...re[vision]...

...Posts...

I don't always have my computer with me you know. Catch up? :

It comes down to memory, there’s no way of knowing what it is exactly but that’s the bulk. These journals inform me. Nostalgia. I’ve forgotten how to be single. I don’t approach people anymore but I think it’s okay. I’m still on you, in my mind. It was miserable in the end and both saw it but my mind moves back into good times.

Things I should tell you:
-I’ve never cheated on you.
-I’m thinking about it daily now.
-If I go to Brazil I’ll never come back to you.
-I hate your dad.
-I hate that you love frat boys.
-You internalize too much.
-Stop laughing at my expense.
-Your friends judge me unrealistically.
-You’re greedy with covers.
-You’re a greedy lover.
-I’m intimidated by your projection of OUR future.
-You’ve lost your independence.
-You try to buy me too much.
-I hate having to touch you every second I’m with you.
-You pick the worst times to kiss me in traffic.
-I love you.

CONCEPT ART:
Collections, its made from that. To show a conceptive creative idea fully, you gotta show all sides of it. Collect how it should be explained. Explain it fully.

I blame my actions on one fundamental flaw: I’ve learned too early to love life purely for the beauty it contains. So, can you blame me if I fall in love with a new girl everyday? Can you blame me for prematurely understanding the beauty in diversity? Every shape hip, lip, every length slip. Can I help myself from wanting to know every facet of every woman? Can you learn to forgive me if I slip up once, look into the mind of someone else? Appreciating the differing way neurons fire in women’s minds? –the different ways to handle me, to retort my feeble mental flirtations. Oh, the way women TALK. But, maybe, you see the beauty in men. Someday will you, too, know that nothing matters but the way you you you the way I I I / LOVE beauty; want to see it all. Want to fall in love everyday. NO FUTURE, NO FUTURE in sight. No next minute. No next second. Now. Beauty. Now, this moment.

I guess I’m just disappointed in how it all turned out. We were both pretty childish but, for me, that was childhood. It’s the difference between who you are and how you are. I got used to you judging me on who I am. Now I’m working on the how I am (I lost a lot of that). Socially I’m lost, especially around the opposite sex, because I’m stuck in this public image created from having a ridiculously long term relationship. I can’t flirt and I’m jealous because you, purely by being female, will still get laid. The only hope I’ve got is that I’m still the best and that’s not much

and insomnia is ensuing again. Granted I worked all night but my life is running soley on power naps sparatically placed throughout the day/night. That’s discomfort in myself. I wanna meet someone that at first glance makes me eager. No more of this hometown girl bullshit – that residual thought. NEW,NEW.

Divine says its because it is new. It’s that T.V. thing. Like, yeah, sweet T.V., NEW T.V. and its sick for a while but its not H.D. Its not any flat screen LCD and you gotta upgrade, right? But I don’t think its like that. It’s the way your thigh feels through old eeyore pajamas. The way you drag your smokes and giggle. Is all that new? No, it’s the old shit I get to see. The old habits. Tricks, jokes, over and over. That’s performance, practice. That’s real. That’s relying on licks over simply chord changes. That’s ii, V, I turnarounds – places your hands go naturally – the feel you like to feel. That’s sweaty palms, and small goodnight kissing. And I hope you’re getting the same from me, I hopw your getting my practice.

It’s a ledge, a high ledge. I get it, I know, cliché, that my imagery of a text message conversation is that, a ledge. Tess Gallager; she says a lynx next to a housecat. I’d say it’s the third floor for the vertigo. The aracknophobic spotting a spider on his ceiling in bed, safe? A strawberry to my grandmother, a piece of broccili for my pops. The thing that could kill you. All it says is “when do I get to see you again?”

I’ve this fantasy that while I wait for your response (and consequently write this) you’ll be in your car on your way to my door. That you’ll knock and I’ll answer to your lips, your stomach.

So that’s pretty much about how it usually goes. I get my hopes up, even for conversation – for a bowl and a friend – but to no validation. Every Saturday night builds to me lyin in bed reading about authors losing their parents or lovers, often in horribly graphic detail. I barely have parents or lovers but Jimmy threw me a bone before he left in the form of a bit o’ shwag. Reminds me of my mother talking to me after three monts of silence just to inform me about how surprised she is that I’m not incarcerated. At least she thinks something of me. It is becoming super frustrating, though, this ridiculously mediocre life I’ve built myself. So many years of eating alone. I don’t think too too many people understand that implication. The chomping jaw sound pressed right against your ear (one of two things that break total nauseating silence – the other being the envied chatter of other cafeteria patrons amoungst each other about books, music, etc. They piss me off) I hope I don’t die of cancer. That’s much more lonely. You can’t eat to eat alone.

I wanted to thank you.
I’ve wanted to thank you.
For falling off the planet.
For not returning my text messages.
For being good to your words.
For bad mouthing my reputation to old friends.
For making me your masogynist voodoo doll.
Thank you.
A clichéd thousand times.
For making me enemy idolartry.
For defriending me on all internet social networks.
For burning my picture, the painting I made, the journal I altered.
For jumping into strange beds with strange men.
All to spite me,
Thank You.
Thank You.
Thank You.
For cutting the cord.
For giving me up and letting me breathe long enough to see the space growing between us three years ago and us today.
Your closeness prevented it.
Thank you.
Thank you
Simply, for hating me.
I’ve never felt so damn satisfied.

It’s very cued from new beginnings – makes good use of the feelings I’m getting from her. Get up and move because the last end was fro real; for a real purpose – to guide you to her. How can you hate relationships they’re like chemicals – they keep the world running. She stands on that rock poised perfectly to stand out from the broken glass and cigarette butts in our sunset public park and yeah I feel great; about writing some new pages – they needed this breath. I needed this breath more importantly. She smokes so beautifully – an old soul like me (some new wisdoms for me to drink up). Like the cars that were our souls were still cool… *//My 54 Bel Air heart, clanky, rusty, steel and strong as hell (not much to look at I fear). I’m writing songs while texting you, fantasizing how I’ll play them and you’ll trip with that gloss touch shooting off your smile. God, I want to taste it again. I’ll teach you life- how to roll cigs on the front porch with a cup of joe and your morning sex afterglow. Cause that’s what its about now. The world’s turning to shit and the old folks aren’t dying off fast enough so you have to grab it. You gotta smoke, you gotta fuck. I feel we should infect each other – human mind to human mind – celebrate calamity amoungst our kind. Fuck sleep, I say. If we slept one night a week how much time do we save? Do I get to look you in the eyes when I sleep? Do I get to test your flavors or hear your whispers? Do I get to care? Text me all day, text me all night; call me. I’m dying to get into you. To be the select few with your home number so I can leave it with friends when I stay with you. Its so presumptuous, I know, but who cares? Beds weren’t meant for the lonely.

Written by eris at 6:26 PM

1 Comments:

At 2:04 AM, Kyle said...: this might be the greatest thing I've ever read
(minor typos aside)