because i am lacking the focus to write an unheard of thirty odd pages. no no. that's not right. because i am reluctant to write (because people who end up reading me will end up reading me wrong. will end up reading me clogged and troubled, confused, turned around. because people who will end up reading me will end up reading into circles, will end up reading surreality where i only want to relay images, where i only want to release images, where i only want to be surrounded by the tension of words and breathing and the wringing hands wrapped around images, gripping images, breathing besides, or breathing and not breathing--) i have, here, beneath, below, under, in terrible chunks broken by bandwith or pixel or--
i cannot be clear. i cannot begin again. i cannot write the way i need, should, have been called to do, have been assigned. i am blue, enraged, distracted, rankled, unable to breath.
in the meantime, life is extraordinary and i have been hunted today by bees. buzzing in my ears the way the flies kept me from sleep and safety with their buzzing around my ears when i was six or seven or wise. they had something to say and i was deaf and i was crazy because the buzzing was ceaseless, following me into hell or my dreams or--
the rest is incomplete. the rest is a mess. the rest is restless. here there are noises and i lose myself i lose myself i lose. and i'd like nothing more than a curse word now. i crave it the way smokers crave nicotine, the way alcoholics crave their liquor because the harder it hits the better it feels and the taste like water so keep drinking. like a killer or a vampire or like elizabeth obsessed with bathing in the blood of virgins. that goes too far back. a curse word, a curse word, a curse. but then its never enough. its never enough is it, no never enough. one admission, one curse, one step further and you fall. i fall. don't take anything back. its out there already out there.
all i need is a curse word. all i needed was to tell him how i felt about him. i've given in so many times. and each time has never been enough. why has it never been enough?! dear god why hasn't any of it ever been enough?!!
ten pm. 2200. counting backwards. means nothing.
here are images strung together, pieced together, that belong only in the part of this mind that is altered and cursing and smoking and craving and drinking and telling and fighting back a storm.
[AND MAYBE ALL I REALLY NEED IS A CLEAN WELL-LIGHTED PLACE. TO SIT AND A HAVE A DRINK. OR PERHAPS A MUSE (she's quite a ways away now though. and any muse of mine would certainly not be amused by my habits and let-downs)]
(here i will insert paintings by rembrandt, klimt (my personal favorite) and dali. until then, just this parenthetical note)
and when i am back to myself again i will write about the normal things. the view, for instance, from the top of the ferris wheel, that night of the show. that night there was anger renewed. that night (like all the other nights before it) when i did not know how to stop myself from prodding and provoking him to fights and anger. and when i am back to normal again i will write about him, my gemini (if that kind of thing matters).. my two people person. how i am attached. how i am divided. how i do not see him in my future and how i still do not understand so much about him about our dynamic whether or not he still thinks i "understand" him and what that even means and why that is even important to me. and how, in fact, i struggle.. even with this unreality. a haze of beer pints swirling by. and how the truth is just that i am, as ever, asleep. i have fallen asleep in this.
and that the only time i am really anything, that i really feel anything is when i am alone. alone. the word is terrifying and yet it reverberates.
i saw several people today, walking along or driving about in cars and they all looked to me like john. i thought about the things and people and times i have associated with john (and charles). of course, its a given, john is the other half (moon). no question.. but i wonder how and where they both are. singly, though, i wondered and craved something smart he has or had written. and when tuned in and tuned out of the radio i heard sonny rollins (my personal favorite) doing a version of mac the knife but under the title "moritat" (he kills. latin. john. charles. me, failure. them, smart and on their way)
i thought of KC's Tandoor on sundays. i thought of thai time and mock duck. i thought of Zia's. i thought of the falcon. i thought of basslines. i saw, in my mind's eye, bagels and oregano. i saw delillo. i see ben and i feel guilt over not speaking to him enough.
i miss everyone. i miss myself when i refused to give up. i miss youth and belief. i know it when it comes but it comes less and less and i am furious with myself for turning into something that feels so far from what i wanted.
i am so distracted and so distraught.
but mostly i am so much like the piecemeal girl i'm writing about.
21:41 - Monday, Feb. 28, 2005
Recent entries:
oday.html">the 3 month countdown begins - 05 May 2018
anothrburst.html">another burst - this used to be my playground
newlife.html">begin at the beginning. - 10 April 2008
moody.html">a blanket for a bad mood under the sun. - 25 March 2007
emilludwig.html">...kissing a fool... - 05 December 2006
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