweat. The smell of chlorine, the tasteless liquid crawling back up out of my esophagus. I guess I really felt just as helpless, childlike actions leading me to be reprimanded by force of nature. Yet the slurring, the stranger-hugs, the yelps of laughter, and the beer-stench... those are all things I wouldn't take back.
This morning, I woke up with the distinctive stomach ache typical of only two things: influenza or a hangover. I didn't have the flu, no. I was very, very hung over. Crawling onto my floor off of my bed, perched high above the ground, was much more of a task then I had anticipated. By the time I mad it to the bathroom floor, I was already glossy with the violent heat of my vomit reflexes, suffocatingly warm with a fan on me as my forehead collected beads of sweat. The smell of chlorine, the tasteless liquid crawling back up out of my esophagus. I guess I really felt just as helpless, childlike actions leading me to be reprimanded by force of nature. Yet the slurring, the stranger-hugs, the yelps of laughter, and the beer-stench... those are all things I wouldn't take back.
12.17.2010
As I watch her sleep, I wonder if she's dreaming at all. Or if the echoes of reflective conversations are slowly sorting through her mind, helping to ignore the vibrant chatter of speeders on television as they try to talk their way out of tickets. I can't ignore it, for some reason...
I don't mean to watch people as they sleep. I'm always so curious as to what their last fleeting thought was as they slipped under the influence of slumber. Often times, I try hard to recall the moment at which I let go and fell asleep, and I never can. This is frustrating to me, though sometimes I do notice as my thoughts discontinue to make sense. Pieces quit adding up, and sometimes I find myself asking myself what in hell I picturing, because it didn't make any form of sense. Then I realize that I'm not asleep, and that my curiosity had dragged me away from this possibility. So to keep my fingers away from cigarettes left in my bag, I press myself hard against the conversations we'd shared.
They say a good woman will pick you apart, and I wonder if a good women worries so much. If a good women wants what I want, if I met that criteria at all. Sometimes I find myself lost in a sea of my own quiet wishes, silent dilemmas... and I wonder what a good women would think of it all. I can pick apart the violent and the vibrant and the various faults. But I can't pick between the elements which test time and stretch boundaries. I can't pick the parts that grow together so tightly, forming a wall of reluctant guessing and aggressive sighs. I wonder if a good women knows what it feels like to be helpless, to be broken. To be drowning in self-pity as my body deteriorates, like the attitude itself is a sort of pure chemical, burning and breaking down the pieces until my eyes feel raw with nervousness.
I drop a box, and she doesn't stir. Awake for twenty hours or more, working hard, a steady stream of productivity I often see yet can't manage to slip into. I want to swim further into the world with this attitude, but creeping slow like a snail never makes you feel strong. She's able. She's resting. And I'm awake wondering why things aren't different. Last night I found the benefit of my body pressed against that of my lover's, the familiar torso. The better half, as I often like to joke. Much stronger, much less optimistic, somehow perfectly mixed in the thick air of heavy arms against my pale, bruise-able, breakable skin. And I feel like a perfectly ill porcelain doll, so gently held. Only sometimes am I strong enough for play, and even then I'm left with working against the constant possibility of soreness. Still these are the only moments in which I feel as if I am satisfying those primal needs of another, and I lack so often I disappoint myself. Blood pulsing through veins, much like test tubes occasionally being prodded for information before spilled into a vat of uncertain contents.
I'm a warm being, that's the most I can promise. Just a hammock braided from toilet paper; wound thickly enough to represent strength, yet falling apart as use continues. And even if it's ginger use, the wear still tears through the tedious fabric. And it's all a work for show, that never shows very well. Just bits of wood-pulp degrading in a giant tank of shit over a period of time which hopefully ends much shorter than intended.
I assume she's not dreaming of toilets, or hammocks, or sex with my boyfriend. These are all things I'm daydreaming of in the dead of night, at the ass-crack of dawn, after the first call of morning. As the hours stretch, my patience wears. Like an ass through a hammock made of toilet paper.
I don't mean to watch people as they sleep. I'm always so curious as to what their last fleeting thought was as they slipped under the influence of slumber. Often times, I try hard to recall the moment at which I let go and fell asleep, and I never can. This is frustrating to me, though sometimes I do notice as my thoughts discontinue to make sense. Pieces quit adding up, and sometimes I find myself asking myself what in hell I picturing, because it didn't make any form of sense. Then I realize that I'm not asleep, and that my curiosity had dragged me away from this possibility. So to keep my fingers away from cigarettes left in my bag, I press myself hard against the conversations we'd shared.
They say a good woman will pick you apart, and I wonder if a good women worries so much. If a good women wants what I want, if I met that criteria at all. Sometimes I find myself lost in a sea of my own quiet wishes, silent dilemmas... and I wonder what a good women would think of it all. I can pick apart the violent and the vibrant and the various faults. But I can't pick between the elements which test time and stretch boundaries. I can't pick the parts that grow together so tightly, forming a wall of reluctant guessing and aggressive sighs. I wonder if a good women knows what it feels like to be helpless, to be broken. To be drowning in self-pity as my body deteriorates, like the attitude itself is a sort of pure chemical, burning and breaking down the pieces until my eyes feel raw with nervousness.
I drop a box, and she doesn't stir. Awake for twenty hours or more, working hard, a steady stream of productivity I often see yet can't manage to slip into. I want to swim further into the world with this attitude, but creeping slow like a snail never makes you feel strong. She's able. She's resting. And I'm awake wondering why things aren't different. Last night I found the benefit of my body pressed against that of my lover's, the familiar torso. The better half, as I often like to joke. Much stronger, much less optimistic, somehow perfectly mixed in the thick air of heavy arms against my pale, bruise-able, breakable skin. And I feel like a perfectly ill porcelain doll, so gently held. Only sometimes am I strong enough for play, and even then I'm left with working against the constant possibility of soreness. Still these are the only moments in which I feel as if I am satisfying those primal needs of another, and I lack so often I disappoint myself. Blood pulsing through veins, much like test tubes occasionally being prodded for information before spilled into a vat of uncertain contents.
I'm a warm being, that's the most I can promise. Just a hammock braided from toilet paper; wound thickly enough to represent strength, yet falling apart as use continues. And even if it's ginger use, the wear still tears through the tedious fabric. And it's all a work for show, that never shows very well. Just bits of wood-pulp degrading in a giant tank of shit over a period of time which hopefully ends much shorter than intended.
I assume she's not dreaming of toilets, or hammocks, or sex with my boyfriend. These are all things I'm daydreaming of in the dead of night, at the ass-crack of dawn, after the first call of morning. As the hours stretch, my patience wears. Like an ass through a hammock made of toilet paper.
12.15.2010
Dance all night, go to work.
Weather makes you consider things differently, like the amount of food that sits in your kitchen. And whether or not a day without food might bother me, as it typically doesn't. Scanning the cabinets confirmed my worse fears this afternoon, and thirty minutes after dark settled over this sleepy town, I pulled my black boots over my feet and directed my buick to the grocery. It was either seniors or singles night, I can't tell which as there were so many elderly people cluttering the isles by their lonesome.
I had previously assumed everyone was as concerned about the weather as I was, yet I didn't seem to overhear any conversation about ice or snow.
Walking around a display of seven-up shaped like a tree, I happened to catch the shining familiar baldspot of a man that once tried to teach me fitness. His wife's plump, warm, glowing face poked gently out from underneath a turtleneck, covered in white woven snowflakes. The thick texture stretching over her hips in a way that would leave anyone shapeless, but still very presentable somehow. Her hair pulled up and tucked in the familiar early 1800's fashion she seemed to always favor while teaching. Her deep-rouge lipstick, the same color as always, asking timidly of my nature, and how it's settled.
The strangest things relate to my life from breakfast at tiffany's, when holly golightly discusses how she makes up weather reports. This is how I feel when someone I highly respect asks me about my life, and how it's going. The truth is boring, it's a disappointment. Currently not studying, having failed out, and trying desperately to pull together some sort of education for myself is how I have been lately. How I've been lately is drunk, and honest. I've said things I thought about, then decided against. Then remembered in a moment of stark intoxication, when there's clearly words clinging to my chest; and I let them go. Lately I've been high as hell, staring down at all the people in my life who push the positivity into my heart like I never thought I'd hold.
I told her how I've been going to school some, sprinkling in some truth by mentioning my roommates and how we interact with each other. It's not easy to explain that sometimes you have to let go of everything to gain something, and it can be even harder to explain the bittersweet collection of self-respect, deep understanding, and ability to accept regret. I haven't been at school. I haven't been taking care of myself.
I've been learning nonetheless though, learning how to avoid the spins and throwing up. Not drinking my six dollar sparkling wine too quickly. Keeping my hair off of me neck when I'm far too warm. It's shit they can't teach you, nomatter how often it's discussed. My fingers longing for tobacco, entangled, trying hard to avoid eye contact, I was thinking about bodies and how sometimes they just seem to fit together, like pots and pans in a cabinet. The curves that lay against other curves, sometimes hard like steal or iron. Sometimes soft like aluminum, movable. During a faux conversation, I learned how to pretend like I'm perfectly in order. So when I eat this meal and take these drugs, I'll still be that person in a faux-conversation in her mind. Resting well, the way people want to see you when they know you're hurt... or you've lost something. I'll rest like a pan against a larger pan, perfectly stable against the wood. And in real life, I'm always tumbling out into the floor. Reality sprawled over the course of a highly-imagined life, images roughly recollecting to make conversations seem real, even when there was merely an exchange of looks and no words.
Strangely, leaving the grocery, all I could think of were bodies and how they fit together. My sex-deprived brain oddly craving closeness, a person inside of me crawling out, awkwardly, timidly questioning the possibility of more. Will I push my muscles? Will I rely on my will to adapt to extreme pain? Will I get laid? Will I lay my lover? I might. Strange how being reminded of responsibilities I've tried hard to ignore seem to make me greatly crave the pleasure at hand I often am forced to ignore. Sometimes, I think it means I want more for myself that I'm allowing.
How have you been lately?
Weather makes you consider things differently, like the amount of food that sits in your kitchen. And whether or not a day without food might bother me, as it typically doesn't. Scanning the cabinets confirmed my worse fears this afternoon, and thirty minutes after dark settled over this sleepy town, I pulled my black boots over my feet and directed my buick to the grocery. It was either seniors or singles night, I can't tell which as there were so many elderly people cluttering the isles by their lonesome.
I had previously assumed everyone was as concerned about the weather as I was, yet I didn't seem to overhear any conversation about ice or snow.
Walking around a display of seven-up shaped like a tree, I happened to catch the shining familiar baldspot of a man that once tried to teach me fitness. His wife's plump, warm, glowing face poked gently out from underneath a turtleneck, covered in white woven snowflakes. The thick texture stretching over her hips in a way that would leave anyone shapeless, but still very presentable somehow. Her hair pulled up and tucked in the familiar early 1800's fashion she seemed to always favor while teaching. Her deep-rouge lipstick, the same color as always, asking timidly of my nature, and how it's settled.
The strangest things relate to my life from breakfast at tiffany's, when holly golightly discusses how she makes up weather reports. This is how I feel when someone I highly respect asks me about my life, and how it's going. The truth is boring, it's a disappointment. Currently not studying, having failed out, and trying desperately to pull together some sort of education for myself is how I have been lately. How I've been lately is drunk, and honest. I've said things I thought about, then decided against. Then remembered in a moment of stark intoxication, when there's clearly words clinging to my chest; and I let them go. Lately I've been high as hell, staring down at all the people in my life who push the positivity into my heart like I never thought I'd hold.
I told her how I've been going to school some, sprinkling in some truth by mentioning my roommates and how we interact with each other. It's not easy to explain that sometimes you have to let go of everything to gain something, and it can be even harder to explain the bittersweet collection of self-respect, deep understanding, and ability to accept regret. I haven't been at school. I haven't been taking care of myself.
I've been learning nonetheless though, learning how to avoid the spins and throwing up. Not drinking my six dollar sparkling wine too quickly. Keeping my hair off of me neck when I'm far too warm. It's shit they can't teach you, nomatter how often it's discussed. My fingers longing for tobacco, entangled, trying hard to avoid eye contact, I was thinking about bodies and how sometimes they just seem to fit together, like pots and pans in a cabinet. The curves that lay against other curves, sometimes hard like steal or iron. Sometimes soft like aluminum, movable. During a faux conversation, I learned how to pretend like I'm perfectly in order. So when I eat this meal and take these drugs, I'll still be that person in a faux-conversation in her mind. Resting well, the way people want to see you when they know you're hurt... or you've lost something. I'll rest like a pan against a larger pan, perfectly stable against the wood. And in real life, I'm always tumbling out into the floor. Reality sprawled over the course of a highly-imagined life, images roughly recollecting to make conversations seem real, even when there was merely an exchange of looks and no words.
Strangely, leaving the grocery, all I could think of were bodies and how they fit together. My sex-deprived brain oddly craving closeness, a person inside of me crawling out, awkwardly, timidly questioning the possibility of more. Will I push my muscles? Will I rely on my will to adapt to extreme pain? Will I get laid? Will I lay my lover? I might. Strange how being reminded of responsibilities I've tried hard to ignore seem to make me greatly crave the pleasure at hand I often am forced to ignore. Sometimes, I think it means I want more for myself that I'm allowing.
How have you been lately?
12.14.2010
I used to avoid mirrors. Instead of focusing on the movement of my eyeliner over the period of the day, I would focus on my nails. How long they grew, the pleasure of people constantly asking me to scratch their arms, and heads, and beards. The satisfaction of whipping a bad itch right out of existence in a matter of a millisecond.
However, over the period of the last year or so, my nails have slowly started to deteriorate. They peel off, not sometimes... but constantly, in weak layers. Hardly ever do I have nails that are longer than the edge of my tender nail bed, which is now often somewhat exposed, making the tips of my fingers slightly sore as I sit and type. Sometimes I sincerely miss the way my nails would grow, long and even and healthy. Opening cans easily, drunkenly scratching kevins beard until his eyes healed shut. I miss my ability to almost always be able to open anything, running the tips of my long nails along the packaging grooves until I could peel it open. Tedious things like this often frustrate me now; not simply because I no longer have the ability and advantage to grow beautiful, strong nails... but also because it's quite an accurate metaphor for the deterioration of my body over the same period of time.
I sort of wonder what comes next, and I sort of don't.
However, over the period of the last year or so, my nails have slowly started to deteriorate. They peel off, not sometimes... but constantly, in weak layers. Hardly ever do I have nails that are longer than the edge of my tender nail bed, which is now often somewhat exposed, making the tips of my fingers slightly sore as I sit and type. Sometimes I sincerely miss the way my nails would grow, long and even and healthy. Opening cans easily, drunkenly scratching kevins beard until his eyes healed shut. I miss my ability to almost always be able to open anything, running the tips of my long nails along the packaging grooves until I could peel it open. Tedious things like this often frustrate me now; not simply because I no longer have the ability and advantage to grow beautiful, strong nails... but also because it's quite an accurate metaphor for the deterioration of my body over the same period of time.
Canadian Lesbians
On my most recent trip into town, while quietly puffing a camel product, under the sound of the wheels pressing against frozen pavement and ice, I couldn't help but catch myself in the middle of a song-memory. You know, where the lyrics from something specific seem to tangle in my daydreaming and collect memories like dreamcatcher; hanging above my bed, long-ago purchased on vacation, made by the fingers of a typecasted native. So after sifting through a parking lot full of icy puddles, stepping out onto the sidewalk, my peripheral vision catches a short-haired woman holding the door open for an old man dressed what could have easily been dumpster clothes, grey hair falling past his shoulders.
I'm stunned at what I'm caught up in, the sensation of my lower-limbs misfiring signals to my brain, causing the indescribable discomfort from the waste-down, my muscles achingly working against their every will. And I wish I were sitting, confined to chair dawned with wheels and pushed my the arms of my most-trusted, yet I fight it. The atrophy is a trophy prevailing denial, and whatever it is that nature has cursed me with causing my face to permanently settle into a frown. The short-haired woman walked to her small car, the crunching of snow echoing in the stark quiet of winter. The old man wandered past, as I approached the door... I heard the words of another short haired woman somewhere in the world, whispering sentiments in past-memory. I'd stood when I could stand, and sat while I couldn't. I can remember shifting in the distinctly hard wooden pews of the Ryman and Tegan and Sara played songs I'd heard and understood, yet never guessed I'd see live.
And however this relates to a gas station, I'm not sure. But I know that the cold makes me remember the sensation of eyeing a cold beer in the hand of a gentleman, his arm resting around the slender shoulders of a dyed-red ginger, her glasses reflecting the hair from the woman seated in front of her. And all I could think of after contemplating the memory, was three nights ago, tanked under six shots of vodka, and I was thinking about these specific lyrics... And how you can't help but look at a person when you're intoxicated, and imagine what they're arms looked like when they were younger.
My arms, entangled years ago with the arms of another, both reaching past the air we nervously pushed in front of our faces in order to pretend we weren't scared. I felt you in my arms, I wrapped my arms around the promise of something warm to wake up to. Something aspiring to dream to, drunk of vodka isn't how I feel walking past the isles of dairy-based treats juice bottles. I probably am in need of vitamins, yet supplements and valiant effort have only proved worthless when the pain churns in my uncomfortably sore ass-muscles, and legs. My thighs so tight, and suddenly they relax when I'm envisioning a concert I attended months ago. And the words she sung, and the arms... Those arms, and how they felt so different, like the curve of my face after losing fifty pounds. Different, but distinct and similar.
I don't want a soda, I don't want a cigarette. I want to get in my car and drive home. Instead, I get in my car and drive nowhere. The album spinning lightening-fast while the worlds trickle through the thickened mesh of inaccurate recollection. My arms press hard against the steering wheel, cold like the leather seats I'd leaned against... sore from the standing, sore from the trying the day at hand. And his hands are warm, and larger than mine, they steadily plug the holes in the wall where my trust leaks through. He'd push me in that chair, he's my warmth in the morning. And the arms as they tangled, like cats in the morning when you're trying to get dressed playful, vicious, and careless. Watching the mayhem as they insist they're stronger with longer arms. Suddenly the song changes, and I recall the feeling of beer steepening my ability to hold my face up towards the light.
In those dark nights before, laying sober under the weight of impossible demands, I would focus on my fingers as they wrapped around one another tightly. "here's the church, here's the steeple.." I knotted my fingers together around the steering wheel and wondered idly how many people have wrapped their hands in such a manner and prayed for something. I'm wishing for myself that the ice continues to crunch without fight, that the phone will ring and someone will dawn laughter. I hear the sounds of canadian lesbians sharing their plight, I'm relating with the video-images of captivated jews resting against a rock in the heat of an Austrian day. I was thinking I was lucky, if I redefined luck. I was thinking I could think a lot more under six shots of vodka, but tonight I'll just rest my head against the will to stare my awkward curiosity directly in the face; I stare out my window as the lights flicker softly... and the people drive by. And the traffic always slows to a stop at night, I wonder where these folks are going. I wonder if it hurts their calves to sit in a driving position for more than ten minutes. I wonder what it feels like to wrapped against another without the pressure of one's leg being far too overbearing for me to handle.
My eyelashes stuck together, I had shed a tear or two in retrospect. And I don't regret it, though my face shows my emotion like a zombie. Not hungry for brains, nor attention or conversation, my car stays in motion until my driveway is quiet and my car sits still, I'm not going to nashville tonight. And I won't hear those songs again, until the mood strikes hard with a fist of disappointment, pressed hard against my chest. When drunk, the lyrics make me consider the width of the arms once wrapped differently, differently proportioned. And settled and shifted in memory.
I'm stunned at what I'm caught up in, the sensation of my lower-limbs misfiring signals to my brain, causing the indescribable discomfort from the waste-down, my muscles achingly working against their every will. And I wish I were sitting, confined to chair dawned with wheels and pushed my the arms of my most-trusted, yet I fight it. The atrophy is a trophy prevailing denial, and whatever it is that nature has cursed me with causing my face to permanently settle into a frown. The short-haired woman walked to her small car, the crunching of snow echoing in the stark quiet of winter. The old man wandered past, as I approached the door... I heard the words of another short haired woman somewhere in the world, whispering sentiments in past-memory. I'd stood when I could stand, and sat while I couldn't. I can remember shifting in the distinctly hard wooden pews of the Ryman and Tegan and Sara played songs I'd heard and understood, yet never guessed I'd see live.
And however this relates to a gas station, I'm not sure. But I know that the cold makes me remember the sensation of eyeing a cold beer in the hand of a gentleman, his arm resting around the slender shoulders of a dyed-red ginger, her glasses reflecting the hair from the woman seated in front of her. And all I could think of after contemplating the memory, was three nights ago, tanked under six shots of vodka, and I was thinking about these specific lyrics... And how you can't help but look at a person when you're intoxicated, and imagine what they're arms looked like when they were younger.
My arms, entangled years ago with the arms of another, both reaching past the air we nervously pushed in front of our faces in order to pretend we weren't scared. I felt you in my arms, I wrapped my arms around the promise of something warm to wake up to. Something aspiring to dream to, drunk of vodka isn't how I feel walking past the isles of dairy-based treats juice bottles. I probably am in need of vitamins, yet supplements and valiant effort have only proved worthless when the pain churns in my uncomfortably sore ass-muscles, and legs. My thighs so tight, and suddenly they relax when I'm envisioning a concert I attended months ago. And the words she sung, and the arms... Those arms, and how they felt so different, like the curve of my face after losing fifty pounds. Different, but distinct and similar.
I don't want a soda, I don't want a cigarette. I want to get in my car and drive home. Instead, I get in my car and drive nowhere. The album spinning lightening-fast while the worlds trickle through the thickened mesh of inaccurate recollection. My arms press hard against the steering wheel, cold like the leather seats I'd leaned against... sore from the standing, sore from the trying the day at hand. And his hands are warm, and larger than mine, they steadily plug the holes in the wall where my trust leaks through. He'd push me in that chair, he's my warmth in the morning. And the arms as they tangled, like cats in the morning when you're trying to get dressed playful, vicious, and careless. Watching the mayhem as they insist they're stronger with longer arms. Suddenly the song changes, and I recall the feeling of beer steepening my ability to hold my face up towards the light.
In those dark nights before, laying sober under the weight of impossible demands, I would focus on my fingers as they wrapped around one another tightly. "here's the church, here's the steeple.." I knotted my fingers together around the steering wheel and wondered idly how many people have wrapped their hands in such a manner and prayed for something. I'm wishing for myself that the ice continues to crunch without fight, that the phone will ring and someone will dawn laughter. I hear the sounds of canadian lesbians sharing their plight, I'm relating with the video-images of captivated jews resting against a rock in the heat of an Austrian day. I was thinking I was lucky, if I redefined luck. I was thinking I could think a lot more under six shots of vodka, but tonight I'll just rest my head against the will to stare my awkward curiosity directly in the face; I stare out my window as the lights flicker softly... and the people drive by. And the traffic always slows to a stop at night, I wonder where these folks are going. I wonder if it hurts their calves to sit in a driving position for more than ten minutes. I wonder what it feels like to wrapped against another without the pressure of one's leg being far too overbearing for me to handle.
My eyelashes stuck together, I had shed a tear or two in retrospect. And I don't regret it, though my face shows my emotion like a zombie. Not hungry for brains, nor attention or conversation, my car stays in motion until my driveway is quiet and my car sits still, I'm not going to nashville tonight. And I won't hear those songs again, until the mood strikes hard with a fist of disappointment, pressed hard against my chest. When drunk, the lyrics make me consider the width of the arms once wrapped differently, differently proportioned. And settled and shifted in memory.
my vices.
Sitting at a table in a diner in the middle of the night, the dead of December, and it's still too cold inside to take my coat off... which makes me look like I'm in a hurry, always in a hurry to get nowhere in particular. There's never time in these hours for the coffee to grow cold before I need a gentleman's service, a tip-rendering service, and his attention is somewhere else tonight. My fingers wrapped around the thick ceramic case for heated relief, and there was a stoicism in my company's face... like she was trying not to think of something. Focusing on what she didn't want to think of, her face carved itself into a frown over time. And after noticing, I realized I'd never told her how pretty she looked when she was angry at herself.
If I had to redefine success from the beginning, I'd start with losing my virginity. I lost my virginity at the most tender, impressionable age... Why? Because my then-boyfriend told me he'd kill himself if I didn't have sex with him. He also told me he'd kill himself if I broke up with him. In reality, I think I was just bored. It starts with doing things for all the wrong reasons, then not being able to do things the wrong way for the right reasons later. I was sexually scarred for years after that and stayed sexually awkward until I buckled and learned how to kiss open-mouthed when I was eighteen. I've always been shy of things I can't be certain I'm doing well, and I worked backwards in learning.
With no self confidence during high school years, I'd redefine success by looking at myself in the mirror without make up on and thinking that I probably would let myself get away with a warning if I'd pulled myself over for speeding looking like such. Real-word applications are so satisfying, yet the real world never seems to be as much. So I think about these things while drowning myself in coffee, wondering what had happened to my journaling years, trying to figure out how the hell I would up being the awkward shell of a person I wake up as every single morning. When I meet new people, it's all I can do to remember to keep my voice clear and introduce myself. When I meet new concepts, it's all I can do to remember the person I was before I understood something new. I kept seeing the reflection of her face in the darkened window, the image of headlights streaming past on the highway as it stretched beyond our locations to pass our future respective locations. And that sadness spread on the surface of her face would carry her there.
I wish I could have explained how I'd redefined success in my head just twice before, but we didn't want to talk. We never want to talk about it. I never want to be shaken, but I shook in the cold facing my car door as the key continued to deceive me under the burnt out light above. And the cold reflects chillingly - all the things I might have kept to myself if only I'd never learned how to read or write. If Only I'd continued to dream during those lessons long-taught and forever gone. And why my voice never carries such sentiments so solidly.
I redefine friendship and I redefine luck, they're two in one. If you're lucky at all, you'll have some strength to your friendships that will carry through when you need it the most. You absorb every day from your focus, you focus everything on your day. When I wake to a ringing phone, if I find my voice I answer... as I lie and say I was hardly sleeping, it occurs to me that this person knows we're lucky. At least I hope they know we're lucky as hell. I redefine language as a way to pass time, I redefine time as a way to pass life. I redefine life as an opportunity to sculpt every aching moment and it lingers to pass.
In my car, on the way home, the cold from the leather seats wraps my thighs in a tight reminder of all the uncomfortable elements I have to understand and lapse in memory; everything that once burdened me must be reshaped to fit the weight requirements. My mouth was dry, and all I really wanted was a hot coffee to wash away the remaining particles of carbon residing in my mouth. All I really want are my vices.
If I had to redefine success from the beginning, I'd start with losing my virginity. I lost my virginity at the most tender, impressionable age... Why? Because my then-boyfriend told me he'd kill himself if I didn't have sex with him. He also told me he'd kill himself if I broke up with him. In reality, I think I was just bored. It starts with doing things for all the wrong reasons, then not being able to do things the wrong way for the right reasons later. I was sexually scarred for years after that and stayed sexually awkward until I buckled and learned how to kiss open-mouthed when I was eighteen. I've always been shy of things I can't be certain I'm doing well, and I worked backwards in learning.
With no self confidence during high school years, I'd redefine success by looking at myself in the mirror without make up on and thinking that I probably would let myself get away with a warning if I'd pulled myself over for speeding looking like such. Real-word applications are so satisfying, yet the real world never seems to be as much. So I think about these things while drowning myself in coffee, wondering what had happened to my journaling years, trying to figure out how the hell I would up being the awkward shell of a person I wake up as every single morning. When I meet new people, it's all I can do to remember to keep my voice clear and introduce myself. When I meet new concepts, it's all I can do to remember the person I was before I understood something new. I kept seeing the reflection of her face in the darkened window, the image of headlights streaming past on the highway as it stretched beyond our locations to pass our future respective locations. And that sadness spread on the surface of her face would carry her there.
I wish I could have explained how I'd redefined success in my head just twice before, but we didn't want to talk. We never want to talk about it. I never want to be shaken, but I shook in the cold facing my car door as the key continued to deceive me under the burnt out light above. And the cold reflects chillingly - all the things I might have kept to myself if only I'd never learned how to read or write. If Only I'd continued to dream during those lessons long-taught and forever gone. And why my voice never carries such sentiments so solidly.
I redefine friendship and I redefine luck, they're two in one. If you're lucky at all, you'll have some strength to your friendships that will carry through when you need it the most. You absorb every day from your focus, you focus everything on your day. When I wake to a ringing phone, if I find my voice I answer... as I lie and say I was hardly sleeping, it occurs to me that this person knows we're lucky. At least I hope they know we're lucky as hell. I redefine language as a way to pass time, I redefine time as a way to pass life. I redefine life as an opportunity to sculpt every aching moment and it lingers to pass.
In my car, on the way home, the cold from the leather seats wraps my thighs in a tight reminder of all the uncomfortable elements I have to understand and lapse in memory; everything that once burdened me must be reshaped to fit the weight requirements. My mouth was dry, and all I really wanted was a hot coffee to wash away the remaining particles of carbon residing in my mouth. All I really want are my vices.
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