conversations of silence
my sixth sense is emotion. my seventh sense is something that i cannot really tell anyone about because even i can't explain it. it's just there. i "know".
it continues to pour outside. i am soaking wet from my morning dance with the rain. it pours through me and i process the rain and everything with it: the dreary fall morning, the extremely overcast skies, as emotional appendages. today, i gained a feeling -- the rain; through sight, nostalgia, through hearing, melancholy, through scent, escape, through touch, possibilities, through taste, desire.
***
i have been working on a poem for several days now. the words are there, but the draft has been sitting in my computer, untouched. everytime i make an attempt to work on it, i am stuck. i stare at it as if it were empty.
***
the feeling of fall, falling, autumn, death, death as the end, death as the beginning ...
the most nostalgic feeling brought about by my sensuality is FALL. not autumn, but fall ... something about the word that makes my insides churn, alternating warmth and coolness ... it is the most beautiful season, yet the saddest. it is the happiest time of the year for me, yet most melancholic.
the fall is my eighth sense.
***
i mused once: "what is love, but possession?" ... we say it's not possession, yet we want to "own", gain a sense of ownership -- the feeling that touches the most unfathomable of our desires, as if in a dream that one cannot remember dreaming, as if it was the second that it takes to miss the sun setting: you look away and it's gone -- to own the person, to free one's self and fly into one's domain so one can be owned, in effect ... to have, to own, to be owned, to be had ...
i remember the poem i wrote earlier this year. it was based on lacan's theory on desire. we desire the mirror image of ourselves, but mirror images are misleading.
look in the mirror and you will see.
***
i wrote this entry so that i can reveal these succeeding lines and hidden somewhere is a message:
question: what is love, but possession?
answer: you are beautiful, but you are not mine.
question: must we possess what is beautiful?
answer: i must possess you, but i can't.
question: what is love then?
answer: it's not beautiful.
question: what is love, but possession?
answer: love is not possession, desire is.
question: can i desire you?
answer: you already have.
***
EDIT: i finished the poem!
fall, in fragments
by marie bismonte
new york, 12 october 2005
it is always that time of day
when the season is compounded into an hour,
that hour light departs and arrives
again, a cold azure darkening
into dusk, something crumbles
inside these four walls,
time is broken down in varying degrees:
intimacy, at each quarter angle, signals
a turning: vermilion receding into midnight.
to touch is to fall, not falling
into the subtleties of correlations:
beauty and sadness, completion and inception.
the gesture of interpretation in memory
and meaning, the sun lowers;
something sinks in: a falling leaf does not hold.
it continues to pour outside. i am soaking wet from my morning dance with the rain. it pours through me and i process the rain and everything with it: the dreary fall morning, the extremely overcast skies, as emotional appendages. today, i gained a feeling -- the rain; through sight, nostalgia, through hearing, melancholy, through scent, escape, through touch, possibilities, through taste, desire.
***
i have been working on a poem for several days now. the words are there, but the draft has been sitting in my computer, untouched. everytime i make an attempt to work on it, i am stuck. i stare at it as if it were empty.
***
the feeling of fall, falling, autumn, death, death as the end, death as the beginning ...
the most nostalgic feeling brought about by my sensuality is FALL. not autumn, but fall ... something about the word that makes my insides churn, alternating warmth and coolness ... it is the most beautiful season, yet the saddest. it is the happiest time of the year for me, yet most melancholic.
the fall is my eighth sense.
***
i mused once: "what is love, but possession?" ... we say it's not possession, yet we want to "own", gain a sense of ownership -- the feeling that touches the most unfathomable of our desires, as if in a dream that one cannot remember dreaming, as if it was the second that it takes to miss the sun setting: you look away and it's gone -- to own the person, to free one's self and fly into one's domain so one can be owned, in effect ... to have, to own, to be owned, to be had ...
i remember the poem i wrote earlier this year. it was based on lacan's theory on desire. we desire the mirror image of ourselves, but mirror images are misleading.
look in the mirror and you will see.
***
i wrote this entry so that i can reveal these succeeding lines and hidden somewhere is a message:
question: what is love, but possession?
answer: you are beautiful, but you are not mine.
question: must we possess what is beautiful?
answer: i must possess you, but i can't.
question: what is love then?
answer: it's not beautiful.
question: what is love, but possession?
answer: love is not possession, desire is.
question: can i desire you?
answer: you already have.
***
EDIT: i finished the poem!
fall, in fragments
by marie bismonte
new york, 12 october 2005
it is always that time of day
when the season is compounded into an hour,
that hour light departs and arrives
again, a cold azure darkening
into dusk, something crumbles
inside these four walls,
time is broken down in varying degrees:
intimacy, at each quarter angle, signals
a turning: vermilion receding into midnight.
to touch is to fall, not falling
into the subtleties of correlations:
beauty and sadness, completion and inception.
the gesture of interpretation in memory
and meaning, the sun lowers;
something sinks in: a falling leaf does not hold.