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[01 Jan 2009|10:59pm] |
Here's to the new year!
I wish you all everything that you need.
Seek and rejoice. Renew anew.
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| Don't Die Now. |
[05 Sep 2008|11:58pm] |
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mood |
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more later. |
] |
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music |
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conor. |
] |
Went to the Conor Oberst & the Mystic Valley Band show a couple of days ago, which was great. Sometimes, you know certain events will be up to par with your expectations and the waiting gets enjoyable in an aching sort of way. It's sobering when it's all over but it somehow feels like growing. This said, the show was at my favourite venue in Bruxelles. Ben was amused because it actually looks like a big glasshouse, surrounded by botanical gardens. We were so close to the stage, I felt uncomfortable looking at Conor at first since the lights lit up the audience and he was right in front of me. This made eye contact easy and I had to look away the first few times. He's even better looking than I remembered, with this clear transparency to him. Looks happy now. It's weird to think you go about your life, listening to this artist, making secrets to their music then they're suddenly there, looking at you, through you. Just overwhelming. The show was amazing, of course. Nate Walcott, what a king of men. The band played a song without Conor though and some old crazy Dutch woman started yelling at Nik Freitas (it was his), asking "wier is Conor?" then moved over to our part, scolding in English "you should be ashamed!", which made Conor turn around and go, sorry? She proceeded to rant at him that Belgians were being dull and I suppose the crowd was rather mellow for once but it was nice. The first act was good too. Conor was tremendous, unpredictable. Love the two new songs, I'm hoping for an ep. This just made me want to finish Edo even more.
I guess there's a lot to say but to keep it short, things have been good. As it is, I've been writing again and I turned twenty-three today.
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| Chocolate Bar Foil. |
[29 Feb 2008|11:48pm] |
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mood |
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banana juice. |
] |
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music |
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rain. |
] |
( +1.etc. )
What if each particularity we pride ourselves in was shared and related us to each other but the sum of these details is what creates the individual. Grossly assembled, they would engender a stereotype -carefully added, they would turn us into universal.
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| Tractions. |
[13 Jan 2008|10:10pm] |
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( . )
Arthur mockingly asks: "Be you Belial?" and I have no other answer than to throw a crumpled map of Edo at his face. I've been waking and falling asleep during the blue hours, unpleasant dreams coaxing subtle fears. Maybe they demand a story but some things are hard to say. Brisk walks in the morning make my eyes falter, the cashier smiles and dances to the music she hears from my earphones. I listen to the humming in my head, the echoes of the city engulfed in my guts; as if I were the ocean and bigger than the island, the sidewalks in the skies and those plastic flowers growing every which way so they can cover the graves of every artificial death we create.
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[01 Jan 2008|06:57pm] |
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Happy New Year's to all of you munchkins.
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| Just To Give You The Bad Eye. |
[25 Nov 2007|05:17pm] |
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( +1.etc. )
Blind Tomorrows.
11.11 and it's Jonestown tonite. People are fighting in the street, a couple shoots a man down. Where is she? It starts with an F. The boy protects her but she's found in Antarctica, the red lines trace her way along the world and I'm suddenly sitting besides her in a café, smiling at her disguise of heavy glasses and fake beard. The walls are warm. She carefully draws maps while I stroke the fur of my favourite teddy bear. Days pass and it's dark rooftops, art and thefts, tents on hills, people from the past, diaries and cocaine.
I used to dream a lot.
I guess life just came up.
But there are wheels and wings and landscapes, cheap filthy rooms. Your body smoothing the folds out of the bedsheets and that little frosty heart of mine just tears at the heat, fuck! All the envelopes I'd cover with my handwriting and the tar-like coffee I'd down to rival the colour of what we scrape from underneath our fingernails, the skin of our rapists 'cause we're gonna dna their ass into prison and send them oranges filled with the blood of children they'll never touch.
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| Clockwork Algebra. |
[21 Sep 2007|06:00am] |
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( +1.etc. )
I've been in an intense Bright Eyes phase again. My dreams are odd; all about having to move in a hurry with no looking back, drowning corpses, slanted cobblestone streets, stolen treasures, decaying warehouses. Boys nailed to wheels and getting their arms ripped off before being beheaded, nitetime, glittering mansions, chaste kisses on my lips. I hear voices drifting from outside, they mingle and make too much noise with mine -repeated fists banging on paranoia. If you walk away from the sun, you can keep an eye on the shadows more easily. Doesn't make their world any less eerie.
Go out with whispers in my head -get books, baguette and incense. Distracted, I almost get run over twice but I couldn't hasten or care. I can sometimes feel laser beams piercing through my skull; in neon flashes, they nestle behind my left eye. Been quiet and still, lately. Never cough when high. I miss seeing trees and owning the sky. Is growing up, betraying yourself? I always have to forgive myself for changing. Kick myself when standing. I sit in the bathtub, see water lilies sneak up my arms to strangle my throat and I feel young then old, like my story's never been told.
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| Your Underwear And Its Citizens. |
[30 Aug 2007|02:04am] |
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mood |
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eclipse. |
] |
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music |
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good tunes. |
] |
( +1.etc. )
Seven. Time is reckless. I've come full cycle; the Moon, blood, slipping memory. Coffee is stirring. Voices in and about, objects falling behind me. Shaky. Tomorrows as yesterdays and feathers stuck to the hem of my underwear. Juice running down my hands, yeah. My window and the shadows, your murmurs in my ears -beyond any life scene, this is all I could possibly need. I'm grateful and unresolved, the safety belt you cut after the car crashed against the wall.
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| Part Two: Reelings. |
[22 Jul 2007|11:17pm] |
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mood |
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carry the dollhouse. |
] |
"They'll toss you down the oubliette
With all the old things that you let yourself forget.
Because you like to love a star
Who'd throw you down below the ground he thinks you are."
Early July.
( +1.etc. )
At nite, I'll sit and listen. Watch the dark enhancing the smoke; skies and aftermaths turned fumes, slipping from my lips. A nest of safety in complete insecurity. I curl against the warm body of a voice and there's no need to wonder where the truth is until I'm left with my doubts and past broken dreams. The sword of Damocles hanging over my head -I don't know yet if it will kill me or help the fight. It's good and terrible, all at once. There's no way to know which way to turn.
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| Our Bodies Will Make Raspberries Grow. |
[22 Jun 2007|08:43am] |
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Her eyes are bruised.
"Rough night?"
She looks at the streetlights.
"It's always night. Rough life, you mean."
( . )
I sloppily learn how to read my palm and what I see doesn't entirely please me. I wonder if I fucked up my future by burning both of my palms when I was learning how to walk. Sometimes, fear tastes like sex. I try to tell my shrink how my head is full of black tar but get distracted by the shadows on the walls; she turns her head but doesn't see anything. When I close my eyes, I see forks of fire and long corridors with open doors on each side and a huge leering face tearing through the dark.
Nutrition means eating gazpacho and chipping ice from my freezer to cool my drinks -it tastes like perfume. I remember my father calling me by the dog's name to get a rise out of me and find myself missing #1. Cigarettes taste like god after some late nite ice cream. I walk to the store and the buildings are all dressed up in black and blue, like bruises on the quiet streets and I think of Edo and its lights. There's a festival this weekend but I don't know if I'm leaving tonite or tomorrow. It doesn't matter. Rain's just water, after all.
"Go find yourself a dry place where the storm can't touch you anymore."
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| Changed Shells. |
[03 Jun 2007|07:14am] |
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mood |
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hi-gh(astly) |
] |
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music |
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Sigúr Rós. |
] |
( +1.etc. )
I've been wondering if I'm looking for something to relate to or just anything to fucking distract myself. Nights are too short and thoughts, too long. Morning keeps creeping up on me. Silence happens when things are so loud, they crush my eyes. On, off. I dream or maybe I'm awake. My mind goes blank against my will. It probably knows better but I'm not sure what I'm avoiding. Sara says I'll figure it out eventually. I have more thoughts than ideas, not many stories.
On another note, Bright Eyes are playing at Dour. I can't take the anticipation at times.
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| March To Death. |
[06 May 2007|12:21pm] |
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( +3.etc. )
April? April. Spring.
I don't remember much of the month, only an enormous amount of Bright Eyes and this quasi unbearable heat. Taking showers in the dark, red nites and red days. Inner disasters morphing into quiet. Barely any paint but words, words and swirls. Read five books in the past couple of weeks, old favourites and new horizons -the sixth, a heartbeat. No tabs on my recent life but memories are resurfacing and sometimes, you just don't know where to look, nor how to feel.
Called Pierre on his birthday; he was running around in the woods, high on twenty-one ecstas, screamed whoops! behind him. He was rushing, talking about deer and gutted foxes -surprisingly recalled my phobia of worms. And I feel a little guilty towards you and I'm sorry for not making Time and you aren't smoking heroin yet, are you. "You can talk." -and why do people always seem to ask that. Yeah, but. I went and came back, I'm stronger than the universe, ma petite. I'm willing to believe it.
Technology has been failing me, my comp kicking at all hours of the nite. And so much to say, so nothing to say. It's May and I don't understand how that happened. It's almost been a year I've gotten out. I'm not sure if I can relate to any of the mirrors in my brain, imagine that.
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| Blurry Incidents, White Retina Spots. |
[16 Mar 2007|04:43am] |
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mood |
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faceless. |
] |
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music |
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PJ Harvey. |
] |
( +3.etc. )
[Friday.I'm.In.Love.]
Two.am -make guacamole and sculpt faces in the green, mix it up with strawberry juice. Ghosts breathing down my neck and whispering about moments' past, hours to come. Bruxelles morphing into a city I've never been to. All I really want is to sit on the stairs near le Mont des Arts and smoke. I used to hang out in the pseudo.park a little way up, I can't remember why. A man played the violin and I'd always give him something. He had a great dirty smile.
I could try to catch up with the past but that would only rush me into some side.stepped future when the present isn't that bad. I was thinking about a story, which I called "Superman" for no real reason and no real writing. The boy smelled exactly like Bruxelles' pale sun and ugly trees; only concrete can bloom there, it seems. I don't know why it reminds me of white because it's hardly pure -it's all weird light, invisible dark.
[I.Don't.Like.Mondays.]
Earlier, I was given all kinds of tarts and fruit.filled waffles. I thought of summer, water, music festivals. There's the academy's artshow coming up, which sounds like une vague ineptie if only because of what defines an artist. I'll probably get lost trying to find the way; I often catch myself staring at the smoke drifting from my mouth and mindlessly following it. Strange places. Spicy mint vapours -alternating with lemongrass, lily of the valley, frank incense. Some things can pretend endless and get away with it.
I'm starting to tape more pictures on my walls and have been dreaming of grey bodies, a spine bruised by cigarettes -the screaming birth of an angel. Accidently burned myself with the toaster this week, the longing was the most painful out of the two. Life's little triggers. I sometimes forget what the fuck is inner peace. I'm coaxed away, though and placed in the middle of balance; me and myself. I can't do anything to stop it but who would, really. There's so much red that smells like shit.
We've been promised rain, man. I throw bombs into Edo and build and destroy and conquer anew. I'm trying to be slow even when Time is making me hurry; I'm as running late as I am waiting. When I'll get submerged, there won't be any roads or maps or wrong turns.
Hello Atlantis. God, you've kept us guessing.
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