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one batch down that posted immediately. i have never â€“ never been able to publicly show my True thoughts. i used pet names, for petes-sake! the consequence of the truth is too great because people don't want to accept that the roles they play in each others lives are not always chosen by them. November was what it was. 30 days of me still believing in love even while the house burns down around me. i wonder sometimes who I'm writing to. i suspect it's all for the person who reads this and finds the beauty -like a floating plastic bag.
I woke up to some decisions. I have to leave. It's not a question, not a cure, but a need. I came to the coffee shop and read Manhattans November batch. Whatever I expected wasn't there. It's like reading my own words. NY will be leaving and not looking back. He may call once or twice when I get there, but overall, he seems done with me. Bloody hell. Bloody hell that hurts. NO MAN has loved me for me. Not the ex, not the lovers I enjoyed so much. I must be dying from this diet of false love.
God. I need to honest with someone. But it's been so long. Forgive me, but sometimes I can't take another moment of politely accepting the back seat for any damn reason. I think
Fuck you. Fuck you and your common excuses and your ordinary ability to love somebody. Fuck your average courage to know yourself, let alone me. You think you're strong, that "coldness closing in on us like a vice". How asinine to assume I don't know, that I haven't felt what you now feel. Regular. Mundane. Typical. Liar. You're not clever. God help you. You could be normal.
Song I've been working on that has no good ending: TRAINS OF TROUSDALE..... I dreamt that you loved me.. then I left the cafÃ© and wrecked my car.. As I woke to the ringing phone I thought.. How'd I ever let it get this far.. Down on Trousdale.. The trains are sadly singing.. For lovers who can't find their way to love.. The trains of Trousdale are calling out our names.. When you're here you are here.. And maybe in those moments you forget.. The strategy you think will protect you.. What you give could be just what you'll get..
if i try hard enough i can almost convince myself that there is nothing on my mind. i've been writing a lot, unable to put the good stuff in my milk memo because i fear who i'll hurt. something tells me this is not a trait of a good writer.
i can't sleep in a bed of lies. i woke up with a headache that only very strong coffee or sex can kill. but the cafe is a block from here and last night, somewhere between my car and the flat, i lost a glove. screw it, i need something.
Selective Listening. That's what Clearblue does and has always done concerning me. In complete disbelief I repeat my reasons until I can no longer speak for fear I'll screech like an angry hyena.
No one asked if I wanted to see that movie. I'll be damned if I was going to pay for it. He was trying to be kind â€“ I saw that. But it wasn't clicking.
Something was settling in me while they stared at the screen and laughed at the ordinary lines. There wasn't enough space. I wanted to want this life. An old line, but true.
KS was drunk last night. Very. "Fuck â€˜em!," he says. "I'm so uptight. Why am I so uptight?" At least he knows it, poor guy. I feel for him, as I know what it's like. His face even looked different, which was, in one moment, a little disturbing.
I guess we all need our vices. Who are we to pretend we can change how we're made? We're made of soft stuff and we pretend we can't be hurt. Then oneday, we get a nasty cut... right ... there. And we'd just as soon bleed to death than admit how we really feel.
My brother is 37 today. When I called him we talked about all the normal stuff: parents, single living, his kids getting older. He mentioned again his desire to move to the coast. If I were a better person I might have known what magic words would convince him to finally do it. Instead, I am the little sister whom they think spends her days drinking early cocktails and hanging out with celebrities when she's not on a hot date. They don't know me at all.
Or do they?
I'll buy up Texas and they'll forgive my ambitious ways.
Lay Your Sleeping head, my love,
Human on my faithless arm:
Time and fevers burn away
Individual beauty from
Thoughtful children, and the grave
Proves the child ephemeral:
But in my arms till break of day
Let the living creature lie,
Mortal, guilty, but to me
The entirely beautiful.
Soul and body have no bounds:
To lovers as they lie upon
Her tolerant enchanted slope
In their ordinary swoon,
Grave the vision Venus sends
Of supernatural sympathy,
Universal love and hope;
While an abstract insight wakes
Among the glaciers and the rocks
The hermit's carnal ecstacy,
I don't question why he comes to me and I never allow myself to believe in anything beyond the time we have. I soak up each photographic frame, every syllable of his words. Breathing in his scent, I bite his flesh and listen to his rhythmic gasps and moans. Visually, audibly and touchably stimulating. His head lay on my breast and I cradle him like a child. The trains sing a lullaby.
Nothing, not age nor unflattering criticism can take this from me.
In these early mornings I forget my name. I'm richer than I ever thought I could be.
At the cinema I arrived to catch NY playing a video game, shooting the enemy with a handgun. His ability to detach from reality is intoxicating.
During the movie â€“ Equilibrium â€“ he was aloof but we shared some laughs. What makes me want to show him his reflection in my eyes? He needs comfort, though he would deny this. What's worse is I feel full of strength to give it. Yet, I've not strength for anyone else except myself. This frightens me.
I never thought I would play "Marthe" to someone's "Patrice" and I loathe it. I couldn't be anyone but Patrice.
Here are my little secrets, friend:
I inherited lucid dreaming from my grandfather.
Pianos and cellos and violins make me cry. Violently.
If I could, I would skip Christmas.
I'm an intuitive who experiences visual premonitions.
I consider myself to be Jewish, Native Spirit, and Catholic, and identify more with those than Protestants.
I have the sex appetite of a 17 year old boy. I've only known love once.
In six months, I'm going to legally drop my last name.
I think Americans are well intended, but naive and bitter.
I talk to animals and plants, and they listen.
I've read too much poetry, too many books, looking for anything that might accurately decipher this lingering dread in the centre of my chest. But not Kundera, Camus, Browning or even Parker has published about this, this, this..... war of mind, and soul which rages inside me. Not like this. Perhaps it's not the kind of truth people wish to identify.
I'm not made for the Norman Rockwell life that is being offered. My trust in another human can't accommodate such a facade.
I don't believe I've ever trusted anyone. How can I when my own mind betrays me? No.
Friday the 13th - not a wise day for a haircut. Jason, who is a lovely man â€“ really he is â€“has somehow made me realise again that I hate short hair. Friends say they like it, but they're liars. All of them. Iâ€˜d lie to me too.
Thing is, long hair is romantic. Short hair is edgy. And I want to be both. Thus we revert back to this inner struggle that has so long plagued me.
From one day to the next, I teeter between killing the impossible with a jagged knife and facing reality with a tall drink.
My brother who turned 37 Sunday will forever be the teenage chef of cinnamon pancakes on my tenth birthday.
My sister is safely adored for the evening she took me to dinner after she heard me crying of a broken heart.
My mother is the woman who drove twelve hours on Mother's Day to take care of me when I was sick.
Dad is the hero who gently pulled stickers from my feet when I was a restless child.
My 18 year-old niece, Alexis composed and perfectly performed the now famous "I Love You" song at age 3.
The weekend's a blur. Take that as it is.
Flashbacks of NY came all day. How ridiculous, I thought. Give me a damn break. I've almost completed The Stranger. â€˜Tis all too familiar.
I really think I've been had. It's sick. He just left. I kissed him â€“ a quick peck â€“ twice.
I can hardly look at my Jimmy A portrait now. God, sometimes I wonder exactly WHY I didn't choose drugs.
Look, just between you and me, I am absolutely terrified of ending up with a man who bores me. Give me fire not fleeting; I'll give you omnipotent love.
I walked into the bathroom and stared it myself in the mirror. I'm not unattractive. I mean, I have my qualities. And I think â€“ I think I'm good to talk to. But, if I'm not, who would tell me?
My butt didn't look so great today. My eyes are sad. Am I sad? I guess so. Alright, yes. I'm sad he's gone. Shit. Shit.
I'm angry that Clearblue is being so nice NOW. And I fucking hate Christmas!
What is this nagging fear in me that keeps me short of breath? I should let go. Soon. I should leave, right, right?
I don't know how long it's been since I've rested in silence, but it must have been too long. At this moment, no one is here and there is no sound except my fingers on the keyboard.
It's absolutely lovely.
There's been a load of creative and romantic pressure on me lately and I've physically felt it. My chest hasn't been this tight since those early days in Bucharest.
My writing is suffering because there's nothing new to report.
Frankly, I bore myself, so I'm quite sure I'd bore others. Still this is what 100 words requires.
My boxed life.
JUDAS, son OF GOD
I'm begging for silence
in this centre
where all hell has crept in.
Judas, my brother,
They fault us
for all humanity
yet we are not creators,
of destined calamity.
Let the crowd rage;
say what they will.
I have you
silent and still.
Let them praise the murderer,
the vain house of David.
For you alone knew your heart,
and what history has made it.
Let them call on tall tales of Moses,
the bleeding heart of Paul.
In repetitive madness
we are fools one and all.
At some point, I began to see the idiocy of it. Asking for a return for my affection; it's a classic means of escape for some one who feels they don't deserve to be loved. Utter bullshit. Nobody deserves love. That's the elementary definition.
It's not love if you had to EARN it.
So fine. Then what is love? In the easiest terms â€“ is it getting to know someone, examining their life, especially their creations, and deciding that what you see, you like? In fact you like it so much, it never matters if they turn their attention to you.
I could be wrong. Alright, the odds swing in your favor. Camus said "If it were sufficient to love, things would be easyâ€¦ Why should it be essential to love rarely in order to love much?"
What if some are capable of loving with all our strength â€“ almost every time? Or maybe we fool ourselves and the well eventually dries up. I don't know. I hope I never know.
When Jake asked me to punch him that night and I couldn't, it wasn't because he didn't deserve it. He'd earned the embarrassment, at least. But you shouldn't destroy fragile things.
I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I â€¦
For him I've yet to know, but knows me well:
Speak without talking
Explain without words
Dance with my soul
And you'll be the first
Give me silent music
In a gentle outstretched palm
Expel our wordy whispers
I'll not wonder where they've gone
Answer me with fingertips
Scream my name with your eyes
Show me that your smooth skin
Is incapable of lies
Forgive of me for the miracle
That explodes inside my mind
Let warm conversation
Be of the celestial kind
Teach with mute expression
Unlearn our careless voice
Toss average obsessions
And you will be my choice
Christmas has got to be the worst time to be alone in the states.
I carted the bottle of Romanian wine and a perfect wine glass (not the ones from Israel, they have too many memories) to Jamie's where I thought I'd write a brilliant poem and toast to Gabi's future. I stared at it for a long time, like I expected God himself to pop over for a quick glass and a winking recall session of Christmas Past.
I knew I couldn't open it. I just sat there wondering why I give a shit, disbelieving the days have passed.
If God would, Bono
...So where is the hope and where is the faith ... and the love?
What's that you say to me
Does love... light up your Christmas tree?
The next minute you're blowing a fuse
And the cartoon network turns into the news
HEY IF GOD WILL SEND HIS ANGELS
AND IF GOD WILL SEND A SIGN
WELL IF GOD WILL SEND HIS ANGELS
WHERE DO WE GO
Jesus never let me down
You know Jesus used to show me the score
Then they put Jesus in show business
Now it's hard to get in the door...
Don't be ashamed of your desire to confess. Putting your words out here on the net is â€“ it's a sort of cleansing. We just want somebody to know the truth.
My theory is that writers write because they have no where else to go with the thoughts and feelings inside them. We spend all day being whatever kind of person we deemed will get us by without being locked up. And then we come to the keyboard or the journal, the pen and we dissolve into the blank space, filling it with truths; what really happened, what we really saw.
NY feels he should respond to my Judas piece. "Should" is the word that caught my eye. Well, yes. It would be decent, kind. But "should" makes it sound sad, like charity. But that he had to say that puts it all to rest.
I expected something and that was my mistake.
Lovers do one of two things. They either want me to fold up all that emotion, that fragile magic we share and put it in a box with dried flowers from senior prom or they want to take me â€“ god only knows where â€“ to fulfill their American dream.
It's like in Breakfast at Tiffany's. Having the blue Blues. And all I can think of is "What am I doing here?" My chest is so tight, sometimes I wonder if I am too young to have a heart attack.
I know that maybe I should gather up all my stuff and sell it for a plane ticket. But where would I go? And then, what would I have to come back to? Where is home? A hand may not be a home, but I could use the comfort right now- just one look that doesn't unarm me, but heals.
With every sentence he's hopeful. He wants to WIN!
Cowboy Rides Into Sunset with Saloon Girl
Saloon girl says
"I done rode off before. Been some places I didn't want to go. I may be a saloon girl now, but I been on my own long enough to know I could be a queen if I play my cards right."
Whatever the hell that means....
I feel like a jerk. That's the effect he has on me. My head's swimming. I could throw a dart at a map and make as good of a decision about what to do next.
I don't know what happened. It was right here a minute ago. I had it. Now it's gone.
That's what it feels like.
You spent all that time throwing water on the fire. Job well done. Were there flickers of love left? Yes. But with your passive aggressive questions and tantrums you stopped it out. Those last bits of hard, glowing coal, I had been nudging, trying to stir up flames. Just give me a minute, I kept saying. But you couldn't hear me though the sound of your own screams of impatience.
Even now, you don't hear me leaving.
When closing out a year, I take inventory to see if I accomplished anything worth noting. The theory is that I will discover I'm quite productive and that the negative energy thrown on me during the year is a pile of shit I can easily shake off.
I've four invitations to celebrate- options are good. Unfortunately, my conscious is too enormous to carry to Jake's Chattanooga show that I'd like to see. Instead, I'll be attending a "Pajama Party" as well as a "James Bond" party where Lar is....Should I wear a negligee with a gun strapped to my thigh?
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