Beer beer beer

new found saviour of my mortal soul...

Tho wine with g works too
But only with g
As smooth as her words it goes...

D
O
W
N

Ahhhhhhh

halloween...

i have never before in my life been invited to so many parties of which i am expected to dress up. i refused the offers, but now there are just too many and people that i care enough about to do this type of thing with...so there will be synthetic fiber rashes on my fair fair little forearm to bicep crook for days. sigh.

dressing up reveals all the insecurities and vulnerabilities and and and...

it's dumb

you're supposed to dress up to hide stuff. weeeeeeeell i do that everyday. the dressing up for something is actually an undressing to me. what i pick to be is what people might think i want to be weighted against what i really am or what i dress up to be when i'm 'normal.' i will be scrutinized and analyzed in my nakedness. like if you're goth right, like if you're all goth and then what do you do on halloween...dress in pink? it's like you gotta be the opposite of what you are or what you are mostly. or not the opposite but an alternative to. and i just don't know what that is right now. the closest i can come is a chia pet.

tricia would say i'm thinking too much. she may be right. dave says i'm being anxious. david has dismissed me as weird and obsessive.

i'll just buy some horns and staple them to my head.

Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply deep, copies to be sent if you died to all the great libraries of the world, including Alexandria? Someone was to read them there after a few thousand years, a mahamanvantara. Pico della Mirandola like. Ay, very like a whale. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once ...

-- ulysses

random memories popping up at inopportune times...

smelling your eyes
under the garden was all i needed
uncut grassfingers plucking
my unshaven legs

a gecko scuttles over memories of you

i know they buried you
with all the others
will you remember me
fifty years on

i wish i could've saved you

i was with you when you lost your breath
drunk on autumn leaves
sitting in a strangers stomach
letting your skin laugh

A FRIGHTFUL RELEASE
by: Gertrude Stein (1874-1946)

BAG which was left and not only taken but turned away was not found. The place was shown to be very like the last time. A piece was not exchanged, not a bit of it, a piece was left over. The rest was mismanaged.

stan says:

"it's almost over"

out of no where. just came right up to my desk ruler swinging and time wasting and said it.

i love that. perfection in and ignorance of internal timing.

i'm sitting at my desk in gloves, a full winter jacket and scarf. i'm freezing my ass off. people walk by all jittery and happy happy. i swallowed the first balloon one of them let go as they past me, the helium closed over my throat, the latex sticking to my teeth as it went down. happy fuck happy happy. and i sit here freezing. in a spot of the world where everyone else is short sleeved and cheery, celebrating birthdays and christenings and stupid international pirate day or kiss your budgie day every day a different day everyday a different reason to be cheery cheery.

there is a remote possibility that this portion of the office has some strange internal screw up causing moderated shots of cold air to shoot directly into me.

there is a better chance i'm empty.

"the traffic was whizzing by
i was homesick and i was high" - Ani: Hypnotized

so that's kinda how it starts. me sitting alone in my little room, while everything around whizzes by and around and over me, homesick, love sick, sickfully alone, and he calls, rage filled desperation leading his blind words out of his mouth attempting to positively affect me. affect they do but there is no positivity in the exodus and i think a moment, a splintered rattled memory second crashing around in my brain, of kissing him...

in the way we never did awkward and asexually static filled with nothing but a desire for something else a hunger, an emptiness caused by the strangling presence of nothingness.

second guessing everything about myself, from the dullness of my razor to my haircut to the way my lips open and nestle around fingertips to the way i think act stagger feel see...to the way i so easily walk away push away glance back for a moment a salt less figure behind me stuck in everything they always said about me.

sometimes it's just too hard to go back i think...
sometimes there's nothing to go back to...
sometimes there was never anything there but attempt
turned inward contemptuous words breed contemptuous thoughts
maybe this is all there ever is

so this is how it happens

you're in a good mood. real good. the best in a while. you get off work a bit early and drive back home to a family function or some such 'you must be there' thing. and while there, once there, after you're done there, you go for a drink with your sister. and you go to the only decent bar in the small town you left as quick as you could and sit down. and she starts with wine and you with guiness because the dissimilarities in your character far exceed the faint resemblances you can possibly sometimes pick up in our eyes, if and only if the scrutinizer is stone cold sober and has half a brain, which at the relatively late hour on a thursday night in the only decent bar in the town you left as you soon as you could is close to impossible, and when the "you're not sisters" question, banter, stupidity begins, we both exchange a glance that is genitically identical, open our bags - hers a purse, mine a bag - and pull out our drivers licenses, handing them over, so he, the scrutinizer, takes them between his nailblacked fingers, work for a living hands and brings them to his right eye, the left eye closed for some sort of stagger stopping fight with gravity....takes the pictures and looks and looks, and we sip and sip and let him have them.

and the nights getting better than the day you think. your sisters boyfriend joins you, ear fuzzling, hair stroking, and all love, and for a moment you are filled with an emptiness you've forgotten, a complete and utter emptiness and void that is so big and so pain filled flowing soul tears that you hardly feel it at all and you move effortlessly into the conversation and start to talk and talk and talk...

and time goes on, beer is emptied and started and emptied and started, other people join the conversation and leave and join and leave and you are having a real good conversation with someone you would never look at twice and it's rich, richer than any conversation you've had with another man in months, and it's full of utterances and poetry and music and inane facts that you know and he knows but neither of you know why or how. and after you pull the rose petal soaked piano rain dripped and desire filled exchange out of your mouth you find yourself in an empty bar, all locked up sitting with him on the edge of every pre conceived emotion and thought you've had in the last 4 hours about him disregarded, toppled and trampled down from the void and you are strangely, wonderfully, drunkenly filled with dumb founded desire and want.

he takes off his glasses. you lay your head down. your elbow streaks across a sticky spot. the evening has been wasted you think, this is so unlike you you think, you want this you think, its been so long you think and the stars are going up and you think this is it, this is how it ends and this is how he'll find me, rain drops swollen around me laying on the floor beneath inconclusive desires and as he leans in you're reminded briefly of him, moments before, sitting and drinking and staring and trying to place the desire the void and entanglement of raw emotions, and then his fingers hit your body and your locked in everything you've never had...

you used to love to sit by the water you think feet drenched in morning sun, feeding honey drenched cliches to each other, when there was another you think. before you pushed him away for another you think...

and you throw your arms up, up up up to heaven, and cry out mango dangled words of a feeling you've never had...

and you remember him moments ago and you remember what drew you into the absurdity of him and you remember

it's his walk you think. you like the way he walks.

as if his soles on every rain pelted poured thought you've had tonight, however brief or insane a line of disheaveled daisy chains of a time so completely new it's staggering and scrolling starfucked smashing through your mind and soul and void...

you're not above kissing someone for that you think.

WHY IS IT SO FUCKIN HARD TO LEAVE??

i have nothing else to say

the conflicting nature of our days

eludes and befuzzles me

erg

[sigh]

You dare question Thoreau?
My heart my heart
Pumping passages of Walden

I faint fall nestle at your feet and pant into blog-space...have you lost your solitary introverted MIND???

You should've picked Hemingway. I would have invited Hemingwaydubiousness (isn't that all he's around for anyway? But not even, it's impossible to be dubious about celery isn't it? What would one find dubious in Hemingway I suppose? So maybe I should take the doubtfulness as a complimentedness...but we both know I'm too stubborn to letcha off that easy.)

More once I can...(Arms VERY crossy as you would say)

www.hermitary.com

on solitude

Without solitude art would have a very difficult time existing. “We all know that art is not truth. Art is a lie that makes us realize truth, at least the truth that is given us to understand.” (Picasso) This is the wisdom of art. This wisdom, as de Montaigne reveals relies very heavily on a life of solitude. This solitude is embedded in the artist’s natural existence as loners.

Writing at its best, is a lonely life. Organizations for writers palliate the writer’s loneliness but I doubt if they improve his writing. He grows in public stature as he sheds his loneliness and often his work deteriorates. For he does his work alone and if he is a good enough writer he must face eternity, or the lack of it, each day. (Hemingway 155)

These ideas are handed down the rungs of the ladders upon embarking on a life of writing. These quotes are whispered through the hall ways of English literature departments. Henry David Thoreau is the most representative non religious Westerner to comprehend solitude and the hermit life. His time in complete isolation from society lead to the creation of Walden as well as a wonderful collection of journal entries, exemplify in the journal of the writer as a most solitary form of writing.

I thrive best on solitude. If I have had a companion only one day in a week, unless it were one or two I could name, I find that the value of the week to name has been seriously affected. It dissipates my days, and often it takes me another week to get over it…you think I am impoverishing myself by withdrawing from men, but in my solitude I have woven for myself a silent web or chrysalis, and nymph-like shall ere long burst forth a more perfect creature, fitted for high society.” (Thoreau)

Doris Grumbach recorded her fifty days of solitude through a series of Journal entries in her book “Fifty Days of Solitude” Grumbach scarcely speaks to anyone throughout the entire fifty days. She writes and maintains contact with a handful of the outside world through this method.

I want to share with you,’ the fine thing about being alone was that the whole odious concept of sharing completely disappeared. For one, there was no one to share with. Quickly, my desire to share, never very strong at best, died away. I found pleasure in storing up, saving what I realized and saw and thought, like a miser, like a squirrel.


Like a squirrel huh? (buck teeth chomping away at my lower lower lip and making cute little squirrel noises...)

I've been thinking about solitude, since thinking about you....a friend engrossed with(in) it. hummmmm.....

I'll think more. You can only think about it alone, which is why this form of exchange is so very very logical methinks.

'Fall, leaves, fall'

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away; Lengthen night and shorten day; Every leaf speaks bliss to me Fluttering from the autumn tree. I shall smile when wreaths of snow Blossom where the rose should grow; I shall sing when night's decay Ushers in a drearier day. Emily Jane Brontë

Thanks?giving?

the holiday that comes between no holidays, you'd think it would be better because of this. like, it'd have to compensate but nooooooooo...

i have neutral memories of thanksgiving. turkey turkey gourd turkey turkey gourd turkey turkey squash. there was the duck year. who's idea was that?

my parents and annie are quite possibly away this year. although i bitch about it, (i just swallowed a real fruit chew whole which messed up my typing stream but i'm ok now) holidays are the only real time we all see each other, so when they start being skipped, i feel it's the tip of a very big iceberg.

there is however a pretty decent consolation prize, in the form of wearing homemade knit sweaters and scarfs and watching the leaves change, toooooooogether. the goofy kinda pokey hallmark moments my cynicism can't hide it's undying love for and attraction to.

IN RETROSPECT(NESS)

I was walking through the sheets. Sick in bed sick in heart of you for you nailed to bed frame wrapped in old newspapers ripped papers sick walking through the sheets to find you see you again where have you been? remember the first I saw you?

you swallowed the memory hiding deep within your afflicted body-less body protected in robes of internal remains memories.


I was walking through the sheets laying sick i am because of you the NOT you the HALF you before locked in my mind NEAR but FAR can’t get it all in producing production your smell walking walking through waking awoken but the NONE-NESS of you not here. Before when you weren’t here. Before when you weren’t here and I awoke YOU-LESS it wasn’t really an absence you were never here but then after the absence you were here and now an absence.

You said you gave up the things you loved and one of them was me. And clouds and clouds in my tea. Clouds in my tea and you in the beats in my toes.

I saw I saw I saw in a movie once I’ve read before the movies that when someone is absent one should fall asleep holding a pillow in an attempt to curb the absence they KNOW will come. They KNOW is there. When I first seeped into you, you ran fingers pore-filled with me over me. Feathers you never were, down filled polyester cannot replace you. maybe I’m a smart sleeper. Pillows don’t snore, or roll over me

Pillows don’t cry scream scarred and living
Pillows don’t cry scream scarred living
Pillows don’t cry scream scar scared.

When you look back, so many memories fill the mind, the hopes and joys tears and sorrow laughter and song, and yet woven tightly throughout every memory is the love you share(d)

Cry scream scarred I am pillows make me aware in sleep upon awakening of the lack of you that is only a lack because you were here are to be HERE supposed to be here, now I lie in bed a top of bed under my bed sick I am sick without you isolated in emptiness of the absence of your presence. Walking walking through the sheets, not dirtied not clean empty unslept on why can’t I see you? where have you been? why weren’t you aren’t you here?

Hyphenated my sickness lives in hyphenation. Throat-less unable to eat think sleep throat-less back when you walked on brain matters through grey panelled cracked forced scanned door walked through you walked through turning around all the way a pillar of salt you’re not even punished for actions, it is I a pillar of air-less molecule-less pierce apart paned glare-less maybe sun-less they are you less we all are laying under the bed I can see out my window the channel blue black pounding my bed my channel pounding black blue bruised battered empty.