THIS · IS · DUMB

LJ, has anyone ever told you they had a laundry list of things they needed to discuss with you? Don't envy my experience. Tonight I discovered a riddle of the chicken or the egg variety. What came first, adulthood or back pain.
LJ, I'm tired tonight. Do you ever have a day of nearly unquenchable hunger?  Do you ever get thirsty all the sudden, like the feeling of waking up at night from a dream where you couldn't breathe, gasping for air.  I do sometimes.  I did the other night at my boyfriend's house and drank 3 cups of water from a liquid-measuring cup.
The most important things I learned this week are: the sun inspires relaxation, the nape of my neck can bloom or wilt, clarity of movement-like clear water.
When a benevolent lady at the airport told me I wasn't interfacing with reality and I needed to know what i cared about in life,
i wrote a list on the plane.  I can only remember that TEXTURE color and SIMPICITY were on the list.  And i laughed because i didn't know how to build a life around those three things.

Hold me, Livejournal.  My world view is at once diamond and talc.  I bounce off rigid structures and fall, endlessly, through a cavern of dark, tactile possibility.  Would you just hold me, Livejournal, like how I used to imagine God held me, with two, strong warm arms made of devine vapor, taking me against his or her chest.  I imagined all the demons and darkness, worries and complexities were far below, and I was here, looking down at the blue and green earth, protected and calm.

Can I just follow my nose, like a soulfully hungry toucan, toward the cache of my destiny?  Smell is a powerful evokateer.  I smelled the incense my friend used to burn in his college dorm room at a vintage store during a reading the other day and, though six years later, I swear he practically walked into the room along with that smell.  Can I smell my future?  Can I smell inimations of prosperity and peace?  Does it smell like bourbon?  Pepper?  Ylang ylang?  Leather?  Or, new coffee? Blind fold me and I will find my way, olifactorally.  Smell strikes up hunger, and the tender scent of a lovers head is a bioligical insignia of love. Lead me to my satiation and my passion. 

Livejournal, this 2012 bullshit . . . I tell you. . . I am over it.  To clarify: NOT the 2012 end of the world, that's fine, I mean, the 2012, only thing stupider than bluetooth headsets I have ever seen: Glasses which Impose Google like Searches and Feedback on your Vision.  NO.  I do not want to live in an 80's sci-fi novel; everyone is going to crash their cars.  I want out!!!!!! Let me out of the 2000's!!!  Douchy middle aged men are driving market decisions like Google Glasses and Blue tooth ear buds and I want out.  I want mean people to stop smiling!  I want honest people to speak louder!  I want the narrative based advertisments to go away!  I want people to have healthcare!  I want to get more education!  I want to go to the dentist!  I do not want the last to items to conflict! 

Livejournal, you are like my doll who sits mutely while I yammer on and on, the story of my day and all my thoughts no one else has time or room for.
Imagine we are at some tea table made of a cardboard box and covered with a fabric scrap from the dress-up bin; and here, a cookie and a napkin, and here...thank you for your blank, positive, and affirming gaze livejournal.

Agenda:

1. Pop out eyes.
2. Dentists.
3. The new size of my butt.
4. Anarchy.

1. Pop out eyes:
I went to a dance class this Sunday and we opened the class by massaging out heads and pushing on our eyes until we saw fireworks.  The teacher said, "Feel the roundness of your eyes." And throughout the class she would remind us, preiodically to let our eyes sit in their round sockets.  Every time she mentioned this, I noticed my eyes were straining and I could relax them and then the rest of my movement became more relaxed.  I don't see better when I'm straining my eyes.  I don't feel better.  It is representative of a constant state of alert/tension, a layer of panic we forget we release until someone has you push on your eyes and feel how they are round, and sit inside of your head.  I see thin, rich, women a lot where I work.  Their eyes are always bulging out of their head, leading a manic charge that is faster than language or human decency or tipping. I want to tell them to push on their eyes and divorce their cheezy, rich husbands.

2. Dentists.
I hate you.  I hate you beyond reason, but also with a great deal of reason.  You are always an asshole.  No matter how nice you think you are being, you are still an asshole.  Anyone who finished dental school suffered through because they knew in the end, their degree would deliver heaps of money and long weekends.  No one wants to be a dentist because they like smelling people's mouths and drilling their teeth.  Dentistry is dreadful.  It is the worst.  It is eggshell in your cookie.  It is soap lingering in your waterglass.  It is a deep, dark, sinful cavity on the tooth of human experience.  I hate it.

3. The new size of my butt:
Bigger.  

4. Anarchy.
I think anarchy is asthetically unpleasing and inefficient.  I blame capitolism for why people do not think hard about anything.  There is no time.  Is there a happy middle ground where you can have the time to think but they efficiency of some sort of government? 

BYE!!!!!!!!!!

Livejournal: I think we're alone.  I hope the followers of this journal have stopped anticipating new entries and I am disturbing the dusty mauve carpet in this furnitureless room with my quiet typing. 

It's a bright grey day, a cold light streams in.  It's nice to feel like you found somewhere no one has been in a very long time.  If someone opened the door right now, I would crumple.  I'm so unprepared for company; I am so secret. 

I put on a long coat, I roll back the sleeves, cup my hands and, in them, manifest my visions and dreams.  I am made out of cobwebs, branches, paisley, cilantro, cirrus clouds, baby's breath, and avacado.  I am textured, I smoulder here, am plastic there, evaporate there.  Where do dreams come from?  And coherent images of the self? I refuse anything other than color, texture, and confusion.  I walk out of the room and as soon as I'm seen I am human.

hey, livejournal. hi, relic of early 2000's internet culture. how are you--not thriving but, perhaps, comfortable? well LJ, i feel we have an intimate enough repor for me to lay it out: you feel a bit eriee and deserted, much like a condemned house. i might be more sober now, i'm older; i felt today--contemplitave in the shower--the recent encapsulation of my 'really young adulthood', which, for all it's social ferocity, charming naevite, and color, originates and culminates in a quieter more contemplative me-hood (holding a book, seeking less company). But, it is fun, for a time, and nostalgic, like a revisiting a yearbook with all it's scrawlings, to stand amongst my juvinile ghosts who persist in my old livejournal.

dear night, do humans all carry sharp stars in their hearts?
do we all walk around with bricks on our backs we forget are there?
i think the dead of winter will make you sag, a little, all the rain, it's going to pontificate,
profusely the language of it's wet corrosive drops onto our streets heads and into
our washed eyes, our washed skins, our palor, driven into the parlor for months on end.
well night i'm trying to forget your calls and calls to arms
because arms are strangling lately--binding, me into them
at speeds and torques i cannot manage.
dark house, i forget how loud the fan in the bathroom whirrsssss,
i shut the lights off and try to appreciate i'm the only one home.
your warm lamp lit corners and creaks. your refridgerator singing me one notes.
my sanctuary, my small camp in the city. i like wind brushing trees together, clapping leaves,
i like the birds in the back yard, invisible to the lazy eye, making a cloud of frantic song
right before snow falls. i know this home, although i am young, and never had a home
be mine. i never took a home apart or put it together. i'm always a renter.

glad i know how keys work without my eyes. prepaired for blindness and old age.
suppose not arthritic fingers.

mona lives three stories up in red brick appartment buildings north of downtown. imaginary birds perch in her hair and real ones perch in her small deck's flower boxes.
she had brown eyes. She rimmed them lightly with black pencil, wore white framed glasses and had straight across bangs. Buttoning her shirt all the way up, straining her chin up a little as she struggles with the button hole in the stiff collar, dropping her hands shaking her hair and sighing: signifying along these lines: 'beep boop, i guess another day, i guess another string of dollars and dollars'.

with one bird riding on her shouder she walked three flights of stairs down. one, duh duh duh duh duh duh duh duh duh. two, duh duh duh duh duh duh duh duh (light footed on the stairs, she counts each step) three, duh duh duh duh AH, fuck! what, oh i'm sorry, she bumpped into her neighbor who was walking up the stairs with a huge box in his arms, the top of the box taller than his eyes. almost toppling him, almost sending him rolling down backwards, almost, not, but in her imagination, quick fire style, she sees him split open at the bottom of the stairs, someone opening the door from the hallway and smakcing his already bleeding head with the back of the door.

aw fuck sorry,

ah, don't worry about it, he grunts, shifts the box, returns to stepping.

out she swings, under the moldy awning where she pulls up the oversized hood of her black pea coat and lights a cigarette, holding it with her hand cupped around it like a sheild from the hazy drizzle she stepepd out into. shrugging into her coat collar.

hahaha.


peace pipe, you want me to somke a fucking peace pipe with you? i'm going to throw on the irridescent leggings of invisibility and you will never know who danced on your face you shitting eating grinner.

i'm going to walk over pathways of confetti garbage from god's eternal parades and the popcorn crumbs of the cross bearer carnivals and make eye contact with the trees who are watching everyone foolish pass under them. the funny thing about trees is they either love you or hate you, and you can decide. they are guaranteed to wink at you in the sun with a breeze or hiss at you in a storm.

the trees told me a secret. they told me i was going to get to walk on their branches. like a sloth.
and they told me, that rainforests are gaudy, like a prosthetic chest where diamonds drip down the depths of enhanced cleavage. of course people are going to want to touch and steal. that's where the rainforest went wrong: it was flaunting itself before the loggers like a over-endowed, clammy, kitchy whore.

no, it's NOT the rainforest's fault, i argued with the trees lining the parade route. can't you see? can't you see they are just taking in water and expelling oxygen? They are just doing as their genetics told in an environment very conducive to their growth. so don't get uppity.

ever imagined a bear eating out your intestines while you watch?

ever imagined an angry moose kicking your chest in?

ever imagined a panther, aparating out of the foliage in a night jungle, locking gazes with you, slowly pacing back and forth, waiting until you've been demoralized by your own urine running down your legs to pounce?

ever imagined a great white shark blasting out of the water to crush a leaping porpoise with his 6 foot piston jaws?

ever imagined the sound of the rattle snake you can't see followed by the searing pain of a venous strike to your calf?

ever imagined a charging boar and you alone with a spear in a midevil wood?

did you know fungus will take over the brains of insects, drive them mad, and then sprout out of the insects' scull?

remember the people who put jam on their little girl's face in order to get a cute picture of a bear licking the jam off? but then the bear bit her face and wouldn't let go?

remember punch the black bear in the nose, play dead for the grizzly.

m. i woke up too early.
i woke up and was not breathing deep enough, a lump of new exciting things was caught up in my breathing. and i realized weirdly the last two years have been me feeling inadequite because i lost the identity i fell in love with myself being. and i realized that because i woke up wishing i was more adequite: like how i used to be. and i realized that maybe we have to lose the things that distract us from being ourselves, such as things we identify ourselves as, in order to come into better rythems--they are still correct rhythems. in fact, this new rhythem is more honest and seasoned with my older ones but wary of them. hah. and i thought of my dad, coming home to no wife or kids in his home, and how it must take years and years to fill the loss of an identity as a successful member of a family (and by that i meant heart break) and i was so glad he had a new wife and home and job and i'm sure he still is suffering from his ghosts. and . . . i look backwards so much sometimes. i was so happy when i was riding bikes and in amazing shape and hiking all the time, it was all i cared about. and how sometimes when my friend ***** rides faster than me on her bike or says, 'we are going so slow! haha!' but then doesn't know she is riding like a moron and cutting people off and taking up too much room, it pokes at that lost sense of 'cyclist' ...that i used to be so fast and used to could have just fucked her shit up, but now i don't want to care, and i suffered a lot to keep what i had when i was one and finally i decided it was unsustainable and what work i'm doing now is work to come to peace with how focused and singular and driven i used to be and how i am not that focused and driven anymore. but how to be driven again. in a better way. in a way that allows for pauses and reflections and new directions. and i kind of realized i didn't lose anything. i mean. i don't have to be so hard on myself, and i think i could realize this because i'm finally going directions again, and i think i got shaken free in mexico. and i think traveling is a solution to problems. but i didn't know that until now. and i am .....................yes. for the first time in a while.

not writing, a rusty rod.
and rust can't draw
for very long, it is a thin medium. and then there is only metal underneath. and metal isn't going to write it's so hard it won't shed onto a paper.
that's where typewriters got smart, they thought, well metal won't write on it's own so we are going to have to coat it in ink. it's important that metal can get coated and also it is hard, it's hard so it never changes, a changed letter is a worthless letter, and it can be coated over and over so the letters never end. actually that's a really tangental metaphor. tangental like one point on a weird wobbly timeline. (i like the way that feels tho, it's like you can feel time on either side, pressing it's heads at you and trying to get you to look around, but you say, "no, i won't!" there is a blurry focus on the lens, and it's telescopic when you are looking at a metaphor like this, very romantic, and urgent, you are about to realize it isn't all it's cracked up to be) like, typwriters break and get dusty and the ribbons dry out. and one day, one day maybe before i die, the kinkos will no longer carry typewriter ribbon and all the typewriters are going to silence their ticking jaws of shifting teeth for eternity. and after that the volcano or climate change with.

michael is here.