...and the stolen hours amounted to a swelling artillery up our sleeves...

we dare to breathe

odd, something. odd. a change that wills me to pull the blanket off and reach for a pen in the night. anyone having met a moment in my room would know it would take something either curious or substantial to submit an inch of flesh from under the covers. my room is always very cold. but this... this happend:

wednesday. jan. 14th, 2009. 3:27 am.
"and i start to feel that i exist again- blood flowing into my extremities like water colors on newsprint. spreading over stale enforcement. a sigh. i'm not exactly relieved. my eyes roll back. this is it. i can feel my body again. until the moment the centrifuge released the chemicals and switched on to REACTIVATE MODE i was unaware i had lost sensation at all. things have a rosy glue feel to them. warm, crossing gates, filling what was drained. bulbous now.

what a time to come back to life when i am so tired. a little annoying. perhaps the 'thing'... i don't have a name for this... the absence, the obscenity precept manifest --cold as a block of ice, the life-seizing/life-giving property tank-- co-exists with this rose-warm being. it seems to be doing so.

a little fantastic.
and also... kind of whatever."


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Now playing: Siouxsie & The Banshees - The Last Beat Of My Heart (Live)
via FoxyTunes

we already know

This morning i woke with an inability to assimilate. Not unwilling, that is something i could claim, could deal an answer out to... a choice, a reaction. simply put...refusal. but this... this...well, i am currently wild without contrast. a quiet beast. the chill in the air matching the groan in my gut. mechanical, black organs excreting grease and strawberry jam. the real stuff. the kind with the seeds. my eyes are liquid and curl around this space like brand new milky snakes recognizing their birth and feeling disgusted with the thing. details are funny, too. this madness. this madness. hilarious. i am an oil tanker crashing against and making love to ten thousand squirming microphones, rotten to the core. their cords wrapped around my posts, my throat. i push in further, i pull them tighter. i sweat out pillow talk and amber colored life. my bi-products spoil counter tops. keratin cracked and stacked up high. iron exoskeletons of your imagination. this is recognition beyond human condition. i am before. i am forever with a frozen pick ax. visceral wings stitched with teeth split like chicken bones in a dog's belly. the flesh of incineration. burning coals chewing up an arterial market. safety, thankfully a molten luxury, is false and bubbling. i deny you as i deny myself. shred, shred, shred the sacred. we already know who we are.

crawling in the sweet

silence. little air cells stacked and scattered within the grid. i laugh. i smile. i rub at my eyes. these contacts are drying out and my hands are cold. my hands are always cold. until about six in the morning, my feet are cold too. there are ants in the kitchen... invading the cupboards. i keep smashing them with napkins, spraying them with citrus-y chemicals. a trail on the wall... then they spring up around random objects. a tin of steel cut oatmeal. a tightly sealed jar of honey. they appear but they're not actually penetrating anything but the bulby sclera of my frustration. i don't know where they're coming from. i don't understand what they want. i give up, exhale the rust of my attempts and go outside. it's become a crisp fall, seemingly overnight. these buttons on my pea coat aren't equipped for the season ahead in their abused condition... fondled hastily over the past three years. another item to the list. construction. deconstruction. consolidation. for some reason i can't seem to be bothered with the reality of upkeep. i've never been that consistent with correspondence, whether it be the pen pals i had when i was eleven, or the translation of self to items. that space that keeps definition relevant. space keeps growing and i have happened upon a new time where i linger no more. my peripherals bleeding over the edges of the known universe. beyond that... layers registering in some place you walk on clouds to get to. it's true what they say about my heart. it has a murmur... and there are birds flying out of it, indeed. but i am silent, observant. persistent in focusing the lens, pulling the wires in, extending my hands out into the invisible. this makes it difficult to wear gloves. in this case it helps if you're fond of purple hues. or waking up dreaming. and the sweetness follows...

welcome

first, in a long line of stray wires and bits of glue and pieces of plastic whales found in the gutter on piedmont street. i've always been a girl picking up the dirty things i find and fitting them together like some alien dr. frankenstein... and this is the warmest fall i can remember. every day offering up some useful electricity. must. locate. clamps. i've started to tell the passing of time by how much my tolerance for caffeine has gone down. gut rot mixed with astral projections. new things and old things... becoming new. getting seasoned. getting better. who would have thought that it might just take a few years to build up a living, breathing patina. it's a wonder, this patience thing... happening without notice. it's a wonder, this love thing, for patinas. and gravel under bike tires. and buying pens. and volcanoes in the middle of the day. i'm all about dissolving what it is i think i know by covering it in some red glitter and stringing it up in the city. welcome.

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Now playing: iron & wine - woman king