scrawls.

scrawls

still cheaper than therapy*

25.3.10

Coffee, good coffee, like new silk stirred into cream. A golden silhouette of an eclipsing cloud. The sweet velvet smell of sun on my lips after winter, my eyes closed, in the patience of a long streetcar ride north - i hear people get on, get off, and they are not of the world. These words in a whisper. So long, it's been so long, i am so hungry and so accustomed. My skin is electric, incandescent. Instead of crying out, i swallow and let go.

Labels: writing

scrawled @ 08:51

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21.3.10

Vienna waits for you like Ungoliant, like It, and i say that with all possible affection towards Tim Curry. The spring flowers are showing, the little white asteraceae, the pink, the yellow. Those small dark purple violets that aren't violets, not proper violets, not quite, lying dormant through the long winter, a sleeping dragon, a hibernating bear, biding until their moment comes in the sun. Green hiding between the trees, the disingenuousness of the ubiquitous gray Easter salix.

The flowers! E has to stop and pick them, and keeps them safe in her pockets - she has discovered pockets, and will forget that her keys, her phone, her lizard, her police car, in this coat pocket or that pants pocket. Flowers, sticks, pinecones, such joy. Mommy, she says, come an look at da bugs. So open, so clear, so easy. She has been waiting for the freedom of spring, the waterproof pants and the rainboots, running and climbing and poking and shouting and action, action. I marvel.

Labels: writing

scrawled @ 15:42

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19.3.10

what do i need, and what do i believe, and what do i know, and why? if i change this, touch this, know this, see this, feel this. Cold in my house. cold in my bed. am so tired, so morally exhausted. cold in the sun by the window, cold in the bath. if all i am is cold, disconnected, this is no panic attack. I breathe, i do not fear death, i have no physical pain. Some things are better than others, there is cold and there is cold, and there is cold.

i am a leaf on the wind but the wind is keening, it roars in my head, a torrent, a requiem.

Labels: separation

scrawled @ 21:22

2 Comments

18.3.10

the ground, there, underneath, an illusion, an allusion. I fell, I fall. Two roads in a yellow. It stops. I want to chuck it into the sea and let some lucky diver.

A thousand things, a hundred thousand, tiny things, big things. I should sleep, i should sleep, what an idea. If i paint my fingernails black, red, purple, still too near. I notice.

Labels: separation

scrawled @ 22:51

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17.3.10

scale, and cheese sandwiches

marigold blossom tea, no cakes. A coaster i'll have to replace, cork, on the table i painted by hand, a coat of poly, and another and another and another. The wind blows, the ground crumbles, a city turns to dust.

I am terrified of stars exploding. Not ours, particularly, or at all, as i won't see it; but the bigness of them, the power, the cataclysm. Those color photographs NASA publishes to make it seem normal and tame, like a Beanie Baby tiger, ludicrous. It isn't a rational thing and it doesn't have to be - a black hole, right, even a supermassive black hole, the singularity isn't very big, at all, compared to its mass; but a nebula. A galaxy. the Great Wall, and the others - big. The scale of it: thousands of degrees, billions of years. Those perfect barred spirals in the Hubble deep field.

There is so much i don't know, so much i do, and the weight, the staggering weight of each of them, so cold, so soft, an anesthetic fog.

Labels: separation, writing

scrawled @ 14:15

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16.3.10

The sun shone today: i saw it, there on the far side, away from the rain. I saw it. and then it was gone, again.

scrawled @ 21:30

1 Comments

12.3.10

a positive note

have just finished tropic thunder. Am filled with unexpected glee.

scrawled @ 23:47

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4.3.10

i write half of something, it dwindles, ... if i follow a thought to the end, i don't want to. i see where they go, like cars on a distant highway. i let them go, on into the darkness ... i look at my fingers, at my hands, they are shaking, my fingers are shaking. i worry that this will sound like i'm depressed, i'm not, i don't think i am, and i think that counts for a lot.

I write half of something, i have no follow-through, i drift. i only have beginnings, not even a middle, no center, i shrink to nothing. no momentum, just the erosive wind, down the mountain, from the sea, off the desert.

Labels: writing

scrawled @ 15:10

3 Comments