i do not have problems acting like a grown-up.
no.
"I'm using all the words up.
I got my grammar in a 5 and dime.
I'm giving all the words up.
And now I know the words are mine."
Wanted for Life, David Byrne & Brian Eno
who else dreams of downpours and polish vectra technologies. and how i know that the way the world suddenly shifted once you arrived in it leaves you feeling melancholy strange. somehow slightly less absurd. it's just that i do know what makes bats fly sideways. and why your neck was sore this morning. how come you're having trouble sleeping nights. i love you. like clotted cream. or the aftermouth of sex. all haphazardly and stunned. but no more or less unhinged. than before.
i couldn't wake him this morning. long limbs twisted in low thread counts. coffee stained. walked myself to work. alone instead. last night all i had were nightmares. something about a flood and your heart's palpitations. and he kept moaning. all night. about habanero pepper tongues and the weight and consequence of my nighttime hair. this is all fucked up. alice keeps shouting to the rabbit. as if he might listen. covered in polka dots and the howling face of the alarm clock ring. she holds his sleeping hand to her mouth and says the words without sound. when i can't go. anywhere but here without you. in this almost dark room. again.
how is one meant to respond
to a mis-sent bookmark.jpg attachment
[with photos]
eulogizing someone else's dead granny?
these days are filled with exoskeletons. and dirty sheets. the art and reliability of being. let down. even when i burnt your plastic jesus. into mid-morning horrorshows. these days. jesusfuck you're the only thing i've got to cling to. words and black ink. stains. i claw my space. to sane. in this baking soda volcano. you.
i paused and turned. felt daylight fading into the folds of jumper to pocket. relieved at the predator howler-scream. colliding hallway drums. some spine crushing hug. in any dark tight space, without you. eye. i feel, alive. the fading sense that what might be pulverized before i feet the door. is. in seven. four. thirty-thousand seconds. that guy. that guy who collects cans from classrooms. that guy's asleep in a chair. in a room with no lights. alone. and i smile against the scream. would that one of us were eaten. ripped into blood and guts horrorshows. no, i shout at the room without lights. turn to run. no. not i not i not i.
when life was in-between. i used to think about the interstitiality of the skeletal bones wake. the vision of both eyes. blinking. even aching for skin. the breath of you. in night angles. and bed-sheet poses. all those deliberate black and white portraits struck for your camera tongue.
to: [partner]
from: me
subject: i would just like to point out
it is only half past 12. which means that there are still 3 and a half hours until i get to see you.
which, actually, when i think about it. is a lot better than, you know, like 12.
or FOREVER.
sometimes i think people don't really get me. especially what and the way i write.
then, this weekend, i realized that these posts. these things i write. normally. aren't written for people who think movies like The Da Vinci Code are incredibly brilliant. or even, you know, remotely good. in any possible way.
i'm guessing that's a lot of people.
i just poured a glass of wine. in my underwear. in the kitchen. with the backdoor wide open. while my neighbor was out doing her gardening. for fuck's sake i said to no one, don't i really do try.
States of being have always fascinated me. dead/alive. happy/sad. asleep/awake. And thinking for years about things like Schrödinger's Cat, the poet-prisoner Condemned to Devil's island, the Banality of Evil, and the hero/hero/hero/hero/hero, haven't necessarily made anything more or less opaque. I suppose this is why I've always resisted binary (in-conflict ) states, as they don't seem to adequately reflect experience or the complexity of being--at least when I consider my life and my self.
So, this morning, whilst I've been reading an article about sleep disorders and biological rhythms, I've also been thinking about the hazy line between wake and sleep. I've been known to talk in my sleep--to hold coherent conversations with another person as well as to mumble indecipherably and seemingly without outside stimuli. And we all dream. To think of sleep as an inactive or unconscious state, then, seems malapropos. And to say we are always one and the other at the same time, doesn't quite appease, either.
I'm content staying fascinated with it all. I don't actually need answers to questions without answers. It's just good, somehow, to look at it all. And perhaps,at the least, i'll be less grumpy when my partner says alien-strange things that wake me in the night.
Well, apparently, you're not alone.
I've tried several times to get this application running on my work computer to no avail. I'm assuming that my problems testing the program are simply a result of all the restrictions on our systems and servers.
But for those of you who are active on lots of social networks, fidg't seems like a great tool that's also really 'cool' looking.
If anyone gets it working, I'd love to hear a response.
I've always been overly interested in the Maxwell's Demon thought experiment by physicist James Clerk Maxwell.
But I didn't know he also wrote poetry?
I feel a project idea brewing.
Mashable! seems to be a really good resource to watch for all your social networking news and ponderings.
This morning, I've been playing around with:
TouchGraph
a tool that visualizes connections between websites.
For those of us who may have Google searched for ourselves, this tool is just another way to imagine, very graphically, our presence on the web.
Today, I found this really cool text analysis tool:
Topic Flowers
from neoformix.com
I ran some of my own text and a few posts from Down in Me through with some beautiful results.
Check it out for yourself.
you--
nalogous pole--
you're no hero.
and it isn't that you've got no cape
or tights--
that you lack appealing alternate egos.
any idiot knows,
it takes more
than spandex and
super self-imposed lunacy
to create real change
in the universe--
to deserve anyone's faith
in you.
so many fuckless days and nights
i've spent in seconds missed--
blurred. leaving you scared,
it's kinda what i do.
we can live a long time
working out formulas.
pulling costumes and words
to set out what we've meant to do.
i can read poetry into your porch.
first-kiss you timeless;
until you're not prepared,
and we're a little scared, and a bit confused.
there's nothing strange--
isn't this what we're meant to do?
she was going to say something about tearing off your skin with her teeth and loving you so much she felt crushed to be alive to die but then she remembered that sounded unhinged and psychopathic and so she stood in the lift in that spot where the metallic sides make her invisible legs and thought about razorblades and rope burns the weekend
