Fresh Faced Wonder

This morning I woke at six. I was incredibly proud as I rode out on my bicycle shortly after seven to make my way to campus. My notebook open, pen in hand, glasses over my eyes I sit in the window of a cafe and sip hand roasted coffee and watch the damp dawn roll in. My mid-term exams are mostly finished. It should not come as a surprise to anyone that I am the top seated student in all of my courses. I had anxiety dream about getting a low A in art history. It didn't happen. I know my material.
What is bothering me more than anything these days is how I am going to be able to keep the momentum as time goes on. I think that I've got a decent, manageable schedule, but I am also unable to do basic things like laundry and go to the grocery store. I blame this on my lack of transportation. Still, it's worrisome that I am falling behind personally. Part of the slow down is recognizing that I cannot party like a twenty year old. I have personal struggles with addiction, loss association, and emotional fatigue. I slow down, I speed up, I search for delicious diversions and find them similar, known, basic.
I revert and increase my ability to accept the moment by moment changes presented to me. I grow comfortable in the ongoing success of scholastic achievement. I went to a goblin ball and the goblin king spanked me publicly. It was the best night of my life.

Top's Bottom

Forgive me I am at a melancholic low

The rain on windows wraps me low and deep into the throws of wool and accomplishment. Against every grain of my being I realize how many lies I yell out to the wind. The gruff hot chords of duplicity, saying things like suck eggs and lemons are sweeter than your dick.

I need touch. I feel the itch, yet, remain lip biting.

Distraction: I live for carrots

Wrapped in mid-terms and daily markers for success. I am at coffee for a few hours before work in order to finish a paper, read a bunch of words, and improve upon my spotify list. I have been moderately successful in that I just bought a ticket to New York for the week before christmas.

I have secrets that are wrapped into my core being. I remember the sound of laughter's sharp edge, ice in my veins, and the burden of proof. Always being wrong, the assumption of immorality, my personal inability to be a "woman." This brutal cycle will rip even the strongest person apart.

What has been on my mind is this one day a few months ago sitting in a car with a friend as rain dropped in huge drops. There is this warm comfort of hazed windows, tea, puddles. More we talked about this total jack hat of the girl-friend activation system. If you are not familiar with his amazing work you should goggle that. More recently my rage has become directed towards this particular cro magnum shit repository.

It's so fun to read. I hope you enjoy it.

I think my obsession with repression and male-culture is that I hear familiar echos in all of this and I need to know, I need to feel, I need to be aware of the underculture of fear. A lot of these articles and Game systems are about men being afraid of being alone. So they get lost in sex and fuck as many girls as possible all the while deriding the same girls they fuck as sluts.

This attitude is coming from a place of incompetence. What will happen when one of the four girls getting banged gets tired of the bull shit? doesn't matter! I've got game and will just find more to fill the void.

The bottom is if someone is unable to form lasting emotional bonds to other human beings they are emotional cripples.

Go fuck your heart stump.

Today is national domestic violence awareness day.

It will affect one in three women.

So don't ever imagine that any lady is a fucking princess in a goddamn ivory shell. She has seen more, felt more, lived more and has a strong core that is resilient beyond measure.

She is also crazy hot and in charge of the evolution of our species so behave

Rash of Rape

There has been a scourge here

Mind your drink

And trust love

It's all roses until sunday

First that particular thread is, for the time being and in this format, put to bed.

The attraction to a man who pays for pain remains a tangible recourse for inspiration. But, I will eek out the details on my own time and spare you the developmental subplot.

***

Exhaustion has taken hold of my daily life. I am pulling A's (of course) in all of my courses. I am taking 16 credit hours and working 22-24 hours each week. I have an almost 24 hour day on thursdays. I am losing the threads, it is thrilling.

I have patience and I know that there will come a moment of complete understanding. Instead, right now, I have transitive flashes of the past. I am back a year in my mind. I had so much hope, love, illusion enough to spare for everyone.

I just found a bus transfer from SF muni from October 13th 2013, it was a sunday.Strange, bizarre, haunting to have ghosts in mirrors, pockets, accept that shadows slip in and out of my consciousness.

A year. One. Less than one. I am pulling in comforts for winter, summer was both endless and extremely short. Wrapped in a haunted sweater, I sit an look over the valley as the sunrises. I have a coffee and my mind has a few webs of sleep. I have been dreaming of horses, women, and the forest.

Not looking, only watching

Let it be known: I see the cracks filled with burning fat

***

The man hadn't bargained for flies sticking their sharp proboscis into the soft edges where skin and membrane meet. Painfully maddening, more than his weakening legs or his distended shoulders, they got in his mind, an avoidable discomfort.

Place Me

Put me somewhere soft and dark
a pocket, a closet

give me a few hours of silence, darkness, solitude
before letting me go

****

There is wet sand between the concrete floor and Everette's toes. Pushing up off of the floor offers reprieve to the ache in the shoulder joints that are screaming but makes his legs shake in fatigue. He rotates inhale shoulders, exhale feet. There is piss down his leg, it pools around his feet. Silence, not silence, the buzz of flies crawling up his leg and the slow creak of his braces counter his methodical breathing.

High up above the scaffolding there's a window that has been cracked open. The summer's been hot, dry and the scorch of the late afternoon sun does little move the stagnant air. Shoulders, feet Everette is focused on his movements. He is focused on his pain.

The small red dot of the video camera winks at him. This is real, he thinks, live action theatre. He begins to sink into his ankles, his shoulders wrenching open. Tongue over his lips, throat on fire, flies flies. He hadn't bargained for flies.

***

The Deep End

I am in to my chin, have overscheduled myself, am wondering when I am going to stop playing around and kick-up to third.

School is amazing, it is where I belong. The campus is inviting, the library large, silent, comfortable. The studios well lit with decent work hours. I am lacking the pulse of a high intensity workout.

The natural incentive for reward is ever present. As a long-term procrastinator I have taken to mapping out my week day by day. The schedule covers more than 12 hours per day. Good bye non-existent social life.

Secrets and silks,
Chaya

These dreams may come

Across the backs of my sleeping eyes waking visions haunt my sleep:

The garden oasis was lush and barren, if that dichotomy were possible it existed there. Rocks covered in chrome lichen, stilted trees growing from arid soil; life persisted and flourished. The brook supported the glen and the flowering trees. A veranda overlooking the garden, red stones warm underfoot give way to the soft summer grass. The small white flowers buzzed active with the multitude of bees foraging pollen. I step onto the path and as it widens the walls to this palazo become evident. Towering granite glistening with calcite curving fifteen feet into the air. As I approach the gate swing toward me as the guards alerted of my approach open it from the outside. I stand before the arch of  my heart. Searing light bounces of the mica and silica the world is refracted in an instant.

****

I have started reading Justine or the Misfortune of Virtue. Written by the infamously ignoble Marquis de Sade in a mere 15 days in 1787. The book is notorious for creating the world of sadism. I have not and will not spend time, at the moment, researching more details. So, please, forgive my forthcoming fallacies when they occur.

A passage strikes a particular resonance with me, reminding me fully, completely of Dorian Gray. This blast of insight has specific importance as I have recently been discussing how grateful I am to have the ability to make literary connections. The practicality of me covering new terrain in the scope of literature limits my ability to reread past selections. That being said, I am forever grateful that I can imagine Oscar Wilde reading this passage:

To these horrors Madame de Lorsange added two or three infanticides. The fear of spoiling her attractive figure, strengthened by the necessity of hiding a double intrigue, several times encouraged her to have abortions; and these crimes, as undiscovered as the others, in no way hindered this clever ambitious creature from daily finding new dupes and increasing, moment by moment, both her fortune and her crimes. It will thus be seen that it is, unfortunately, only to true that prosperity often accompanies crime, and that from the very bosom of the most deliberate corruption and debauchery men my gild the thread of life with that which they call happiness.

and receive the first glimpse of Dorian.

Of course I don't know if Wilde read a copy of this book, but it is hard to imagine that he did not. I am equally titillated with the purity ideal that is so decisively rebuffed.

And again I find myself grateful for having read Jane Eyre and Gulliver's Travels. Which for some reason this book seems to have also inspired.

Like Polaris these voices coax something inside of me into a sofa, under a blanket, and into sleep.

 (I have taken to marking my books with a pen or pencil. Making notes in the margins. This blasphemy is acceptable as they are my books and obsessions and I want to go back later and connect patterns.)

Feed the Fire

These coils
are the devil
I ignore

*update*
self-indulgent pity party has, for the time being, come to close. In advanced I am going to dance like a devil in a short blue dress, don't forget what you never knew not to miss. Love your guts.

The burn of hot in my throat as my legs pump the pedals of my bicycle up a hill, one down, two up, repeat ad nauseum.

The anger that I feel toward myself for allowing my heart to open just a sliver is unsurprising. The loss that I feel is strange, this amorphous feeling of rejection, that the tiny sliver of my heart that this person glimpsed made them not want to see any more. I need more complex people in my life, perhaps, people who are invested in pulling the shadows to the light.

I have shadows and am haunted. I see ghosts in the fragments of light catching the edge of a mirror. I, fuck, want to explain that I am not crazy just on edge.

In all of this the good is that I love you so much, all of you. I hope you know how much I rely on you from a distance. The worlds we create are invaluable.

Break

I just cried for half an hour curled into a chair. This is what I learned: I feel alone, scared, and fragile. People see the strength, the courage, the blah fucking blah of me being alive in this world, the defense mechanism of not needing anything from anyone; I expect people to be aware and recognize the foundation of this strength and courage are hard fucking won on a foundation of sensitivity that can at times be painful to inhabit.

Though, I was grateful to hear that I "really helped someone through a difficult time." I am threw myself into a spiral that is uncomfortable because I don't like admitting that I am feeling lost or in pain. It makes me want very much to dig into my chest with my hands and pull out my heart to see the rays of light I know are there, to show the world, look light streams out in out from our hearts.

More than anything I want someone to tell in lies I believe that it will all be okay, that I am alone in the cavern of my heart they are there with a light and that I am loved. I have an immense imagination and perhaps if the lies are told often enough the will become true.

Too much exposure

It's that moment when senses overwhelm categorization
What's left the incredible futility of anything that is any less than everything.

I am perceiving: the water rushing in the creek behind me, the muted voices of children; the sweet decay of leaves as they mulch their way back to soil; the chill of the stone wall I am sitting astride-
-break-

The noise of all of this comes waving over me, lifting me back, fantasy complete. I traverse the world of dots pixels dreams across the inside of my eyelids and see the tremulous remedial ghost of haunting past.

I let go of these
fears that there will be either no ground or too much.

In conclusion the worlds of overlapped candor and reprisal remains silent

*the muted voices of the wind and children on a Thursday in July*

A Mind of My Own

It's cool unless I am sitting directly in the sun. I have found a window in the library. It's my nook and it overlooks a cedar. I hear the bells toll on the hour. I love university and wish that I was able to take another two classes, unfortunately the university has a limit.

I am so angry with myself this week for being foolish, for being human. I have a terrible habit of blindness when it comes to my heart. I overlook more than I see and allow my sense of imagination to overpower my sense of self-protection. This is neither bad nor good, only a realistic assessment of my natural proclivity to insist on trusting hypothesis versus reality.

On this point I am thrilled to have the capacity for feeling. The ability to trust, feel, and imagine are precious qualities. I know that. I know too much and hope that this knowing does not interfere with my ability to imagine a world of my own making.

Fuck broken trust. It is not okay, It makes me not want to trust ever again and that's what bothers me, that's what hurts, not the fact of gone. I could give a shit about that. I care about the broken system of communication, the failure to be realistic and honest, I care more about the principal of action. The broken trust is in me, not in the other person. It tells me that I was wrong to trust or chose clearly the wrong person to trust.

I am not sold on this bias. I will continue but more wary. I will not stop loving you always.

It is now the moment of truth and that is mine that no matter what we all chose and in our choices we stand somewhat diffuse from our reflection. I am wrapping the silk around the chambers of my undiscovered heart.

I am listening Chopin's Nocturnes played by Elizabeth Leonskaja. Her sense of halt is impeccable.

Rocktober!

This month I am going to dance and fall in love with the feeling of a hand on the small of my back, a secret room in the library, the taste of wood smoke in the air.

School has officially started; I've had all of my classes once. I am so glad that I made the choice to study art and psychology and not psychology and art. The difference, though minor, makes all the difference to me in that starting next week there are open studio hours and I will be there. I have a friend who has a key so we can go hang out late and weld.

Starbright Firecracker BoomBoom is going to the great mechanic in the sky where the roads are always banked and the days are nothing but 70 degrees. I will really, really miss her.

On the bright side, I left my Levi's jacket in the library yesterday. I lost my shit when I realized it was gone. I am freakishly attached to certain belongings. I've had this jacket since 2003, I bought it used at a certain Value Village on Capitol Hill, it's going to be an heirloom. I called the circulation desk and it was there.

I am rambling and have no specific focus this morning. Have you heard of abe books it is a wonderful and cheap place to buy used books in non-specific condition. I have been wanting to expand my collection of early erotica so I went on a binge and bought a bunch of classics including The Story of O, Fanny Hill, Justine, Lady Chatterly's Lovers. I found a photographic companion to Anais Nin's Journals at the library yesterday and am now able to give faces to all of her comrades.

I am losing myself in pages and the still empty halls of the library. Between the studio and the stacks, I have found my place on campus.