dirt under my nails & weariness in my eyes, i dug.
i dug up old poetry that i wrote more than a year ago.
& i imagine that we are soaked clothes on
tingling bodies, pressed together like wildflowers in a scrapbook. &
raindrops taste sweet in your presence & we are barefoot, swaying
in a puddle under a street lamp. the cacophony of whizzing cars,
it means nothing to us.
& i imagine that we are starving artists,
fingerpainting tranquil colors on canvas-skin, lucid & divine
in unnatural light. etching metaphors, too, in the margins of your back. it is
abstract for the common masses, incoherent to the untrained eye.
surrealist love, we say.
words don't come easy now.
i wonder if i imagined emotion & placed my trust in shaky adjectives far too early. far before i could spell out my youth with more than just the "y", the "o" & the "u".
we're both pretty cute for two ugly people.
ellen page & michael cera please have a communal marriage with me & do what must be done already. fo shiz.
if i wrote a letter to myself, i'd say "don't forget ambition, little girl" 'cause dreams are the only thing you can hold in your hands without strain.
fiction is always more charming than truth. i'd write myself as the villain, the heroine; 'cause subject, verb & object speak volumes for you.
someday the rain will stop.
& clarity will kiss you on the forehead. open eyes & consciousness sing sighs again.
UGH I TOTALLY JUST REALISED THAT I HAD WRITTEN ANOTHER VERSE & ONLY AS I UPLOAD HAS THIS DAWNED ON ME THAT I FORGOT TO RE-RECORD IT.
bah, it was a long enough video anyway.
happy forty-first birthday yesterday to my motherrr who plays words like "la" at scrabble & won't let me play "jedi".
AM NOT BITTER OR ANYTHING.
domesticity is not my friend.
the more i cook though, the more eating becomes as appealing as watching "bodybuilding pensioners". & while i like old geezers (patrick dempsey, this is a direct allusion to you), i prefer my geezers not quite on the dying side.
RAW MEATS, I WISH YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO FEEL SO DISGUSTING IN MY FINGERS. YOU SMELL WEIRDER THAN THE CONTENTS OF MY SISTER'S BAG. UGH.
i can't cook, i can't multi-task & i pretty much have the relationship-mentality of a neanderthal.
EXCUSE ME WHILE I REPEATEDLY BASH MY HEAD IN WITH THE FRIDGE DOOR WHILE I COME TO TERMS OF THE EPIPHANY THAT MAYBE, JUST MAYBE, I AM ACTUALLY NOT FEMALE.
the thrill of running your fingers across the keyboard is...
yeah, i lost my train of thought.
i hate blogging when what's there to blog about is as barren as your mother's womb.
(yours, not mine)
but i am spilling words onto the canvas because courtney is making me.
coot is pretty:
a stillshot from when i made a video a few days ago:
yes i know, i make an attractive tacky-horror-movie extra.
i know that i've done a lot of growing up in recent years - i've realised that the world does not revolve around romance & the approval of others, & that self-worth is all about a shift in perception. as much as i've thickened my skin since my days of awkward poise & i've learned to step on criticism in my stride, things don't exist in totalities. you can't always face things with stoicism & indifference - & someday somewhere, you're the camel & that one piece of straw will break your back.
dad often reminds me to forget haters & not to respond to them, but if there's anything that blows my fuse, it's cracks about my race & judgements on my personality - one of which i can do nothing about & the other of which i have done everything to preen.
I THINK I WILL TAKE MY THOUGHTS ELSEWHERE BEFORE THIS POST BECOMES UGLIER THAN MY POST-WAKE-UP FACE.