(no subject)
*Human Cohesion Looses its' Reason
It is dangerous to stare at yourself for too long. Looking in the mirror today, I slightly lost my grip. Suddenly, I was no longer a cohesive individual, but merely an assemblage of parts. Limbs, lips, ears, eyes, a nose-all separate and uncooperative. Just shapes, not good or bad. And then nothing but a pervading sense of sadness. I had reduced myself to a heap of disjointed uselessness. But then my mother called to tell me she was having the walls of my bathroom painted and would like to know what color I prefer, robin’s egg blue or pale yellow. I told her I had no preference, I trust her judgment. That was all good and fine, she would go with the blue. But she had to go, filing due in court by the end of day. She loves and misses me-thinks about me at night before she goes to sleep. Click, conversation over. And then the pieces of my face came back together. My mother wanting my opinion about silly things reminds me that I am me, Karen. Daughter of Claudia, someone who loves me for everything that I am and am not. I appreciate her and all mothers for their all-encompassing soothing qualities. Mothers are magnificent beings. What lesson should I derive from these moments of weirdness in which I became unglued? At the very least, I should avoid taking myself too seriously. Maybe avoid unnecessary gazes into the mirror as well.
* Sex and Stuff
I am a very sexual person. We all are to varying extents. I very much enjoy sex and physical tension and things of the like. But lately I’ve been feeling stifled and frustrated in this area of my life. I’m not sure what to do about this yet. Further, I’m not positive there is anything to do. In the meantime, I fill this carnal void with friends, and books, and stimulating conversation. My ridiculous lusting continues however.
Oh, the stuff part. I've been shoplifting a lot. Clothing and food is insultingly overpriced. Thus, it seems appropriate to occasionally to take things without forking over money that I should rightly keep in my pocket. I geuss I see myself as a balancing agent. Promoting equilibrium in an otherwise outrageous market. I've even gone so far as to say I'm combating capatilism. Although this argument has been invalidated many times by my peers. It's still cool to say though. "Fighting Capitalism one stolen, overpriced shirt at a time!" Ha.
* Worm of the Book
Although I have taken on endless amounts of reading, I’m attempting to re-read Anthropology of an American Girl. In short, I love this book. It is sharp and gleaming, like a blade. In your life, there are novels that grab at the core of your being and never let go. The ability of man (and by man, I mean man and woman) to keenly observe then articulate human experience is an invaluable gift. This passage, a favorite among many, makes my body and soul ache.
"Against the bedroom window is the Hudson river. It is shallow like a decal or a holiday transparency. I can't see past the glass, only in it. I see my arms and face, white from blue moonlight or blue from white moonlight. My arms look like dead arms, clipped to my shoulders by pins, dangling. I stare into indigo deadness as my image detaches from my silhouette, stepping away.
She touches her cheek. My arm remains hanging. She pivots, winding one-quarter around, though I am still. Her hands draw behind her back and rest airily on the rise beneath it, which is square, which is round, she is a girl. I know this girl, I think. She may be the one I'd once been. In my throat I taste the extract of her desire, in the slope of my waist to the billow of my hip I see the same petition for seduction. She is driven. I was driven.
I wish to speak, to say something. But things that are legible to the senses are often captive to language, such as the dizzying faraway feeling you get from the way daylight pools on the kitchen floor, mesmerizing you in the midst of sudden misfortune, making you think of the frailty of life--and the beauty. Or the shimmery persistence of a perfume that lingers in the air, filling you with longing when you pass through. Possibly it is the fragrance a teacher wore, or your mother. No words can describe what it means to lose someone you love, or tell you what it is to grieve.
And loneliness. I should say something of loneliness. The panic, the sweeping hysteria that comes not when you are without others, but when you are without yourself, adrift. I should describe the filthy province of mind, the blighted district inside, the place so crowded you cannot raise the lids of your eyes. Your shoulders are drawn and your head has fallen and your chest is bruised by the constant assault of your heart. No air, no air, nothing but your own sticky breath, panting wet and sticky. I want to convey the burden of despair, the ruin of compromise. Be brave, I should say, the way brave used to be--desperate to live and to love. I want her to prepare for the curse of perseverance. She may not know about resiliency. That she will last."
*“Music is the vernacular of the human soul.” -Geoffrey Latham
The Cure’s “Pictures of You” is a great song. For me, it incites feelings of being 15 and dealing with everything that accompanies that absurd period in life. It makes me feel wondferfully juvenile.
“I’ve been looking so long at these pictures of
you that I almost believe that they're real I’ve
been living so long with my pictures of you that
I almost believe that the pictures are all I can
feel
remembering you standing quiet in the rain as
I ran to your heart to be near and we kissed as
the sky fell in holding you close how I always
held close in your fear remembering you
running soft through the night you were bigger
and brighter and whiter than the snow and
screamed at the make-believe screamed at the
sky and you finally found all your courage to
let it all go
remembering you fallen into my arms crying
for the death of your heart you were stone
white so delicate lost in the cold you were
always so lost in the dark remembering you
how you used to be slow drowned you were
angels so much more than everything oh hold
for the last time then slip away quietly open
my eyes but I never see anything
if only I had thought of the right words I could
have held on to your heart if only I’d thought of
the right words I wouldn't be breaking apart all
my pictures of you
Looking So long at these pictures of you but I
never hold on to your heart looking so long for
the words to be true but always just breaking
apart my pictures of you
there was nothing in the world that I ever
wanted more than to feel you deep in my heart
there was nothing in the world that I ever
wanted more than to never feel the breaking
apart all my pictures of you”
It is dangerous to stare at yourself for too long. Looking in the mirror today, I slightly lost my grip. Suddenly, I was no longer a cohesive individual, but merely an assemblage of parts. Limbs, lips, ears, eyes, a nose-all separate and uncooperative. Just shapes, not good or bad. And then nothing but a pervading sense of sadness. I had reduced myself to a heap of disjointed uselessness. But then my mother called to tell me she was having the walls of my bathroom painted and would like to know what color I prefer, robin’s egg blue or pale yellow. I told her I had no preference, I trust her judgment. That was all good and fine, she would go with the blue. But she had to go, filing due in court by the end of day. She loves and misses me-thinks about me at night before she goes to sleep. Click, conversation over. And then the pieces of my face came back together. My mother wanting my opinion about silly things reminds me that I am me, Karen. Daughter of Claudia, someone who loves me for everything that I am and am not. I appreciate her and all mothers for their all-encompassing soothing qualities. Mothers are magnificent beings. What lesson should I derive from these moments of weirdness in which I became unglued? At the very least, I should avoid taking myself too seriously. Maybe avoid unnecessary gazes into the mirror as well.
* Sex and Stuff
I am a very sexual person. We all are to varying extents. I very much enjoy sex and physical tension and things of the like. But lately I’ve been feeling stifled and frustrated in this area of my life. I’m not sure what to do about this yet. Further, I’m not positive there is anything to do. In the meantime, I fill this carnal void with friends, and books, and stimulating conversation. My ridiculous lusting continues however.
Oh, the stuff part. I've been shoplifting a lot. Clothing and food is insultingly overpriced. Thus, it seems appropriate to occasionally to take things without forking over money that I should rightly keep in my pocket. I geuss I see myself as a balancing agent. Promoting equilibrium in an otherwise outrageous market. I've even gone so far as to say I'm combating capatilism. Although this argument has been invalidated many times by my peers. It's still cool to say though. "Fighting Capitalism one stolen, overpriced shirt at a time!" Ha.
* Worm of the Book
Although I have taken on endless amounts of reading, I’m attempting to re-read Anthropology of an American Girl. In short, I love this book. It is sharp and gleaming, like a blade. In your life, there are novels that grab at the core of your being and never let go. The ability of man (and by man, I mean man and woman) to keenly observe then articulate human experience is an invaluable gift. This passage, a favorite among many, makes my body and soul ache.
"Against the bedroom window is the Hudson river. It is shallow like a decal or a holiday transparency. I can't see past the glass, only in it. I see my arms and face, white from blue moonlight or blue from white moonlight. My arms look like dead arms, clipped to my shoulders by pins, dangling. I stare into indigo deadness as my image detaches from my silhouette, stepping away.
She touches her cheek. My arm remains hanging. She pivots, winding one-quarter around, though I am still. Her hands draw behind her back and rest airily on the rise beneath it, which is square, which is round, she is a girl. I know this girl, I think. She may be the one I'd once been. In my throat I taste the extract of her desire, in the slope of my waist to the billow of my hip I see the same petition for seduction. She is driven. I was driven.
I wish to speak, to say something. But things that are legible to the senses are often captive to language, such as the dizzying faraway feeling you get from the way daylight pools on the kitchen floor, mesmerizing you in the midst of sudden misfortune, making you think of the frailty of life--and the beauty. Or the shimmery persistence of a perfume that lingers in the air, filling you with longing when you pass through. Possibly it is the fragrance a teacher wore, or your mother. No words can describe what it means to lose someone you love, or tell you what it is to grieve.
And loneliness. I should say something of loneliness. The panic, the sweeping hysteria that comes not when you are without others, but when you are without yourself, adrift. I should describe the filthy province of mind, the blighted district inside, the place so crowded you cannot raise the lids of your eyes. Your shoulders are drawn and your head has fallen and your chest is bruised by the constant assault of your heart. No air, no air, nothing but your own sticky breath, panting wet and sticky. I want to convey the burden of despair, the ruin of compromise. Be brave, I should say, the way brave used to be--desperate to live and to love. I want her to prepare for the curse of perseverance. She may not know about resiliency. That she will last."
*“Music is the vernacular of the human soul.” -Geoffrey Latham
The Cure’s “Pictures of You” is a great song. For me, it incites feelings of being 15 and dealing with everything that accompanies that absurd period in life. It makes me feel wondferfully juvenile.
“I’ve been looking so long at these pictures of
you that I almost believe that they're real I’ve
been living so long with my pictures of you that
I almost believe that the pictures are all I can
feel
remembering you standing quiet in the rain as
I ran to your heart to be near and we kissed as
the sky fell in holding you close how I always
held close in your fear remembering you
running soft through the night you were bigger
and brighter and whiter than the snow and
screamed at the make-believe screamed at the
sky and you finally found all your courage to
let it all go
remembering you fallen into my arms crying
for the death of your heart you were stone
white so delicate lost in the cold you were
always so lost in the dark remembering you
how you used to be slow drowned you were
angels so much more than everything oh hold
for the last time then slip away quietly open
my eyes but I never see anything
if only I had thought of the right words I could
have held on to your heart if only I’d thought of
the right words I wouldn't be breaking apart all
my pictures of you
Looking So long at these pictures of you but I
never hold on to your heart looking so long for
the words to be true but always just breaking
apart my pictures of you
there was nothing in the world that I ever
wanted more than to feel you deep in my heart
there was nothing in the world that I ever
wanted more than to never feel the breaking
apart all my pictures of you”