anonymousblack: ([mom] boys and girls)
[11.23.2010, journal 10]

i want to be newly falling asleep. easily falling asleep. pleasantly slipping from awareness, sliding down those smoothing surfaces, wrapping myself in the soothing darkness of: sleep. pull the blanket up to my chin, up over my ears, slip down between the cool sheets and make them freshly warm. i do not think another decongestant will improve my mood. at least i'll be able to breath. break it down break it up break it out, refrain refrain, that refrain means both to halt and to repeat. to halt through repetition. to stop again again, to stop again stop. i'd really like to be falling back asleep, i said. outside strangers are shouting.

i'm putting on the crown. you know what that means. do you know what that means? ten years ago, just short of that friend's most recent post-break up pregnancy scare. not realizing my sister was pregnant, unsure if i even had an inkling, though my post-production team will observe that i certainly wrote some uncanny things on the matter, like i do. my oldest friend, arguably my closest friend, she kept going to my ex's parties. i can't complain about it. i never asked her not to go. maybe if i had, she wouldn't have gone, but something in me doubts this. i hadn't told her everything. i'd told her enough, but i wasn't ready to explain everything. around that, i was still intractable and obfuscating. intractable, obfuscating, intolerably intense. all the i and o and oh not now i'd become to her. you see, his parties were something to do. all her friends went to them. all her friends were his friends, too. it's foolish to think she would've chosen me. why do i think that thinking that is foolish? why did i break myself, trying to repair a friendship with anyone who i believed, deep down, wouldn't chose me over my ex-boyfriend's goddamn house parties?

i'm putting on the crown.



don't try to stop me.


all this time, i just wanted to be chosen. refrain: i wanted to matter. i wanted to be a desired presence on my own terms, not another piece of social clutter she couldn't use and couldn't release. i was a good friend on my own terms, taken for myself, not as another compulsive accessory in an already overpopulated entourage. she seemed to have more friends than she could deal with. she certainly had more friends than i could deal with:

and that's the hitch. it was blameless. it should have been blameless. it could've been blameless. she needed something else. something i couldn't understand. i was the obvious excess, the most easily excised. it was in her best interests to be rid of me. refrain from the destructive language: it was in my best interests to be free of her assumptions, of the obligations she insisted. of the endless bowing out of myself. of the shame for who i'd become. of her necessary friends that were his, too. of the possibility that he might become one of her necessary friends: of her insistent lack of understanding. of her emotional clutter piled up on her social clutter piled up on her material clutter up past the skyline up level with the tinfoil moon. pile it up: she didn't honor me. she couldn't see me as a gift. i can't blame her for it, i don't blame her for it, but then and again, why? why? why did this turn into that? refrain: i don't want to be writing this. refrain: i don't want to be thinking about this. refrain: yet here it is again.

in her party dress. her wings that don't lift or bear. unconcerned how my malingering connection to her might, in her superfluous and coincidental connection to him, might drag me back into his life, might trap me under his rock again, might punch my lungs, drag me under, that this time i might not come back. refrain! it didn't matter to her. i didn't matter to her. not like her actual friends. i'd become a concept, a principle, an object. i'd become another thing she didn't want to lose. refrain: i don't want to be writing this. refrain: i don't want to need to write this. refrain: i don't need to write this. i need to be chosen. i need to matter. refrain. stop. refrain. repeat:

i'm putting on the crown.

i don't know what it means or where it might go. what i know is i'm sick of being a queen without a crown. without the straight back, without the towering confidence. i'm sick of being invisible, left between the lines, left of center, left out. i have a crown. it's time for me to wear it. in the back room of the craft store, on highway eighty-three. alone in the grocery store parking lot tears dripping from my fluorescent strained eyes, howling into my dark locked car: i'm putting on the fucking crown and don't you even try to stop me. you don't know anything about it. you've never seen a crown much less saved one in the closets and crawlspaces of your life, you don't know what it's like to have this thing, this certainty, this strength stuffed at the back of the linens that you know some day you'll have to claim but still but wait but now is not the right now i've got to now instead there's something else. or maybe you do, probably some of you do, possibly you're reading this and thinking: yes, that's me, that's true, that's been me all along, but listen: this is about me. this time. this once. so. refrain: shut it. it's time. i'm putting on the crown.

you don't even know.
you won't even know.
you can't even know.


2016 eta: and what about me? because there's always something. that i don't know. that i won't know. that i can't know.

and yet.


anonymousblack: (who do you think you are)
it's striking, the mutual resilience and fragility of the writing urge. what's most curious is how they can cycle through my system at the same time, almost feeding off each other; almost responsible for each other. oh, i think: how i would love to be writing. how it would help me connect with this moment, put my feet in my shoes. oh, how i could be writing. the things i could write: then, i think of that blank page. rollerball lurching under the date, trying to think of a first word, trying to correct my first word with the second: so instead i just stay in bed.

i could artfully invoke fashionable names, i could splash my text with references to ideologies people like me would need to secretly research. i need banks of knowledge, access to the store of universal obscurities. the language of the educated, the cerebral beauties of meaningful content. is it what i need?

what i need is an image. a foothold to climb out of my head. i keep coming up against the ugly simplicity of how small my mind is. how uncomplicated, really: how little i am truly capable of innovation, of groundbreaking insight, of engaging ideas. of storytelling, real, genuine storytelling. i start out devising a plot and end up writing a seven page treatise on the various types, advantages and pitfalls of drugstore candle brands. i'd believed i was intelligent, at one point or another--and i am, at least, attentive, but really: intelligence is something more than being able to follow the red bouncing dot over the lyrical emphasis. just because i'm more aware than a person here or there, more aware in this way or that, it doesn't mean i've achieved Real Awareness. it doesn't mean anything, really: chances are i'm no more or less aware than anyone, depending on the perspective. humbling?

that's about the size, where you put your eyes.

a dream where sky blue walls are painted with constellations. because the heavens continue to surround us even when we are distracted with sunblock and roller coasters? the things in our universe continue to exist, even when we don't pay attention to them. there is no "subtext," just what's happening in another room or somebody else's skull. the situations we don't observe or acknowledge.

the stories we neglect to tell ourselves.

every now and then you meet a boy in his second year of college who tells you he doesn't know anything--like it's this profound insight, like it's certification that, in reality, he is the wisest person you could possibly ever know. it's a paradox, right? except this: you do know something. you know when you need to urinate. generally, you know when you need to eat. you often know when something makes you angry, or sad, or indignant, even if you aren't always sure why. body knowledge and emotional knowledge, what, too primitive to count? too simplistic? too feminine? sophomore boy smiles: see? i don't even know the things that i always know, how smart am i now?

imagine: a pissing contest over who is truly the more ignorant.




that's about the size of it.
anonymousblack: ([tarkovskiy] the heart)
transcribed with light editing from the final entry of my most recent journal, dated 5/3/2011
should ever anyone see fit to make a book from me, it will likely be comprised of final journal entries.
i suspect i ought to start choosing shorter journals.

____________________________________________________


can see the light but well out of the sun. piles of rarely worn clothes just at the periphery.

a girl i consider but never call.

a girl i considered but never became.

we've spanned two and a half years, 2/9/2009 to 5/3/2011, in our relationship. i have taken you twice on an airplane but not once home to my parents. i received you at home as a gift from my parents, that was where i had you ship when i bought you as a gift for myself. my mother unwrapped you, packaged you differently, and wrapped you up again. there is an element of our relationship that will always be circular, coming back to the buyer who has surrendered her ownership, sold you to a loved one to be returned as a gift. there is an element to my journal-keeping that will be circular: i return to the subject, the insight, the sorrow. i return with a familiar perspective, uncanny mirror, the spots corroding in silver nitrate. i return and return again. however the trail overlaps itself, however it keeps an unsteady line, it's never quite the same approach. you have nearly encompassed my full tenure at the craft store--you might still, yet--but have seen no change, no prospects of change in my living situation. perhaps you have nearly seen marked degradation therein, but that's no one's call to make.

when i started you, my married sister lived in her own house. she'd begun the affair that would destroy her marriage and put the house into foreclosure perhaps a year, maybe a half-year earlier than would have otherwise been the case; now her ex-husband visits my parent's house like one of her old school friends and the man who fathered her second child believes buying one pack of disposable diapers constitutes a viable contribution to his daughter's long-term well-being. when i started this journal, i rarely, if ever, heard from my sister. months gone without a changed word. now when i call my mother, my sister answers. no sense of where the situation is going, my sister's daughter lags the expectations for language and motor development. the caseworker is concerned. my mother is tired. my sister gives her daughter a bath and loops a housewide production of putting her daughter to bed three times before the door stays shut.

in the time since i've started writing here, i've accumulated seventy-two books. i've piled up albums, in jewel cases or mp3 files. i didn't know about celer when i started writing here. voice of eye only had the double album and it wasn't available to me. when i started writing here, i barely knew anne carson. there's the one title i'd read years ago and a vague sense of gleaming. i hadn't ordered a single title from greying ghost press.

i still trekked loyally every tuesday and thursday to the morgan state radio station and waved my hands frantically from the other side of the glass when my boss didn't acknowledge the countdown. swiping in to the communications building parking lot. sprinting to the studio doors to let our headlining guest in two minutes into their segment. opening this book for the first time, i hadn't yet been to cape henlopen. if i'd seen the ocean since coyote and i summoned the apocalypse off a pier in cape code eleven years ago, it was only in photographs. twice to massachusetts, without ben and with ben, walking around boston that one day in september while my surroundings came in and out of focus, where i realized how boston had gestated in my dreaming, and the mediterranean restaurant that was still there, materializing before us just in time for lunch. that day in salem with coyote, months earlier. ceramic shards amongst the shoreline stones. how we sat at the coffee shop drinking nepalese tea. coyote taught me to knit and i relearned it every time until my eyes buckled and warped like a pane of glass under pressure. i stopped short and sat down just off the doorstep of the celtic bookstore: that was still there, too.

how i would have liked to fill you with mysterious and lovely imagery, with unexpectedly harmonious prose. how i would have liked to integrate more in the way of capital w writing, daubs of work, workable pieces i could pluck from your pages and parade by the editors of small press publications. how i'd like to be publishable, have any degree of cohesion to what i put down on paper and what i piss through time thinking about. at the start of 2009, i still needed instructions and a map to get to the business park where my partner works. i'd head out to the expressway with that black spiral notebook flipped open and rustling past the page with my directions, or the business card with the eight line map and star. sometimes after my visit, if my visit didn't entail leaving with ben, i'd indulge in a trip to the bookstore, buy something to read in a waiting room, or instead, still myself in an aisle of blank books. blank books, generally, serve as a powerful calmative. potential encased in craftsmanship. the unborn dreams of strangers. looking at a blank book, i intuit that someday it will be filled with the sorts of words somebody, anybody, maybe even me, would like them to be filled. a story, maybe, or prose fragments. journal entries or poems. sketches. couplets. dreams. letters the author has no intention of sending. dreams: what will be between those covers is so perfumed with interest i can sense their vibration from years in the future. if only i could cross the twilight, bring them back to themselves, make them known, make them whole. pages and pages of uncensored curiosity, passion, unbridled pretentiousness, incoherent ranting, words and words and words, gorgeous mistakes.

i am not the poetess with a lipstick smeared napkin crumpled in my coffee cup. my right stiletto does not rise and twist into the checkered tile. i am not beautiful or stylish. i am not educated or desirable to educational institutions. i bruise my hips on doorknobs. i forget what i'm saying halfway through saying it. i have little and owe much. i will not have a three story house full of my shapes and smells waiting for me this saturday when i get off from the bookstore at eleven; but, still. i'll turn out of the parking lot onto the access road. i'll turn off the access road onto a side street. i'll exit the side street onto the expressway. i'll listen to voice of eye or low or the fey crossing mix or a stick and a stone. the air will be humid but brisk with night and spring. the headlights will compliment the street lights in that particular way they do outside a city at night, the exit signs will be there as they've been there before and will be again. i'll be driving and some frail glass bubble thought may well swell up in my heart with a passion i'll never get down on paper or some tragic rehash of self-analysis, psychological yard doughnuts i'd never dare put down on paper because i think it too much as it is. i'll drive, there in the farthest right lane, not fast or sure enough for most of the people in my history, but fast enough to get home.

i'll wonder about things i'm not sure will happen or feel anxious about things that recently have and i'll know something then i don't know now and i'll have forgotten something i wanted to remember and i know, then as now, now as before that there may not be a point to any of this but that's the only certainty i have: there is no destination. it's all temporary. it's all contingent. getting there is all there really is.

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