we are sick and tired sick and tired of minimal
techno.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Curry
I sit in a Thai restaurant
Wait for them to remove my curry
So I can take it back with me
To my hostel room
Where I hoard hopes of constructing a fort
Prague has been a dream
Of which I am frankly unworthy
Maybe I belong among the spires
The waiters look sad
I hate speaking English to them
It makes me feel rude
I met the sweetest Brazilian girls
And I fell in love with the British Nathan
He is the whiniest gentleman
More on him later
The sugary intoxicants are catching up with me
I need to sew my skirt
That broke last night
And my shoes broke today
But I found boots today no worries
It was the loveliest day
Warm hints of a sugar leaden summer
Sunny shafts subduing the gothic romance
Wait for them to remove my curry
So I can take it back with me
To my hostel room
Where I hoard hopes of constructing a fort
Prague has been a dream
Of which I am frankly unworthy
Maybe I belong among the spires
The waiters look sad
I hate speaking English to them
It makes me feel rude
I met the sweetest Brazilian girls
And I fell in love with the British Nathan
He is the whiniest gentleman
More on him later
The sugary intoxicants are catching up with me
I need to sew my skirt
That broke last night
And my shoes broke today
But I found boots today no worries
It was the loveliest day
Warm hints of a sugar leaden summer
Sunny shafts subduing the gothic romance
Monday, November 8, 2010
Chewing on
I have been collecting old photos
Photos from other people
Their grandmothers, their sons (sobs)
I asked my friend, battling the flow of the flea market,
How for they attain such photos?
When an old person dies,
She informs me.
I love looking at them, touching them, something about their unpretentious simplicity, the shabby colors, the meager garb, the awkward or failed poses, the sweetness of a glance, an older pair of Germans interrupted by the dinosaur like antics of short haired high waisted young boys, or the model thin girl-woman slouching in a gorgeous field with the pale blue sky and sweet composition of sun striking her gangly hair, it continues to amaze me that I have such access to these precious moments of utter strangers, the ugly ones are my favorite, or the gorgeous simple types that don't try, merely catch your eye with the blandness of a hated life in the drenched in a style affected by time, or lack of style affected by lack of time, features of a face someone could love. I love them. I adopt them, these old photos, with their fabulous childlike flaws, my favorite is when something is scribbled on the back, like a makeshift postcard, a worldly sentiment flipped over like a weird bug, vulnerable for the world to chew on.
Photos from other people
Their grandmothers, their sons (sobs)
I asked my friend, battling the flow of the flea market,
How for they attain such photos?
When an old person dies,
She informs me.
I love looking at them, touching them, something about their unpretentious simplicity, the shabby colors, the meager garb, the awkward or failed poses, the sweetness of a glance, an older pair of Germans interrupted by the dinosaur like antics of short haired high waisted young boys, or the model thin girl-woman slouching in a gorgeous field with the pale blue sky and sweet composition of sun striking her gangly hair, it continues to amaze me that I have such access to these precious moments of utter strangers, the ugly ones are my favorite, or the gorgeous simple types that don't try, merely catch your eye with the blandness of a hated life in the drenched in a style affected by time, or lack of style affected by lack of time, features of a face someone could love. I love them. I adopt them, these old photos, with their fabulous childlike flaws, my favorite is when something is scribbled on the back, like a makeshift postcard, a worldly sentiment flipped over like a weird bug, vulnerable for the world to chew on.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
All I knew is we needed the darkness.
I lolled on C's lap, I think he stroked my hair and mumbled at me with his strong gorgeous unshaven chin, that may have been my favorite attribute about him, a chin as sharp as a checkmark, but of course I leaned my sleepy hazel eyes in his direction and smiled and sweetly rejected him, giving him long pauses lacking explanation, drinking in his curls and sweet sad boy eyes, aware of his knees beneath my overworked blonde hair but more aware of my need to go outside, no scratch that, my need to wait for him to come inside, and so we chatted like sweet tangerines stretched impossibly across several dining room chairs, next to the beer pong table that I could fuzzily remember conducting earlier that night, as my designated American blood commanded me to do so, so we waited, most likely him for me, for the tides to change, for the resilience to seep like toasty sand slush, and we hushed eachothers fears in teenage tones well too aware of a target, the way we block out the irrelevant, that's what was golden, the knees and the hair and silly lusts frothing to the torrential surface, slipping to and from awareness with a disregard that comes naturally to our age, despite our varying nationalities that edged us closer to the precipice tilted high above the swirling enchantment of exotic and unknown.
I maintained the need (kneed) for darkness.
Outside was dark but the kind of dark you find at the center of a cherry or plum - unwanted, unfit pit of a place, constantly irritated by the rush of fellow people, lost and curious and hungry for attention. Finally, as I was lavished by a sweet Irishman on the spare diningroom chairs, P reentered and I submerged myself again in my need. I returned to my feet, red heels purchased solely for this precarious social event, this cheap occasion, this procession of ghouls and ghosts and red cheeked red lipped hormonal parade, all twisted into a kind of tart beauty due to the little Irish accents spotting the ever ready mouths. I took his hand, or wrist, or arm in mine, assuring him of something, not feeling my feet but trusting my unsteady limbs to do my bidding, and there was a room with a fireplace I think but maybe no lightbulbs and I needed him to talk to me, forgetting my assurances, misled by my wobbly ineffectual instincts to carry out some purpose, and we discussed something or other of what felt like great importance, to the point where a random dared not intrude, although we never barricaded our hovely dungeon and we never traveled far from the pack, most likely to stay safe, safe little puppies lashing over astringent subject matter, most likely thoughtless but provocative nonetheless.
The darkness was my answer.
Then C opened up into our little bat cave, chin first, interrupting god knows what and we welcomed him of course, he was our family, we both loved him and his dark manly curly locks and his broad chest flanked by a warriors shoulders, but what was he trying to prove, what were we proving locked away a few thin meters from the rest of the swirling banter, hardly protected from the tide but for the blessed darkness, broken softly by the window over my shoulder, which tossed a light blue pattern of light blocks hitting the black heavily like velvet and slowly suffocating out into the shadowy corners. We talked about something, or maybe rehashed old theories, old jokes, old nothings developed between 3 new old friends on a late autumn night, in the beautiful dark, in the breathy and alluring dark, in my sweet wonderful covering darkness that I knew and chose and later experienced sweet release from, privately reentering the mash of Sexy Something and celebrating an accomplishment mysterious to even me.
I lolled on C's lap, I think he stroked my hair and mumbled at me with his strong gorgeous unshaven chin, that may have been my favorite attribute about him, a chin as sharp as a checkmark, but of course I leaned my sleepy hazel eyes in his direction and smiled and sweetly rejected him, giving him long pauses lacking explanation, drinking in his curls and sweet sad boy eyes, aware of his knees beneath my overworked blonde hair but more aware of my need to go outside, no scratch that, my need to wait for him to come inside, and so we chatted like sweet tangerines stretched impossibly across several dining room chairs, next to the beer pong table that I could fuzzily remember conducting earlier that night, as my designated American blood commanded me to do so, so we waited, most likely him for me, for the tides to change, for the resilience to seep like toasty sand slush, and we hushed eachothers fears in teenage tones well too aware of a target, the way we block out the irrelevant, that's what was golden, the knees and the hair and silly lusts frothing to the torrential surface, slipping to and from awareness with a disregard that comes naturally to our age, despite our varying nationalities that edged us closer to the precipice tilted high above the swirling enchantment of exotic and unknown.
I maintained the need (kneed) for darkness.
Outside was dark but the kind of dark you find at the center of a cherry or plum - unwanted, unfit pit of a place, constantly irritated by the rush of fellow people, lost and curious and hungry for attention. Finally, as I was lavished by a sweet Irishman on the spare diningroom chairs, P reentered and I submerged myself again in my need. I returned to my feet, red heels purchased solely for this precarious social event, this cheap occasion, this procession of ghouls and ghosts and red cheeked red lipped hormonal parade, all twisted into a kind of tart beauty due to the little Irish accents spotting the ever ready mouths. I took his hand, or wrist, or arm in mine, assuring him of something, not feeling my feet but trusting my unsteady limbs to do my bidding, and there was a room with a fireplace I think but maybe no lightbulbs and I needed him to talk to me, forgetting my assurances, misled by my wobbly ineffectual instincts to carry out some purpose, and we discussed something or other of what felt like great importance, to the point where a random dared not intrude, although we never barricaded our hovely dungeon and we never traveled far from the pack, most likely to stay safe, safe little puppies lashing over astringent subject matter, most likely thoughtless but provocative nonetheless.
The darkness was my answer.
Then C opened up into our little bat cave, chin first, interrupting god knows what and we welcomed him of course, he was our family, we both loved him and his dark manly curly locks and his broad chest flanked by a warriors shoulders, but what was he trying to prove, what were we proving locked away a few thin meters from the rest of the swirling banter, hardly protected from the tide but for the blessed darkness, broken softly by the window over my shoulder, which tossed a light blue pattern of light blocks hitting the black heavily like velvet and slowly suffocating out into the shadowy corners. We talked about something, or maybe rehashed old theories, old jokes, old nothings developed between 3 new old friends on a late autumn night, in the beautiful dark, in the breathy and alluring dark, in my sweet wonderful covering darkness that I knew and chose and later experienced sweet release from, privately reentering the mash of Sexy Something and celebrating an accomplishment mysterious to even me.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Boys weekend
Ireland was so, so gorgeous and wonderful and I went on a five day binger with loads of Irish lads, as they call them, and 20 something year old straight male irish potheads are the messiest, sweetest people I will ever meet.
I am finally HOME and finally had a proper bath.
'I'm into garbage'
I am finally HOME and finally had a proper bath.
'I'm into garbage'
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
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