(no subject)
years of slicing flesh to make more space for air. slipping through our own fingers, into sculpture, clear needle arms, or ivory, clavicles like a piece of furniture i spent forever searching for in a lonely antique store.(how we wish that they were heirlooms.) isn't that what it's all about anyway? glaciating ourselves for a moment into a simulacrum a replica a ghost. a thing. a precise, flickering etching even if it means dying,(dying butnotdeath). we all want to freeze things, ice things over, as though an instant, or a fraction of one, reflects an era. or a life. we forget how mercurial moments are.
i've seen the most angelical girls pick up developed rolls of film from the store, eyes lambent at having illustrations now of the beautiful time they had at some birthday, on some road trip. and they felt beautiful in that dizzy montage of moments, and they feel beautiful about it in their head, but then they look at the pictures and the recollection is suddenly distorted by an unfaithful camera lens, and they don't feel beautiful anymore. and the memory is burnt down to the wires.
it's really sad because anybody can see that the creatures we see on film are completely separate entities to the creatures we are. some people translate well to celluloid some don't. it's just a representation, not always a nice one. but we're all intent upon the chiselling of ourselves, scissoring pieces here and there to fit nicely into that two dimensional world that was originally designed to imitate or ornament life. and why?because, photographs make us immortal? because the people we leave behind will ache with love at this retouched, warped, moonblink of a minute we apparently lived?
i was always camera phobic, even as a small child. the pictures didn't seem real. people would say, you're beautiful, and i believed it, but i didn't see how a six dollar stack of photos from the supermarket in any way matched the mark moments left in the internal room in my mind. it unsettled me, mostly. (the room was obsessive, fleshy and bony simultaneously, a chameleon, the wall projections shifted to suit my heart on which ever day.)
anyway. what i really meant to say was, years of conscious self abuse. and then somehow the fact that i only weigh 104lbs has managed to elude me. until, until people start commenting. and it's not that little. but you'd think i would have noticed before everyone else did. after all, aren't i the only one looking?
yeah, we're meant to be sculptures, but we end up just cadavers. fucked in a gutter. but fuck, we're not ornaments, we're just shapes; we're pieces. we fit together. i'm sick of being alone.
i've seen the most angelical girls pick up developed rolls of film from the store, eyes lambent at having illustrations now of the beautiful time they had at some birthday, on some road trip. and they felt beautiful in that dizzy montage of moments, and they feel beautiful about it in their head, but then they look at the pictures and the recollection is suddenly distorted by an unfaithful camera lens, and they don't feel beautiful anymore. and the memory is burnt down to the wires.
it's really sad because anybody can see that the creatures we see on film are completely separate entities to the creatures we are. some people translate well to celluloid some don't. it's just a representation, not always a nice one. but we're all intent upon the chiselling of ourselves, scissoring pieces here and there to fit nicely into that two dimensional world that was originally designed to imitate or ornament life. and why?because, photographs make us immortal? because the people we leave behind will ache with love at this retouched, warped, moonblink of a minute we apparently lived?
i was always camera phobic, even as a small child. the pictures didn't seem real. people would say, you're beautiful, and i believed it, but i didn't see how a six dollar stack of photos from the supermarket in any way matched the mark moments left in the internal room in my mind. it unsettled me, mostly. (the room was obsessive, fleshy and bony simultaneously, a chameleon, the wall projections shifted to suit my heart on which ever day.)
anyway. what i really meant to say was, years of conscious self abuse. and then somehow the fact that i only weigh 104lbs has managed to elude me. until, until people start commenting. and it's not that little. but you'd think i would have noticed before everyone else did. after all, aren't i the only one looking?
yeah, we're meant to be sculptures, but we end up just cadavers. fucked in a gutter. but fuck, we're not ornaments, we're just shapes; we're pieces. we fit together. i'm sick of being alone.