constant

I love watching you sleep, your hair falling across your forehead, short curls brushing pale skin like droplets of paint splashing in smooth motions on a pure canvas. Aside from the occasional fluttering of eyelids as you drift in and out of varying waves, you remain sweetly at rest and unknowingly allow yourself to be vulnerable and at peace for a few hours. I find myself wondering what you are thinking about, dreaming about, I want to know, I want to know everything. I touch your bones and trace the way they frame your beautiful torso, my hands glide gently over the sharp appeal that you so humbly offer me night after night. When you wake you smile slowly at me and reach toward the foot of my bed, searching for the slow death in the pocket of your pants, eager to light your lungs before you allow a single word to escape from between your sweet lips. I press my lips together in silent disapproval but say nothing as you reach toward me and run your hands through the hair you so viciously tangled only five hours ago. Pushing fingers into skin, leaving bright imprints, hard. I feel bruised in the most beautiful way, torn and bleeding desire, anxiety, anything, everything. Holding me by my hair, I silently beg you to throw me away but you draw me in, breathing into my ear, and I’ll make an exception this time. Press press press press press, you match me so well.

I am both far and close to the fatal collapse that tempts me daily. Smoke rings blow in my direction, rough hands smooth my hair down in the morning, strange lips meet, connections are made. I am adapting as I find myself laughing about the simple things I cannot change, smiling at strangers, floating past those who speak of my life behind closed doors, briefly pitying their boredom and dissatisfaction before forgetting of that one short minute that made them falsely powerful. We are ultimately the same, wanting the same fundamental things but torn apart by the absurdity of what we do not care to understand. Forever evolving and swimming toward the things that seem important, creating uneccessary distance from the minimalistic nature of our deepest desires. Maybe I am too easily satisfied, wishing to pierce holes in bodies and string them together in an attempt to recognize the beauty that exists in a simple understanding between two people polarized by varying courses of life. What are we waiting for?

the purple blanket that’s blue on the other side

She’s been dragging for no reason. Every night is a new face, a new attempt to breathe freely in the presence of something she will accept for what it is, nothing less, nothing more. Every night ends the same, in a variant of the fetal position with somebody temporarily next to her, sometimes no one, neither is better, she remains unaffected. It’s always the four a.m. jolts of fear as a steady stream of hideous fluorescent light pours out from the bathroom, always the lucidity of dreamwork and the desperate reach for something that cannot exist in this cycle of life, in this period filled with alternating slow and fast breaths. It’s the dreams that keep her constantly moving, wanting more and desiring to see every possibility that her life has to offer. She often finds herself questioning the significance of her accomplishments, the fights, the love, the careless risk-taking, but it all ends with the same devastating boredom and shame that eats at her very soul night after night.

There was a woman the other day, filled with passion for the life that has passed her by and that which remains, showing in the wide smile that stretched across her smooth skin as she stared at my face and touched my hair. She asked about my origin, the meaning of my name, my dreams. I felt connected to her somehow, she reminded me of someone I used to know a few years ago, and I allowed myself to open myself for a few short minutes before I was reminded rudely of my surroundings. There is something about falling asleep on a bus that relaxes me, something about a knock at the door that panics me, and I am having trouble remembering a time when either of those things didn’t evoke the associated feelings. I remember the days that you’d knock on my door and offer me a smoke, offer me things that I knew I shouldn’t take, go into the backyard and sit under the old tree, watch families hide their secrets so well as I attempted to hide hundreds with frantic exchanges of sarcastic banter and raw physicality. So much has changed since then, but everything feels the same at moments like this and I am often desperate to grab onto the sudden flashes and freeze them for as long as possible, to examine them closely and find things that I failed to notice before, so eager to make a new discovery in an ancient space.

.

atypical faces, tulips in the winter, people that embrace their quirks, pens that write like this, sleepovers, random encounters, the unexpected major/minor switch that leaves you feeling completely uncomfortable, wondering about one’s state after death, a satisfyingly rough romp, pulling at your skin with my teeth, zombie faces, mental disorders, hallucinations, swallowing, long hair, girls that can pull off shaved heads, significant body art, showing people my unexpected side, complete randomness, resolving dissonance, stubble, spooning leading to forking, lips, dimples, watching my eye twitch in the mirror, black and white, taking my time when you are desperate, accepting that I can be satisfied by only one person, wrapping my head around colour, varying forms of anxiety-release, having a filthy mind, sharing, your high tolerance for pain, art that I could never produce, the way performing makes me feel, every single thing and experience that has been, is, and will be associated with my violin, mood lighting, not having to commit to you, rough hands, soft eyes, eyefucking, ripping apart people’s minds, being simultaneously fascinated and disgusted by things, the moments when perversion is appropriate, generally not caring about song lyrics, viewing life through numerous lenses, being unable to be manipulated, observing patience, psychoanalytic theory, watching people’s mouths as they speak, talking dirty, voices, cemeteries, old castles, people who can pull off septum piercings, living alone, mysterious happenings, the human body as a non-sexual source of comfort, being comfortable during the healing process that is crying, the human body as a sexual source of comfort, body language, subtle nonverbal cues, all things interpersonal, musical discoveries, genuinely not giving a fuck about rumours, recognizing that jealousy is a wasted emotion, the power that resides within a picture, competency, autonomy, relatedness, people who can deal with my sharp tongue, sarcasm, the way bruises look in the morning, that perfect amount of pain that feels amazing, hands up and down flesh, shoulder blade bites, redheads, abnormal habits, everything about eyes, hugging and tugging, appealing asymmetry, unexpected sensuality, people and strange events that inspire me, people who don’t realize the extent of their beauty, teaching, vibrations, playing dress-up, catharsis

reign.

I am always shaking. Arms, fingers, legs, feet, hair, lashes, nerves out of control, fluttering and greedily overthrowing the ones that want a tranquil existence. The other night I was overcome with anxiety, frantically clawing at the bitter air that loves to smother children slowly, unable to breathe and losing all control over the products of my tear ducts, my visual capacity. After thirty.five minutes of extreme panic in one of the world’s most terrifyingly beautiful breakdowns I found myself on the ground staring up at the holes in a once pure ceiling, alive with stories and repeatedly mistaken for insects of the night by a girl who has forgotten what it feels like to be alive. My heart broke today for a blind man and his tattered cane, a thousand times for the beauty he’d never see and his failed at attempts at communication with anybody who’d look his way with pity and confusion. The babble that flowed from within his mouth reached sharply into my chest and begged me to open my eyes and soak in the chaotically helpless nature of my surroundings. Every day is a struggle, my struggle is nothing and maybe he just wants it this way.

liars

I was completely unaware but eventually found myself nodding my head in a beautiful rhythm as his fingers cyclically strummed the same four chords for four minutes and forty-four seconds. I was lost in his music, lost in the relief I felt when he opened his mouth. Have you noticed, I hum a lot. Most of the time I am completely unaware, quickly made aware, slowly learning to stop myself. Are you humming? It’s a bad habit. I am forming a wishlist, so far it includes a typewriter and a bichon frise. I would be perfectly content with just the first, my ability to care for a puppy is quite questionable. I find myself thinking about the numerous possibilities that accompany the interior decoration of an old castle with high ceilings and extravagant windows, mostly in the long hours that precede my return to a room that is painfully cluttered and helpless. The notion of pattern formation is abstractly seductive but the darkness around my eyes and sluggish brain both hold me back. Industrial tape, an empty perfume bottle, oblong violet pills, cold coffee that has been swimming in stone for fourteen hours, large silver hoops that draw blood from my bruised earlobes, the remanents of a three-hundred calorie meal, hairspray, curling iron all in a tiny space meant for a box of tissues and the seminal words of Freud, at most. I don’t know what I’m waiting for. My poster [block, rapid, patrol lube, donut, vcr, loss, color, aid, 25cents, etcetera] is about to throw itself upon my pillow again. Perhaps that.

incomplete.

Sometimes I write in darkness as white ink flows from my fingertips. A single candle is lit on my table, praying to soothe me with the warmth it blows into the air, into my skin darkened from the powerful sun, into counterclockwise tendrils of black that breathe in the sweet scent of warm vanilla and graze the tiny goosebumps that cover my flesh as I tilt my pounding head in another direction. The fan hums softly and occasionally rattles my bare legs, cooling what is already too cold, tickling freshly cleaned pores, sending sheets of dense music in frantic swirlings around the cluttered room. I am never alone. Sometimes she plays games to see how long she can deprive herself of all that is necessary. They never end well, she never learns. She continues to wince in pain, force the bile back down, never allowing it to escape before the sun shines at a desirable angle. Sleepless nights are all she knows, strangers beside her, no one beside her, she continues to look away and pretend that it’s all an ugly illusion, pretend she isn’t still the hopeless girl trying to shatter the bottle of shame that she keeps tightly capped, conveniently hidden . In the morning she hides under the comfort that is slowly tearing, fading away just like memories of long hair, flushed cheeks, and the slow acts of love, sometimes quick, never old. For those twenty minutes, she is as pure as the water hitting her from the opening above, the silver soothing her with a gentle stream of rebirth, allowing her to bask in the removal of all that is sinful. It is here that she makes discoveries of softness and hardness, it is here that she finds dark bruises from last night’s inexplicable journey. She recalls the period of time when she didn’t know any better, then realizes that her empty eyes watch better float away every day, never chasing after it, but always savouring the moment when it is so close that she can graze its face with her calloused fingertips. Never seems to reach far enough, it is always that single second of hesitation that wraps its arms tightly around her waist and jerks her back to old habits, raw skin, unprotected rides of pain and pleasure. There is another world, she is sure of it, a world that longs to sweep her in with the sweetness of fresh lilies and the dramatic romance that seeps out of Russian fingertips and into eager ears, to seduce her with soft fingers that extend over her bare flesh and bring her to gasp loudly.

movement

I am so strangely content with living alone and so surprised that I can make such a statement. Maybe this will change in a few weeks, but for now I am soaking in things that I normally wouldn’t be able to, breathing air that is normally stifled by the neediness of others, thinking about things that don’t involve the repair of other’s lives. I am not sad, not happy, not excited, not depressed, I am just myself and am okay with that for the first time in too long. I have been aware lately, aware that I have the tendency to be materialistic at times, aware that I have an overwhelming desire to be perfect that never leaves – a desire that I will never be able to embrace, instead I push it down repeatedly because of the terrible habits it results in. I am so far from perfect that is shocking, disgusting, but ultimately beautiful in the sense that it allows me to self-reflect, to grow, to understand others, to love and forgive beyond any expected capacity. The lack of perfection in myself that once repulsed me is what attracts me to the people who are so wrong for me, mistakes that should not be made, experiences that I will not be able to think about without cringing or shaking my head in disbelief.

I will never doubt the power of words and notes on a page or the power of a healthy understanding between two individuals. I will try not to find the darkness of a bruise any more romantic than a bloody lip or burned thigh. I cannot be a source of comfort for those of you that lack respect for yourselves and others – that life is no longer what suits me. You can lay in this dark pool for as long as you desire but there is another world that is aching to include me, one that I am ready to experience again. I never underestimate the power of a memory, never let it pass because there is always a reason for the reappearance of an experience, whether it paralyzes me with guilt and pain or lays a slow smile across my face. So much inspiration can come from what once was, the events that once made me laugh, even those that forced me to defend myself. I will continue to soak that inspiration in, but once it has passed I will let it float away on its own course without dragging it back in with any of this energy that begs so loudly to be redirected.

pathetic

A bug with silver wings climbed in through my window. At first glance I ran away but then came closer and closer, eventually sweeping it out with a freshly painted fingernail, bold and black. My hair is in my face, lips are dark red, I can’t decide whether I want this or that. Lately, I am not so kind to my organs and confused about what people desire from me. What, you want to take me to dinner? Intoxicate me with cheap liquor and slurred words? Claim me? You want me to sleep in your bed? Love me sideways? Your questions are laughable, stop licking your lips and asking me to satisfy your foolish demands. You know not a thing of my life or where I come from and because of your sincere stupidity and false misfortune, you fail to be of any importance to me. I smile politely and nod, secretly wanting to yell ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? as you show no respect. Who do you think you are, other than a complete stranger overcome with selfish lust?

gymnopedie

My head is always spinning, begging to be held, begging to be medicated, so greedy. My eyes are always tired, closing, shaking their fists at me. My big eyes, my right eye stealing ninetyeight percent of the credit. You wrote me a poem but you’ll never give it to me, I am on my way to being a psychologist, a clinician, but it is only during those few hours of the early evening when I pick up my instrument, float into another world and feel a sense of completion, I am finally whole. Seventeen years ago, you gave me the greatest gift. An old Korean woman sat next to me today, eagerly spitting stories of her life at a random young girl she knew nothing about, not caring how she would respond. Twentytwo years ago I was given a second chance. God is great, I am so happy! I am just so happy. Are you happy? I am so happy. I love life. God is great, He has saved me. I have my doubts about this world, about the people that surround me, about myself. I was dying and God reached out and gave me another chance. I am alive and so happy. Is there such a thing as too much hope?

itchy

The fan blowing soft hair in my face, strangers at the mall, red lips that seduce and steal, secretly welcoming those most unwelcome. Glassy eyes, dark shiny hair, bruised cheeks, my Saturday filled with frustration and large circles of metal bouncing against the sides of my neck in the harshest manner possible, sometimes tickling tender flesh and causing an agonizing groan to escape from the pink that can so quickly be transformed. I am greedy in the best way, impatient in the worst, always finding beauty in the things that are meant to disgust or shock, inspired by the most oddly shaped experiences.

I awoke this morning from a dream that gave me hope for this world that continues to destroy itself, for this life that I am so mechanically living, motivated by the strongest extrinsic forces that disappoint my eagerness to swallow whole everything I am offered. An old man with long dreadlocks rides by on a broken bicycle, maneuvering through the heavy air, slowly licking his lips and smiling like a drunken fool, telling me I am beautiful, evoking no immediate emotion in me. I find myself creating a story about his life, hoping that his desires have been fulfilled, knowing that he has experienced a world I know nothing of, a life I will never live. At night I sit in my window, listening to the cars speed by, the angry horns blowing, the polished wind driven by a life force, the very same that moves me as I walk down the street with the intention of enjoying each step, breathing in every scent, swallowing every texture. I am seeing how people are deprived mentally, physically, emotionally, spiritually. So much to complain about, yet their mouths remain sewed shut, the thick thread tightly knotted twice. I see those presented with every chance and choice loudly spewing sewage from their mouths always open, begging, crying, ungratefully spiteful and shameless. My heart is exploding with all degrees of love, an inexplicable capacity to forgive, and growing tolerance for those I do not understand and those who do not try to understand me. Words from a dear friend console and encourage me, filling my room with laughter and excitement, hope for what is to come, and the strongest desire to breathe the air that so uncomfortably surrounds me.