anonymousblack: ([tarkovskiy] kiss)
1.
the broken spell, the spell broken, the broken matter of what was spelled out and smashed to bits then abandoned: to the elements, to the elemental forces, to the shape of things to come that came and did what they did and now they are gone and cold blows the wind, the wind blows cold, cold and sharp around every fractured corner, in through the window cracks, blowing again blowing, whistling through, whispering through: but then again you know but then again you’ve heard, at least you had the opportunity to hear, did you hear?

have you heard?

have you given this information a chance? listen:


2.
we are blown by the wind or we are blown through. we are blown out, wick deprived of purpose, left stiff and blackened in a molten pool of wax. we are, as we are, as we’ve been, as we’ll be, until we are not and then who even knows.

i bring the pen’s tip to the page.

i hover the silence.

i wait and see. i wait and wait.

i wait and listen - listen - listen

but then again. and then again. again, again, again, she screams. o god, she screams. burn it, she screams. take who you were three minutes ago and


3.
the spell is broken. the broken fragments of spells: elemental invocations, bits of string, needle stems of herbs sealed in splattered candle wax: listen, can you listen? do you hear what’s calling, what’s been calling, now that there's a crack, now that crack in everything has let the light in? but you can’t listen to light, can you? not with our factory standard sensory capacities. not with our common sense and this-is-really-for-the-best, you’ll understand one day, you’ll understand someday, what i’m saying is: who’s reading? who’s reading and why? again:

i listen for the light. i listen for certainty. i listen for some subtle change, a telling displacement of the waterline, an unanticipated component in the local bouquet, an unacknowledged frequency moving the needle in strange new ways. one year ago yesterday bowie died. one year ago today i'm a black star, i'm a black star i sat next to ben in the mezzanine, doubled over my notebook, suddenly desperate to describe a miscarriage i’ve never had. bowie's death knocked it out of me. bowie's cancer knocked it out of me. it’s just a story, but i’m twitching with it. it’s only a story, but it’s making the corners of my vision spark. it's a story, but something about it has broken skin. my pregnancy stories do not end well. only one in memory carried to term and technically. technically?


4.
i burned the physical remains of my incomplete first novel in a friend's fire pit. she left me alone for this. she is also a witch, but, moreover, she is also a writer. a fellow witch and a writing fellow, she knows the basic shape of where i am in this moment if not the exact contours. she has also lamented lost creative projects. she did not need to hear my lamentations to know they occurred.

and so the book burns, at last. sixteen years. twenty, really. twenty-one years. the book burns: the printouts, the composition notebook, fifty odd scraps of ingram status reports freehand inked with wistful fragments, beautiful stray lines that got stuck at the shelter for much too long, trying again trying to get me to: write the damn book. but no. and no. and again, no. every time no. fifty odd failed attempts. thousands upon thousands of failed attempts. and then the workshop handouts, my revision notes, my session notes, feedback feeding back on itself until i collapsed at the keyboard with the shakes, all i could ever hear when i reached for the next word. the next word wasn't there. the book blew town. the book never looked back. the book died.

all the same, i carried its corpse with me everywhere: for a year, for two years, i carry this book with me still and it needed to stop: so i burned it.


5.
and i say this like it is accomplished fact, but it is not. right now: it is a story. that's all a ritual really is, in the end: a story told, beginning, middle,to end. a story told with the body instead of words. so here is my ritual, and here is my story: the story of my first miscarriage. the story about a miscarriage that i failed to carry to term. it's a droste effect narrative. the book that died like that on the workshop table: it will happen a few days into the waning moon during the upcoming venus retrograde. i will burn my incomplete first novel. i will put the ashes in a silver flask and drive them to delaware, or i will hold on to them to release off pelee island at the end of may. release them back into the wilderness. release them back into the wilderness they never really left. will that be the end of it? will that finally be the end of it?

probably not, but who could say.


6.
my most significant offering, to be sure. listen: where is my book? and listen: where did my book go? we haven't got all night. we haven't got forever. we do, but we don't. forever doesn't present itself in a way most of us can easily grasp. it's a tease, a shameless flirt, trust forever and find yourself alone at the coffeehouse all night every fucking time. forever doesn't tender in temporary. forever doesn't even follow whatever it is us temporary residents think we are talking about. but that's because forever has that kind of time. forever has all the time in the world.


7.
and the wind whistles, the wind whispers, the wind blows. forgetting and breaking, breaking the shore, breaking the spell, the spell broken: gentle child of words, you didn't deserve this. gentle child of words, i have failed you.

and i'm sorry

i'm so sorry

i'm so fucking sorry.


anonymousblack: (labyrinth contrast)
1.
does it matter? the rich and warm of it, the nightly swarm of it, the on and on and on and on again off of it, the are you listening, do you hear me, would you hear me, does anyone hear me at all?

i don't know what it meant or what it could mean. i don't know, and the trip of stumble of that, the hopeless rumble of it, the what would i say if i could say something, the what would it mean if it meant something:

open and shut, or never resolved, no answer to be found, no trail left to follow, a tangential tangle of what wasn't said and what wasn't documented. left undocumented. a ravaging pathway through dense underbrush, and lies, or what could be lies, what might be lies, lie down now and close your eyes, lie down now and hold your tongue:

what am i saying? what the fuck am i even trying to say?

the point of this is that there isn't a point. no single point. no single point of entry, no trodden path through the chaos, no satisfying resolution or manageable solution, no simple way to work out or through. just:

all of a sudden you're here and all at once you are gone. and you arrive in a mess, and you wander around through a mess making a terrible mess as you go and, once gone, leave yet another mess behind. so it is what we are: a mess. we are messy creatures. we are infernal leviathans of god might not even know what. we are enigmas wrapped in riddles stashed somewhere in plain sight that you'll never think to look. and then and then and then.

does it matter? did it matter? will it ever matter?

i don't know, and that lack of knowledge crumples up under my fingertips, rattling, ripping, no matter too serious, no matter it's silly, but then again, you know? but then again. we matter to each other, i think, except when we don't. at least we have that. maybe that's enough, i think, except when it isn't. i haven't written for days. i couldn't tell you why. just that: i don't really have anyone to report back to, no deadlines, lines for the dead, keep it steady keep it sure and keep doing it even when there isn't a purpose even when there's not much of a point, nobody reading, nobody going to read: choke me dead with my own hard line, why don't you?

lose the line again again: to indifference, to social protocol, the letter of the law, the nonnegotiable absolutes of life and death, we're sorry but it's not a good fit, we're sorry but good luck with it, i wanted to love it, i mean, i really wanted to, but i did not. or maybe or maybe or maybe, right? he didn't say one damn thing to me, not at the end, not near it. i keep waiting, i keep hoping, maybe something, some indication, some post-dated email set to drop one day when i'm at my wits end, such a save, such a save! some half formed semblance of a real goodbye

but then again, i can't expect that. but then again,

what have i ever done to deserve that?


2.
"read between the lines," he told me and said to repeat it back.

"write between the lines," i said, and didn't meet anyone in the eye for a week:

because there are too many secrets, too many matters pressed flat and drawn out over themselves and under again. an illustrating example. an unwanted explanation. yet another privileged stranger presuming to tell me my suffering is meaningless in light of their own. perhaps it is. perhaps i am overreacting. i've certainly overreacted before. maybe i am making it all up. i am quite imaginative, you know. aren't we all? except when we aren't, you see, and those are the scenarios where people are shot dead, are dropped between the cracks, are crushed between the cracks, abandoned to the mercy of a culture increasingly demonstrated as psychopathic in its negligence, in its self-serving 'me too,' billions of people ready to kill for even a little bit of what they've been brainwashed into thinking they want; billions of people ready to disown life long connections over facebook memes and hashtags, the hatred, the cruelty, the eternal middle school locker room that has become human relations: for what?

i started out thinking "so we can be heard," so our broadcast signal has someplace to land: but now think it's more like, "so we're never obligated to listen, so we don't feel any responsibility toward what we hear." not only to random internet strangers who, however "astutely," write openly about their heartbreaking experiences with systemic oppression, but our own loved ones, our partners and dearest friends, our children, children we've prayed for and paid for and pay for still: because it's all about getting the most out of my experience, right? if i can have it all, you better believe i better get it. i get to have a childhood a bff a prom date a college dorm room a steady a bff an able body a beautiful face a car designer clothes a soulmate a soul a dog a house a spouse a kid another kid a lawnmower a summer vacation spot a hot tub a home stereo system a gmo free organic diet access to alternative healthcare access to anything resembling healthcare at all a day at the spa handcrafted fair traded ethically appropriated stuff permissive spirituality spiritual boon without suffering the assumption of my ultimate correctness by others power and substance a meditation regime fancy ass yoga pants freedom from negativity the authority to label anyone who pisses me off a narcissist people who agree with me people who call me strong attention and accolades acknowledgement and adoration talent and renown an important voice a voice that gets heard an opinion that matters to somebody somewhere publication designer degrees in higher education a respected internet presence enough numbness to get through today's feed enough numbness to scroll past a love one's pain to explain it away to tell my loved ones that what i am going through is so much worse and feel validated in that everything! everything everything everything we want, taken without so much as a half-hearted examination of what we actually need, and it doesn't matter what we're taking away from the planet, from society, from other people, who, as much as i might claim to love them? are not me.

yet.

that's the thing.

yet.


anonymousblack: ([ben] strap)
the room is empty or the room is filled with nothing. in the empty room, the room filled with nothing, i set down an empty tin can. i set down a tin can with the store brand cream of mushroom soup label torn off. i set down a tin can taken from a stranger’s recycling bin and filled with orange dirt from the nearby construction site. in the room filled with nothing i hold one end of an incense stick over my lighter and wait for the catch, wait for the flare, wait for the slow smolder. in the room filled with nothing i stick the other end of an incense stick into a tin can filled with orange dirt. i drop the lighter by the can. i lie down on the floor next to the lighter. in the empty room, in the room of empty, i lie on the floor. i close my eyes. i lie on the floor and close my eyes. i bring my knees to my chin. i wait for the moment. i wait for the very next moment. i wait.

so talk to me about longing.

you know the pull and tear of it. the dark tangled hair of it. talk to me about the way another’s eyes turned after you again and again every time you crossed his path and every time another crossed your path and every time and every time another crossed himself temple to shoulder to shoulder, crossed himself en route to your temple, took a new name in desire, took a new shape in the way that desire took him. we all take new shapes in desire. we all make new shapes in desire. so talk to me about longing: as if i don’t already know, as if there is an answer in the way a memory bucks and swells beneath, remembering the thrust of it, remembering the start of it, the shake of it: remembering the way we make our way in an absence of ways to go.

there’s a path to it, you know. there’s a path. just a way from one place to another. just a way that makes one place and then another. you know, once something becomes a destination, it also becomes a place. for a long time, i was not a place yet. i was something. i was a convergence of somethings. i was cruel and unfathomable hunger left unfulfilled. the words jumble together. the letters do not make a shape. sentences do not climb skyward but jumble before us in unseemly tangles. you understand that before you knew my name i did not have a name. what i was called was merely a suggestion, a form i could take. before you spoke my name, my name was a placeholder. a proxy to gain my attentions. a means of summoning me to meals or protecting me from getting struck by a bus. before you spoke my name it was not a name, just a sound that came out of people’s mouths in reference to me. an abstraction, a boundary of infinite options, something to be filled in.

what were you before i spoke your name?

who about you’d always been.

unwitting initiates often do not appreciate the process they are taking on until they have finished that process. and so: i do not appreciate the process of my initiation. sometimes i fall back far enough to see the shape of this and it is frightening. it is frightening because: it is potentially illusory. it is equally frightening: because it is potentially true. i cannot prioritize my fear. i cannot quantify the truth. so instead i rationalize. i deviate. i qualify. i wonder if i am intended to work both sides of every true mysteries in my life: the shadow and the object of it, the illusion and the reality. if i am meant, perhaps, to see the way reality supports illusion and the necessity all illusions have in a basis toward reality.

all told, i may well have methods of mood management that are overdo for some scrutiny.

i wonder if i am meant to love in a way that cannot be satisfied. if i will always long. if i will always hunger. if hunger gradually takes me over and blots me out. if hunger eventually becomes my new name. ghost as hunger. haunted by hunger. haunted by desire, urge, the unknown: the desire to make the unknown known, to find the unknown within the known, and back, and forth, and back, step it up, step back, again.

again i see that the the root of all language is desire. language exists because of desire: desire for connection, for satisfaction, for survival. and perhaps all these energies - connection, satisfaction, survival - go back to desire. because desire is what fuels us as much as it exhausts us, in the end. we pull life up into our bodies with every breath to let it leech away into the earth when our lives are over. we exist because of desire, so to condemn desire might be the origin of evil. but do with that information what you will. i was talking about shadows: not just shadows within my persona, but shadows of ideas - how love is shadowed by anxiety, how love is embodied in hate. how enthusiastic fantasy can become unimaginable with one crucial variable changed. how speech is inevitably married to silence. connection. what is connection shadowed by?

the room is empty or the room is filled with nothing. in the empty room, the room filled with nothing, i set down an empty tin can.


anonymousblack: ([tarkovskiy] hari bleeding)
in the dream it was a shock again, as it’s always a shock, as it’s never stopped being a shock. because as old as i am, i am never prepared for or willing to accept the non-negotiable and absolute permanence of death. it’s not rebellion, it’s more visceral than that. an intolerance. an allergy. a fatal, fatal allergy. i’ll call p., i thought, who else is ever going to help me sort through p.’s death, i thought, and stopped cold.

it’s like that. stopped cold. stone wall not even rushing up before you slam in. nothing else there. nothing else in the room. there’s the room itself, but what are you going to do in a room without anything to do? not even a window, i mean, not even a door. when i was seven my grandfather died from lung cancer. my parents took me to the funeral. my parents said it was time for me to go to a funeral and look, here is an excellent introductory option. i went to my grandfather's funeral and i thought: this just doesn’t seem very practical. everything we go through and then this, stone wall, open casket, flowers from your former employer? everything we go through and then this, this room without anything to do? you haven’t even figured out everything you need to figure out. you haven’t even put away all your stuff.

when i was seven i thought i’d will myself dead for a few minutes so i could see what it felt like. i laid on my bed and pretended to stop. stone wall. not even rushing up. it wasn’t so bad, i decided. it wasn’t so bad from that side of things, maybe, like this exercise offered any viable insight into any side of things. at first, for a lot of us, death seems like it should be something you can get over. have a good rest. then: wake up. go on about your day. go on about your life. out of the dream, i rolled onto my back and started at the beginning again.

anonymousblack: (((something)))
random brittle dreams, questionable motivations, unforeseen outcomes.

i realized around 1AM that i'd decided in my heart of hearts that i need to move to rockford, to be closer to my family, to be closer to dear friends out here, to be closer to my niece as she grows

by 2:30 i'd talked myself out of it

it's not necessarily a

well i mean it's an idea, you see, and there are both healthy and unhealthy facets to it. on the one hand, things in baltimore are technically where they were for me three years ago and i'm making myself sick watching everyone else's milestones pass me by. i'm sinking deeper and deeper into neurosis and stagnation. on the other hand, there's a distinct possibility that i am turning myself into a pillar of salt even as i type this. i'm so desperate for this situation to evolve a little in a positive direction i could very well be getting impulsive and stupid.

two hours later i can't say where i am, who, what, quezacotl whispers: time is short, the great destroyer is waiting. i look at floorplans and reference shots. i can't get this time back i can't get back the time i've lost with my nephew my mother my friends. i don't know. i couldn't say.

now 4, listening to fleet foxes in my niece's bedroom that used to be my bedroom: let us review, how strange to see the colors and textures i put into this space years and years ago carelessly scraped out and redressed with my sister's childlike sensibilities, the latchhook hen beneath the praying child cross beneath that dreamcatcher i knew i left somewhere; the feather blessing i wrapped and hung off the doorframe six years ago still hanging off the doorframe; the plastic drawer chest stuffed with wipes and footie pajamas underlining it all. let us review how strange it is to sleep in a baby's room that does not have the baby sleeping in it, to wake up next to a crib at the baby's cry in the next room. to return now and listen to this album i want to curl up in and pull over me like sleep furs, that expanse of voices marking a perfectly secure circumference, what would have been here if i hadn't left. it's like dropping a stitch, skipping a beat, the structure will collapse itself any moment now

she's a dear, she's a sweetheart, she's my niece. when she sees your feet coming down the stairs she'll call out 'hi' until you respond back in kind; once you do she delights: 'happy!' and waves her arms, trembles with delight, laughs out loud with the joy of having you in the room with her again. i arrange her cheerios into a circle on her highchair tray and she can't believe the miracle of it, it's like nothing she's ever seen; when she knocks the circle out of order slightly with her enthusiasm, she looks at me in slight distress until i put it right again. she rewards me by lowering her face and lifting her eyes with a giggle: a confidence between us, this ring of oats. magic in its most rolled and roasted form.

at the restaurant my aunt sees the sanskrit ring i've worn on my right pointer finger since my last year of college and asks if ben gave it to me. no, i tell her, i've had it for years, and anyway the energy behind it is supposed to relate more to my commitment to spirit, that unearthly marriage. whatever the case she presents me back with my hand and says, well you've got to tell him. by next christmas. he needs to give you a ring. she's going to pray to god for it. i don't know i couldn't say. what am i doing here? what am i not doing there? what the hell is it that i think i'm doing with the time i have left on the planet? do i really want to spend it giving someone i love horrible ultimatums about marriage? does it really matter to me, that much?

and i love him so much and i want to be with him so much and i've wanted to be with him and in so many ways i've chosen him and that's the path i've chosen and yet. here i am at my parent's house. and i miss so much and i'm missing so much and it creates this horrible grating, this feedback loop, i realize how lonely i am and how empty i've been feeling and i am so burned out with placelessness, with waiting, with not really understanding why i am where i am. and i can't ask for what i want, because i don't really know what that is. or i'm too afraid of the answer to ask, or i'm that much more afraid that there isn't so much an answer as there is more waiting. no answer, no growth, just entropy and, eventually, death.

quezacotl quezacotl

new jobs and engagements and due dates pile up on my facebook feed. i wait, as ever, for the killing blow. any day now, about. people complain about 2011 or they complain about people complaining about 2011. facebook makes my heart sick, it's this funhouse mirror world of manipulation and distortion, intentional and otherwise. everybody's beautiful and perfect. is it real? on the level i'm seeing, it is. it may as well be, as far as i'm concerned. i could not be so beautiful or so perfect, at least i don't think i could be. i cannot even pretend. maybe it's better that way. sleight of hand or slight of hand. i couldn't say. facebook makes my heart sick, there's no ghost in the shell.

i keep going back, all the same.
anonymousblack: ([tarkovskiy] glass)
most of the humor is derived from the chasm that exists between the general public's understanding of how the situation has always worked versus the bewildering reality of how the situation is now

you have people expecting a certain standard
people expecting to have their every half-hearted desire, every fleeting whim treated as if it is a life or death necessity

and instead

no one has answers
no one meets you in the eye

look
the cupboard is bare


doors are locked
bottles are empty
and leave no drop for me
there's no kick to this cigarette
get me out of this joint

it's just as it was before
before demand
before supply
before abundance, surplus, clearance, waste
the back dock jammed with what no one had a use for
with what they won't realize they needed until it is long gone
or they won't
sometimes they don't
the rain pours out the sight

empty swallows
hard empty swallows

another way to pass the time


another way to piss the time


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