re:stacks

this my excavation and today is Qumran
everything that happens is from now on
this is pouring rain
this is paralyzed

i keep throwing it down two-hundred at a time
it's hard to find it when you knew it
when your money's gone
and you're drunk as hell

on your back with your racks as the stacks as your load
in the back and the racks and the stacks are your load
in the back with your racks and you're un-stacking your load

i've twisting to the sun I needed to replace
the fountain in the front yard is rusted out
all my love was down
in a frozen ground

there's a black crow sitting across from me; his wiry legs are crossed
and he's dangling my keys he even fakes a toss
whatever could it be
that has brought me to this loss?

on your back with your racks as the stacks as your load
in the back and the racks and the stacks of your load
in the back with your racks and you're un-stacking your load

this is not the sound of a new man or crispy realization
it's the sound of the unlocking and the lift away
your love will be
safe with me

reacquaintance

november 09 09 -
if you're still with me - wow. with this blog i feel like i'm fruitlessly reciting into a deep dark crevasse and listening to my echo, but in case there are people reading this, i'll extend a formal apology for my lack of (public) writing. i've taken to writing solely in my private journal for the past few months. although i have my reservations, i've decided to make an online catalogue for myself of snippets or half-thoughts for easy reference in the future. i'm attempting to compile a book of poetry, a reflection on the past year of my life. most of the poems aren't fully formed and are certainly not final draft. i feel like i'm at a very healthy, able point where i can resurrect memories properly while maintaining a sobriety and distance from the events themselves. a warning - by no means do i promise these poems or exerpts be good or profound writing. you have been warned.
i erv youuu.

into thin air

"i lay naked across the bed and listened to the sounds of the night drift through the open window. the jingle of ricksha bells blended with car horns, the come-ons of street peddlers, a woman's laughter, music from a nearby bar. flat on my back, too high to move, i closed my eyes and let the glutinous premonsoon heat cover me like a balm; i felt as though i were melting into the mattress. a procession of intricately etched pinwheels and big-nosed cartoon figures floated across the back of my eyelids in neon hues.
as i turned my head to the side, my ear brushed against a wet spot;tears, i realized, were running down my face and soaking the sheets. i felt a gurgling, swelling bubble of hurt and shame roll up my spine from somewhere deep inside. erupting out of my nose and mouth in a flood of snot, the first sob was followed by another, then another and another"

-excerpt from jon krakauer's into thin air, an account on survivors guilt after the 1996 Everest disaster. the book severely disturbed me, and in doing so secured a position as one of the best non-fiction pieces i've ever read.

electric feel

i've come to a few realizations lately.
1. i can't write when i'm this stable. i guess most of my writing previously amounted to bitching...a catharsis of frustration. loneliness, jealousy, depression, illness - every vice was temporarily numbed and liberated through writing. now that i'm happy, it feels so much more difficult to communicate what i'm feeling. i stumble, smile and blush a lot more when people ask how i'm doing. on paper though, i'm an idiot. a very happy idiot.
2. i always considered myself inherently vocal. whether i'm writing or not, just a glance at my face can usually betray exactly how i'm feeling. right now though, my life feels peaceful and private. this is necessary for a lot of different reasons, not the least of which is self-preservation. vague, i know. i thought this would be more difficult, but so far it's only proven to be artistically inhibiting. i don't mind pressing my eyelids tight and quietly letting the corners of my lips ache with a smile.
3. i couldn't possibly do any of this justice. but i'll try. later.

bwhap bwhap! lataz.

sweaty palms

sorry for the lackage of posts. been too busy living vicariously through myself.

FUN FACT:

i realized i have a hangover toothbrush. usually i invade my mouth with a battery-powered brush that makes my lips tingle. however, after a long night of drinking, i prefer to manually clean my teeth with an oral b in a sober shade of blue with soft bristles. i take care to floss hard, as if i want my gums to be the only voluntary swollen part of my body.

in other news
i'm totally smitten. i'm at that unbearably sweet stage of a potential relationship where you realize how incredibly vulnerable, and stupid you are. awkward, too. it's difficult to sound eloquent when i'm this ecstatic. it leads to uncomfortable moments that sting like denim on a sunburn. all of my senses are heightened, and i likely have a skewed perception of reality. yesterday i was prepping smoothies at work. this involves the inattentive process of chucking fresh fruit onto a scale. 4oz of ice, 4oz watermelon, 2oz mango. repeat. one of my coworkers then noticed that i had an impossibly large smile on my face. "why are you smiling?", she sounded aghast, and rightly so. "i'm sorry. i really don't know", i lied. "well you don't have to apologize...", but it was clear that i did. no one has any business being that blissful with latex gloves on.
yeah. i really wouldn't trade it for anything.

fun fun fun

my friend kristina is the best host i know. upon entering her esoteric apartment, one feels comfortable and dopey. eyelids drop a few millimetres. when scott and i arrive, kristina is not yet ready (apparently). her short hair is wet and piecey and although she looks perfect, i'm informed that she was naked not 13 seconds before we hopped over her balcony and through her screen door. sighing, we tumble and perch upon the various pillows adorning the floor. a love nest, if you will. before she continues to get ready, kristina hands us big books to occupy our attention.
this is one of the many reasons i adore her. every time i come over, she hands me a different book. you can expect a "would you rather..." book (“would you rather your genitalia glowed red when you became aroused...or have the faint sound of playground chatter perpetually emanating from your crotch?”...i consider my options seriously), or a book on sculptures that you rotate around, pretending it makes sense to you.
today she handed me a giant volume titled THE BIG PENIS BOOK. i laughed at the cover, a thinly veiled erection curving across the cover like a shallow rainbow. i opened the book naively, thinking that it might entail comics, or artwork hinting at genitalia. nope. straight up cocks.
the men's faces were the best part: some of them were coy, some of them smirked, some of them were serious, as if their penis was their career; and a man who was unmistakably a redneck gave an enthusiastic look like "you should see my pick-up".
as i squirm, squeal and squint at the pictures, kristina laughs at me from the next room, and calls me a perv. she's probably right, but if that's true - i wonder what that makes her? anyways, we have fun.

april twenty one

a couple weeks ago, i was living on the island with practically no agenda. sure, i had an exam or two, but they were for english courses - thus my relative passivity. the weather was absolutely flawless, the cherry blossoms were in bloom, and i felt dopey as i'd wake up at 11am and slide on some rose-coloured shades. these sunglasses threw everything in a muted, attractive light - like a photograph you might see from the seventies, where everything is a warmer tone. i went to meet a friend for lunch at my favourite haunt, lady marmalade. no rush, no reservations, no agenda. i sat on the bus, and the usual loopy regulars seemed endearing. a girl sat crouched with her legs up on the seat, and she picked coral nail polish off her toenails, flaking onto her tanned skin. a black man with dark sunglasses was listening on his cell phone, biting his plum coloured lip with striking white teeth, smirking and obviously liking very much what he was hearing on the receiver. i sat back and enjoyed the bus ride - possibly the first time i had done so that year. usually i'm standing, holding a starbucks medium roast with no sleeve, and weighing the option between surfing the incessant turns and tilts, or touching the grimy metal poles for balance.
but not this day.
when i reached my destination, a crowded douglas street, i bellowed thanks! to the driver, and pranced off the bus. just as my feet padded the ground, i stood, frozen with shock. i witnessed an ancient man fall. this wasn't just any fall, though. the word "fall" is usually accompanied by the word "catch", or "land". this was not the case. this man's feet both fled the ground and came out from beneath him with astonishing speed. his head was the first to "catch". the unforgiving pavement caught his skull with a sickening crack, and then rest of his body "landed".
i have this unabashed feeling of respect for those individuals who, when faced with something sinister or frightening, can keep cool. i cannot.
one time, a roommate of mine was baking bread in the oven on a very low temperature. she placed a canary yellow cloth over top a bowl which contained the bread. the oven began seeping with smoke, and someone commented on it. when the oven was opened, a barrage of flames leapt out and licked the air. i was paralyzed. even if i could move, i think, somehow, that my reaction would be to move away from the fire, instead of toward it. a friend, brie, stepped forth calmly and grabbed with towel, threw it in the sink and doused it with water. everyone laughed, sighed, chuckled with relief, but i just stood motionless, in the exact same spot.
anyways, this poor old man.
people all around him stepped up, took charge, dialed paramedics, everything. i just stood there, shamefully. i watched some blood pool near the back of his head and his eyelids flutter. then, becoming removed by the masses of people stopping to watch, i turned my back and walked away. i stared at the cracked pavement, and i took off my stupid, tinted sunglasses.

fire

yesterday, my father, brother and i had a giant fire near the back of our property. all of remnants of hard work over the past few months - raked leaves, spiraling branches, thick blackberry bush - all of winter's carnage - set on fire.
after five hours of work, we huddled. overturned flower pots, dry mounds of dirt, crouching, we sat and watched the bed of ashes. pulsing glow. my limbs felt satisfied. scratched adorned my arms where the branches or thorns tried to avenge their fate.
i felt so far removed from real life. from civilization. the fire, one of the most ancient rituals. it has old power. i felt dirty, swollen and happy.

resurrection

i climb the most beautiful trees,
trees with such rotten limbs.

not for emma, not forever ago.

go find another lover
to bring a … to string along
with all your lies
you’re still very lovable
i toured the light
so many foreign roads

- bon iver
(thanks for giving me such a good winter)

i'm starting to become more and more convinced that i don't deserve this.
i gave so much. if i wasn't anything, i was a loyal lover.
that's what i am, a lover. i have that capacity, and even after all this heartbreak
i think it still remains. i'm glad that even after you took so much away,
you can't take that away. i'm just relieved. it won't be you.

karma, baby. you get what you give. if you give your most empty, vacant self ; hollow words
thick with idle intoxication...
you'll get it right back.

this is what i will take solace in now.

love as artifice

here are my conflicting thoughts on love. love is an artifice. it is self-serving. one sees in their partner that which they'd like to see in themselves. if there is a void, one looks for a "counterpart" to fill said void. for example, someone has a low self-esteem, but their partner validates it. they comfort you, make you feel strong, make you feel sure of yourself.
you can be in love with how someone makes you feel, certainly, but i'm wondering if someone can ever truly love another without it being narcissistic.
for example, when you are with your girlfriend, boyfriend, spouse, partner, whatever, and you observe them doing something that makes you smile. you know that feeling of watching someone in their element?...it seems there is nothing more beautiful and natural and candid. you watch their beautiful limbs move, admire how their hair shines, smirk at the little nuances, little characteristics that you have claimed as "yours". are you really appreciating and experiencing someone outside yourself making you happy? or is it this unconscious self-contentment, smugness - the recognition that you have the capability to feel this way - that makes us think "this is love".

just like there's something self-congratulatory about being happy for someone (as uncomfortable as it is to admit it). are you truly happy for that person? or are you more pleased with the fact that, yes, you had the capability to be happy for someone outside yourself. "this makes me a good person" - it's a good feeling, no? you took a moment to express a good feeling toward someone else - a compliment, well wishing, happy birthday. are we ever really happy that it's someone's birthday? or are you just happy that you remembered? "yes, i'm organized, i have it all together".

what do you think?

pain

"people are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. people talk about how great love is, but that's bullshit. love hurts. feelings are disturbing. people are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. how can they deal with love if they're afraid to feel? pain is meant to wake us up. people try to hide their pain. but they're wrong. pain is something to carry, like a radio. you feel your strength in the experience of pain. it's all in how you carry it. that's what matters. pain is a feeling. your feelings are a part of you. your own reality. if you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you're letting society destroy your reality. you should stand up for your right to feel your pain.”

-jim morrison

ongiara

i became awake,
from a very dark place, a patchwork of fear, of poorly conceived ideas.
with a blister of water, the mark of working hands,
ready to catch, or cut.
the senses aligned, the animal urgency, and voices picked up,
flowing over the static, late, quiet.

i became awake.
fingers are open, eyes they are open, the firing of images, an orchestra of scribbles.
the guts of an engine, the veins of a leaf, light onto paper, exposed.
a filament in a bulb, up above or in the ground.
together we are magic, together we are dreaming, together we reach endlessly,
the center of a seed, so full of possibilities.

i became awake.
i thought i was sleeping, but i was only forming
a structure with no ceiling,
with words like a runway, a cloud of a person drifting away.
i was heavy, but now i am light.
i was heavy, but now i am light.

sun it rises

concave, my arms are around my knees and i have this pillow taken from the corner of the couch in your living room that was a mistake. i can't be bothered to perk the corners of my eyes and flood those dry spots with the surrounding, penetrating sun. i'm in the t-shirt i wear every day but it's thinned out from the way i sleep in it every night. my body is thinned out, too, from the way i live in it every day. the sleeves of my shirt are huddled atop my shoulders. i like how i feel so small beneath the reaching cherry blossom trees, dappling gently in the light wind. if any one still inhabited the crook of my neck, they would smell the wind and grapefruit and sugar beet hair creme - the only contribution i'm willing to give to my feminine responsibilities. the air is rarefied but cold enough to make me aware of the gaps between my teeth when i seethe it in. right now i'm empathizing with the spots of shadow on the ground that aren't lit up in small budding patches of blurry light. the elastics in my underwear have nothing to hug and hang a little limp and showy in the cotton. right now i want this privacy this peace forever as i sit so small and the trees they arch and the sun it rises and i observe through my fanned eyelashes.

mutability

"i wish i was like you - easily amused." - kurt cobain
what is it that makes us such inconstant creatures? what makes us happy one day makes us restless the next. we can work for something, put blood sweat tears more blood more tears less sweat into something, and then one day it's not enough. we are like children, greedily casting away toys that our parents have put thought into, paid money for.
and relationships. this one is boring - not holding my attention. time to find some new pussy.
and drugs, booze included - enjoyable and pathetic ways to pass the hours of your life, enhancing or stifling your senses so that you might appreciate what you have around you. "whoa! the floor is like water!" haven't you ever had your washing machine overflow? "dude - look at all the fucking colours" (these exist in the real, tangible world my friend. next time you're not lying face down on the floor, look out the window!)
waking up one day, five years down the road in a fucking haze, realizing that you had meaning, had beauty all around you this whole time.
but it wasn't enough.

please don't misunderstand me - i'm just as bad as the next person. but, you know, it just makes me sad.

i'd punch your fucking head in if i felt confident that i wouldn't want to kiss it all better afterward.

beach baby

when you're out,
tell your lucky one
to know that you'll leave.
don't you lock when you're fleeing
i'd like not to hear keys.

only hold till your coffee warms,
don't hurry or speed.

once a time put a tongue
in your ear on the beach
and you clutch
kicking heels

the pain of memory

today is exciting. i saw a photo of you, and felt nothing. nothing and everything, all at once.

the hardest struggle has been memory - precise or imperfect, it's dangerous. i can't shake those fragile moments between us. when our breathing was shallow. entering a hotel room, dizzy with expectation, heightened senses, lying on the unnaturally white blankets. bodies pulsing, clutching. dopey smiles on our faces - we're alone now, baby.

the more i think of those moments, the more pressure i feel in my chest. and the more i realize, maybe you were right. maybe it wasn't that perfect. maybe we got there, and were too tired to appreciate everything. maybe your eye wandered while we held hands, too comfortable. i'll never know. i don't want to.

what i want is to forget. as nice as it is to romanticize...get it the fuck out of my head, all of it. was it real? was it a ruse? it doesn't matter, it's irrelevant, it's over. those places, once having been ripe with meaning, so bright, so inviting in my mind, will fade. the sheets will dirty, will be replaced. weeds will grow, matted along the sidewalks.

this is where it starts. feeling nothing. sweet numbness. i'm getting closer.

henrietta

i leave the blurry light of the wood-paneled room
with filmy, downcast eyes.
my mother and three aunts hum around you.
they are trying to stroke your eyelids and murmur
significant things in your placid ears, all of them.

Angus, the African grey tilts to the side of his cage,
wrinkled eyes tightly drawn.
his maroon feathers gluey and sparse.
he will be still soon, too.

i peek in as though intruding on a ritual.
you are thrashing, your blood-clot limbs
caught in stuffy quilts.
the curled and yellowing tiles beneath you hold on
by their finger nails.

the generations - all flitting about
without me, because i know,
because you told me it would happen this way.
i see past the reddish ruse. it isn’t you.

witch daughter

tired green. bleeding yellow. why do you drape your clothes around your body that way? lips are pale and swollen as if the colour has been bitten out. a peach bobbing in skim milk. split ends snake across your skin. your thick flannel shirt hangs out. witch daughter; you wait for someone to notice. everyone notices. your biggest secret is your crooked bottom row of teeth. stop making me feel this way. witch daughter, born on the wooden table your grandfather made. your legs are small, delicate, isolated posts. everything winds around them. ivy. searching hands, cold. over-sized garments, warm breath. you look up at your mother. you lie too close to the fire, the heat bubbling the skim on your shoulder. you need an answer. you look up at your mother, in the tree. she is dead, and the branches pierce her limbs. come down. how can you coax her lifeless body down? you are the daughter of the witch. you are also the daughter of the lumberjack. you possess no real power. except power over me.

i really am glad. this will change, inevitably, this feeling of appreciation. i might as well milk it while it lasts, and hope it lingers, gently, somewhere in my subconscious. i feel grateful; free. despite what a mess the last few months of my life have been, i would be foolish to deny how lucky i am. i'm incredibly fortunate to have loved like i have loved. to have made connections with people on such a raw, emotional level. to have felt full; of passion; of contentment; of simple, childish glee; of inhibition.
i have felt loss. loss so absolute that i have been known to clutch my chest, my sides, the contours of my ribs. kneading in the skin, pushing the fragments together again. hollow, resounding loss. i have lost love, friends, my health, my sanity. i have woken, pushing an eye mask past my lids to blurry, afternoon light, unaware of what day it was, how i got there.
i often wonder how i got here.
but i am glad. if these empty days have taught me anything, it is what i'm capable of. i'm still alive, aren't i? i'm young. i have opportunity.
i hope this blog will help me heal. visible, tangible pieces of myself, my thought processes, my passions. a place where i can be honest, stripped of all pretense. confronting elation, pain, struggles, numbness in it's entirety.