(no subject)
i used to be scared of smoking to the very tail of a joint,
now it's my favorite part.
i love the way the heat feels on my fingers.
hot and greasy.
i love the smoke towards that end better, after the first toke, the readjustment of lung-expectations.
i love seeing the ocean in your eyes and the colors of your skin so clearly.
coming to terms with who i am just yet.
like i am who i am today.
that will change.
it's just about how much effort i feel like putting into the change.
how desperate i am for it.
i'm content.
i'm excited.
that's all one can really ask for.
i feel silly regressing back into the labels of adolescent ideals,
punks, hippies, stoners, all these characters with their styles and habits and lifestyles,
even down to their jewelery and ethics...
and i was never any of them.
and i was all of them.
and i am all of them.
and i will be all of them.
so much fabric!
it haunts me like a delicious daydream.
we play atom and eve in the garden of eden.
but there are no birth control security gaurds, just god, the baker.
we watch the postman.
and i dream of being a postman.
remember that postlady in vancouver i talked to on the street, she complimented my shoes as a walked by making maps of the commercial drive area, i enquired about what one needs to do to become a courior.
i think of jenn jefferies and her bicycle.
i think of all my pairs of ripped jeans.
i think of my rippling biceps in the sun of an orchard.
i don't need cigerettes, just fill my palms with the good green lord.
i wear my red velvet shorts.
i think of garter belts.
would that really be sexy?
i remember simon saying bike cleats were sexy...
i think of tattoos.
then i think, naw, never!
we play scrabble and listen to fleetwood mac and dad's doing the laundry asks us
going back to my childhood?
but you can't own childhood. it is freedom.
freedom to listen to the records on the shelf that will never be thrown away but that will never be listened to because they are a thing of the past and childhood is a thing of the past and we're not allowed to be nostalgic about a past we never got to live.
but a present that we can live if we choose not to fear judgement.
i will be braver, one day.
i go to visit my neighbors, a lovely iranian woman with her daughter. there are all kinds of different floral patterns, from the plastic tablecloth to the curtins. she has a string of little plastic pearls connecting the arms of her glasses. she wears beiges, knitted acryilic sweater and a corduroy coat. there is a skin rash around her ear. she says i remind her of my mom. i look through their house unashamed. there are losts of exotic scripts around, prayer calenders, tons of books, half a watermelon carved on the kitchn table (later on she offers me some scrapings of it in a white porcelin bowl), all kinds of vegetables on their table, a photograph of the daughter, when she was one years old hangs on the wall. she is now a grown woman with her own office in the house to do her school work and help her mother with the tax return business. i see a to-do list tacked onto the fridge. to-do lists being our truest selves, our most ideal, if we could just manage to get the stuff on the to-do list done, then we'll be one step closer to success, or at least our true selves. she reads deligently and the stack of books on her tables and chairs are enormous, reads while the computer screen is loading. the mothers office is in the room most people would use for shoes and coats. the wall is green.
you sleep on the futon.
yesterday we biked to vernon and back.
today we sleep in, eat like kings and pigs all day, lounge, smoke, romp, etc. etc.
your breath is soft in the big blue and white sweater. i love seeing you in clothes i haven't seen you in before...
you are an organic organim.
all parts moving as a result of the heart, all parts slightly delayed with the gradual flow of breath inhalation/exhalation and blood, all heaving, all connected, all strong.
you make me want to write vivaciously.
thank you.
you were a shaman this afternoon.
you healed my face for a moment.
you melted it into oblivion.
i love melting. but when i do it i become dead weight.
i do not want to be dead weight.
i want to be free weight.
and i want to participate.
i loved singing to you.
it feels like it was the first time i've ever sang to you.
i feel there are so many places and so many people
that i would like to hang out with in this life.
i feel there are so many characters that i myself want to encompass, to dress the part, to speak the part, to play the role, to roll, to shuffle, to try new tricks, to forget old habits, to keeping going and learning and growing and to be inspired by the past but not confined to it. at 10 pm all i can think about is tomorrow's art, tomorrow's art, tomorrow's art.
but the morning is a time of forgetfullness.
i dreamed of my dad wearing white stilletos, casually, like it was no big deal.
i see the neccesity of moving out.
moving out of this house.
moving out of kelowna.
anything is possible....and maybe that's what's so hard about getting anything done.
now it's my favorite part.
i love the way the heat feels on my fingers.
hot and greasy.
i love the smoke towards that end better, after the first toke, the readjustment of lung-expectations.
i love seeing the ocean in your eyes and the colors of your skin so clearly.
coming to terms with who i am just yet.
like i am who i am today.
that will change.
it's just about how much effort i feel like putting into the change.
how desperate i am for it.
i'm content.
i'm excited.
that's all one can really ask for.
i feel silly regressing back into the labels of adolescent ideals,
punks, hippies, stoners, all these characters with their styles and habits and lifestyles,
even down to their jewelery and ethics...
and i was never any of them.
and i was all of them.
and i am all of them.
and i will be all of them.
so much fabric!
it haunts me like a delicious daydream.
we play atom and eve in the garden of eden.
but there are no birth control security gaurds, just god, the baker.
we watch the postman.
and i dream of being a postman.
remember that postlady in vancouver i talked to on the street, she complimented my shoes as a walked by making maps of the commercial drive area, i enquired about what one needs to do to become a courior.
i think of jenn jefferies and her bicycle.
i think of all my pairs of ripped jeans.
i think of my rippling biceps in the sun of an orchard.
i don't need cigerettes, just fill my palms with the good green lord.
i wear my red velvet shorts.
i think of garter belts.
would that really be sexy?
i remember simon saying bike cleats were sexy...
i think of tattoos.
then i think, naw, never!
we play scrabble and listen to fleetwood mac and dad's doing the laundry asks us
going back to my childhood?
but you can't own childhood. it is freedom.
freedom to listen to the records on the shelf that will never be thrown away but that will never be listened to because they are a thing of the past and childhood is a thing of the past and we're not allowed to be nostalgic about a past we never got to live.
but a present that we can live if we choose not to fear judgement.
i will be braver, one day.
i go to visit my neighbors, a lovely iranian woman with her daughter. there are all kinds of different floral patterns, from the plastic tablecloth to the curtins. she has a string of little plastic pearls connecting the arms of her glasses. she wears beiges, knitted acryilic sweater and a corduroy coat. there is a skin rash around her ear. she says i remind her of my mom. i look through their house unashamed. there are losts of exotic scripts around, prayer calenders, tons of books, half a watermelon carved on the kitchn table (later on she offers me some scrapings of it in a white porcelin bowl), all kinds of vegetables on their table, a photograph of the daughter, when she was one years old hangs on the wall. she is now a grown woman with her own office in the house to do her school work and help her mother with the tax return business. i see a to-do list tacked onto the fridge. to-do lists being our truest selves, our most ideal, if we could just manage to get the stuff on the to-do list done, then we'll be one step closer to success, or at least our true selves. she reads deligently and the stack of books on her tables and chairs are enormous, reads while the computer screen is loading. the mothers office is in the room most people would use for shoes and coats. the wall is green.
you sleep on the futon.
yesterday we biked to vernon and back.
today we sleep in, eat like kings and pigs all day, lounge, smoke, romp, etc. etc.
your breath is soft in the big blue and white sweater. i love seeing you in clothes i haven't seen you in before...
you are an organic organim.
all parts moving as a result of the heart, all parts slightly delayed with the gradual flow of breath inhalation/exhalation and blood, all heaving, all connected, all strong.
you make me want to write vivaciously.
thank you.
you were a shaman this afternoon.
you healed my face for a moment.
you melted it into oblivion.
i love melting. but when i do it i become dead weight.
i do not want to be dead weight.
i want to be free weight.
and i want to participate.
i loved singing to you.
it feels like it was the first time i've ever sang to you.
i feel there are so many places and so many people
that i would like to hang out with in this life.
i feel there are so many characters that i myself want to encompass, to dress the part, to speak the part, to play the role, to roll, to shuffle, to try new tricks, to forget old habits, to keeping going and learning and growing and to be inspired by the past but not confined to it. at 10 pm all i can think about is tomorrow's art, tomorrow's art, tomorrow's art.
but the morning is a time of forgetfullness.
i dreamed of my dad wearing white stilletos, casually, like it was no big deal.
i see the neccesity of moving out.
moving out of this house.
moving out of kelowna.
anything is possible....and maybe that's what's so hard about getting anything done.