not,
'the most intense love is a negotiation between solitudes' (Steiner)
perhaps,
'the most intense solitude is a negotiation between loves'
as if I know. Try falling when you're being lifted up. I've been wondering wondering wondering wandering wasting precious time. A rainbow posed to fall, miraculously arched with no supports, I'm jealous, you can tell by the way my fingers reach towards it, perhaps I want to hold it, not just grab it, but, rainbows can defy gravity any day.
Sunday, 12 September 2010
Saturday, 11 September 2010
Ophelia
'Says she hears
There's tricks i' the world; and hems, and beats her heart;
Spurns enviously at straws; speaks things in doubt,
That carry but half sense: her speech is nothing,
Yet the unshaped use of it doth move
The hearers to collection; they aim at it,
And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts;
Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures
yield them,
Indeed would make one think there might be thought,
Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily.'
Bodies all over the place. Made me fall even more deeply in love with Shakespeare. Not even his work. I mean, glorious, but imagine the guy who wrote it. The way he allows his characters to be utterly adrift in their emotions. And yet I didn't even choose 'Shakespeare' as one of my modules. Vaguely upset me to see David Tennant playing Hamlet, he's too old, and too smooth, and although the way he acted out acting mad was perfect it was not brilliant. I hate to say that I'd always imagined a character (especially one with such a fate) to be in essence alike to someone I know (as it gives me doubts about when I write characters) but who hasn't compared Hamlet to their idea of an acquaintance? Good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
There's tricks i' the world; and hems, and beats her heart;
Spurns enviously at straws; speaks things in doubt,
That carry but half sense: her speech is nothing,
Yet the unshaped use of it doth move
The hearers to collection; they aim at it,
And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts;
Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures
yield them,
Indeed would make one think there might be thought,
Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily.'
Bodies all over the place. Made me fall even more deeply in love with Shakespeare. Not even his work. I mean, glorious, but imagine the guy who wrote it. The way he allows his characters to be utterly adrift in their emotions. And yet I didn't even choose 'Shakespeare' as one of my modules. Vaguely upset me to see David Tennant playing Hamlet, he's too old, and too smooth, and although the way he acted out acting mad was perfect it was not brilliant. I hate to say that I'd always imagined a character (especially one with such a fate) to be in essence alike to someone I know (as it gives me doubts about when I write characters) but who hasn't compared Hamlet to their idea of an acquaintance? Good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
Thursday, 9 September 2010
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
Mystical, huh.
Ani DiFranco again.
Why am I awake? I can't bring myself to get into that lonely bed in that lonely room.
The I'm-so-bored-room.
mystichotsprings.com/index.html
I miss Maya. Every time I say this, I laugh because I remember drinking gin with her. Or I remember her running around the showers naked. Or doing sit ups whilst eating the best chocolate ever. Or me getting stoked about all my emotions whilst walking around beautiful rocks and instead of letting her appreciating them, ranting. Or her talking about teachers whilst two birds spiralled from the sky, mating in September, into a colourful canyon.
Why am I awake? I can't bring myself to get into that lonely bed in that lonely room.
The I'm-so-bored-room.
Remember, sitting in the mystic springs and I almost drowned him, I did, I was determined. Remember me rising dripping from the tub, god I was scared, thought he didn't have trunks on. Remember, your profile with the stars blue and silver and the sky practically white behind it, you whispering he was so angry? Fucked up, right, that that was the moment I decided I never wanted to miss anyone again. Remember the milky way like some sort of flowery arch, it was that bright, and that Irish girl, remember the one, whose name looked all wrong when she wrote it, remember her teaching us to float, remember being a dead man? Dead man float, dead man float. That was me, my head back, arms up to embrace the warmth of the red rocks, the red that the natives rubbed on to protect themselves, remember how we fell through the water yelling, whirlpool, how the rocks created storm clouds on my knees, red and purple and raised with pain? Remember how warm it was, and how we thought he must have put something in the water there were that many pairings up in the morning. Remember lying out on the tarps (but you didn't, you hid in the bus) and I remember that the sky made me fight off sleep, with Charley on one side and David on the other, all squished in so that we wouldn't roll off the mattresses, and remember how we all didn't want to sleep so that we could look at the stars just a little longer, o god, I wasn't too worried then, was I, about that anger, it wasn't til the next morning when he had red eyes and the look he gave me was so pure, because it was anger, and vengeance, and hatred, all twisted up into something which burnt white hot so that I couldn't get back into the hot water, for fear of what he'd do, couldn't run away, because we had to get on the bus (but I tried, didn't I?), how he was empty with anger and hangover. How he whipped out at me that night, how I sank from metal to concrete, wishing to fall off the edge and crying and something tugging tears from places I had never cried from before, was it just that stuff we were smoking? How I wound up with arms around me, don't cry honey, its okay. How I made you go because I wouldn't ruin your night (although I probably didn't help it much). How I can't think without brackets, now.
mystichotsprings.com/index.html
vapid and disingenuous.
I can write whatever I like on here.
Tonight, I can write the angriest of lines. Write, for example, 'the stones are vibrantly dead and threaten us with the hum of the wind against them'.
Read the fucking subtitle. I will not be told that by playing with words I am playing with people.
I can make my thoughts into stories. 'I never said you were obsessed' - the perfect six worder. Think of the fiction one could make from that. Think of the narrative tensions. Consider the words individually, say them out loud and feel how they shape your mouth. The 'you' in the middle lengthening the angrier words, lightly brushing downwards before the hiss of 'obsessed'. Consider truths and lies, and how the man with no feelings requires no words, and the man with no words loses the finer particulars of his feelings. Consider spending a winter without company, and how at first you long for the concept of others, and then you reject it, and then you learn to deal with it, so that when company returns, you can hardly interact with it, and are considered rude and uncultured. Consider desire and repression. Consider how this ache is what I meant to avoid. Consider how my language has changed. Consider the repetition of words, forget their meanings as we all must do in order to understand them.
--
La Canción Desesperada
Emerge tu recuerdo de la noche en que estoy.
El río anuda al mar su lamento obstinado.
Abandonado como los muelles en el alba.
Es la hora de partir, oh abandonado!
Sobre mi corazón llueven frías corolas.
Oh sentina de escombros, feroz cueva de náufragos!
En ti se acumularon las guerras y los vuelos.
De ti alzaron las alas los pájaros del canto.
Todo te lo tragaste, como la lejanía.
Como el mar, como el tiempo. Todo en ti fue naufragio!
Era la alegre hora del asalto y el beso.
La hora del estupor que ardía como un faro.
Ansiedad de piloto, furia de buzo ciego,
turbia embriaguez de amor, todo en ti fue naufragio!
En la infancia de niebla mi alma alada y herida.
Descubridor perdido, todo en ti fue naufragio!
Te ceñiste al dolor, te agarraste al deseo.
Te tumbó la tristeza, todo en ti fue naufragio!
Hice retroceder la muralla de sombra.
anduve más allá del deseo y del acto.
Oh carne, carne mía, mujer que amé y perdí,
a ti en esta hora húmeda, evoco y hago canto.
Como un vaso albergaste la infinita ternura,
y el infinito olvido te trizó como a un vaso.
Era la negra, negra soledad de las islas,
y allí, mujer de amor, me acogieron tus brazos.
Era la sed y el hambre, y tú fuiste la fruta.
Era el duelo y las ruinas, y tú fuiste el milagro.
Ah mujer, no sé cómo pudiste contenerme
en la tierra de tu alma, y en la cruz de tus brazos!
Mi deseo de ti fue el más terrible y corto,
el más revuelto y ebrio, el más tirante y ávido.
Cementerio de besos, aún hay fuego en tus tumbas,
aún los racimos arden picoteados de pájaros.
Oh la boca mordida, oh los besados miembros,
oh los hambrientos dientes, oh los cuerpos trenzados.
Oh la cópula loca de esperanza y esfuerzo
en que nos anudamos y nos desesperamos.
Y la ternura, leve como el agua y la harina.
Y la palabra apenas comenzada en los labios.
Ese fue mi destino y en él viajó mi anhelo,
y en el cayó mi anhelo, todo en ti fue naufragio!
Oh sentina de escombros, en ti todo caía,
qué dolor no exprimiste, qué olas no te ahogaron.
De tumbo en tumbo aún llameaste y cantaste
de pie como un marino en la proa de un barco.
Aún floreciste en cantos, aún rompiste en corrientes.
Oh sentina de escombros, pozo abierto y amargo.
Pálido buzo ciego, desventurado hondero,
descubridor perdido, todo en ti fue naufragio!
Es la hora de partir, la dura y fría hora
que la noche sujeta a todo horario.
El cinturón ruidoso del mar ciñe la costa.
Surgen frías estrellas, emigran negros pájaros.
Abandonado como los muelles en el alba.
Sólo la sombra trémula se retuerce en mis manos.
Ah más allá de todo. Ah más allá de todo.
Es la hora de partir. Oh abandonado.
--
Oh abandonado. Oh abandonado. Oh abandonado. Oh abandonado.
Tonight, I can write the angriest of lines. Write, for example, 'the stones are vibrantly dead and threaten us with the hum of the wind against them'.
Read the fucking subtitle. I will not be told that by playing with words I am playing with people.
I can write that I do not know how awful it is that I allow myself to dash my brains out onto a screen, knowing that in some way I must be looking for its understanding when really the action itself curtails all that. I can write that I refuse to know that this is the worst possible way of dealing with emotions. I can write that I am aware of this, if I like, and that I do not care. I can write that the negative energy of my thoughts must meet the negative energy of the internet (which my soul rejects, I can write, as if my soul can reject) and then I can section it behind me as I sectioned smoking to beaches in America. That I can quit emotions as I quit smoking, decide I don't like them having dipped my toes in, and thus run away.
I can write things that I would never say.
I can write things that I would never mean.
I can write things at different times of the day which have different meanings depending on every chemical which has ever bounced off my brain.
I can write everything I would text if I had the fucking credit. Who's to say I can't? And at the same time, I can say that this is not my answer, that only assholes would take this crap and assume it was meant to them.
I can make my thoughts into stories. 'I never said you were obsessed' - the perfect six worder. Think of the fiction one could make from that. Think of the narrative tensions. Consider the words individually, say them out loud and feel how they shape your mouth. The 'you' in the middle lengthening the angrier words, lightly brushing downwards before the hiss of 'obsessed'. Consider truths and lies, and how the man with no feelings requires no words, and the man with no words loses the finer particulars of his feelings. Consider spending a winter without company, and how at first you long for the concept of others, and then you reject it, and then you learn to deal with it, so that when company returns, you can hardly interact with it, and are considered rude and uncultured. Consider desire and repression. Consider how this ache is what I meant to avoid. Consider how my language has changed. Consider the repetition of words, forget their meanings as we all must do in order to understand them.--
La Canción Desesperada
Emerge tu recuerdo de la noche en que estoy.
El río anuda al mar su lamento obstinado.
Abandonado como los muelles en el alba.
Es la hora de partir, oh abandonado!
Sobre mi corazón llueven frías corolas.
Oh sentina de escombros, feroz cueva de náufragos!
En ti se acumularon las guerras y los vuelos.
De ti alzaron las alas los pájaros del canto.
Todo te lo tragaste, como la lejanía.
Como el mar, como el tiempo. Todo en ti fue naufragio!
Era la alegre hora del asalto y el beso.
La hora del estupor que ardía como un faro.
Ansiedad de piloto, furia de buzo ciego,
turbia embriaguez de amor, todo en ti fue naufragio!
En la infancia de niebla mi alma alada y herida.
Descubridor perdido, todo en ti fue naufragio!
Te ceñiste al dolor, te agarraste al deseo.
Te tumbó la tristeza, todo en ti fue naufragio!
Hice retroceder la muralla de sombra.
anduve más allá del deseo y del acto.
Oh carne, carne mía, mujer que amé y perdí,
a ti en esta hora húmeda, evoco y hago canto.
Como un vaso albergaste la infinita ternura,
y el infinito olvido te trizó como a un vaso.
Era la negra, negra soledad de las islas,
y allí, mujer de amor, me acogieron tus brazos.
Era la sed y el hambre, y tú fuiste la fruta.
Era el duelo y las ruinas, y tú fuiste el milagro.
Ah mujer, no sé cómo pudiste contenerme
en la tierra de tu alma, y en la cruz de tus brazos!
Mi deseo de ti fue el más terrible y corto,
el más revuelto y ebrio, el más tirante y ávido.
Cementerio de besos, aún hay fuego en tus tumbas,
aún los racimos arden picoteados de pájaros.
Oh la boca mordida, oh los besados miembros,
oh los hambrientos dientes, oh los cuerpos trenzados.
Oh la cópula loca de esperanza y esfuerzo
en que nos anudamos y nos desesperamos.
Y la ternura, leve como el agua y la harina.
Y la palabra apenas comenzada en los labios.
Ese fue mi destino y en él viajó mi anhelo,
y en el cayó mi anhelo, todo en ti fue naufragio!
Oh sentina de escombros, en ti todo caía,
qué dolor no exprimiste, qué olas no te ahogaron.
De tumbo en tumbo aún llameaste y cantaste
de pie como un marino en la proa de un barco.
Aún floreciste en cantos, aún rompiste en corrientes.
Oh sentina de escombros, pozo abierto y amargo.
Pálido buzo ciego, desventurado hondero,
descubridor perdido, todo en ti fue naufragio!
Es la hora de partir, la dura y fría hora
que la noche sujeta a todo horario.
El cinturón ruidoso del mar ciñe la costa.
Surgen frías estrellas, emigran negros pájaros.
Abandonado como los muelles en el alba.
Sólo la sombra trémula se retuerce en mis manos.
Ah más allá de todo. Ah más allá de todo.
Es la hora de partir. Oh abandonado.
--
Oh abandonado. Oh abandonado. Oh abandonado. Oh abandonado.
Dream.
I had a dream last night that I was back in school. Why am I always rushing in dreams? Is it significant that I dreamt it the day before my old school starts term? What about Eoghan's theories about the realm of dreams? To look at my hands, or not to look at my hands?
My foot is bleeding.
Google image Mystic Hot Springs Mike. That's where I was last thursday night.
Haha. I just wrote: 'Her own ‘romances’, lack of passion: kiss ‘stolen’ from her. Tensions between generations, university a blank.' about Andrea in Nada. Shit.
My foot is bleeding.
Google image Mystic Hot Springs Mike. That's where I was last thursday night.
Haha. I just wrote: 'Her own ‘romances’, lack of passion: kiss ‘stolen’ from her. Tensions between generations, university a blank.' about Andrea in Nada. Shit.
‘The never-know house’
Song for today: St Vincent's 'The Party'.
You must be wondering why I’m not responding to anything. I don’t have any credit (everyone knows this). I don’t want to go backwards though. I only want to see my future, now. I’m not interested in my past, right now. I have no obsessions, nothing I want to do except things for the future, or completing things I have promised to do. I’m sorry for it. I’ve had life changing experiences (I can say this totally factually as things have happened to me, and I have seen things, and I have done things, which mean that I cannot go back to the way I lived before), and much of what I used to do has to go.
I no longer want to know who is reading this. I am only writing it because it needs to be said, somewhere, my thoughts need to be straightened, and I lost a notebook so I can no longer trust them.
I miss having ten or more people in my bed. I felt so alone in the space unoccupied by bodies and feet and sleepingbags this morning.
I have a new favourite place, although my soul still lives in the Sierra Nevada mountains, and this place is in Utah at the Salt Lake in the few moments before and during dawn. Flocks of birds silvered by the sun, whirling over the earth, the wide expanse of water, and land, rimmed but not limited by mountains at the edges, and then the sky, huge, overpowering...
In a haulting German accent: - 'If you had a girl whom you loved, who was moving on her life, and needed to be alone, and told you she did not love you, would you let her go?' - 'If you had a guy who you were not sure that you loved, but he loved you, and you had to choose between him and your new life, new friends, new work, what would you do?' Thanks David. Thanks for showing me the fall out.
Would you rather walk forwards, but stub your toe every step, or walk backwards for the rest of your life?
Would you rather fall in love with someone you'd never see again, or have someone you didn't love be obsessed and in love with you and always with you?
Would you rather stay indoors for the rest of your life, or have it rain wherever you were for the rest of your life?
Today my sisters took me to the 'never-know house'. It's called Dragons House, it says so on the gatepost. My seven year old sister, however, is convinced that rather than the dragons this clearly entails, a witch actually lives there. But she will never know because it only has two cars parked in the garage and you only see people (I am led to believe these are either slaves/ disguises/ magic) entering or leaving it. I've never seen such an ordinary residence for such an extraordinary being.
I summarily recommend the Green Tortoise to everyone. Particularly anyone who has any sort of obsession with anything, as they will be utterly cured.
The only issue is if you are an 18 year old girl who happens to be mildly straight. Especially if you have a prettier friend with you. (Not her or the Green Tortoise's fault, of course, as I could have told them. I could have told someone to get me out of there but I was trying to sleep.). You end up being dogged by some guy or other. I don't want love, now. I'm cured. Uninterested. Perhaps slightly scarred (you don't want to know where).
You must be wondering why I’m not responding to anything. I don’t have any credit (everyone knows this). I don’t want to go backwards though. I only want to see my future, now. I’m not interested in my past, right now. I have no obsessions, nothing I want to do except things for the future, or completing things I have promised to do. I’m sorry for it. I’ve had life changing experiences (I can say this totally factually as things have happened to me, and I have seen things, and I have done things, which mean that I cannot go back to the way I lived before), and much of what I used to do has to go.
I no longer want to know who is reading this. I am only writing it because it needs to be said, somewhere, my thoughts need to be straightened, and I lost a notebook so I can no longer trust them.
I miss having ten or more people in my bed. I felt so alone in the space unoccupied by bodies and feet and sleepingbags this morning.
I have a new favourite place, although my soul still lives in the Sierra Nevada mountains, and this place is in Utah at the Salt Lake in the few moments before and during dawn. Flocks of birds silvered by the sun, whirling over the earth, the wide expanse of water, and land, rimmed but not limited by mountains at the edges, and then the sky, huge, overpowering...
In a haulting German accent: - 'If you had a girl whom you loved, who was moving on her life, and needed to be alone, and told you she did not love you, would you let her go?' - 'If you had a guy who you were not sure that you loved, but he loved you, and you had to choose between him and your new life, new friends, new work, what would you do?' Thanks David. Thanks for showing me the fall out.
Would you rather walk forwards, but stub your toe every step, or walk backwards for the rest of your life?
Would you rather fall in love with someone you'd never see again, or have someone you didn't love be obsessed and in love with you and always with you?
Would you rather stay indoors for the rest of your life, or have it rain wherever you were for the rest of your life?
Today my sisters took me to the 'never-know house'. It's called Dragons House, it says so on the gatepost. My seven year old sister, however, is convinced that rather than the dragons this clearly entails, a witch actually lives there. But she will never know because it only has two cars parked in the garage and you only see people (I am led to believe these are either slaves/ disguises/ magic) entering or leaving it. I've never seen such an ordinary residence for such an extraordinary being.
I summarily recommend the Green Tortoise to everyone. Particularly anyone who has any sort of obsession with anything, as they will be utterly cured.
The only issue is if you are an 18 year old girl who happens to be mildly straight. Especially if you have a prettier friend with you. (Not her or the Green Tortoise's fault, of course, as I could have told them. I could have told someone to get me out of there but I was trying to sleep.). You end up being dogged by some guy or other. I don't want love, now. I'm cured. Uninterested. Perhaps slightly scarred (you don't want to know where).
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