Sunday, October 26, 2008
burning bridges
All in all, things are pretty lousy. I'm struggling to keep my head and heart above water, but, today, for the first time, I blew smoke rings.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
untitled 3
I am driving faster than I should, pressing harder on the gas than I should, I should I should I should be silent and soft, I should keep these lips pressed quietly together these fingers wrapped tight around the steering wheel. I am veering off course, please, don’t stay silent, please, say something.
I am running over skeletons, spilling wine and I am plotting a course that looks nothing like the map and nothing like where we’re meant to be. Tell me, why do you get to be the serious one? All melancholy and abruptly ended conversations, I am tired, so weary, tired of trying to break your silence with my songs when you never sing along. Do you hear this silence speak? The road comes rushing up around me, swallows all of the things I’ve never loved and shows me the underbelly of the best, the glowing bones of the worst.
In California, I could run forever. The engine would gulp the mountains, the miles, and it would take days to reach the other ocean. North, south, I could hit the corners of the world. This island is small, so small, and I feel like I echo too loudly, fill too many lines, say too many words, ask too much. And all of our silences are awkward, all of our words the wrong ones.
I give my hopes too easily—that was the question you didn’t ask: my faults. When you are sad I want to fix it. When I am sad, I know I simply must ride it out. I am driving faster than I should, and it won’t be you that I call, when the engine fails and I am stuck at a truck stop, eating cherry pie and waiting for a ride.
I am running over skeletons, spilling wine and I am plotting a course that looks nothing like the map and nothing like where we’re meant to be. Tell me, why do you get to be the serious one? All melancholy and abruptly ended conversations, I am tired, so weary, tired of trying to break your silence with my songs when you never sing along. Do you hear this silence speak? The road comes rushing up around me, swallows all of the things I’ve never loved and shows me the underbelly of the best, the glowing bones of the worst.
In California, I could run forever. The engine would gulp the mountains, the miles, and it would take days to reach the other ocean. North, south, I could hit the corners of the world. This island is small, so small, and I feel like I echo too loudly, fill too many lines, say too many words, ask too much. And all of our silences are awkward, all of our words the wrong ones.
I give my hopes too easily—that was the question you didn’t ask: my faults. When you are sad I want to fix it. When I am sad, I know I simply must ride it out. I am driving faster than I should, and it won’t be you that I call, when the engine fails and I am stuck at a truck stop, eating cherry pie and waiting for a ride.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Saturday, October 18, 2008
under the water
I got impossibly high last night at a friend's going away party. I felt like I was drowning, just sinking into this deep, deep, water and there was no one to pull me out, so I just let myself sink, until I sunk into the bottom of the ocean and settled.
Mr D was there, and there was drama with some of his friends. I sat in the the corner of a leather couch between two boys who were talking about football and tried to stay warm. I'm always cold here--except for in bed last night. Mr D wrapped himself around me and passed out and I sweated out all of the drugs and the Jack.
I like Edinburgh better than St Andrews. I wish I could put into words what it is, but it's nothing I can put my finger on. They both have good people, fun bars, nice cafes, stunning views. But I don't want to go back to St Andrews this afternoon.
Mr D was there, and there was drama with some of his friends. I sat in the the corner of a leather couch between two boys who were talking about football and tried to stay warm. I'm always cold here--except for in bed last night. Mr D wrapped himself around me and passed out and I sweated out all of the drugs and the Jack.
I like Edinburgh better than St Andrews. I wish I could put into words what it is, but it's nothing I can put my finger on. They both have good people, fun bars, nice cafes, stunning views. But I don't want to go back to St Andrews this afternoon.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Saturday, October 11, 2008
untitled 1
The tiles of the sky slide slowly behind my window—a field, deserted, the moon, for a brief moment. This is the view I see while we talk, my face pressed against a pillow, I speak slowly. My evening overlaps your morning: here, you say sweet dreams, I say have a nice day.
Each gap in words: I wonder if after, the things you say will pace wearily across my thoughts, if they will step into my prayers and jiggle loose all of the things we leave in the backs of our closets: school uniforms, love letters, forgotten hats and half-eaten candy bars in coat pockets.
Back to our conversation: you ask about my lover, hesitantly. I describe the moon, the field, the empty room where I sleep. I imagine you brokenhearted, Emily lying unmoving over your thoughts. I wish these conversations could lift the gray of this unpain, this notsuffering that fogs the fields and covers the moon. You invoke God when the conversation stalls—I know he’ll reward me for this sacrifice. As the sky slides upward away from my window I uncurl my fingers from our exchange: neither of us has what the other needs, but we’re good enough at keeping each other company to call it friendship.
Each gap in words: I wonder if after, the things you say will pace wearily across my thoughts, if they will step into my prayers and jiggle loose all of the things we leave in the backs of our closets: school uniforms, love letters, forgotten hats and half-eaten candy bars in coat pockets.
Back to our conversation: you ask about my lover, hesitantly. I describe the moon, the field, the empty room where I sleep. I imagine you brokenhearted, Emily lying unmoving over your thoughts. I wish these conversations could lift the gray of this unpain, this notsuffering that fogs the fields and covers the moon. You invoke God when the conversation stalls—I know he’ll reward me for this sacrifice. As the sky slides upward away from my window I uncurl my fingers from our exchange: neither of us has what the other needs, but we’re good enough at keeping each other company to call it friendship.
Monday, October 6, 2008
all dream the same
I have tentatively started smoking again, although primarily cigars on Sundays and cigarettes when I'm drunk, which I was last night. I feel like it should be sad, to get drunk by oneself on red wine on a Sunday evening, but it didn't feel sad. Around 3 am I finally got myself out of bed and downstairs to have my cigar, and met two boys from my building! They're the first people I've actually met in my housing who don't live in my flat. We had a nice 3 am chat, them not wearing shoes, me in PJs under a big red coat.
To balance the excess of red wine and cigars and staying up late, I went for a run today, and will hopefully make my way out of bed and to a cafe to do some reading. I'm trying to read a lot to distract myself from the fact that the only time I ever write is when I drink, and even that is just drivel. Yes, I have writers block. Badly. Suggestions?
To balance the excess of red wine and cigars and staying up late, I went for a run today, and will hopefully make my way out of bed and to a cafe to do some reading. I'm trying to read a lot to distract myself from the fact that the only time I ever write is when I drink, and even that is just drivel. Yes, I have writers block. Badly. Suggestions?
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