Thursday, February 03, 2005
Monday, January 31, 2005
-
Periodic flashes of maniacal productivity, interspersed with inertia.
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Friday, January 28, 2005
-
It's not that nothing is happening. It's just that nothing is happening that I want to talk about.
Tests, robotics, techno. Made stir-fry, burnt it, and now it's cold. Eating it anyway due to lack of other options. The uninterruptible mundanity of life will off me before depression gets a chance.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
-
Self-medication covergirl. Chemicals wake you up, chemicals lull you back to sleep. Chemicals to simulate every emotion, dull every subcategory of pain.
Like a reptile, you leave a trail of outgrown personas behind you; I light a candle for each psyche you tried on and discarded. White wax drips off and cools on spiderwebs, like so many rosary beads suspended in the darkness. (spook.show) Rigor mortis mannequins, I paint them alive and re-shroud them in Catholic black.
And why do we light candles for the dead? They're at peace; they should be praying for us. Every star in the sky, a candle lit for one among the living. We scurry about, insignificant and miserable and caught up in trifles, while above us all there exists this massive glimmering aegis by night and by day. Watching over us, guarding us when we sleep, promising sweet oblivion at the end of this tortuous road.
Or is it different, is our world choked by voiceless dead souls? Is the air we breathe saturated with rage, unresolved sadness, loneliness still lingering from time immemorial; does that toxic density soak through into our hearts, permeate them with ancient despairs and ecstaties? Perhaps it fills every empty space, layer upon layer, so heavy we cannot see the living faces of the people next to us.
I am half-sick of shadows. [Demoiselle d' escalot]
Fair knight, paramour, yours to command
unwound the scarf from her bloodless hand
he wore her token and bade her farewell
left her helpless, trapped in a spell.
And so she begged him never to leave
to stay with her in Astolat
with the mirror, the curse, and the tapestry
white fingers bloodied from glass debris
stared after him and whispered
"I died the moment I looked upon thee"
And the river flows with regal calm
down and away to Camelot
the silent waters, icy and blue, embalm
her slow-beating heart
and sweeps her soul to Camelot.
Fragile, wrapped in black and gold
white lily petals clutched in her fingers cold
half-dead on a flower-adorned barge
she makes her way to Camelot
to the knight whose arms would hold her
but day by day, the waters grow colder
she slips away like grains of sand
a love letter in her lifeless hand.
Her blood freezes but her eyes stay open
hair trailing in the river Thames
followed by goldfish who think it's the sun
the Lady of Shallot.
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
-
Sometimes I pretend to disagree with people I agree with, for the sole purpose of starting a discussion. Conversation is much more interesting when both people aren't saying the same things. If I only wanted to hear my own opinions thrown back at me, I would talk to myself.
A few centuries ago, they would have burned me at the stake. Fortunately, nowadays they have subtler ways of neutralizing people like me.
Nietzsche was right. Uebermensch. Ueberfraulein? Herd mentality. Morality was invented by the weak to shackle the strong. And forget the accusations of immorality and depravity-- I do hold myself to a code of behavior, but it's my own and it's based on higher laws than you will never understand. My commandments arise from solid logic and reason, not archaic stone tablets from some mountain-climbing Jewish crackpot. Damn this lie of democracy. Damn the rest of humanity. Evolutionary dead-ends. Go extinct already.
Monday, January 24, 2005
-
So, which is worse?
When you can feel someone watching you, feel the spiderfurry tickle of his gaze blowing on the back of your neck, making the hairs shiver, and you oh.so.casually turn around and oops he saw you looking at him looking at you but you're still the first one to avert your gaze and pretend you were just looking at some spot on the wall above his head.
Or.
When you think he's busy and you take the time to drink in all the little details- the exact curve of his eyelashes, the way he drums his fingers on the desk, the smooth, sharp sweep of his jawline, the (tendons, I suppose?) forming an exquisite ridge so close to the jugular that when he turns his head I can almost see his pulse... And then Suddenly! he looks up (or over, or forward) and sees me, and pretends he didn't.
That happens to me all the time. Not just people I like; I enjoy looking at people in general. I've learned to do it inconspicuously, to avoid scaring the hell out of them. But that way, I can never determine the exact color of their eyes.
(Somewhere between cobalt, the color of a sky contemplating rain, and a pale thought drowning somewhere cold. And occasionally all three.)
Mirror, lover, a mirror is all you can ever be. To stand upright in the corner, to echo and reflect the things I already know. Except when you tell the truth, and just goddamn shatter, inane mockery of the alternate realities inside my head. No love, no wisdom, no intuition, only mockery and pale reflections, echo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o- can you still hear me?
Sunday, January 23, 2005
-
Today was a day of staying in bed dressed in yesterday's clothes. Darkness, from the closed curtains and the rain-sleet-snow outside, a steady pattering on the roof. Muted sounds of the outside world only adding to my isolation. Drifting between dreams, dreamless sleep, and awake-ness. Some CD playing, too soft to hear it, but it has a nice beat. I don't need to eat, I don't need to drink, I don't need to ever get up. This is home.
Today was a day of feeling sorry for myself in the intermittent flashes of consciousness, and of getting nothing done.
Yesterday, I suppose. It's past 3:00 AM. This is the fourth or fifth night of staying up until morning, with no point in doing so beyond a childish reluctance to go to bed. Some people look beautiful with black and violet hollows under their eyes. From sleep deprivation or physical abuse. I'm not one of them.
I'm still The Final Girl. Sometimes I'm out for revenge; sometimes I'd be happy just to get away from here alive. They think I'm safer in my own room.
Friday, January 21, 2005
-
Doctors disagree on what is to be done. One optimist, three pessimists.
-
Why must I get myself into these impossible situations?
And no, I don't want to talk about it. Let's talk about someone else.
"Beautiful," she proclaimed, and she gave inanimate colors and forms lives of their own. She swept out of the room, trailing poise and assurance, and the starshine glitter of confidence.
Behind her, non-living things awkwardly clamber into the sunlight on birthwet stilted legs, bewildered by this strange existence. After a while, they begin to find it strangely beautiful. The marble, the glass, the sunlight streaming through the windows. Outside, somewhere, and inside as well, the smell of jasmine- yes, the perfume that graces the neck and wrists of that god-like being. White jasmine-colored butterflies, translucent in the sunlight. As they beat their delicate wings, they (barely) stir the soft skin of dust that envelopes almost-forgotten things.
Eventually the perfume fades, and the sun fades, and the marble crumbles, and the gods die. Their acolytes still live in a ruined museum, though, a half-life without sunlight or emotion, sluggishly going through the motions without knowing why they do so.
- browse entries:
- older »
