| (no subject) |
[Feb. 1st, 2010|03:25 pm] |
China - All the way to New York
I can feel the distance getting close.
You're right next to me, but I need an airplane -
I can feel the distance as you breathe.
Sometimes, I think you want me to touch you.
But how can I, when you build the great wall around you?
In your eyes, I saw a future together;
But you just look away, into the distance.
China decorates our table;
Funny how the cracks don't seem to show.
Pour the wine, dear -
You say we'll take a holiday,
but we never can agree on where to go.
Sometimes, I think you want me to touch you.
But how can I, when you build the great wall around you?
In your eyes, I saw a future together;
But you just look away, into the distance.
China all the way to New York -
Maybe you got lost in Mexico.
You're right next to me, I think that you can hear me.
It's funny how the distance learns to grow.
Sometimes, I think you want me to touch you.
But how can I, when you build the great wall around you?
I can feel the distance,
I can feel the distance,
I can feel the distance getting close. |
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| Writer's Block: Over the River and Thru the Woods |
[Dec. 15th, 2009|07:15 am] |
See, I had planned to use my amazing new teleportation technology, which I secretly built in my basement, to get to Minnesota. I was all ready to go - however, when I stepped into the pod, a fly happened to follow me in. Some kind of strange gene-splicing hoopla went on, and now I look like this:
....So, I was forced to take four freaking flights to Minnesota, after all - 28 hours travel!! And don't get me started on how hard it is to get through airport security checkpoints with a face like that. Not to mention that I don't even resemble my passport photo, anymore. The good thing is, my Dad didn't even notice.
....:\
(ps: if anyone sees my screaming head on a fly's body in a spider web somewhere, do me a favour and pop it in a ziplock for me? tyvm.) |
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| Three Poems about the Same Thing | Gretchen Primack |
[Dec. 10th, 2009|06:08 pm] |
1
Am I ready to die?
I keep waiting to know
and watch a lot of tv
in the meantime.
I think perhaps I'd like it,
nothingness. This something-
ness is a damp screwed clamp
squeezing, Keep it up!
Keep!
It isn't sustainable.
Still, I cannot end my
self. That's blood
talking, old and stubborn.
2
I am positive there is no point to any
of this, and so fashion my own
and don't kid myself. There are frames
on the wall, clean meals, creatures
and loves and books, pens and art.
There is the television, cool
as a fridge, smug on its haunches.
Between the looking and cooking
and talking, the tv.
3
I could just sit in a chair or in front
of the tv or on the grass
and wait for other people's art,
and gobble it, sometimes so fast
it makes me sick. Still it keeps
coming, some of it so fine. It is
how we show how scared we are
and how we become less scared. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 2nd, 2009|05:07 am] |
So, what if nothing is safe?
So, what if no one is saved?
No matter how sweet, no matter how brave?
What if each to his own lonely grave? |
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| Ergh. |
[Oct. 28th, 2009|12:17 pm] |
I just can't write in my livejournal right now. I can't really write anything down at all. Things have been terribly difficult, owing to...I don't even know. Perhaps just my own appalling lack of sanity.
But I just wanted to thank everyone for comments they've left, and promise to update as soon as I can. And to let you know I'm still alive. Yep.
That's it. |
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| Spoons |
[Oct. 16th, 2009|12:59 pm] |
The Spoon Theory
This essay is about Lupus specifically, but it's incredibly true of having a chronic mental illness as well - so much so that it brought tears to my eyes. I know that chronic physical illnesses like autoimmune disorders are horrible, and cause a kind of pain that I would never wish on anyone. However, with the leaden paralysis, the hypervigilance, the constant fatigue and the aching - not to mention the side-effects of any medications you have to take - the physical aspects of mental illness can be as taxing as the emotional aspects, and it's not as different from a purely physical illness as one might think. You indeed do have a finite amount of "spoons" to work with before it all becomes too much. And when an eating disorder is involved, or fibromyalgia, or chronic viral illness, or anything else that has a more obvious physical effect, it gets worse.
I'm afraid that by posting this here I'm going to sound like I'm victimizing myself or saying "poor me/us" or something like that, but...I swear, I'm not. I have more "spoons" these days than I ever have before, and I'm incredibly grateful. However, this is the best description of "what it's like" that I've ever read (imho), and I think a few people on my FL might find it as touching/validating as I did, so...here we are. :)
In other news: life still sucks, a lot. More on this at 11.
That is all. |
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| Trout Heart Replica | Amanda Palmer |
[Sep. 3rd, 2009|02:04 am] |
They've been circling, they've been circling
since the day they were born.
It's disturbing, how they're circling 50ft from the pond.
Pretty often, pretty often I don't want to be told.
It's a problem, it's a problem, it's a problem - I know.
And I won't keep what I can't catch with my bare hands,
without a net.
It's hard enough to walk on grass,
so conscious of the consequences.
They've been jerking, they've been jerking
in a pail by the dock.
I know that oxygen might make them blossom and die,
but I'm not gonna talk.
"Feed them details, feed them e-mails -
they'll eventually grow."
It's not working, it's not working -
not as far as I know.
And killing things is not so hard;
it's hurting that's the hardest part.
And when the wizard gets to me,
I'm asking for a smaller heart.
And I got you!
(I thought that I got you.)
Now I'll ruin it all -
feeling helpless, acting selfish, being human and all.
And they're jumping, and they're jumping,
but they'll never get out.
"Just keep touring - keep on ignoring.
Be a good little trout."
And the butcher stops, and winds his watch.
And lies their lives upon the block.
He raises up his hatchet, and
the big hand strikes a compromise:
"Wait, we'll trade you, wait.
Please - just one more day.
And then we'll go with no complaining,
no complaining,
no complaining,
stop complaining, oh-"
And they're killing, and they're cutting,
and I think that I know.
And they're gutting, oh they're gutting -
and I think that I know.
And it's beating, it's still beating -
and I think that I know?
And it's bleeding - look, it's still beating -
and I don't want to know!
And killing things is not so hard;
its hurting that's the hardest part.
And when the wizard gets to me,
I'm asking for a smaller heart.
And if he tells me "no",
I'll hold my breath until I hit the floor.
Eventually, I know, I'm doomed to get what I am asking for.
(And now my heart is exactly the size
of a six-sided die, cut in in half.
Made of ruby-red stained glass.
Can I knock you unconscious, as long as I promise
I'll love you and I'll make you laugh?
Now my heart is exactly the size
of a six-sided die, cut in in half.
Made of ruby-red stained glass.
Can I knock you unconscious, as long as I promise
I'll love you
and I'll make you laugh?) |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 29th, 2009|01:24 am] |
I found God on the corner of 1st and Amistad, where the West was all but won.
All alone, smoking his last cigarette.
I said: Where you been?
He said: Ask anything.
Where were you, when everything was falling apart?
All my days were spent by the telephone that never rang.
And all I needed was a call that never came
from the corner of 1st and Amistad.
Lost and insecure, you found me.
You found me lying on the floor, surrounded, surrounded.
Why'd you have to wait?
Where were you?
Where were you?
Just a little late, you found me, you found me.
And in the end everyone ends up alone.
Losing her, the only one who's ever known who I am,
who I'm not, and who I want to be.
No way to know how long she will be next to me.
The early morning, the city breaks.
And I've been calling for years and years and years and years,
And you never left me no messages.
You never sent me no letters.
You got some kind of nerve, taking all I'm worth.
Lost and insecure, you found me.
You found me lying on the floor.
Where were you?
Where were you?
Lost and insecure, you found me.
You found me lying on the floor, surrounded, surrounded.
Why'd you have to wait?
Where were you?
Where were you?
Just a little late, you found me, you found me.
Why'd you have to wait to find me, to find me?
[The Fray] |
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| Everything Must Go | The Weakerthans |
[Aug. 24th, 2009|12:32 am] |
Garage Sale, Saturday.
(I need to pay my heart's outstanding bills.)
A cracked-up compass and a pocket watch.
Some plastic daffodils.
The cutlery and coffee cups I stole from all-night restaurants.
A sense of wonder (only slightly used).
A year or two, to haunt you in the dark.
- All for a phone call from far away,
with a "Hi, how are you today?"
And a sign that recovery comes
to the broken ones.
The wage-slave forty-hour work week (weighs a thousand kilograms, so bend your knees)
comes with a free fake smile for all your dumb demands.
The cordless razor that my father bought when I turned 17.
A puke-green sofa.
The outline to a complicated dream of dignity.
- For a laugh (too loud and too long),
or the place where awkward belongs.
And a sign that recovery comes
to the broken ones.
(Or best offer.) |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 20th, 2009|02:45 am] |
I count to three and grin. You smile and let me in. We sit and watch the wall you painted purple. Speech will spill on space, our little cups of grace. But pauses rattle on about the way that you cut that snow-fence, braved the blood, the metal of those hearts that you always end up pressing your tongue to.
How your body still remembers things you told it to forget.
How those furious affections followed you.
I’ve got this store-bought way of saying I’m okay, and you've learned how to cry in total silence. We’re talented and bright, we’re lonely and uptight - we’ve found some lovely ways to disappoint.
But the airport’s always almost empty this time of the year - so let’s go play on a baggage carousel. We'll set our watches forward like we’re just arriving here from a past we left in a place we knew too well, a place we knew too well.
Hold on to the corners of today, and we’ll fold it up to save until it’s needed.
Stand still and let me scrub that brackish line that you got when something rose and then receded.
Hold on.
[The Weakerthans, Watermark] |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 4th, 2009|09:08 pm] |
This is how it works:
You're young until you're not.
You love until you don't.
You try until you can't.
You laugh until you cry.
You cry until you laugh.
And everyone must breathe until their dying breath.
No, this is how it works:
You peer inside yourself,
and take the things you like,
and try to love the things you took.
And then you take that love you made,
and stick it into some, someone else's heart,
pumping someone else's blood.
And walking arm-in-arm,
you hope it won't get harmed.
But even if it does, you'll just do it all again.
[Regina Spektor] |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 11th, 2009|09:33 pm] |
all the lies you made up,
what's at the back of your mind?
oh, your face I can see, and it's desperately kind.
but what's at the back of your mind?
icy cold hands conducting the way -
it's the eskimo blood in my veins.
amid concrete and clay, and general decay,
nature must still find a way.
so ignore all the codes of the day,
let your juvenile impulses sway
this way and that way.
this way and that way.
god, how it implores you
to let yourself lose yourself.
stretch out and wait, stretch out and wait.
let your puny body lie down, lie down.
as we lie, you say-
as we lie, you say-
stretch out and wait, stretch out and wait.
let your puny body lie down, lie down.
as we lie, you say:
will the world end in the night time?
I really don't know.
or will the world end in the daytime?
I really don't know.
and is there any point in ever having children?
oh, I don't know.
all I do know is that we're here, and it's now.
so stretch out and wait, stretch out and wait.
there's no debate, no debate, no debate.
how can you consciously contemplate,
when there's no debate, no debate, no debate?
stretch out and wait... |
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| Boston [Truce Pt 1] | The Dresden Dolls |
[Jul. 8th, 2009|10:12 pm] |
All the cities in the world, and so very little time.
And so many different girls - all you have to do is find them.
There's a wealth of opportunity; you plan your trips accordingly.
A pity that the pretty ones are usually more touristy.
Say, how'd you like to run away from these machines?
Everywhere the spies are printing out our dreams
Seven stops in seven different countries,
Seven page itineraries,
Memories thick as bloody Marys
Jesus, Joseph, bloody hell-
Right now we're here in Boston,
in love with downtown crossing.
New York will still be there in the morning.
Come back to bed, my darling.
Four years thrown away on vows we never kept.
Forty-five minutes every day, religiously devoted to regret.
Time we could have spent on medication, thrown away on education.
And we planned to take a trip to Scotland, but we never made it-
How'd you like to run away from these machines?
I had Julians and Steves, you had Julias and Jeanettes.
You wear your terror on your sleeve for all the men I haven't met (yet).
I had Oliver in Potsdam, you had Eleanor in Amsterdam -
We're keeping track so carefully, we've missed the state we're in completely!
Honestly, your foot is out the door
And I've got scores of offers elsewhere,
And I keep both feet planted firmly in the air.
And tomorrow you can totally erase me from your mind.
But, trust me, everything is fine-
Because, right now, we're here in Boston,
in my apartment in the South End.
Forget your friends in London.
Come back to bed, my darling.
You can put the details in a letter,
the more embarrassing the better.
Right now, I can be happy if I choose to.
I know that in the morning,
I will lose you.
And maybe you'll go mad,
and maybe I'll go gray before we ever understand.
Or maybe it wont matter anyway -
We'll find out that your mom was right, and you'll admit you're really gay.
And maybe I'll wake up in a city far away.
Or maybe we'll make up,
and buy a house, and have a couple kids, and labrador, and microwave-
But anyway,
Right now we're here in Boston.
In Eden, where you almost pulled your pants down.
Don't worry who these jokes will all be lost on,
Come back
to bed
my darling.
There is nothing in the world that we can count on.
Even that we will wake up is an assumption.
But I know for a fact that I loved someone,
and for about a year, he lived in Boston. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 24th, 2009|11:48 pm] |
Killing things is not so hard -
It's hurting that's the hardest part.
And when the wizard gets to me,
I'm asking for a smaller heart.
If he tells me no,
I'll hold my breath until I hit the floor.
Eventually, I know, I'm doomed
to get what I am asking for.
And now my heart is exactly the size
of a six sided die cut in half,
made of ruby red-stained glass.
Can I knock you unconscious
as long as I promise
I'll love you and I'll make you laugh?
[Here] |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 18th, 2009|04:42 am] |
There's no end to the love you can give when you change your point of view to
underfoot.
Very good; you may be flat,
but you're breathing
And there's no doubt, he's at home in his room.
Probably watching porn of you, from the fall.
It's last call and you're the last one leaving.
And you thought you could change the world by opening your legs.
Well, it isn't very hard -
Try kicking them instead.
And you thought you could change his mind
by changing your perfume
to the kind his mother wore.
Oh God, Delilah, why?
I never met a more impossible girl.
In this same bar where you slammed down your hand
and said, "Amanda, I'm in love" -
No you're not,
you're just a sucker for the ones who use you.
And it doesn't matter what I say or do,
the stupid bastard's gonna have his way with you.
You're an unrescuable schizo,
or else you're on the rag.
And if you take him back, I'm gonna lose my nerve.
I never met a more impossible girl.
At four o'clock he got off, and you called up:
"I'm down at Denny's on Route One
And you won't guess what he's done."
Is that a fact, Delilah?
Larry Tap let you in through the back
You use his calling card again for a quick hand of gin
You are impossible, Delilah.
The princess of denial.
And after seven years in advertising, you are none the wiser.
You're an unrescuable schizo,
or else you're on the rag.
And if you take him back, I'm gonna lose my nerve.
He's gonna beat you like a pillow - you schizos never learn.
And if you take him home,
you'll get what you deserve.
I never met a more impossible girl.
So, don't cry, Delilah.
You're still alive, Delilah.
You need a ride, Delilah?
Let's see how fast this thing can go. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 15th, 2009|09:40 pm] |
scared to move sideways -
a shadow stands in the corner of my room.
20 small minutes away.
destined to be a stranger.
it tries to come closer,
so I try to strangle it.
I know now:
you love me, you're just sick.
the girl on the cover, crying -
she never got you to change,
almost died trying.
it tries to come closer,
so i kick and scratch at it.
i know now:
you love me, you're just sick.
you're number 6, 3 rules,
and how long has nothing moved?
green glass bottles, broken hair clips.
you're statuesque and unbending.
i don't let it get any closer,
but i'll listen to it.
if only i could change this.
if only I could change this.
[Sianna Lee - Download] |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 15th, 2009|03:55 am] |
I just can't fit.
Yes, I believe it's time for us to quit.
And when we meet again, introduced as friends,
please don't let on that you knew me when
I was hungry, and it was your world.
'Cause I fake just like a woman.
I make love just like a woman.
And I ache just like a woman.
But I break just like a little girl. |
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