But grief should be the instructor of the wise;
Sorrow is knowledge: they who know the most
Must mourn the deepest o’er the fatal truth,
The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life.

- Lord Byron, Manfred

Ennui is a subtle form of a filterable virus, of fossilised tonality, which might be said to pass invisibly across the substance of time, without altering it. Fine particles of ennui striate time like neutrinos, leaving no trace. There is scarcely any living memory of ennui. This is why it can superimpose itself on all kinds of activities, even exciting ones, since it lives in the interstices.

- Jean Baudrillard

leonard:

“it takes us beyond ourselves, our endurance. we possess “indefinite leave to remain” in a multitude of repercussions that exist in reference to our actions, our “character”. yet it is fragmented….and that is no different when we are alive. we live momentarily and forever as a multitude of disparate fragements that can never be placed together like a jigsaw. instead they fly outwards like shattered glass. this is the life we have. it is also our eternity.”

Honestamente, si respondes a este anuncio no eres el tipo de chica con el que saldría. Supongo que publico este anuncio porque es año nuevo, estoy solo y dispuesto a humillarme. Todas mis novias han sido inteligentes y guapas, y al final todas me han roto el corazón. Hasta pronto.

de Buscando un beso a media noche (2008)

by Theodore Roethke

商业模式本身，以及管理手段，有着无限可能的扩伸。

关键在于，操作者本身，有没有将商业体系像自身生命一样，不断追求完善它。

我的困境在于，受制于年纪、知识、阅历的天花板，我们的体系最近没有任何进步和提升。

—————————————

我经常需要一个爆发口，垃圾站，可是我没有。

—————————————

我很喜欢这个女孩的博客，尽管她有着种种传闻，但至少她的出现就代表着美。
人在乎美而不会在乎她背后的欺骗。
欣赏才是正经事。

衣服总是很好看，不同于中国常情的品味。

对于过于精致的东西，男人总是于心不忍将其碰碎。因此越是美人越是悲剧，也越发不要揭开她们的面纱——谁知道下面是平胸还是绝症？

美好的事物，只存在于梦幻和他人处。这句话真对。

The link on pictures is her blog address, once u log in, u will always log in…
All of us cannot escape from the curse of Eros.

Am I thirsty?

——————————————-

Tomorrow comes again.
Everything repeats.
Can I change this in a new way?

Someone is looking forward to it.

Back to the topic, 谁能经得起你温柔的述说。

一边是残忍，落后即淘汰；
一边是梦幻，不现实的温柔。

往昔如梦幻，很多机会成全，可是成全只有一种，命运随之被剧烈改变。
有机会慢慢述说温柔，即使外界嘈杂，人流穿梭，那是两个世界，与温柔无关。
一旦侧耳，我们仔细聆听，那是最深处的你我，缠绵至极的呢喃啊，你流着泪躺在我身边，请求我从你的身上跨过去。

神不护佑我，我瞎了眼，居然在假的刀的逼迫下一步跨过——一步一生，生生憾憾。

我依然在温柔的述说，依然没有人能抵挡着温柔的述说，可是述说的对象已经不在，它离开了这个地方，消失在人群里。不见了。

于是不再有梦幻，
所有都是残忍，拼命将别人淘汰，拼命保证自己不被淘汰。
有些人活该被淘汰，可是这些人当中好像也包括自己。

——连自己，也抵抗不了过去的述说。
——眼泪扑哧扑哧，掉了下来。

The bed she usually sleeps in

Is empty and still-

The covers still in place,

The pillows still propped up.

Her grunts and snorts,

Like a little animal,

Unheard here for now

Until she returns again.

***

Timothy Vance Jackson

November 24, 2009

+x+x+x+

Sometimes it is only about pain, and the exorcism of whatever that entails. Sometimes, it is all about the need for the pain to be placed, or focused somewhere else.

There is pain, and then there is ‘pain.’

So, undoubtedly, if you didn’t understand me before, you’re really going to be confused by this posting, because this writing is EXACTLY how i feel – right now. I didn’t write ‘HIS Hand’, personally, but i most certainly could have – especially now. (I want to give this kindred soul credit for this writing, so if anyone knows who the author is, please – please, let me know.) [osmosisofaffliction@gmail(dot)com]

In this place, there is no room for kindness, weakness, empathy, or withholding. It is about the ripping and tearing into a soul – and having the skill to do that – it is about the rape and emptying of what lies there, in those hidden recesses, that elicits these needs. It runs deep, it is real and for some – this level of masochism is frightening, but it is still there, and it is a real need, no matter how disturbing.

That is a lot to ask of a man, any man – and there is only one type of man who understands these needs.

Sometimes we just simply need to have the layers peeled away, and our chest layed open until we are drained, purged and emptied.

Sometimes the pain is about just that – pain: ONLY.

Never make the mistake of thinking i don’t understand the difference.

Here, the pain could never be mistaken for pleasure – or want, desire or anything even remotely resembling it. It is a need, and darling, i understand the extremes of the poles. This isn’t about some game of orgasm denial, because quite frankly – that is the last thing that i want, or need when i am in this headspace – when my hunger is this black, and as dark as it is – no, this is about having parts of me stripped away, until i can breathe again.

The only thing more frightening than not having a Loving Sadist available to meet these needs, is how it will manifest as a self-fulfilling act of – well, let’s just say that we find ways. Whether it be smoking, sleep-deprivation, chemicals, alcohol, risky behavior – you name it … those like me – we find a way. I’m just painfully aware of how i get it done, and to me – that (awareness) is one of the first steps of progress – to healing.

I didn’t ask to be this way. It is simply a part of me.

That is my reason for writing here. My writing will not suit everyone, but it is much better than the unhealthy alternatives. Thank You for reading.

Sorry folks – comments are OFF.

+x+x+x+

There is something about
Being pushed up against a wall, face first
Cheek resting on rough wallboard
Breath caught in your throat
Listening to the growling in your ear
And trying to remember your own name

*

There’s something about being
Pushed up against a wall
Your back flat up against it
Staring straight into eyes that see through you
Swallowing hard
Waiting for your heart to start beating again

*

There’s something about
Being made to crawl across the floor
To a seated Man, staring into your eyes
Not letting you not look at Him
Not letting you stumble
Drawing you to Him without a word
Trembling, a whimper caught in your throat

*

There’s something about
Being pulled up by your hair
Feeling that hand slink up your neck
Into your tresses, close to the scalp
Grabbing, gripping it, guttural sounds emitting from His lips
The pain not nearly as strong as the urge
To cry or bite a hole through your bottom lip

*

There’s something about
Being bitten
Especially on the back of the neck or nipple
Feeling His teeth so close to piercing you
Wondering, as you cry out, if He will, this time
Wondering, if you’re going to bleed for your Submission

*

There’s something about
Being bent over the back of a chair, without warning
Without pretense, without question
Having your skirt flipped up, cool air hitting hot skin
Your cheeks blushing, with the same color of your ass
As He warms it with the striking of the palm of His hand
The tears you cry not cooling you
The tears you cry because He has found you

*

There’s something about
Being slapped across the face
Not backhanded in anger, but smacked to bring about
A change in behavior
A change in attitude
To make that lovely wail come from deep in your chest
You long to make it, as He longs to hear it

*

There’s something about
Those words He uses
Those names He calls you
Those phrases meant to elicit a response
And you do respond
All of you responds
And your body betrays you, always

*

There’s something about
Being thrown down and taken
Not against your will
For your will is to be there
To please, to submit, to offer, to relinquish
And you cry out for breath, for more, for Him
And you know you are home

*

There’s something about
Being drug in the shower
Forced to your knees
Hissed at for silence
Growled at to be still
And awaiting the flow
That you know
Marks You as HIS

*

There’s something about
Kneeling quietly beside Him
Your body bruised, reddened, coated, tired
Your mind silent, for once – for a time
Your head bowed, your eyes closed
Your lips quivering as His fingers touch you
Your submission, unquestioned
Your Peace at Hand

“HIS Hand”

Almost half a year, away from here.

This is the only place can hold my lonely heart.

Without this space, I live without mind. No feelings, no consciousness.

Why I am here in Zhengzhou? For what? Where’s our future? Where’s my future?

In the first plan I should be in U.S. to learn more, however, now I start a campaign which is too hard for my age. I known nothing but pushed this task within a small team, painfully moved on.

The year of 2009, my most experienced year, changed my total life path.

www.hnielts.com

www.bonusedu.com

Look at these two crapy sites, they stood there and kept most of our sales.

Thanks for my little tech knowledge in online marketing, it’s saved my company.

Here’s all my limit, we are too young to walk further, we could walk further but we should learn more/ pain more/ gather more.

‘Be man, be tough’, I tell myself.
‘To control others, to change others, otherwise you will be changed by inferiors’, I wishper again.

hiu……

These are sentences concluding full of this year

今年比较失败的几个大事

1.楼下没有招牌

2.公司体系没有持续搭建好，没有魄力更改有漏洞的地方，人员管理越发松散

3.自己的特色没有深挖、坚持下去。没有自己的特色。
特别是市场方面，没有大型动作，没有特别动作，没有阶段性策划、执行和总结。
网络营销现在还不知所踪。

4.我们就像几个小屁孩在乱打乱撞。

我们都不知道自己的未来在哪里。

5.你的任务不是把所有事情都做好，而是让所有人都做好自己该做的事情。

只有不断的失望，才有希望存在。

2:59 PM 11/22/2009

+x+x+x+

I dug her grave with a hammer: a claw hammer. It was a slow fix for the pain: A self-indulgent punishment. While pounding into the earth, it felt like an inverted representation of the sludge sloshing around in my chest. The tightening came alive and screamed with pain-filled rage – piercing the night, like some creature yet unmade; unleashed.

Try to forget that sound, as I drain and bury more sorrow.

+++

In anger and pain, memories are exhumed; unearthed to bury grace and resurrection. Claws digging into the womb. Bludgeoned apart and flayed open … The clay made mud, nourished with the tears of a thousand ages. The deluge falls, on a starless night, and all is washed away like leaves drowning in the gutters. Prayers try to escape and i hold them back while cursing you. I fight for breath, before the final blow – the slow descent – of one more, one more time, no more.

I raise my swollen and blood-shot eyes – And I kill you, again – with splinters and thorns and needles, daggers and claws – and curses. And with this sword, I slay you with silent words, spoken under my breath, communing with the dead and dying prayers. The slaughter of Absolution: For I kill you every day – over and over and over – to murder any possibility of redemption. Forgiveness is for the wicked.

Hours turn into years – it is done; finished.

‘Hold fast to Faith,’ – comes an echo, sounding like a twisted whisper. A reminder, spoken with a forked and tangled tongue.

This will only hurt until you surrender.

In a frenzied, blood-thirsty ecstasy, the sharpened edges plunge deeper; becoming more than death. I am here to save you – save you from yourself, my child – as teeth gnash, and water salts the earth. EAT IT! – feast on my body, until your cries are deafening … and you choke. Can you feel me there, inside? Now, drink of me, of My salvation. Take me inside of you, while bloodying your knees at my feet, and drink this muddied offering. It is called Life, and Death.

This is Salvation … ?

It is all for you, He warned with a promise.

To live, one must first die, to be re-born; to live and die again – Never mind the spinning wheels and walking with your head on backwards. The future dies there, in the past, when you’re stuck in the mud. So, we arrive, still stumbling; falling into the unknown, forward – alive and searching – with eyes plucked and devoured, with blood dripping from our hands.

Virgil is screaming in Dante’s voice, the cantos of a dead age. If you listen with your eyes turned outside in, you can see him; hear his wails. He to, was a man of wavering Faith. Accursed with mental torments and prophecies, of our own devolution and yesterdays tomorrows – An era in flames, preparing to burn and rise like the phoenix, into a new dawn: a cold and black Involution.

The future is passed. Love, Hope and Faith fades; dies a slow, lingering death.

Premonition is a mighty strength … breaking apart. Eardrums blown; broken by the shrieks and warnings – of something not of this earth, coming. I cover my ears to – and bury you – Upside down and screaming. Out of the muddy pit, we implore – Reaching for the Saviours hand. Only to descend into the light – bound and blindfolded, and alone.

Bury your senses here. They are useless.

But I died for you! (and you, and you) – He cries, with the ace tucked into his sleeve. It is the spectral energy of the devotee; merged with the wind, carrying the screams of Mary, burning. Joan chides from the flames; mocking – raise ‘it’ high, while I become ash, and in Visions – know that it is the washing away of her immortals’ Achilles heel.

I place the first handful of dirt into your gulping mouth and strike a match. Pricking, bearing down into the rubble: Sin and Salvation – Consumed by fire.

Flesh and Blood is all that is real, here.

+x+x+x+

Fragments #7

(Gil Scott Heron – Inner City Blues)

“Four vital functions as basic as the four elements: Sexuality, sociality, ideation and glory. Or: pleasure, speech, thought and prestige.
Being deprived of any of the four leads to stupor and death.”

Final piece of the Fragments selection..could have gone on for a while longer but new inspiration is knocking on themusicologist’s door so tomorrow I’m rolling out a new theme…just like to finish the ‘Fragments’ by paying a final tribute to Baudrillard for delivering such profound insights into the age of banality that we find ourselves inhabiting..for me the Cat penetrates some dark corners with illuminating observations.

What better way to wind up this session than with a combination of Marvin Gaye and Gil Scott Heron..I’ll say no more and just leave it up to the two of them to lay it on you.

Have I got some humidity for you this morning! It’s so humid outside, I can barely see the forest for the fog.

I suppose down south it means uncomfortably sticky but up here at this time of the year, it means uncomfortably fucking cold. It seeps in everywhere, including into your body and into your bones. Spooky, too. It’s like a bad Disney movie out there. If there was a bear, you wouldn’t see it until you bumped into it. Then you want to make yourself the biggest, loudest, meanest, most ferocious beast in the entire forest and scare the shit out of it. Of course, that’s a hell of a lot easier said than done, neh?

The end of November. I can remember when we were being thrilled by the first college football game of the year on TV. How could I not? It was just last week, wasn’t it? Life is a paradox. It’s way too long and way too short and they both happen at exactly the same time. See, THAT should scare a bear! It scared me when I thought about it, anyway!

“If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.” ~Henry David Thoreau

For The Watchers …

+x+x+x+

It’s old news now, considering the film has been out on DVD for many, many months, but I just recently decided to watch – ‘The Watchmen.’ While it held a curious message, it also tried my patience – and so, I squirmed and fidgeted, due to exasperation, but mostly because the movie seemed to crawl at an unbearably slow pace in those last 30-45 minutes. I wanted to turn it off, go to sleep, deny and bury what was creeping under my skin and into my thoughts.

At the time, I wasn’t entirely certain as to why Rorschachs words – the ones below, in particular – became such an explosive trigger.

I do now.

But, this isn’t about that. This is about more than words. And it is all about words. Words that get to me. Got to me. Words that snaked their insipid way inside of me. Words that evoked in me – images, ripe with the need to express themselves in sketches that have the potential to send the less enlightened scurrying for cover.

Words which became triggers …

Words that prompted me to remember: things long-buried; disinterred.

And red.

Words: setting me off, of course, on a yo-yo-roller-coaster-tangent. It’s just that one memory leads to another, then another – and still another. I scarcely think I have the energy to keep up. And I feel drained. I want to go numb, or put the pain somewhere else.

I almost fear what will surface next.

Why now? is the question I ask, but I already know the answers.

It is all actually a bit disorienting; perplexing.

Crying, straight out-of-the-blue is not my idea of a good time.

Auto-react: Lack of control = scary. Not acceptable.

Intolerable, specifically.

And they have no sound: These silent outbursts that my fingers tell you of, hesitantly. My voice grows fixed and quiet in the real world. So, I write in journals, and maybe here … typing, typing, falling, crying, typing, sensing, raging, typing, telling, typing, revealing, typing of things long gone, and not – still, and so, here I am.

Please – it is enough.

It is a strange feeling to relive all the things you barely survived when they were happening to you.

A hot mess, I am, and I don’t like it. I am unsettled. I am frustrated … terribly frustrated, sometimes confused and ocassionally overwhelmed by it all. So many scattered pieces.

This ‘punishing isolation’ hasn’t helped. I thought I could do this alone, without anyone, without encouragement from outside my own head, without moral support from outside this dungeonous pit – I can’t. I talk to myself – and You. Look there, pain is spilled all over your monitor. Make it go away. You can.

When my throat closes, telling my fingers no – I bury myself in books, music and other people’s pain – so I can forget my own.

I believed that if I removed myself for awhile; isolated, removed triggers, guarded buttons and concentrated on the progress, however slight, instead of my dismal failures, that it would be sufficient to succeed, but it still wasn’t enough. Something was missing. A lot is missing.

Something is always missing.

I do everything in my power to distract myself, from confrontation with myself; with my feelings.

And then someone, or some-thing comes along and pushes a button, or pulls the trigger.

Anyhow, this is what set me off …

***

This piece is called – The Birth of Rorschach, as narrated by Alan Moore:

Stood in Firelight.
Sweltering bloodstain on chest, like map of
violent new continent.
Felt cleansed
felt dark planet turn under my feet
and knew what cats know that makes them
scream like babies in the night.
Looked at sky through smoke heavy with human fat,
and God was not there.
The cold, suffocating dark goes on forever
and we are alone.
This rudderless world is not shaped by vague
metaphysical forces.
It is not God who kills the children, not fate
that butchers them, or destiny that feeds
them to the dogs.
It’s us
Only us …

Thrown to the wolves. Mother; many wear the name of ‘monster.’ A shell of a being with no conscience, no remorse, no guilt – no heart.

And – It is everywhere.

This is our world – a very ‘real’ world.

The world so many would prefer, or pretend doesn’t exist, or turn a ‘blind eye’ to.

But, it -is- real. I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it.

And I hate this place. And love it.

I despise and embrace it. Will not be sad to see it go.

Am revulsed by these feelings, while searching my soul for the lessons.

But, when the deluge comes – I hope I’m under it.

+++

Then we have the Ivory Towers … condemning the damaged from their high-rises, in the sky.

They plug their ears and cover their eyes.

+++

Ignore it and it will go away, right … for who?

Not for the ones who are forced to live through it, or die because of it.

And, just so you know, and we don’t misunderstand one another: I am a pro-choice kinda girl, as I realize there are exceptions, and plausible reasons to terminate a pregnancy – it is sometimes a necessary act of mercy and logic. If not for the mother, for the child.

I never, ever wish to be in those shoes, ever again, facing that decision, under any circumstances.

I still couldn’t make the choice to terminate, even after a panel of Drs. recommended a ‘Therapeutic Abortion.’ It was selfish – so very selfish, on my part.

Damned whether I do, or don’t.

In the long run, my failure to make the logical and informed choice, caused both myself and my baby son, a lot of suffering and pain, but I would do it again. It pains me to think of his pain and what he endured for my inability to let him go; my selfishness. What I put him through because I wanted him so. Because I believed he would live. I knew in my heart he would. I believed in him. I fought for him. I had faith. I had to know. He deserved every opportunity.

And, he did live … for only a short time, but it was the only choice I could live with.

Did I really do it for him, or was it because I desperately needed someone to put my heart and soul into? Someone to put my love into – give him the opportunities I was robbed of? Start all over; fresh, with a new soul, created in my womb, to nurture and be a reflection of who I might have become, if only.

To be faced with, or forced to make that choice is one of the most haunting, conflicting, life-altering, guilt-inducing, heart-rending and traumatic decisions any woman ever has to make, as far as I’m concerned.

But, to utilize abortion as a means of birth control? Or send your child into the world to die at the hands of true evil?

THAT, people, has to be the most selfish kind of greed and cowardice – a mothers sacrifice to save herself.

Forgiveness is for … what it’s worth.

I reserve mine.

***

Then I got derailed with this …

FADE IN:

I watched my mother be viciously, mercilessly beaten by my step-father, when she was eight months pregnant with their first child. The fetus – a baby boy – was so bruised (as she would later explain), that he was the deepest shade of purple; blackened: Born Dead.

Everywhere; Like an abstract painting – random strokes created in splashes, streaks, splatters, splotches, and smears of my mother’s blood. My dead mother’s blood. She was robbed too.

Abstract Reality …

… Sacrifices.

And at what cost?

And yet, she stayed – controlled by fear.

The cost of anything is only what we are willing to pay.

That was her world; my world. Until I ‘RAN’ away from it. I run still, but I’m slowing.

They say that childhood is over the moment you realize you are going to die …

I too, was only 5.

Yes, I know evil. Its name was Daddy.

:FADE OUT.

***

There -most assuredly- is a storm brewing.

“The darkness is a mirror of the depths of the soul. All that is hidden inside us, our desires and our fears, is projected on the darkness.” ~???

xxx

Torn in Two

xxx

Labels
and judgments:
They are telling.

*

We are All,
reflections
of each other.

*

What you despise,
loathe, fear – in me,
is You.

*

Speak your curses,
mend Your fences,
It’s only a blaque mirror.

*

Fragments
and splinters;
Matted with Blood.

*

It is alarming,
How your soul weeps
for me.

xxx

~Spinning the Wheel~

A feliratot Cooper19-nek tessék köszönni.

(Klikk a képre, HDTV-FQM)

+++

Forgive the coming silence; sometimes I cannot -just cannot lay it down here- not right now … it’s the writing: it’s too raw, even for me. Yes, I continue to write, but I abhore repeating myself, although I often do, and as I have said, previously, I am evaluating, assessing – so-on-and-so-forth – therefore, it needs to stay secreted. This blog, which has become as a window into my soul, needs to be more an extension of the true me, and maybe a little less of the ‘blue’ me. Ideally, that would be the case, but knowing myself as I do, those writings’ll bleed all over the pages in the coming weeks, no doubt.

This is always a difficult time for me – my first-born son, my mother, my Gma, my aunt, my friend, my last lover – they all died during this time of year, beginning in September through December. I used to love the holidays, until everyone I love started dying around them; not fodder for cheer, most certainly. Not that I am dwelling (or at least, i like to think not), but it inevitably becomes a time of memorium and reflection. And I want to remember them. It just happens to force me into a more introvertible silence – this blue state – one in which I write, but must gather the courage to reveal. People like to read of happy, feel-good things – they are in the wrong place for that, here. Having said that, my memories are precious to me, even if sad and depressing. It is part of the fiber of my life – the tapestry that is my life. That is why I am here, gathering together bits and pieces of what I can remember; the snapshots of a life, for whatever that means, and putting them here, as a gift to myself and the readers who may appreciate them, in whatever way that entails – although it makes me feel like I am … I don’t know: giving too much of myself away, at times.

It isn’t just the internal battles that rage, nor simple struggles from the day-to-day – sometimes it is an all-out-war – just to turn the tide, to stay sober, to stay clean, even to stay. I’m not depressed, exactly, just needing to blow out some cobwebs, and get my heart above water.

I am in a place where I’ve begun to look through the boxes, totes, crates, suitcases, trunks – which contain portions of what is left of my life, and I’ve started to decide who gets what – who would appreciate what. I am tired of being owned by possessions. It is all I have left, and still, in this moment, I want it gone. All of it. And have nothing left to bind me to this place. I’ve worked for nearly everything I’ve ever had, and it is so hard, so difficult starting over, and that is the only factor in my reasoning, that keeps me from walking away from it all – from just saying, ‘fuck it – keep it, but I gotta go.’

I know what this is – this is an emotional tempest, and it will pass – I know this, but it is one that is recurring more frequently. And once I spot a pattern, I need beware, because something is just beyond the horizon.

+++

Megadeth – A Tout Le Monde

+++

A Tout Le Monde

Don’t remember where I was
I realized life was a game
More seriously I took things
The harder the rules became
I had no idea what it’d cost
My life passed before my eyes
I found out how little I accomplished
All my plans denied

So as you read this know my friends
I’d love to stay with you all
Please smile when you think of me
My body’s gone that’s all

[chorus]
A tout le monde (To all the world)
A tout mes amis (To all my friends)
Je vous aime (I love you)
Je dois partir (I have to leave)
These are the last words
I’ll ever speak
They’ll set me free

If my heart was still alive
I know it would surely break
And my memories left with you
There’s nothing more to say

Moving on is a simple thing
What it leaves behind is hard
You know the sleeping feel no more pain
And the living, all are scarred

+++

It’s hard to concentrate on what the psychiatrist is saying when there is 5 foot 10 inch blue and yellow cardboard robot peeking its head through a gap in the door and waving at you every 5 seconds.

And this chaise lounge, with its deceptive brown sheen, it smells of candy floss and has the texture of a marshmallow, making X the human equivalent of a Flake bar trapped in between two Graham crackers , unknowingly being carried to a bonfire. I just had this suit cleaned over the weekend, how am I going to explain the dried out sticky patches that run along the back, everywhere that my body meets contact with the leather?

Just nod and look pensive, don’t mention these, take your Risperdals, and leave. Note to self: once out of building, find robot and give him a good trashing. Close eyes and focus on mental image of punching cardboards for now.

What I’ve been doing:

*being a wife and a mom and cataloging Mariel’s varied smiles;

*thinking about storytelling: why it’s not a part of our culture in the way it once was; where we can find good storytelling;

*feeling frustrated about the comments in response to this article;

*feeling depressed about bad writing and the number of writers who seem totally unaware that their writing blows;

*feeling that subside after reading David’s round up of 15 vital narratives;

*then deciding I’ve got to make time to clean out my Reader of any blogs that don’t leave me with a total feeling of stoke because of the author’s authenticity;

*getting ready to drive to Boston, then head down to South Carolina;

*cursing the fact that both laptops have died just in time for that trip;

*training three interns: Abbie, Nancy, and Neha;

*watching TED videos (this one is just as deep as all get out);

*squeezing in a museum visit and a stop by the new Poets House;

*and just generally trying to hack away at the to-do list.

And you?

~Memories often fade, like tears in the rain, washed away with the pain.

I Feel You
*

You lie there: face-down
and wanting – alone.
Your erection pressed
against your stomach;
pushing into imagined bodies.
Your urge becomes a thrust,
into the empty bed;
into the darkness,
and I Feel You.

*

You lie in silence,
keeping the sob at bay,
that wants to tear from your throat.
Pushing yourself up …
you fall back into abysms.
I want to slap you
into mindfulness,
and remind you,
I can Feel You.

*

Roll your hunger over,
into a devouring night.
Feel this merciless torture.
You asked for this, Love.
A few savage pulls,
becomes a ferocious growl.
Buried in your release,
is her name.
I Feel You.

*

Imagine us there,
kneeling between your legs,
and keep your silences.
Relish the agony,
as I do yours.
Until I break your heart,
and give you mine.
Shredding us …
because I can Feel You.

*

When I cover you,
with my hands, my mouth,
and my tired heart …
Touch me enough,
that we may worship;
Never fearing the pain.
For I carry your soul within,
and lay down my heart, beside you.
and I long to Feel You.

*

And Love, when you grow tired,
Break me gently:
Pretend that you are sad,
to see me go.
As we collect the pieces
for another to mend.
When you lie inside of her,
Say my name …
and I will Feel You.

*

Arcade Fire – My Body is a Cage

Over the roar of the bus, he turned to her and said,

“I think I may be losing my mind.”

Not expecting her to react, a stranger with no ties or links or roots or connections to him, a stranger in a red overcoat and yellow galoshes, knit hat falling over the bangs covering her eyes. Nothing matched, not the pale lipstick, not the grey gloves, not the beaded handbag with a macrame pin of a UFO in solid blocks of green and black.

The doors opened, the driver looking at them expectantly. He closed his eyes, anticipating the rush of movement as she gets up and boards the vehicle, eager to get away from the red eyed messy haired individual in yesterday’s suit, the lapels of his blazer sticking out, shoelaces untied, feet tapping like a heartbeat of a hummingbird, desperation reeking from every pore.

Five, four, three, two…

Then, warm cloth fingers entwine with his, and he feels himself pulled up, standing, walking, his legs moving on its own, onto the bus, the smell of steel and old chips, then her voice, calm and encompassing, clear as a bell.

“Well, come on then.”

It was then that he felt, for that brief moment, saved.

Last night I dreamt of a city I have only ever visited in my dreams, and it made me remember a dream I had a few years ago. I know I have a fuller account of it somewhere, but this all I could find right now:

“Last night I travelled the world photographing beautiful mindful contradictions; until I got lost in an Alice in Wonderland-esque hotel somewhere in Germany”. The hotel was the most memorable part of that dream, with each room a different primary colour, ethereal and vivid all at once.

The city in last night’s dream was a beautiful juxtaposition of a modern North American city built around ruins – hotel courtyards with corridors leading to rooms built entirely of tile and gold inlay, abandoned and dusty, these rooms were forgotten spaces within the city, spaces that were passed by dozens of people every day but rarely entered.

Ruins as ‘fragmentary remains’, can be used “to piece together conflicting visions of the city by making unexpected connections between sites of past- and present-day ruin” (The Miss Guides).