dreamwitch | Recent Entries

"Was there ever something you wanted to tell someone? And it seemed really important that they understand, like if they really knew what you meant, this weight would be lifted off your chest and you'd finally be free? But maybe you were too afraid or they refused to listen so you never told them or they never understood, and sometime later, it wasn't even important anymore?"

G. blinked. "Are you sure you're not just telling yourself that?"

"I tell myself all sorts of things. Today I tell myself I don't care. How 'bout you?"

"How about me--?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Do you care?" H. was looking wide-eyed and blank again.

"Depends, doesn't it."

"I guess it does." H. contented himself with his coffee. It was really bad coffee, but that was the beauty of it. Do most people even appreciate the beauty of bad coffee? So much better than bad soda, which was just inexcusable, he thought.

"What are we talking about again?"

"I don't know. I was thinking about this coffee, and how bad it is. This place really sucks."

"You're the one who wanted to come here! You even dragged me out of bed at one in the morning just to come here to drink stupid coffee, and you don't like it?!"

"But see, see." H. licked his lips patiently, sniffing the acrid scent of the diner's own unique brew. "Mmmm. The badness is the beauty of it. If it was good, you'd get addicted, y'know?"

"You get addicted anyway, you moron."

H. chuckled. "True, true. One of the ugly truths of things, innit?"

"You're certainly in a weird mood tonight. So let's have it-- what's wrong? I'm sleepy, you know."

"Drink your coffee!" H. took a long swallow. "You won't regret it, trust me."

( ....where does this shit come from, anyway...? )

Things I love: poems that tumble out
At the end: messengers for an apocalypse
Of word, gesture, execution; an avalanche
Of sound and chord, a fury of locution.

Where there's an end, there's a beginning:
Not yours perhaps, and not ours, and not for hours
And nothing you'd remember or get to forget,
Only someone, somewhere, being born screaming.

I admire you, who lives each day with force:
Speaking true words, breathing honest breaths, insisting
That the truth is there between us, waiting
Needing us; the way a white screen waits for a projector
The way your mathematics needs a vector.

I don't think I've ever said an honest word;
I love you, perhaps, and I won't forget, and more yet
These are phrases, and love alone is another word for regret.

There's a girl with long dark hair in the desert, bike in hand:
Vroom! Vroom!

I think she knows the words we swallowed,
And she never waits; not for the end of days,
Not for time to follow.

In a given day-- you think-- happiness makes you stupid. You go out into the sunshine, and you forget, or maybe you remember, does it matter which?

He smiles at you. Warm like candy, or blankets, or sand. He's like sand, burying you far away from the ocean, and you don't care if you suffocate. Is happiness a cloud? you think. Is there a limit? You don't want to find out.

In a given day, you walk brisk and straight; your shoes hit the ground in precise measurements. You want to feel pain but you can't; something's stopping you. There's a barricade between your chest and the empty world-- there's iron bars keeping the shadows back. Is that happiness?

His kisses are awkward and small, and his shoulders are too wide. His hands are too rough. His teeth seem too large when he smiles, and you stare and stare. There's a mole on his cheek, and a bump on his nose. There's yellow in the blue-brown mess of his irises. His hold is too strong, and his voice is too deep and you wake up in a sweat. Are you happy? he says.

You never thought you'd like such a big man. Someone this extravagant and shining, this dense with sunlight-- how could you own them? You can't. Can you?

Your mother likes him, of course she does, and his own mother hugs you like she wants to adopt. You feel lost in normality, in an alternate universe of daylight outings and something like respect. He strokes your still dark hair compulsively, even asleep. He takes up the sky and the earth and he assumes you're fertile; some men are potent enough, and he is uncomfortably much a man.

He is too big, too male, too blond, too certain. He holds you like he means it, because he always means it. You always wanted an uncertain, passionate lover, someone to hurt you, someone like a dagger. You never wanted a broadsword. You never wanted a king but a jester. What is this, then? Is this happiness? You never wanted this, so how could you know? And yet, he told you: "you're mine" he said, looking you up and down. He settled, he conquered, he sprawled.

You're my secret dagger, he says. My moon woman. My silver queen, he says, and you believe it. Beautiful, bewitching, beguiling, besotted, beheaded, beneath him. You're beneath him again. Is this happiness, then, the knowledge you're not crushed beneath his weight?

"I want you," he says, and he believes it completely, because that's the kind of man he is. He doesn't need words, of course. He only needs his rough, big hands, clutching your breasts. Kneading, pushing, pressing further in. You need words; stupid, unreliable things.

"You'll survive," you say. You're sorry, then.

With the quiet of those who look under their skin for knowledge, you called out to me. In the sunset, there were many birds, and their screaming was like the wind: cold and fierce. Sometimes I think there's no better way to say this except: no. I can't.

I believed (in) you until you disappeared. I rewove the words; I patched up the gummy shoes and went out to greet you. There you were, unsmiling, a shadow in the center of my eye, where I could not see you.

Because you were like the wind, and because there's no agony greater than your absence. A cloudless day. Do you feel guilty, my old friend? You never existed.

You called me fierce kind because you did not understand; I did what I did not for mercy but for blood. You didn't understand; you didn't blow through me; you didn't whisper.

The fifth day is for silence, the tenth for screaming; on the fourth day, four years hence, I understood you.

In the old ceremonies, they'd have bound our hands together, sewn our eyelids open, pried the fingerprints from our hearts and made us wait for speech. These days, I cannot trust rumors or the awaiting morning light.

I wanted love to blind me; to explode behind my eyes and make me strong enough to be weak, to break me hard enough not to shatter. But your cruelty stopped short of blindness, and there's but one answer for the unforgiven: guess.

The dead speak quietly, but they never stop. The silent heart sits in the mouth, waiting for the hunger to pry it free.

Afterwards, I dreamt of him: dark in corners, telling me secrets once again. Why don't I speak of you, then, my mouth shut oyster-tight? Is it because I don't yet understand? The fourth year stretches on into the fourteenth and further still, and there's no footprint, no grave nor marker. No grave for the silent dead.

A life; a string of disappearances: the beads strung one by one. You come again, old friend, cloaked in silence and fierce kind to speak to in the empty room.

With the zeal of those with nothing to lose, I wanted love to blind me until the darkness spoke.

they tell you to be (who you are) as if
it's ever that simple-- if you say what you mean-- if
not when, and if you see the sun rise-- if (not when)
maybe you could understand if you walked in my shoes
a day or ten; this is what it's like, day in, day out:

in the morning, the sun sets grey and moldy outside the dirty window
i lift my head and there's a ceiling above me, a floor below me
so tired, like a winter star, like the sun behind curtains

the world is bloated with mundane noise; scrape and screech and whisper
(do you hear me?) people turn away--
they say: repeat after me.

and if by chance i remember you, it's an accident, understand
slipped on my tongue, skated down my breath
you're another memory tucked behind my ear, understand? understand?
that's who you are, unnamed; unburdened of myself

they're always there, those strangers
with their dirty streets and empty houses, and they keep on moving
keep on keeping on 'cause this is ground zero (can you count to a day?)
this is history, and here's the address:
somewhere far away, the last place you'd look, that's me behind you.

i'm so late to my last appointment with myself
two zero, zero one-- hang up, try again.

there's soup still on the stove, a light on at the back, and mail on its way
there's life outside here, there's a place and a self--
repeat after me, a simple rhythm, creak groan gasp--
what else were you hiding?

I blame Abaddon. AHAHAHAHAHAH.
- - - - -
- through the sky -

your face always shuts, never to open
but there is a spell for this--
every day i'm smaller until i'm a thing-- death--
and you die. just like i will,
except you won't, arms blown wide
through the sky, you'd land feet first.

i chased the stars for you
and you always turned away
burning like the sun and moon besides
with your ring of trusted planets
which i would have destroyed
could i have but touched.

a fairy-tale for the dying:
your hand on my arm, rubbing my sins away
and i can't even look at you
long enough to hate--
close enough to love
so tell me again. tell me i deserved it.

it's better this way--
dead before we're rotten.
you lie with your whole body
as your fingers press my eyelids shut
you won't show your true face
and i won't stop seeing.

your face always shuts.

In the land of make believe, the girl changed with the seasons.

Sometimes she wasn't a girl, and sometimes she thought there were no seasons.

She lived in a modest hut with a sprawling garden full of poisons and treasures, and she kept her heart hidden beneath the oak next to the rose next to the fern patch next to the tomatoes and the dark, dark apple tree.

Her name was unimportant, but if you called, she always came. She always came when you wanted her.

In the land of make believe, the girl changed with the seasons.

+ + +

In the winter, when there were stars in her eyes, she stood naked out in the fierce, unforgiving sunshine outside her hut, waiting for night to fall. She would be waiting for a friend: her one friend. He had promised he would come, and he will. He will.

Her friend is a sorcerer; her friend is a fire-storm; her friend never lies, even as she lives a life without time or reason or remembrance. He would come for tea, and he would stay, he said. He would stay this time.

He came today; the shortest day, the darkest day. He came today.

He touched her cold skin and he smiled; he touched her mouth and bade her speak; he drew a robe of furs over her breast and she felt weak. He picked a dead bough to bid her walk; he rode away on his dark horse, he rode after a bird of prey. He rode, he flew, she never knew. She only waited as she stood and grew too solemn and too blue. She never knew.

He'd come that day, she always knew, and then it had been time for change, another season to exchange.

+ + +

Time to change, she thought when the boy went away. Time to change, she thought when her belly broadened. Time to be someone else, she thought when the trees fell and the leaves flew in through the window. ( . . . )

( Over-symbolic fairy-tales are what happen when I write when I'm anemic & listless. Hmm. Advice to self: get out of the house. No one cares about your silly symbolinonsense, not even you. Gaaar, I say. Gaaar. )

'The truth' is a metaphor; sometimes it is a symbol.
*
The day is always (never)ending at the heart of the world.
*
The mouth will twist in pain, and the brow will wrinkle. You will think you're dying every time you're living. The pain will change you; you will remain the same.
*
You will scream; you will laugh. You breathe without knowing. You will believe. You won't believe me (I'll believe in you). You won't be there. You're never there. I'll try to hate you for that.
*
Sometimes, there are no questions or answers; only the sun in the sky, and the memory of white. My world is a desert full of secret water. You are the sun (your ghost the moon). I won't cry: I never cry tears in the desert.
*
I wait for the sun to love me. He will wear a dress of white and his mouth would burn.
*
I wait for the moon to save me. She wears a dress of night and her fingers always find me.

Today began with me asleep, and continued with me half-awake. The world keeps spinning, but I am sitting still.
*
I never say the things I want to say.
*
Every word is trapped inside my mouth, burning me alive but slowly. You think I'm lying, but words always do. Even so, they are mine. They are as water, burning and flowing and cooling. The word is 'no'; the truth is 'yes'.

I own this (nothing). Nothing owns me.
*
I am waiting for this (everything).

Perhaps you can meditate on endings: you can say, I loved you in my time, and they can reply, and now we are out of time. You can say: now you have nothing, and I will listen.
*
You can never have time. You cannot touch it-- cannot feel it-- cannot move it. Time disappears when you look at it. Time conceals if you look through it.
*
You were mine, once upon a time.
*
Time becomes the dust of all things in it. Time is a word.

Ask me a question, and I will become the answer. Let me say yes.

( . . . )
~~

Some people really hurt my feelings. I understand, but some things will hurt anyway, and nothing helps. Every tiny little wound never really heals. Sometimes I think that at the end, this is how it should be.

Current Mood: crazy some say
Current Music: Duran Duran (with Lucianno P.) - Ordinary World

If I said, I need you like this
it would be untrue, so believe
the things I cannot tell you live
under my skin; ask me to prove it, go on --
Just try me, fucker -- I will.

+

Hurts, you say, playing innocent
the curve of your mouth too obscene
I can't hear the words; can't see the glint in your eyes --
I can't see you lying, in the dark.

I wish you'd listen. No. I wish you'd stand still
and see what I see (in you) at the end of the day
head resting in your arms, Madam Pince five steps away
but I don't move as you breathe out
empty syllables like trust.

+

You're best silent, boy
My Father told me in time and you only mime
go on, go -- can't say my name even now. Righteous bastard.
Nothing to see here.

+

Tastes like poison, but you can scream all right
hand on your heart -- Promise? --
my tongue in your mouth
as if I want to cure you -- So try me.

+

(You will.)

This isn't a novel, but then, every story starts with a question.

What if there was a boy?

What if there was a boy who sat by the window every day, staring dully into space. His hands would be folded on his lap, and his eyes would always be open, though no light escaped.

What if the boy had said, "Ask me a question I cannot answer," or perhaps-- what if the boy said nothing?

What if there was a boy, and he never said anything. What if you knew this, and you kept waiting?

"Stop waiting, goddammit," he'd say, and you'd shake your head 'no'. "Don't patronize me," he'd yell, and you would be silent. "I hate you!" he'd scream, and you would press your lips tighter together.

What if he didn't remember who he was, so he had nothing to say? He only sat and thought, always frowning. What if you knew this boy?

"Why is it I can't remember?" he'd ask.

"You're better off not knowing," you would say, and the boy would nod.

"I believe you," he'd reply, and then he'd say nothing.

What if you loved a boy, and your love was a question he couldn't answer?

What if the boy had a secret?

( . . . )
~~

P.S. I am but a stranded geek in the backwaters of the waste-dump of the universe. Or something.
/cryptic

Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note

Lately, I've become accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelopes me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
Or the broad edged silly music the wind
Makes when I run for a bus...

Things have come to that.

And now, each night I count the stars.
And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted,
I count the holes they leave.

Nobody sings anymore.

And then last night I tiptoed up
To my daughter's room and heard her
Talking to someone, and when I opened
The door, there was no one there...
Only she on her knees, peeking into

Her own clasped hands
~~

( ...we want 'poems that kill'... )

[LeRoi Jones]
------------------------

Sometimes I think I could scream
but all that comes out is a whisper
to the moon, quieter than a feather
and the richochet more lethal

before the light behind my lids tells me
it is day again, and I hadn't spoken.

"If I were in the dark," I'd say,
"you would only be hiding."

So, um...
It's longer than I usually do these days. Ha. It's been years. And... it's not really anything. I mean, it's just a story, I write fanfic this long all the time, but... still. It sort of has a plot. It's sort of Sleeping Beauty, but not really. *sigh* As usual, I want to get it as far away from me as possible so I'm not tempted to actually work on it more :>

( `Orin's Swallow'. - being a fairytale in the fine old tradition. )

I've been being conscientious. Like, on purpose. I don't think I'm very good at it, but the point is that I try.

So anyway, I twisted my ankle yesterday; last time... well, I checked, and I never mentioned, post-episode, that I withdrew from school *again* at that point. Bleh. I mean, it was a bad sprain that time, and I don't think I could've toughed it out and gone upstairs to class after twisting it so badly the very same day (like I did yesterday), and granted I don't need crutches this time... but I'm still happy I was determined. Even if I did twist it worse than I did, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't use it as an excuse to give up. I did use it as an excuse to actually work on getting help (ie, I went to see if the dorm store had tape for my ankle-- it didn't-- and then went home, iced and elevated). I was horrified at my description of sitting down for an *hour* reading fanfic while my toes twitched as if electrocuted. I mean, jeez.

So yesterday was my first 'real' art class and I was determined to make it, even though I had to walk across campus. And I did-- slowly. It's not that bad, I don't think I tore anything, at least. I think it'll be fun.

In other news, I'm such a huge dork that it actually pains me. Like, in class discussions and elsewhere, lately I have this coping strategy where because I'm so seriously shy, I deal by babbling, making stupid jokes and acting like a dork... did I mention in public? I don't think it's a huge improvement over being silent, anti-social and avoidant, personally (and I'm probably also all those things, still), but like... maybe I can see it as an intermediate step or something. Ugh. I embarrass myself, seriously.

I recently read David Brooks' (who's one of my liberal Evergreen professor's fave columnists) latest op-ed piece in the NYTimes, which is about the rising Tea Partiers movement, and now am reading about Patrick Henry, who seems like a pretty cool dude, y'know, what with his 'Give Me Liberty or Give Me Death' speech... and it occurs to me he's like, the direct ideological progenitor of these guys. Sure, they're much louder & stupider, but you could say these wild & wacky super-individualist anti-government ideas are, in one form or another, part of the very fabric of America, and Mr Brooks and some liberals are wrong to discount them and look down on them entirely.

I for one, I think I would miss them-- these ideas, not the Tea Partiers themselves as currently incarnated-- if they were utterly gone. I'm fond of the sheer... I dunno, the Americanness, I guess.

I dunno, it helps me to see this time, too, as history. I love the idea that we are in the process of something, a continuing and healthy process, a national dialogue begun way back in 1774. Perhaps, even, it doesn't matter what direction the activism and rebellion takes, as long as there is foment, as long as there is spirit in the people, who still want freedom, even if they don't understand the real nature of the bonds upon them. I do think that some folks are too certain what the nature of our bonds are, just as the Tea Partiers are obviously way too skeptical and certain of completely differently wrong things. But that's not the point-- the point is the passion that people still have for liberty, however they express it.

On this day-- today, that makes me happy to be here, the land of Patrick Henry, et al. Anyway, Patrick Henry changed his mind about Antifederalism in the end. People who genuinely have the courage of their convictions-- people who aren't fanatics but who proudly believe in a cause-- that's a good thing. A great thing. Regardless of whether a latent incarnation goes overboard into fanaticism, I would, myself, celebrate the ideals of the genuinely fiery people who shaped the country. Into the fire... and from the fire, the steel emerges.

Logic is hot. To me, that is an irrefutable fact. I mean, whatever you may say attracts me in people, if I consider someone to lack a basic understanding of logic (even if I do! damn, I know I do... but I know it when I see it-- see, logic, to me, is like art, or else I'm a savant in denial), I will... quickly cease being attracted to that person. It's not just Spock (my One True Love at age 16). It's Sherlock Holmes (One True Love at age 10), Isaac Asimov (guy I decided to name a male child after at age 12 or 13), etc etc. Scientists get me hot in general. God, how pathetic. But true.

Anyway, here: logic articles on the internets are sexy, but logical refutations of said articles are sexier.

I do kind of want to seize the day, learn more logic/science and be my own hotass or whatever (and learning more math is on the to-do list next year... wish me luck). Still... I've made peace with the fact I'll never actually become a biophysicist, and truthfully I don't want to anymore. And I've mostly made peace with the fact that I'm sort of measuring guys' brains and deciding that physicists are... bigger, and I'd like, almost flirt with one... if I was the flirting type. Thank the gods I'm not, I guess. I'm sure physicists & mathematicians everywhere just breathed a sigh of relief. :> Also, my mom married a mathematician, and unfortunately, he's not actually hot. >____>;;;

....Blame the article for this rather disturbing post. >______>;;

You know what's *got* to be hot? A physicist writer & archeologist who's into like, searching for lost cities and is sarcastic all the time. Like some unholy mix of Spock, Indiana Jones and Andrew from Buffy. :D

People often ask me where I grew up. I usually tell them, 'what does it mean to 'grow up' somewhere? how long does it take? how long must you stay?' and they generally don't have an answer. They must feel a bit cornered, having thought they asked a simple question. But in fact, it's one of the hardest questions you can ask me. One more reason I've resented the fact I wasn't simply born somewhere like Boston (why not? Boston sounds good) and grew up there till I was 18.

My whole life I've been plagued my this question of 'where is my home' and 'what is my best destiny/future?', and both the past and the future seemed to be yawning gaps I couldn't imagine how to fill. There was only me, out of place and out of time, on some level actively refusing to find my place, to tie myself down to any direction. I was running away so fast, I actually managed to never quite figure out what precisely I was running from, except the certainty of a life I did not want in exchange for the ambiguity of a half-life I didn't quite have.

For some reason, seeing this blog & specifically this post on Russia vs Ukraine by a 'Russophile' (a concept which strikes instinctive derision in me, to start with) made me realize that a little like Spock, a lot like most immigrants, I suppose, I'll never really have a place, but I can also put it another way: I have two places.
( tl;dr Russia blather. -.- )

The NYTimes has this headline about HS students today: "To Deal With Obsession, Some Defriend Facebook," and apparently, people
spend 10 billion minutes there every day, checking in with friends, writing on people’s electronic walls, clicking through photos and generally keeping pace with the drift of their social world.
and I'm just like... "...."

>_____>;;

Sometimes I wonder if I'm just old. But no, I'm just antisocial. Introverted. SOMETHING. Something that makes me just deeply not care about people's 'drift'. I mean, really, I don't care what your daily 'drift' is, even if I omg-love you. Am I just... a hopelessly asocial individual? I don't even know. I was so proud of myself for engaging in small-talk with what (for me) is ease today at work. I was totally patting myself on the back, but. Constant small-talk? DAY IN AND DAY OUT??! I WOULD. RATHER. DIE. You think I'm kidding? I'm sooooo not kidding. :/ And this is why I've yet to get a twitter, as well. It's like, the quintessence of small-talk. It's even defined 'small' for us as 140 characters. I mean. I don't even know what I have to say to anyone that's under 140 characters, ok, except 'shut up' and 'go away', and sometimes 'please' and 'thank you'.

So yeah, hi, I wanna be a HS teacher. >_____>; As in, dealing with groups of these people and holding their (scattered) attention daily. When my own attention is scattered (but not by facebook) and basically I like it when people don't pay attention to me. I swear, there are people who don't believe me (well, so far only a really hung-up nerd who thought even fellow nerds were really one of 'them'; WHY did I even consider dating him, seriously). He was totally like, 'psssht, you'll go to college and get a boyfriend in no time' and 'psssht, you totally do like the attention, I know you do'. And I'm like, NO, EXCUSE ME, I DO NOT, and I WILL NOT, and YES, PIGS WILL FLY BEFORE I SPONTANEOUSLY GET A BOYFRIEND [in a normal social setting], ok. Although... really, why am I still arguing with him in my head; he just believed what he wanted to believe, it's that simple; it had nothing to do with me.

Anyway, woo-hoo, quarter is over! And guess what, they didn't throw me out of school. >___>; I was here on academic probation & needed to get all my credits, which I thought was a close call 'cause I just baaaaaarely squeaked by with getting my assignments on time (several times giving my professor 'drafts', with on time being 'on the same day'), and also I just didn't finish one assignment at all. And maybe no one could tell, but I didn't really do a complete job on one of the major papers (toootally half-assed it 'cause basically I didn't finish the research), and I only read one book entirely (mostly read like a quarter, but that's what happens when I procrastinate *and* am a slow reader).

Still, this professor's a softie, it's basically English lit, and umm I'm good at bullshitting, so hoorray! :D Or something. We talked for like an extra half-hour/40 minutes at the end of quarter conference, too, so I have high hopes for next quarter, where I'll be doing more of those 'cause there'll be an independent project (read: I'll be writing a novella! about ancient Greek myth/Ariadne & Dionysus! yeay!). Anyway, I'm feeling like maaaaaaybe I'll actually graduate this time. Perhaps. *cough*

Man, it's been so long since I've been seriously pissed off by an idea, it's almost refreshing. So I should've really avoided it, but I stumbled across the 'ego-dystonic sexual orientation' Wiki-talk page, after reading this NYTimes article about women who've been 'diagnosed' with, basically, weakened sexual desire, and there's this quote:
I agree that sexual orientation identity develops across a lifetime, but in that respect, so does sexual orientation.[1] What is important is that sexual orientation identity can be changed through psychotherapy, support groups and life events. I think it would be redundant to say sexual orientation identity develops across a lifetime, is influenced by life events and can be changed by life events.

...I'm sort of vacillating. On the one hand, I'm totally enraged; I mean, really. I was having these fantasies about how 50-75 years from now, these 'reasonable', 'affirmational' type folks will be viewed as bigots/assholes/delusional etc. On the other hand, I mean, okaaaayyy, if we accept people who choose celibacy for religious reasons or whatever, why not accept people who 'choose' to shift/alter sexual identity in any other way if it makes them happy. Right.

( ...um. )

So... I guess I've sort of been taking my work-study job at the computer lab for granted; I mean, I can do it (ie, am qualified), and it's laid-back & no big deal, right? Wrong!

( ...I can't believe I have job woes now. Seriously. )

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dreamwitch

....where have all the cowboys gone?

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Love (is) Where You Are

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what if you continued....?

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