Monster Me

12:24 pm: The knot is building in my head.

10:28 pm: What the eff? and another one bites the faery dust in the freewheeling idiocy that is the domain under HIM. Jeesus effing macy. I can't believe how many bright souls this force of carefree shit has blighted.

And the crying criminality of it is that we are always (and by always I mean the last 6 months) so close thisclose to something akin to a WICKED creative entity and then some whining trophy with more botox than emotion in her eyebrows decides to throw a 15K tidbit in his face and the ass goes off with his huge greedy teeth and ignores the potential for so much more THIS MUCH MORE that breathes and grows and waits in his damned pocket out of some misguided sense of loyalty combined with Israel's sense of preserving humour.

Our brighthead is leaving. Our awkward loving lovely friend with her dancing and her green bangs and her goldfish clock ticking brilliance will be GONE.

06:02 pm: saw the world through blue eyes he did aye he did they were so big and open and blue
no
not open not all the way not by the kind of love that eats at you while it grows you
not that kind of love, not that kind of light and dark, two symbolic with sharp points curved into eachother

and I, I did those blue eyes wrong, cataracted them with a milky layer of lies and now, now
I've stopped trying to justify what I did because despite my chafing what I did was wrong

blue eyes on Broadway shining bright against a reflected sky
blue eyes in the night, unseen blue, unseen soft

soft behind lids trembling with water weight and I, I wish that I could say I love you, I wish I could say that and bring happiness, but I, I know that isn't true anymore as much as I've thought it through, torn apart every moment of deceit on my part and stared long and hard at it's ugly beating seed of beginning and I, I wish things could not be the way they are now

Sitting alone at the office with a nose full of snot, a face full of tension, and a monitor blurred through tears. Notebook filled with scrawls in huge sharpie letters because none of the office pens work anymore. Aches in my fingers from a day of chasing $ from people who won't miss it while I, I, drown in details about my tragic little HUGE HUGE MAGNIFICENT ONE DAY MAGNIFICENT STEPPING STONES MAGNIFICENT life.

I love.

I love.

I hurt.

And I think about a litany of tomorrows without the possibility of your blue, blue eyes and I shut down in self-preservation.

11:27 pm: I feel like a chasm. Drop a penny or two.

04:56 pm: Last party.

Then.

A break.

12:45 am: DO WHAT IS RIGHT.

04:30 pm: out

12:12 pm: I'm sorry. I need this space to be just for me. No one else has access to the non-public posts.

This is not done to HURT anyone.

I need a private space to spill, vent, yell, and say things in the heat of the moment. And I don't want anyone to be hurt by this. So there we go.

02:42 pm: slowly imploding

08:47 pm: Another reason to love "Arrested Development."

Buster can stand there with a black puppet on his stub of a left hand and yell out, "I don't want no part of your tired country club you freak bitch."

And then he can look at the puppet with that clueless Buster look on his mug.

04:05 am: 4:05 a.m.

Home. Party was what I hoped it would be. People people, interested in what they're doing, funny as all hell in some cases, and ...well...it was a damn ROOFTOP. Good times.

12:36 pm: action

01:15 am: No sushi for me. Posed in a small apartment studio for Ogata. His cats charmed me. Moved very slowly with minimal direction. Awkward but somehow still good. Walk to Chapters, pick up Idoru, think better of it, spend a quarter and go for a wrap with the Zeenster instead. Tomorrow: helping him navigate the Bay labyrinth in search of fallwear. Then purchasing hard liquor, meeting with Kiles and Jo and skedaddling the collective bootikins to the Archivist's rooftop. Oh yes.

06:02 pm: memo to self
Firefly life words. Do the right thing. Do the right thing. Don't say or merely write it. DO IT.

05:44 pm: Bad. Cheeseburger. Orange soda. 5 fries.
Good. Water. Half bagel. Threw out rest of fries.
Nothing else.
Perhaps tea tonight, and some grilled vegetables.

THUNDER.

07:12 pm: Different kinds of happy.

No gestalt.

01:39 pm: Warrgh. So full of smoked meat, custard pastry, and pre-weekend jumpiness.

02:40 pm: Skip the light fandango
I just wanted to touch you for good luck
The mirror plays us well
I thought, for a second, I heard a flute.
Pale marble rotates on a pedestal
Daniel-san looks at Charlotte, sees the web, and doesn't care
Narrow mustaches on dapper men instill distrust in me
I see your bicycle parked at the cafe
and feel my arches stiffen and my eyeballs tense in their sockets
white linen and the word 'panama'
the neon letters curve against the sky and old ladies live in elevators
their butlers smell like coffee fields and
the language tutor waits in the robin's blue salon for my unskilled tongue

03:56 pm: A high school art studio memory
We'd all been told to go into one of the smaller storage rooms that adjoin the main classroom, pick up one of the small sculptures there, and draw it. I walk in and two small marble pieces catch my eye. One, a beautifully dark horse's head. Almost like a 9 pound chess piece. I stroke it's cold nose and marvel at the strong lines of it's neck. The other piece is white marble, a male bust. The words that came to mind as I looked at it: scholar, ascetic, noble, Star Trek big-brain. A dramatic collar surrounds the thin marble neck. I look between the two and choose the horse. I remember thinking, "If I can't draw the scholar, I'll be pissed because I'm pretty good at people. I've never tried a horse, so if I fuck up, it won't be as bad."

I hefted the heavy black marble piece back to my table, set it down, and looked at it for a long time in the afternoon light coming in through the tall open windows. I miss Villa Maria's windows, and the views from them.

I spent three classes perfecting my oil pastel drawing. I laid down layer after layer of dark blues, dark purples and charcoal. I kept seeing these dark colours reflecting in the marble and I wanted them all to be in there. In the end, my teacher (Miss Rymarz, hunch-backed, soft-spoken, a former gymnast) looked at it and smiled a smile I haven't forgotten. Surprise. Appreciation.

I wish I could go back, borrow the Scholar, and give it a try. I still think I chose the easy path there, one of many times that I did.

02:35 am: crimson wave receding and with it my wild creative zingeroos

left with fatigue

need IRON and SLEEP