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“We’re fools whether we dance or not, so we might as well dance.”
[my art blog dedicated to everyday muses]There is a nail
Iron sharp and metal cold
Pressed ever so lightly
A small dent into the thin skin of my temples
Thin stretched leather over limestone bones
Of my head it presses
Ever so harder
A thin pale dot into a dark dripping line
Unto my shoulders unto my front
The sharp point digging straight through
Into flesh and brain and bone
Dot to line to snaking cracks
All around my brittle head
The nail it rests
In the very middle
Of my oozing head
My tired brain
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Skin as hot and damp and sticky as inside is cold damp concrete cold hard shivers cold hollow night air cold cold cold
The whole beneath your ribcage filling with salt water and mucuous
The little hammers hurling down hard on the walls
Of your temples they split and ache with every turn of your skull
Your temples they crack and shake
Your skull it vibrates and wants to cave in
You’re down down it hurts to get up and down feels terrible but so does up
You’re down down there’s no going up
Medical exams and not eating to get blood tests and needles and syringes and wooziness and crowds and public bathrooms and drug testing and noise and withering and embarrassment and incompetence and I’ve never thought this was home no not at all no.
Reading “Norwegian Wood” and it struck me how soothing it is to read about those simpler times and the letters they write to each other and how they go about describing the simplest things, the seemingly mundane things, the little things that for some reason or the other strike them amidst everything else that goes around in their day and in their heads and in the routine of their lives. How it adds that much color and nuance to the biggger issues they deal with. How, in writing a letter you pick and choose your words carefully, and how anxious and mixed up you can feel just grasping for the right way to say something, how to sum up that tangle of feelings inside you so that you can be sure you’d be understood just by simple lines of words on paper to be read not right then and now, but by someone some distance and time away.
Then I get sad that you don’t see that so much these days. These days people write letters to themselves on blogs and such, and those don’t tend to be so very long either. Heck, I’m doing that right now. Choosing your words carefully in a day and age where people say/tweet/post what’s on their mind right then and there seems like a lost art.
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Like the tide on a full moon
My days are like
That troubled surface
That rippled mirror
Shiny bright sharp with other’s edges
Not my light not my own
Dark as shut lids
Like the tide it feels
And the moon never wanes
I’m scared that I am just this to a lot of people. I’m scared of one day looking back and being just a trope with no dreams, no aspirations, no hopes or determination nor any other function but something to be your distraction for a moment, cheer you, make you feel happy about life.
I think I’ve struggled with this feeling for most of my life, I just never knew there was a label for it. It doesn’t help that I can relate:
She watches, with child-like wonder, the people in the world around her, yet feels separated (by her quirkiness?) from them.
The title character is a cheerful Bohemian, who turns out to be a spoiled, unfocused, pseudointellectual, neurotic child in an adult’s body, a horribly broken person.
I’m not happy, I’m not happy about a lot of things, I just can make other people happy because I’m constantly trying to wrench my mind out of the horrible self-pitying hole it digs for itself, and somehow my neurosis translates as “quirky” or “odd” or “whimsical”.
I’m scared that I’m not actually anything. I’m just a collection of eccentric idiosyncrisies packed together in a body outgrowing its perpetual childishness, written together by some sad sappy man-child. That for all my meager accomplishments I would be nothing but two-dimensional to everyone, and maybe they’re right.
Maybe its all mopey sad ravings and nonesense. Maybe I’ll never know because I’m always wrapped up inside my own head too much. I’m afraid of getting lost in it.
And you know what happens to manix pixie dream girls in real life, when they have to grow up?
Edie Sedgwick, a woman who hung around with Andy Warhol in his day, seems to have been this. She was anorexic and addicted to barbiturates. She eventually fell apart, went in and out of rehab a few times, and died of a drug overdose. Which tends to reinforce that this trope doesn’t work very well in real life.
Zelda Fitzgerald was this for her husband, F. Scott Fitzgerald. She was his muse and the inspiration for many of the heroines in his novels and short stories, and they lived the ideal Roaring Twenties lifestyle together, but she had a fragile grip on reality and eventually ended up in a mental institution.
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I’m that scab that won’t heal, the spot dug deeper then gouged out, this million lines of red like a net of highways and rivers converging and splitting and crash into each other again. I’m that peeling raw skin on your lower lips, teeth meeting over me peeling peeling back all pink and stinging. Peeling the skin round your nails and round your nailbeds, hang nails and loose skin and more little lines of red. A starburst of red pinpricks fading to brown in the crook of your elbows, behind your knees. A million little obsessions in each pore and pit and abscess. A million little regrets with each peeling back of a clot. A million tiny scars and marks to small for the eyes to see.
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During those quiet hours
I turn away, rumple the sheets
And your hand shoots out
And stays me
Pulling closer
To your warm core
In those quiet hours
Heart
Heat
Sleep
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I’m leaving to the UK in a day or so for a month-long trip across Europe.
I’m not sure how to feel about this.
Don’t get me wrong, this is my first time going there and I am excited and odds are I will love it there.
But I will be away from the security of my home. I know I sound mollycoddled and a bit like a coward, but I’ve never been this far away and I’m not sure if I’m ready.
Most of all, though, I will also be away from the person who makes me the happiest man alive.
I will be away from my kitty.
And I miss her already.
I will miss that for a month I probably won’t be able to hear him say goodnight every night over the phone like we always do.
I will miss tearing apart DJs and radio shows on this one radio station we always listen too.
I will miss impromptu air-guitar and all-out-arms-flailing and dancing along to the songs in the car.
I will miss talking about nothing.
I will miss talking about everything.
I will miss being seduced and tickled by his use of words like “mollycoddle”.
I will miss arguing over the proper pronounciation of “Z”. (It’s “zee”)
I will miss making him confused, worried, happy.
I will miss looking for weird places/things to eat.
I will miss his hands.
I will miss his smile.
I will miss that look when I’m being really stubborn and he just wants me to calm down again.
I will miss that bluntness that sounds like sarcasm but really is just very-straight-forwardness.
I will miss us laughing.
I will miss the way he interlocks his fingers with mine.
I will miss a million and one things in the million and one hours and miles and moments he will be away.
I will miss my puppy.
I miss him already.
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