the other side of the world
Oh, Christ, I feel so good today.
today was a soft pearl gray in smoky moonlight sort of feeling, interspersed with repetitions and the surge and sigh of cellos; I was listening to Ra Ra Riot on repeat because I've fallen in love with Run My Mouth, and I spent the day stretched out on my bed in a nightgown too short for decency or any hope of masculinity except by my own definition (and isn't it lucky, then, that I don't define masculinity like other men do?), humming along with my eyes closed and seeing snow behind my eyelids.
My bed felt so comfortable in its rumpled state, my body languishing as though I were taller than I am- I whiled away today in utter languor, indeed, and the urge to write burn soft liquid fire trails up my throat and fingertips so the air around me felt icy. It was lovely, all of it.
I finally did my homework a few hours ago- a cross contour line drawing of my hand. Not too hard, but it came out looking so strange. I think I'll redo it, bigger this time, because I'm sure the reason Ms. Mayer wanted us to use the 18 X 24 pad wasn't simply to make it more difficult to manipulate.
In other news, I think that I may be falling in love with the soft, slight rasp of KT Tunstall's voice. It started with The Devil Wears Prada, and my love of smoky voices and backroom poetry took it from there; I've spent the last half hour or so winding through songs from Eye to the Telescope, experimenting, finding myself longing so much to write now that my stomach clenches with the slightest movement (I suppose the writer in me hasn't died after all), longing for lips to touch my skin because somehow the urge to write is always intertwined with the desire to make love in me, which I may never understand- and probably already do, because of course when I'm not sick and frightened of it, I do admit that sex is a form of art, and only one person I've ever known treats it that way.
(For that I love you.)
Someday, when I'm not a virgin anymore, I'll learn to write out my passions and paint my pleasures on the sheets and the canvasses of other people's bodies, to smooth my whispersong across ear canals not connected to my own head.
For now, though, I'm content to rhapsodize, waxing prolific and waning sultry on this black comforter in the frigid bedroom where I reign supreme for the night.
The music is making me eargasm, and all I can do right now to let out some of this cafe smooth goodness surging in my blood is squeeze myself together and open my mouth to let out the soft, pleased growl of Oh, yes that rests at the back of my throat right now. Damn, do I feel good.
today was a soft pearl gray in smoky moonlight sort of feeling, interspersed with repetitions and the surge and sigh of cellos; I was listening to Ra Ra Riot on repeat because I've fallen in love with Run My Mouth, and I spent the day stretched out on my bed in a nightgown too short for decency or any hope of masculinity except by my own definition (and isn't it lucky, then, that I don't define masculinity like other men do?), humming along with my eyes closed and seeing snow behind my eyelids.
My bed felt so comfortable in its rumpled state, my body languishing as though I were taller than I am- I whiled away today in utter languor, indeed, and the urge to write burn soft liquid fire trails up my throat and fingertips so the air around me felt icy. It was lovely, all of it.
I finally did my homework a few hours ago- a cross contour line drawing of my hand. Not too hard, but it came out looking so strange. I think I'll redo it, bigger this time, because I'm sure the reason Ms. Mayer wanted us to use the 18 X 24 pad wasn't simply to make it more difficult to manipulate.
In other news, I think that I may be falling in love with the soft, slight rasp of KT Tunstall's voice. It started with The Devil Wears Prada, and my love of smoky voices and backroom poetry took it from there; I've spent the last half hour or so winding through songs from Eye to the Telescope, experimenting, finding myself longing so much to write now that my stomach clenches with the slightest movement (I suppose the writer in me hasn't died after all), longing for lips to touch my skin because somehow the urge to write is always intertwined with the desire to make love in me, which I may never understand- and probably already do, because of course when I'm not sick and frightened of it, I do admit that sex is a form of art, and only one person I've ever known treats it that way.
(For that I love you.)
Someday, when I'm not a virgin anymore, I'll learn to write out my passions and paint my pleasures on the sheets and the canvasses of other people's bodies, to smooth my whispersong across ear canals not connected to my own head.
For now, though, I'm content to rhapsodize, waxing prolific and waning sultry on this black comforter in the frigid bedroom where I reign supreme for the night.
The music is making me eargasm, and all I can do right now to let out some of this cafe smooth goodness surging in my blood is squeeze myself together and open my mouth to let out the soft, pleased growl of Oh, yes that rests at the back of my throat right now. Damn, do I feel good.