fuzzed.out.

slow down.

these twelve months have felt like so many more.

i am blown away. hello, 2003.
  • Current Mood
    i. yeah. wow.
deciduous

(no subject)

the sky is trembling and shouting, and i love it. it's shaking out little pieces and icing them up and hurtling them at me full-force. and lighting the windows in knowing little flashes. wink wink, it says.

and you thought it wouldn't rain. it's fucking pouring.
  • Current Mood
    ohh yesss.
fuzzed.out.

one in the morning and two in the window

on a bus, sitting quite still: two images in the window. (i was quite still) watching the trees ride by (giving my night rhythm). walking, footstep thunder! gave my night volume. but then, it was already voluminous. i was moving, and i could feel the weight.

(the other, my reflection, the trees could not see.)

night windows are windows in, by all accounts. there is no such thing as a midnight window out.
  • Current Music
    the clean.
late-night.

don't be afraid, you have just got your eyes closed.

these things flow, fuzzy, through me, and do not stick with any hard-edged clarity. and ruin my ability to write with any coherency. coherence.

i am not articulating. i am pretending to practice to see what it might be like if i could.

i am hoping to suggest the existence of a more tender underbelly. hint. i'm learning to unbutton, and learning to stay buttoned up. and hoping that you know it's all still there, intact, inside. so i toss scarce clews, and hope that sometimes that will be enough. and mostly i don't write at all, and trust.

because, really, the things that are so stickily vitreous are too frightening to me, right now, to expose in writing. or else, for you to fathom, i would indeed have to show you the bottom of the ocean, just for you to have an inkling. and i want you to know, but it's just so daunting?

i am making these excuses and thinking of my fifty thousand words. and i know i will find it easier to type in this less-quantifiable space than in the page-by-page and wordcountability of my conventional word processor.

and then i know i will not write them, because i am afraid. i feel as if i will never be able to convey the things i would like.

or, things will never be as i would like to convey. it is as if the writing makes these so, and being so, they are undeniable, and right now i am preferring to deny? i am in denial. i am not so private in real life, but i am just as lost (and found). i am seeing a therapist about it on tuesday, and i will let her psychoanalyze the hell out of me because i am tired of analyzing myself. and it is three twenty-five in the morning.

that said, i will commence:

everything feels so very enormous right now. and i have so much to say. and i will tell you, i promise.
  • Current Music
    four tet.
structure.

breaker.

rolling syllables on my tongue, letting each vowel resonate between my temples and each consonant reverberate in my teeth. banging on tables and humming in hallways.

caught.

i suppose i'll be doing quite a bit of writing in the next month and a half. you may be subject to fifty thousand words of it. i apologize in advance.
  • Current Music
    this heat. shrink wrap.
deciduous

(no subject)

ta pi o ca &mixtapes .

the sun streamed in through the wide, plate-glass windows as i awoke, tangled on the couch. bright and warm.

i am getting better.
  • Current Music
    the books. read eat sleep.