| An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge by Ambrose Bierce |
[03 Dec 2009|12:52pm] |
|
He had power only to feel, and feeling was torment. He was conscious of motion. Encompassed in a luminous cloud, of which he was now merely the fiery heart, without material substance, he swung through unthinkable arcs of oscillation, like a vast pendulum.
|
(On butterfly wings)
|
| But I will always wear one inside-out sock |
[01 Oct 2009|10:58am] |
Seeing the pulse of the future, which always leads back to the same place; these words spread a fire just like lightning cowers, and this wall will tumble only in the afterthought of his salty tears.
The bleeding won't stop, even if the wound would subside. The throbbing echo of that empty voice lingers still in a hollow vessel, lost to that false epiphany.
Let the needle down, down into that center were nothing comes through but mechanical promise, poisoning candy- vile sweet; electrifying, effervescent, retrospective ghosts of tired nowhere.
And suddenly it is all remembered, the reason for that callous Monday and the chill felt from the outside world.
|
(On butterfly wings)
|
|
[29 Sep 2009|03:34pm] |
this past month i have:
-done freelance digital marketing/design work
-worked in retail
-been a beadmaker
-been a balloon handler for a corporate event
|
(2Flutter bys| On butterfly wings)
|
|
[01 Sep 2009|07:24pm] |
<
sleeping in the blood of spiders
a vintage black tee shirt
and cat's eye on the mirror sill.
>
|
(On butterfly wings)
|
| 1902 Advertisement for Miracle Pills |
[23 Aug 2009|12:50am] |
I found this gem in a 1902 copy of the Sears, Roebuck and Co. catalog-
[and this is how I spend my Saturday night...hah]
Dr. Hammond's Nerve and Brain Pills: A Boon for Weak Men
"Six boxes positively guarenteed to cure any disease for which they are intended. This will cure you if you feel generally miserable or suffer from a thousand and one indescribable bad feelings, both mental and physical, among them low spirits, nervousness, weariness, lifelessness, weakness, dizziness, feeling of fullness like bloating after eating, or sense of goneness or emptiness of stomach in morning; flesh soft and lacking firmness (huh?), headache, blurring of eyesight, specks floating before the eyes, nervous irritability, poor memory, alternating with hot flushes, lassitude, throbbing, gurgling or rumbling sensation in the stomach; palpitation of heart, short breath on exertion, slow circulation of blood, cold feet, pain and oppression in chest and back, pain around the loins, aching and weariness of the lower limbs, drowsiness after meals but nervous wakefulness at night, languor in the morning, and a constant feeling of dread, as if something awful was going to happen."
WTF is lassitude?
And dang, I want some of those! Only $3 a box, not bad =P
|
(2Flutter bys| On butterfly wings)
|
| The Wall |
[09 Aug 2009|03:49pm] |
That moment when the music dies down
and the tremendous sound of bodies and feet
moving in harmony
rises from the brink of weight-pressed tile
into the electric night air...
|
(On butterfly wings)
|
|
[30 Jul 2009|04:48pm] |
wyatt: if im going out to get a
job just to please you, it just means
you're a huge bitch
you warp words
and look for drama
wyatt: what did you want to tell me
me: about my day
about my feelings
about my hopes and loves and fears
my ambitions and dreams
wyatt: or you could yell at me for having a car
me: i was angry at you for being perpetually unreachable
not for "having a car"
that's a ricidulous idea
wyatt: well its what ur mad at and i do agree it is ridiculous
i dont use facebook for a reason
maybe i want to sleep sometime
and not have my phone ring
novel i know
maybe i dont want to be fucking reachable every second of every fucking day to chat about feelings
maybe i just want to be a fucking human
and if i hear the phone i pick it up
like u cant fucking tell me later
like ur dying and u cant reach me
like it made any different if u were since im in florida, what the fuck can i do
why do i have to be so electronically bound is beyond me
i cant even miss some calls one night without getting a torrent of shit about how i dont care
so in essence ya, you are mad my phone wasn't near by and somehow that means i don't care
me: im still waiting on that poem
wyatt: o yeah poem quota must be met
me: dont be rude
u know it means a lot to me
wyatt: thats weird
that a forced poem means a lot
me: I love how you ridicule the things that are important to me
8/9/09
Wyatt: I didn't say that you shithead
You're stupid
calling you psychotic is fine because it makes you shut up
i dont give a fuck if it's right or wrong
it's out of anger
|
(On butterfly wings)
|
| Horoscopes |
[10 Jul 2009|01:37pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 amused |
] |
Creative Loafing horoscopes for Taurus, summer 2009 (creative loafing has the BEST horoscopes!)
June:
During the coming weeks, I expect that you'll upgrade your street smarts and explore a whole new meaning for the term "hands-on experience." You'll find out about an area of ignorance that was so deep and dark you didn't even know about it, and you'll take aggressive steps to get it the teaching it needs.
July:
When he was growing up, the father of basketball player superstar Pat Riley forced him to play basketball with kids who were stronger and tougher than he was. The time has come to override your personal desires for the sake of your own character-building needs. I recommend that you force yourself to play with grown-up kids who're stronger and tougher than you.
Eerily true...
|
(On butterfly wings)
|
| Excerpts, a few months early |
[08 Jul 2009|12:10pm] |
Darkness and silence were tangible things. She felt them. And they seemed suddenly potent with magic charm to still the tumult of her, to soothe and rest, to create thoughts she never had before...loneliness was necessary to gain consciousness of the soul.
- Zane Grey's words from Call of the Canyon, 1924
We love each other like poppy and recollection
We sleep like wine in the conches
Like the sea in the moon's blood ray.
- Paul Celan, Corona
Snowfall, denser and denser,
dove-coloured as yesterday,
snowfall, as if even now you were sleeping.
White stacked into distance
Above it, endless,
the sleigh track of the lost.
Below, hidden, presses up
What so hurts the eyes
hill upon hill, invisible.
- Paul Celan, Homecoming
September fattens on vines. Roses
flake from the wall. The smoke
of harmless fire drifts to my eyes.
This is plenty. This is more than enough.
- Geoffrey Hill, September Song
But often, in the world's most crowded streets,
But often, in the din of strife,
There rises an unspeakable desire
After the knowledge of our buried life:
An urge to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true, original course;
A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats
So wild, so deep in us- to know
Whence our lives come and where they go.
- Matthew Arnold, The Buried Life
My soul was wiping the streetcar windows so it could drown in the moving fog of the headlamps. Fog, my uncontaminated sister...a thick, opaque fog, which enveloped the noises and called up shapeless phantoms.
- Umberto Eco, The Mysterious Flame of Queen Laona
Let us thank the Earth
that offers ground for home
And holds our feet firm
To walk in space open
To infinite galaxies.
Let us remember within us
The ancient clay,
Holding the memory of seasons,
The passion of the wind,
The fluency of water,
The warmth of fire,
The quiver-touch of the sun
And shadowed sureness of the moon.
- John O'Donohue, In Praise of the Earth
You have traveled too fast over false ground;
Now your soul has come to take you back
Imitate the habit of twilight
Taking time to open the well of color
That fostered the brightness of day.
Gradually, you will return to yourself,
Having learned a new respect for your heart
And the joy that dwells within far slow time.
- John O'Donohue, A Blessing for One Who is Exhausted
|
(On butterfly wings)
|
| Making images with words |
[02 Jul 2009|03:52pm] |
a fishy tale
crashing waves turn white from blue
crunched and crisp the morning sang
of sugar sand and turquoise water; jaded
still, submerged beneath electric ice waves
from a winter infuriated.
the streets ahead are paved with ocean
ghastly white like solemn snow flowers
frozen and trapped in a glistening glass jar
whose face reflects starstrewn summer nights
from the darkest lake's perfect reflection
--------------------------
the saltwater tears of a fractured horizon
those shattered, beating wings
smother wood with sepia, pale tones
to accentuate the dull ache of lifelessness.
things can still be beautiful when they have
no life left in them, as the masterful
work of body in itself is surely
a phenomenon to behold;
a potent, shocking sign which affords
raw reflection.
to witness writhing, broken limbs
veiled in wilted grass and grave moss,
is to see the urgency of the breaking dawn.
-------------------------
simple lines
etchings on stone
the scratches of time
reflect lines on
an old man's face.
crop circle triangles
that won't fit on the page,
ricocheted moth balls from
the corners of a dusty attic;
bleeding water colors.
a faded path
lost in the pages
of history
------------------------
the spiral is perfect;
unparalleled, arching backwards to connect
with the resounding space of past and future
her peacock headpiece and copper eyes
make softness somehow more real
technicolor roses in a garden of
red mushrooms and tiny chipmunks.
|
(On butterfly wings)
|
| No arms for digging |
[02 Jul 2009|03:49pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 recumbent |
] |
that familiar jingle
heard from a chocolate bed
those characters emerge
to tickle the rapacious
gaze of my memory
kick then fall
then laugh
laugh some more while
the cute one leads
us all to inexcusable
misguidance
featherbed masochist gluttony
container maker
bender breaker
worst home maker
leave the rake on the ground
above the grave to
dig yourself out
from that stinking hole
|
(On butterfly wings)
|
| Relapsing Thoughts |
[28 Jun 2009|10:37am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 frustrated |
] |
criss crossed anger
with frustration
this guise of hatred
drives us to pieces.
this guide of effacement
peels blood with
plastic tendrils,
drains the fire
from the burn,
leaving only stinging madness.
shrieking for the solitude
of one night
without pain.
---------------------
storybook eyes
reveal her
ruby red
screams
so fucking tired
of trying
so fucking tired
of caring
so fucking tired
of wanting
anything
but me
tired of not accepting
of not loving
(or loving too much)
not considering
embracing
((...i will))
|
(On butterfly wings)
|
| a trip to the cemetery: a brief morning reprive from the urgencies of life |
[26 Jun 2009|05:24pm] |
|
coffin leeches
between my toes
crumbling leaves to keep
me company
in my monocrome afterlife.
the flies think i'm already dead
as I walk through grave flowers
atop death's head.
-----------------------
robins mark the path above
where the dead lie interred
in worm-caked dusty
homes
turning leaves ingrown
beneath earth's
solid grip
impossible to return
the robin with red belly
to anyone
but the earth from which
he came.
the silent aching memories
surging with tidal force
into screaming temples
silence is warranted
for a respectful submission
so deep
every breeze is sacred
in the stretching gardens
of eternity.
as mind ascends
body falls beneath.
-----------------------
quickly
she inhales the cold air
|
(1Flutter by| On butterfly wings)
|
| taught myself to lose control |
[24 Jun 2009|02:10pm] |
design her to be alone
we sleep alone
oh and you're on your way
to your own arms
won't you sing along
with the violin riot
of the children sleeping
through the storm
------------------------
Breathing and broody
behind the broken silk screen glass
-----------------------
crying out
to an alarm
the noise so shrill
i shoot---
the face shatters
mind scatters
brain absorbed by the sun
it is my sin
and only this dream
can bring me around again
-----------------------
the catalyst of distant projects
meant to guarantee some semblance
of comfort
when in reality the only comfort
i will find tonight is in the darkness
of sleep, in the bottom of my
consciousness where no real
thought is allowed to flourish
the impermanence of reality and
the uncertainty of the future
are paralyzing
crippling
thoughts
which remind me of a stark no where
quite like teenage monotony
in which my mind did not operate
and i was powerless to the authority
of misguided and abusive takers-of-care.
it is not a place i'd like to be ever again
i must certify (secure) a means to the ends
which i so desire.
|
(On butterfly wings)
|
| change inspires something |
[16 Jun 2009|01:14am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 tired |
] |
the peeling of feeling
reeling so unappealing
quake with the effort
of falling down gracefully
-----------------
memories like molassis
swimming in cheerios of magnificent
technicolor splendor
reticent with the ache of time passed
and time past
the edges of human capacity
-----------------
the captain is on the tube
but the ship is sinking still
effects can't occur quickly enough
to quell the relentless ignition
the itch to ensue and ensure
that the future will be desirable
more than desirable
is a "fiasco"
which means "damaged bottle"
or threatrical performance of
embarrassing failure
crushed by a monarch of
damaged caccoon
stung by the salt tears of
one moment
alone and unending
in the silent void of space
-----------------
i defer to you, dear admirer
for the time you have given my considerations
but i am unable at this time to respond
with any sort of helpful information
or sense of mutual respect
signed yours truly
broken dreams
-----------------
once there was
a beacon of something
contrived and convoluted
that stabbed us with agony
over lost or perceived misgivings
but now we are all shelterless
without direction
without purpose
without qualmshopefearswishes
reservations and psuedo achievements
line a life of constant misperception
some semblance of past
exhalted, overrated, neglected
------------------
in a yellow-dust attic in the
broom closet mansion
of my mind
lies a metal chest
hard and cold with
the etches of previous incarnations
scratch marks and blemishes
from the harassment of past affairs
and yet it lies fully open
a still pond of early dusk's
mountain stream
rippling with every passing insect's
beating wings
writhing in the emission of it's own
ceaseless pining
|
(On butterfly wings)
|
| grad-um-icated |
[23 May 2009|01:01pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 happy |
] |
graduated in converses and chipped black nail polish
went to the best party. ever.
had the best time. ever.
has the best friends. ever!
|
(2Flutter bys| On butterfly wings)
|
| What I want to do with my life... |
[18 May 2009|07:25pm] |
|
be the P.R. person for some historical government building in Washington D.C. (i.e. The National Archives, The Library of Congress, The Smithsonian). This would of course be in digital marketing (the wave of the future), making their websites better and more user friendly, advertising their site, buying keywords, communicating with creative agencies... but alas, tis a dream [and still, advertising is perhaps not my ideal career- a museum job would be the ultimate].
|
(1Flutter by| On butterfly wings)
|
| A Song is a Mirror for Rain |
[17 May 2009|09:57pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 pensive |
] |
Songs that have foreshadowed major events in my life...
Rain King- by The Counting Crows
Waiting for word from my parents as to whether or not I could visit England for Christmas when I was 16...hoping silently for a sign, this song came on and I heard
"I belong in the service of the Queen,"
which I found to be rather amusing. Anyway, I went, and it was the best trip of my life.
also
Raining in Baltimore- The Counting Crows
"This circus is falling down on its knees
The big top is crumbling down
Its raining in baltimore fifty miles east
Where you should be, no ones around"
Realizing on a rainy day that I could and would and will soon (hopefully) be living in Washington DC, about fourty miles SW of Baltimore. The calm, solemn tune of the song gives me goosebumps and sets me at ease (at the same time)- but i hope I won't be without phone calls and rain coats...
because I feel lonely for big towns and I guess I should (and will) miss you...
|
(1Flutter by| On butterfly wings)
|
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