How many elements are in copper?
Well, I admit- I’ve been avoiding updating this thing for a while now. I don’t really have anything to write about. It must be terribly boring for those who do. I look at my homepage and I just don't see the point … all my posts look the same, the only comfort is when people post and read and comment, because the only reason I really keep this site is for friends. shweet friends.
I was so blonde the other day in class, it’s not even funny. I couldn’t even pay attention. And I kept asking -stupid- questions, like, “How many elements are there in copper again?”
…
I’m so bad at that class. SO BAD. It’s all memorizing stuff… Geology. Rocks. Like I can’t remember the name for salt rock. Ever. It’s salt. Can I please just say salt. I can’t remember the name for chalk rock either. It’s chalk. Can’t I please just say chalk. Probably the only ones I can memorize are graphite, just because it looks like pencil lead (okay, it is pencil lead,) and maybe quartz, if it looks like quartz. That’s the problem. All the rocks look the SAME. THE SAME. Most of them look grey. And are hard. And the ones that aren’t grey and hard have c o m p l i c a t e d names that I can’t pronounce. Like, Plagioclase, which sounds more like a disease than a rock.
Then, the samples we memorize look completely different than the ones we’re using for the test. So I’ll be all, “OK. Kyanite. It looks like the blueish mold on my bread. Ok. Kyanite=moldy blue.” So I go and look at the test samples, and oh, yes yes. Kyanite is…. Yellow.
Nice.
I turned in my application at the Blanco Street Café, finally. Everybody had better be crossing their fingers and praying for me because I really REALLY REALLY need a job right now. I owe my parents at LEAST a million dollars for textbooks.
Black canvas, stretched so tightly across wooden
beams, stapled in and sold for so high a price,
tell me, what will it take for absolution?
Deliverance?
Or do I truly want to know? They say the heart
needs a streak of imperfection to be made whole, and
yet even this I cannot define. Comprehend, I try so
hard to understand through dotted reflections in
broken mirrors, peeking out from make-shift shelters
at illusions I mistake for realities, oh, deliver me.
Like all we can do is think and dream and try to
understand through the bottoms of our glass and
the fire slowly dying inside of us, I try to see that
there is something more but all we can do is just
hurt and fuck and kiss on the mouth until we taste
too much like each other to discern our lips from
roses or our bones from ashes.
I look inside of photographs like documented dream
worlds when air is warm and the pills are gone,
glossy surfaces faded and the only person I can't
find is me, sifting through synthetic smiles, the
dead are really only photographs, they say.
And in the end I'm still here and I'm still me and
I've been in this skin way too long to recognize
anything, from flaws and failures to my own sordid
face, the mirrors mock me and I drop all the baskets
I have ever carried. I sob over static lines, to
people I don't know well enough to lie to, I cry that
I don't know myself anymore and voices from miles away
sooth me until I hang up the phone and fall.
And I fall into slumber seeing his face, I awake with
my arms closed around anothers. In between are acid
color dream sequences, colors of a requiem, they
smell like all I have ever lost before.
...And all the days I have ever lived are simply slideshow series of
photographs.
I was so blonde the other day in class, it’s not even funny. I couldn’t even pay attention. And I kept asking -stupid- questions, like, “How many elements are there in copper again?”
…
I’m so bad at that class. SO BAD. It’s all memorizing stuff… Geology. Rocks. Like I can’t remember the name for salt rock. Ever. It’s salt. Can I please just say salt. I can’t remember the name for chalk rock either. It’s chalk. Can’t I please just say chalk. Probably the only ones I can memorize are graphite, just because it looks like pencil lead (okay, it is pencil lead,) and maybe quartz, if it looks like quartz. That’s the problem. All the rocks look the SAME. THE SAME. Most of them look grey. And are hard. And the ones that aren’t grey and hard have c o m p l i c a t e d names that I can’t pronounce. Like, Plagioclase, which sounds more like a disease than a rock.
Then, the samples we memorize look completely different than the ones we’re using for the test. So I’ll be all, “OK. Kyanite. It looks like the blueish mold on my bread. Ok. Kyanite=moldy blue.” So I go and look at the test samples, and oh, yes yes. Kyanite is…. Yellow.
Nice.
I turned in my application at the Blanco Street Café, finally. Everybody had better be crossing their fingers and praying for me because I really REALLY REALLY need a job right now. I owe my parents at LEAST a million dollars for textbooks.
Black canvas, stretched so tightly across wooden
beams, stapled in and sold for so high a price,
tell me, what will it take for absolution?
Deliverance?
Or do I truly want to know? They say the heart
needs a streak of imperfection to be made whole, and
yet even this I cannot define. Comprehend, I try so
hard to understand through dotted reflections in
broken mirrors, peeking out from make-shift shelters
at illusions I mistake for realities, oh, deliver me.
Like all we can do is think and dream and try to
understand through the bottoms of our glass and
the fire slowly dying inside of us, I try to see that
there is something more but all we can do is just
hurt and fuck and kiss on the mouth until we taste
too much like each other to discern our lips from
roses or our bones from ashes.
I look inside of photographs like documented dream
worlds when air is warm and the pills are gone,
glossy surfaces faded and the only person I can't
find is me, sifting through synthetic smiles, the
dead are really only photographs, they say.
And in the end I'm still here and I'm still me and
I've been in this skin way too long to recognize
anything, from flaws and failures to my own sordid
face, the mirrors mock me and I drop all the baskets
I have ever carried. I sob over static lines, to
people I don't know well enough to lie to, I cry that
I don't know myself anymore and voices from miles away
sooth me until I hang up the phone and fall.
And I fall into slumber seeing his face, I awake with
my arms closed around anothers. In between are acid
color dream sequences, colors of a requiem, they
smell like all I have ever lost before.
...And all the days I have ever lived are simply slideshow series of
photographs.