i just want to be able to say how beautiful
without holding back without feeling
that it would be unfair
to tell you
for once i want to know what that's like
Hi livejournal, how is everyone? Asleep? Oh, ok, good.

I am pretty sad right now. I liked someone; I told them; they don't like me back. Hopefully we'll be back to being really good friends in a month or two -- down from... eight ? months the last time I tried this -- and I'll be back to only being sad the usual, usually-manageable amount.

I made an emotional-logistic mistake by initiating the like/don't like conversation while I was in a place with this person (and several other people) that I wasn't supposed to leave for another day and a half, while also not having anyone around to talk to about my feelings who wasn't the person in question. So I bailed and drove home through a bit of snow and a phenomenal windstorm circa Bellingham -> Blaine. It seemed like the best of the poor options I had provided myself.

You can fit a lot of crying into a six hour car ride, when you are me and you are exhausted and time is meaningless -- but I was grateful to the occasionally scary weather conditions, because when you are driving through driving snow without any snow tires the question of whether you are going to die alone becomes a minor subset of the question of whether you are going to die in the next five minutes. A trite sort of perspective, I guess, but I was grateful for perspective of any kind.

I was also grateful to the brief period in the post-Seattle, pre-Bellingham stretch of I-5 woods where time stopped completely: it was dark and clear, but there was snow on the cedars, white enough that the ambient light from the headlights made it seem like the tips of all the branches were in a bright moonlight, while the rest of the tree was normally-shadowed. The speed of the car and direction of the headlights created a kind of slide-show rhythm, so that the road appeared to be displaying a cyclical series of nearly-identical, disembodied white branches, that would strobe in and out of focus. This is when time began to move in a circle -- or, I guess, because of the curvature of the road, a sort of weirdly deformed circle. The point is, it was beautiful -- beautiful enough that me and the driver of the truck in the other lane both simultaneously slowed down, subconsciously matching the speed of the visual cycle to our heartbeats -- and it is probably still happening.

Anyways, it was that last thing that I wanted to tell you about, but thanks for listening to the rest too.
I was thinking about writing a poem, when I realized that the poem I was thinking of writing had mostly already been written by Lorca. So then I was going to just link to the poem, but of course I couldn't find it anywhere in the right translation. And then I didn't feel like typing it out on Facebook, so why not here, where at least a slightly different set of bots will scrape it into their enormous data-bins.

Though also it wouldn't surprise me at all to learn that I have already typed out this exact poem, in this exact translation, in some long-ago entry. Oh well.

Qasida of the Weeping
(Federico Garcia Lorca)

I have closed off my balcony,
for I do not want to hear the weeping.
But out there, beyond gray walls,
nothing is heard but the weeping.

There are very few angels who sing.
There are very few dogs who bark.
A thousand violins fit in the palm of my hand.

But the weeping is an enormous dog,
the weeping is an enormous angel,
the weeping is an enormous violin,
tears have muzzled the wind,
and nothing is heard but the weeping.

trans. Catherine Brown


I have been thinking about trying to start writing here again. I don't know -- it seems unlikely, but I keep trying to use twitter and FB as though they were somehow just different versions of lj, and they certainly, certainly aren't.

(In fact I am quite curious if anyone has done a study about social media usage habits among people with different 'first' social media. I can't imagine that someone who grew up with Facebook makes the same use of Instagram as someone who started with MySpace, or livejournal.)
Light comes through the door
the sound of voices, and you
standing in the hallway, unable
to survive the thought of going in;
equally unable to survive
the thought of leaving
In the future-and-therefore-also-past event of inventing a time machine, having first done my duty as a Hegelian Empiricist and murdered Hitler, I will then proceed in functionally-instantaneous progression to also kill the founder of Harley Davidson motors and the inventor of the car alarm. By then I will be quite an expert on time-travel-murder, so maintaining the extinction of their inevitable surrogates should not be difficult.

For on some days John Cage is enough to save me, but on other days I must spend thirty minutes on a Skytrain car that squeals loudly enough to suspect that it is causing irreversible hearing loss to everyone on board, and upon finally emerging to the pastoral white-noise of a merely urban city be immediately passed by a motorcyclist, only to detour off the main street and walk past not one but two constantly-honking cars -- and on those days I wish sincere, instantaneous death on all those who contribute their truly superfluous noise to the world, or worse still somehow contrive to profit off making others the vessels of said noise.

This is a real moral failing, for which I have no apology, and should anyone in the future be thinking about visiting upon me any sort of limited-but-cosmic power, I do hope they read this livejournal entry and reconsider their decision.
Being sad and lonely and unloveable slash desireable sure would be a lot easier if I could at least fucking sleep.
If only lying in bed all night reading could somehow count as sleep. Not every night, not every book, but sometimes; when you disappear completely, disappear from yourself I mean, that should count.

If this was sleep I think I could learn to love it again, to go willingly -- because at least it would be for sure. With the right book, it would be a sure thing.
How lovely it must be when the person you want to help turns out to want your help. And how frustrating when it is never the case.
Sometimes when I hear my roommates in the bath I wonder if I should tell them about the gods that live there.

But then I think, maybe they've already met them. Maybe they've discovered them on their own, like I did. Or maybe that's the only way it works; maybe if I just went and told them, that would make it impossible. Maybe they have to discover the bathtub gods on their own.

After all, I don't know very much about our bath gods; I don't even really know how many there are, or if they have names besides the ones I gave them. This also suggests caution: maybe they are the sort of gods who value their privacy. It would make sense, given their home. To intrude on another's bath time is rude in the extreme. I wouldn't want to make the bath gods angry, lest they turn their faces away from me.

And yet it seems wrong not to tell them; selfish, really, as though I wanted to keep them all for myself. And wrong too, for the gods, to always go unacknowledged -- if, I mean, it is true that they remain unknown. Is it not in the nature of gods to seek acknowledgment? Or at least, if not to seek it, to take satisfaction in it. To proceed out of it. How else can these gods share their wisdom and kindness?

Of course I have had roommates come and go before, and did not show them what I had found. Why should this be burning a hole in my pocket now, of all times? And, truth be told, can I really be sure that I have found anything at all? Maybe I have remained silent because I thought they would not see them, as I see them; that they would laugh, or smile politely, and return to their regular bathing habits, which have no room for gods. I could hardly begrudge them such a choice; a regular old bath is still a pleasure in its own right.


And it is interesting too, to have a superstitious secret, even a playful one. To say that I am not a superstitious person is an understatement. And so it has never occurred to me, thinking of all those who are and have been, throughout history -- never occurred to me that they might have had similar doubts, similar reticence. About sharing their discoveries, their beliefs, with others. That those beliefs may have begun not as revelation, but as hunches; a sort of vague tingling confirmed only very slowly, through patient practice.

One -- and by one, of course I mean only me, really, for I cannot speak for you -- always imagines cultists and shamans and religious folk as zealous, full of certainty, leaping on any chance to tell the unbelievers the truths they have discovered. But maybe some of them were not like that at all: maybe they were shy about their gods, their spirits, their uncertain knowledge about where from and how to and why here.

Whoever they were telling probably had their own ideas, after all -- or no idea, which makes it harder still. How do you even explain to someone why there would have to be gods in the first place? And in the bathtub, of all places. Probably it is best to keep it to myself.

we touched

Jan. 27th, 2015 08:20 pm
We touched in a dream last night.
It was nice because
it wasn't my fault --
you can't help the things you do in dreams --
and because time stretched out
like it does in dreams
and waking life, too,
when what you want to want
and what you get to want
and what you get
forget each other for awhile.
You said "I need to work on this gypsy thing." Showing up in my dreams seems like a good start; I haven't thought of you in years.
What if instead of the city coming to pick up your garbage, every day just had an enormous fire chasm running alongside it, and when you were done with something you just threw it into the fire and it was gone. Maybe then I would not have so many things on the floor of my room.

Most likely there is a city like this somewhere, built on top of a volcano; and all the people there also are built on top of volcanoes; and when they exchange looks in the street it sounds like steam and grinding glass; and when they touch, the enormous promontories of obsidian that have formed where the lava runs into the ocean all collapse at once; and then they are done, finally, with all that.


Aug. 31st, 2014 04:45 am
from the face of the earth
"the face of the earth"? imagine
a small child digging its clumsy fingers
into grandma's wrinkled cheeks


Or there's a room, full of clocks, and each clock is set one minute apart, until all the minutes of the day are accounted for. You can sit in this room whenever you want, and look around, and see it all at once. And you can ask yourself 'well? now are you satisfied?'


Q: What do you call a talented sadist?
A: A hurtuoso.


One day I will find someone who loves the stupid me.
"He was as well a lifelong bachelor, without wife or progeny; he was in fact almost a virgin. Almost. Excluded even from that company, yet he had never possessed anyone he had ever loved.
He felt now little anguish over all that. He had lived his whole life longing for unattainables, and such a life eventually achieves a balance, mad or sane."

And later:

"He had always imagined, without of course ever believing it, that he would know this moment. He imagined that it would come at their time, unphotographable twilight; and that years after he had surrendered it all, grown hopeless, bitter even, in that twilight one would come to him, stepping through the gloaming without sound and without causing the sleeping flowers to nod. A child, it would seem to be, discarnate flesh glowing as in an antique platinum print, whose silver hair would be as though on fire, lit by the sun which had just set or perhaps hadn't yet risen. He wouldn't speak to it, unable to, stone dead already it may be; but it would speak to him. It would say: "Yes, you knew us. Yes, you alone came close to the whole secret. Without you, none of the others could have come near us. Without your blindness, they couldn't have seen us; without your loneliness, they couldn't have loved each other [...] Without your disbelief, they couldn't have believed. I know it's hard for you to think the world could work in this strange way, but there it is."
"She only felt that she glowed with pain and love at once, as though she had eaten live coals for sustenance."
The difference between being unwanted and simply not wanted.
for fuck's sake.
I don't know how to start writing about what I need to be writing about, if I need to be writing about anything, right now.

For some time I have been trying to think about what it is I want for myself but for some time now I think what I want for myself is to stop.

It used to be that all I wanted was to be able to see it and be there and try and tell you what it was like, but then at some point I got mixed up on who the 'you' was and somehow that has been a blinding and a muting curse.

I am selfish and it is boring and I cannot get outside of myself any more, hardly ever, it is like being in a wind tunnel all the time.

I should have gotten over all of this a long time ago, but what was I supposed to get over it for, why am I supposed to get over it now?

Except to spare other people.
At first, the miners were pleased to discover such a rich vein of birds. Deep underground, lit only by their head-lamps, they broke them free -- whole flocks of wings, tumbling out of the dark, damp walls. The sound of frantic flight echoed down the shafts, along with the miners' laughter; even the foreman looked on with delight as they gathered them up, gently, so as not to scare them, and bore them up to the surface, there to release them or take them home to their wives or children, along with a story to tell.

It turned out, however, that that was only the beginning. The very next day, tilling her vegetable garden, a woman dug up a crop of doves; kneeling in the cool earth she unearthed them one by one, her fingers brushing crumbs of dirt off their warm and trembling bodies. A carpenter, boring a hole in freshly-bought lumber, found himself suddenly surrounded by the joyful singing of sparrows, who climbed out of the wood as though it had always been their nesting place. Children in the town square looked on in amazement as buckets, lowered into the well, emerged full of strangely-plumed parrots and cockateels, each batch more colourful than the last.

The townsfolk began to worry.
When you leave I want to leave. But I am only a climbing tree, and we are running out of branches.
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