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|Friday, September 29th, 2006|
tall palm trees are mute at the base of the San Gabriel mountains. as I stare. blankly outside into the blue sky shaded with green, brown. earth and a matchbox falls off the edge of a desk when the phone rings and the wine glass. shatters in the sink and bills come in the mail with late fees and my car needs to be washed and i need. to draw not with words but with gestures and pigment a shoe that fell off my foot. that is cold.
and i stretch my arm out and run. my finger through the dust that settles. on a picture frame.
voluntary silence seems a more powerful rejection
|Thursday, April 6th, 2006|
My classes next fall:
Art History 387: European Visual Culture
Art Studio 101: Drawing Fundamentals
English/Literature 397: Independent Study - A Deleuzian Approach to Signs of Memory and Love in Proust's A la recherche du temps perdu
English/Literature 490: Senior Seminar
What I think I'll take in the spring:
Art History 397: Independent Study - Photographing the Self
Education 140: Tutoring/Guided Learning
English/Literature 302: Hellenistic Literature
English Writing 301: Creative Non-Fiction
|Sunday, April 2nd, 2006|
Now contaminated, the deep purple sky at 6 o’clock demonstrates melancholy weight drowning complicated senses in a deep blue sea of collapsed emotions.
The first drop of blood when you prick at my heart – the first drop of passion now a crust that you can easily remove.
|Saturday, January 14th, 2006|
Cereal box open on uneven brown tiled floor your slender legs spread open - the open sky drips translucent onto your smooth skin and I touch your skin and my mouth opens to yours and we exchange translucency hot instead of the cold moisture that now falls on my back and slowly tumbles on to your firm chest and I shift my left foot to the right and the open cereal box spills small hard donut-shapes over the interrupted moment on the uneven brown tiled floor.
|Friday, December 23rd, 2005|
ZolaOnAOL: Stop what?
EgoSumAurum: your puss
ZolaOnAOL: What about yours?
|Wednesday, November 23rd, 2005|
i want no punctuation because i do not want this to end
the sleepless early mornings
late night drinks
my pencil scrapes across the grainy paper secretly so that you stay asleep and can not wake up to leave me
the frustrating words trudge across the page and i refuse to punctuate
the endless immobilizing blue sky
your eyes when i left
that subtle nod of your head
i trip through the door frame you shiver in your sleep
i slip on melting ice
i know this because i am not with you
are not here to be kept warm by my lips and my hands hold you close and we breathe together and we sweat together and our bodies do not punctuate no commas no periods no apostrophes not even parentheses to hold things together
just one flowing obscurity that falls apart because i want no punctuation
no beginning or end just warmth and your love not even those words your words just your love and my love shifting wildly through the
crisp notions of a molecule
that is air
that seems punctuated but is not for that is you and this is me and the floorboards creak the same the bedsprings squeak for we not the punctuated solitary you or me
but why does it take so many words to say this and all they do is add confusions and questions
for what is it and who are they and these are just more words
but what you must know
is the ill timed possibility of we that i see when you walk past me and i see a wrinkle on the back of your black collared shirt
|Tuesday, November 22nd, 2005|
Wake up half-past-one. We left the lights on.
Scurry out of bed trip over rolled up socks empty box of pizza your belt still strung through belt loops jingles as I quietly step across the hardwood floor.
Turn off the light.
Swiftly shut the drapes and plunge back in to bed you sleep tangled in the soft white sheets and my arms aorund your sweet olive skin - I'll happily pretend the night has just begun - head falls on to pillow next to yours I breath in your sleepy hair and caress your face and touch my toes to your toes; just stay right there eyes closed you and me stay right here.
My mind wanders to the piled up dishes and crumbs left on the floor the overdue bills stacked underneath tragic books I never even read anymore because their words are too true to be read because I live those words those words on the page that I wrote to you and you responded so slyly I never knew what you meant. Books unbound pages stacked atop the overdue bills. The overdue bills that I will pay, I really will, just another day of work and I can pay them.
Half-empty wine bottle sits by the bed tells me this is real.
Take a deep breath
your body presses in to mine
I would stay here forever for you.
Half-past-three I wake. The lights are still on. The drapes are open and mid-afternoon filters past me and I turn and see my shadow on the wall.
Empty bottle of wine lays aside the bed, pillow still wet with tears, tells me this was just another impossible dream.
|Thursday, November 17th, 2005|
Somebody should care about me that way. Every drop of alcohol helps me forget – you, him, he who left me, he who has yet to come, Sharpies and highlighters fill the metal utensil holder on my cheap desk. Sit here poor wine in to a filthy glass though I know I will finish the bottle; and another.
Graceful notes clatter in the kitchen the book gathers dust on my lap I’m crying these tears for you, you know, you, you know that. Or you would if I ever told you, you know.
Dead in the cushioned chair my emaciated body slides from the upholstery.
A smile on my face, left there, thinking about you, you know.
The book! I never finished it. You never finished it. You never finished what?
You never finished loving me
You never met me
You didn’t meet me on time
The sharpies and highlighters fall on to the floor –
You highlighted every word on the first page of the book and I ripped it out and crumpled it and burned it and you kept me warm. Your highlighted words, they kept me warm.
My body is warm but not alive – my face against the cold tile
You shiver when you come home
But wait, you never even moved in.
You forgot to, you know.
Somebody should have cared about me that way.
This is my last glass of wine, I promise, just one more, and then I’ll forget, you know, you know you’ll forget too and you’ll pour another.
But we do not live together.
Miles apart. You sweat blissfully atop semen-soiled sheets. You never even think about me, you know.
|Sunday, November 6th, 2005|
Luscious branches loom over the body of the unwashed corpse in the desiccated city of the lost. Lonely, hurting, asleep from wine.
Swift crushing nausea.
Deadlines pass, pens run out of ink, he did a line of coke off the low-hanging branch of the Jacaranda, filthy bedsheets keep my drunken body warm at three o’clock; the hole in my jeans, wrinkled black shirt draped over idiocy, the unidentified machine, hidden by stains of youth and time and age and clouds that grumble noisily over the blond-brown hair walking through the grass holding a bottle of tepid beer.
Eight o’clock: slip on dirty unmatching socks too tired to wash away remnants of the past the night before the years before your first day of kindergarten (her cheerful smile now becomes cheap).
When you love the plastic reality you ignore its scratches and the fragile jar that holds me tight underneath the surface of its lid screwed on too tight is shattered.
Dizzy because I am trapped, held down, forced to wear this smile again today.
Dizziness is the only freedom I have – I feel lost and uncontrolled. I feel like I can move. The only way I can move is through the stupor of walking through darkness, inebriated, unware, the spoiled lemon half-eaten by ants falls behind me…
Slurping the last drop of coffee on the park bench, falling apart.
Nobody even knows – nobody will listen. Too in love with books with words with pages with the dust in the interstices.
The apple fell on arid ground. Current Mood: listless
|Saturday, October 15th, 2005|
Dear life goal,
Matthew Current Mood: rejected
|Monday, October 10th, 2005|
|here it is bitches
Post a comment and...
1. I'll respond with something random about you.
2. I'll tell you what song/movie reminds me of you.
3. I'll say something that only makes sense to you and me.
4. I'll tell you my first/clearest memory of you.
5. I'll tell you what animal you remind me of.
6. I'll ask you something that I've always wondered about you.
7. If I do this for you, you must post this on your journal.
|Thursday, September 22nd, 2005|
My classes :
At home I read Derrida for hours and manage to sift through six pages of poorly translated words. Just words.
In class I listen to a man retranslate the text in to different words. Just words.
A woman reads Eliot's poetry beautifully. My eyes moisten, yes, I can appreciate the brilliance. The colors, sounds, walls, sky, words trapped you, Eliot - I know how it feels
Those who sit around me, sleep, make false attempts at analyzing the poems, sit in silence, I sit in silence. I listen to the words.
I sit at an oversized round table with about 10 other "students" and "discuss" the influence of science on Victorian literature. Right now we are discussing Frankenstein
, soon we move on to Jane Eyre
. During the course of each hour-length class the professor reads quotations that she finds important in the text and leaves about 15 minutes at the end for the 3 people in the class who actually speak to enlighten everyone else, including myself, as to what brilliant thoughts run through their head. I count sixty seconds in every minute and see the time clicking away so slowly on my wrist, I wish there was a blade to cut, I wish the second-hand would slowly slice in to my skin, my veins with each of its movements. Why is Derrida here too? What is this book? A collection of binaries? No, just words.
And you, you are no where to be found. Just an image that I think of, a name that I recall - a word; just a word.
|Tuesday, August 16th, 2005|
My favorite coffee place in the world went out of business and was completely remodeled to be "trendy" rather than the cute, warm, welcoming atmosphere it had before.
The coffee isn't even good here anymore.
Why does everything good in life have to be taken away from me? Current Mood: irate
|Tuesday, July 19th, 2005|
Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about my many selves.
Last semester I wrote a research paper on Andre Kertesz. In this paper I discussed how his photography explicates his view of the world in that it shows how much he, an individual, changed in his life. How no one self is a single self. No one is “one.”
And now I realize that I was writing about myself.
As a nine-year-old boy I fantasize about owning a nice car and having a family. That is all I want.
Twelve years old. I want the nice car. I want the family – though my image of what a family is has changed. I do not need a wife to have a family.
Now I don’t care what kind of car I have. I have been freed with my newly obtained driver’s license – so what I drive is irrelevant. I would like to have a family – though all I really need is my self. A self. A house? I begin to obsessively look at home-buying guides and I again fantasize about the life I could have. The huge extravagant homes in these catalogues are exactly what I need. I draw my own house plans. I want to be an architect. But what exactly do I really need to build? A house? Or a life? I am sixteen years old.
I want to leave Portland. My roots. My heritage. My family. I feel trapped – that I have nothing to do hear.
It rains too much.
I don’t want to be alive under this constant layer of clouds, this mist that softens my skins and that I, in return, quietly excrete from my down-turned eyes.
Eighteen years old. I go to Los Angeles for college.
I am not nearly as successful as I had hoped to be.
I return home after the first semester feeling defeated.
I love Portland. The rain is refreshing. There’s no smog. I feel healthy. I feel cold in December, like one should feel in the middle of winter.
I return for the second semester of college in to an eighty-degree, hazy, January day. I cried as the plane took off because I didn’t want to return to the place where I had failed to get the grades I needed to get to be the person I wanted to be.
In May I get straight A’s.
I’m still dissatisfied – because I realize that I am already a person. I am already a “self” – and I don’t do anything for that self. I fall in love with Portland not so secretly.
Now I live in a small two-bedroom bungalow. Old, dirty hardwood floors. Spiders and ants crawl on my back as I sleep in bed with someone I met less than a year ago. The windows are open. I look outside and I see a lemon drop from the tree. I stumble around the house, in search of my self; in search of that person who I lost so long ago.
This is not who I ever wanted to be. As a nine-year-old, I never expected this.
There are so many things that I never considered as I grew up. So many important things.
Looking back through the scrapbook in my memory, I see a pale, fat-cheeked boy with light brown hair. I see a smile on his face as he stands next to his sister who wears a pink jacket and kisses a snowman.
That snowman melted – I will never see him again.
That boy, too, is forever lost.
|Monday, July 11th, 2005|
|woohoo! i'm sleeping with a spider tonight!
THREE NAMES YOU GO BY:
THREE SCREEN NAMES YOU HAVE HAD:
1. ego sum aurum
THREE THINGS YOU LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:
1. my tattoo
2. that i'm not a complete idiot
3. the fact that i'm sympathetic
THREE THINGS YOU DON'T LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:
1. my appearance!
2. i'm never satisfied with anything
3. i'm a lush
THREE PARTS OF YOUR HERITAGE:
THREE THINGS THAT SCARE YOU:
3. falling in to a "system"
THREE OF YOUR EVERYDAY ESSENTIALS:
2. lori fiacco and alexander santillanes
THREE THINGS YOU ARE WEARING RIGHT NOW:
1. 8-ball PJs
2. a tight brown shirt that i hate
3. a watch
THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE BANDS (or artists) AT THE MOMENT:
THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE SONGS AT PRESENT:
1. "Stuff me up" by Peaches
2. some new song by Coldplay
3. "move bitch" by Ludacris
THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE ACTORS AT THE MOMENT:
THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE ACTRESSES AT THE MOMENT:
THREE NEW THINGS YOU WANT TO TRY IN THE NEXT 12 MONTHS:
1. Being more awesome (and by that I mean somehow being a person that people actually enjoy being around)
2. Not drop out of any more classes for next semester
3. Learn french
THREE THINGS YOU WANT IN A RELATIONSHIP (love is a given):
TWO TRUTHS AND A LIE
1. i like boys
2. i like jocelyn
3. i like pink
THREE PHYSICAL THINGS ABOUT THE OPPOSITE SEX (or same) THAT APPEAL TO YOU:
THREE THINGS YOU JUST CAN'T DO:
1. eat octopus
2. go on a long trip in a boat
3. not be utterly infatuated with the people i care most about
THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE HOBBIES:
2. thinking about interior decorating, but not having enough time or money to actually do it
THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO REALLY BADLY RIGHT NOW:
1. go to Portland
2. see my friends from Portland
3. go to Panama
THREE CAREERS YOU'RE CONSIDERING:
2. flight attendant
3. administrative assistant
THREE PLACES YOU WANT TO GO ON VACATION:
THREE NAMES YOU LIKE FOR YOUR FUTURE KIDS:
THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO BEFORE YOU DIE:
1. learn french
2. travel to more than 50 countries
3. live somewhere no one would expect me to live for at least a year
|Friday, July 1st, 2005|
Yesterday I got a new hamster. She is black, and lives in her own cage away from Celia and Holiday. Her name is Ophelia...though sometimes I call her Bloody Mary. Our house is now full of plants and animals. Currently we have: 1 fiesty little guy named Alex, 1 timid and overemotional Matthew, 1 gorgeous Jocelyn, 1 hedgehog named Kalu, 6 fish (1 of which will be returning to his rightful owner soon), 2 lovely guinea pigs (Arienette and Sadie), 3 hamsters (names above), and a turtle...whose name I ashamedly cannot remember...and who also will be returning to his or her rightful owner soon. Amongst all of the animals, we have been inundated also with my obsessive behavior of buying at least one new plant on each of my days off from work. Yesterday I realized that one of the hanging plants on our patio had died...so I actually do need to replace that one.
|Thursday, June 30th, 2005|
The curtains, they were pulled months ago. I sit here, alone, in a field of uprooted trees. I am the only meager tree left with a single drop of moisture, a tear, trickles in to the soil. My muddy face – muddy with tears – muddy with melancholy – muddy with all of yours and my semen. I cannot see through the desert – or the rainforest. The ocean is too wide. Deep. Like my roots that are deeper than yours…deeper, in the cold dry bedrock that squeezes out the oxygen from my lungs that you failed to nourish.
You stopped nourishing my heart. The blood that flows between us stopped long ago.
Collapsed, you will forget about me soon enough.
|Monday, June 27th, 2005|
| i cant find my way in
i try again and again
i'm on the outside of love
always under or above.
must be a different view
to be a me with a you.
i want to know what it's like
on the inside of love
-nada surf Current Mood: melancholy
|Friday, June 17th, 2005|
I just realized that this is the first job that I've ever had that I have truly loved.