| (no subject) |
[Aug. 29th, 2005|03:17 am] |
choirs of wannabe’s are shouting at duck tape bound volumes of napkins and match boxes, phone numbers and confessions, one thick red dot for the days I’m to start my flow, “quel livre, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!”
regardless, one million pretty girls write one million pretty things and most days I know I'm no different then any of them. Because well, I'm really just a sum of parts, or a very good actress depending on the day, and the whole world is a study of duality, and facial contortions, and how I'll end up just as my mother.
I do spend neat eons debating the emotional ramifications of the placement of ellipses and commas. and all of you know best, that I can’t spell, punctuate or express myself without over abundant disclaimers and run on nonsense. It is awfully tacky of me to wear my sick-sad- world agenda on my sleeve, worse still how I impose it fiercely on fellow grocery shoppers and once upon a time friends.
ah, moyo grustnoe schastie! I’m a wilted excuse of a girl, who, in a matter of days will be working at a clinical bookstore, not the musty smelling kind, but the very plastic scented variety, yes, certainly I will be, because I’ve not applied, interviewed or even set foot in the establishment yet but I pre-posses the universe, and am good with charm, starched peter pan collared shirts, preaching in demure tones the values of “team player environments” and “customer service basics”
regretfully, I don’t want this job at all. I never want things that are havable, getable, or approachable. Masochism is an eternal illness, from six when I stood on my tiptoes to press my finger against the burner on the stove knowing full well of its bubbling ache, to 21, or today as I type in $500,000 as expected yearly compensation in the box that asks me politely for this information on Monster.com.
I’m miserable, with four inches of very viable hair missing from my head, for no really good reason, and writing this while Seth has parted from me to sleep, on sour terms, that are my fault entirely. I know I’m mean as a swan, and I’ll only say, that I know I’m awfully lucky, and of course, I’m sorry, and I’m utter trash, completely and you are so good that I don’t ever really worry that you will throw me into our yard with a hefty bag full of my clothes and pictures, you save me even this dire worry, the worry I constantly inflict on you whenever my toe is stubbed or the house is hot or my head aches or I miss my mother or shout manically what nonsense it is to live where one can’t see the ocean at all, ever, or while in Florida, shout manically what nonsense it is to live where one can’t escape the ocean at all, ever.
Maybe I’m only feeling this depth of regret because you look very innocent sleeping, and I’m recalling the pine smell of your armpits and the way your kiss tastes like bagel chips when you come romping in from work.
I will rededicate myself to being a reasonable human being, finding employment, and adjusting to the sub tropic temperature you INSIST on keeping this house at.
synopsis:
I love you and should like to make up
you may pick a time that best fits into your schedule:
<input ... > before work.
<input ... > after work..
<input ... > I’ll skip work and we’ll make up all day.
CONTINUING ON :
-I’m itching for a trip to the library, and will be scratching with fervor tomorrow afternoon, tell me, my best lovelies, what to pick up.
-tell me also, to get a real job, as I’ve already gotten the hair cut.
-mother is being a goose again.
-invitations go out very soon.
-happy birthday sweet Kevin ( I called the number you left for me on my voicemail but got your voicemail in return- what ever happened to Miss Blackberry?)
-my cell phone is working again 817-676-1824 (love me.)
-I’m eating too much again, but I’ll fix that soon enough.
Je suis a` toi, c’est bientot l’aube,
-L |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 15th, 2005|12:05 am] |
Cousin (sweet),
I have been bad. Your absence has made me a filthy wreck of a girl and I have punished you for it in a hundred little ways that you'll never know about, unless you insist, some late August night when we are sweaty among our trees in the south garden and your hot breath is in my ear and I haven't the will power to withhold all the perverse details you’re itching for.
I can only say,
yes, I can only say,
that I scarcely ever wear proper undergarments anymore. I have perfected the production of a deep crimson blush on command, and call it into play as soon as my windy bendy swoony skirts balloon in the wind exposing, sweetly exposing, the rounded plump haunches that I pretend to want very hidden.
Peter Mulligan, a school boy two whole years ahead of me now knows the exact taste of my salty summer thighs and the scent of my dewy armpits when I haven't washed for several afternoons. And Willa, who you'll remember vividly from our celebratory birthday romp in the park (she still talks with violent tremors of your snake like fingers!) has been a dreadfully good partner in my mischievous undertakings. Two tongues are better then one! (or so we insist in heavy lidded appeals to our current prey.) We devour trouser snakes with such pretty accuracy, like two hungry mouths on buttered corn cobs…. (minus the crunch! don’t worry my love.)
My sheets don’t smell like your opal excretions anymore, and my pale blue sundress (the one with the flowers that you argued looked like pea pods) is laundered and holds no stains from our half an hour in Aunt Katcha’s linen closet. I spent the whole of late May and early June perfecting my swan dives, trimming my curls (which are far shorter then you’ve ever preferred; you’ll be furious but I don’t care), and of course petitioning the boys from Larimer Prep to see what I look like with grass stuck to my bare skin.
Fall term is starting soon and you’ll be returning home to your darling with her knees sewn shut at the joint. You’ll be forced to work yourself off under your desk to old yellowing letters I wrote you in the second year of our affair making you just as bad as all the pathetic boys you warned me against. I hope you’re rotten and cringing with guilt and jealousy. You ought know better then run off for the whole summer and leave such a crazy!
Yours, (despite it all, and much to my displeasure)
Cordula Du-frey |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 2nd, 2005|01:22 pm] |
Home again. Deer, antelope, all of it. I’ve never been so happy to see our messy linen closet, our stellar collection of empty beer bottles, various boxes of various books, overflowing garage, fat cats, worn sheets. We took a secretist route through Mississippi and soaked up the red dirt hills and Faulknerian landscape, the fruit stands, boiled peanut huts, Tay’s Barbeque, and our guessing games: “Is this thing a living organism?” “Is it bigger then a bread box?” “Is it in this car right now?”. 7,000 FM pop songs, various fits, motel 6, new tires, sucking the filling out of donuts and three legged Pixie on T.V., roaming hands, your Heineken tongue like a boiled strawberry on my neck, the backseat full of snack wrappers, stray French fries, one pretty mutt and her stuffed toys, woolen bed.
I slept and you carried us home.
Leaving was like ripping limbs, my wet cheeks in my mother’s hair, clutching her back whispering “I don’t want to leave, I can’t leave….” And driving away muffling my hiccupped sobs in the leather of the passenger seat, I concluded that I can’t be expected to live this way, with my heart halved like cantaloupe, one half in the salt water of the south, and the other half buried deep in the bible belt blue bonnet hillsides of the west. I am two girls now, a burnt brown beach hobo and a knee high wheat prairie mouse. A hybrid. A patchwork. A mishmash.
I can feel the curtain call of summer coming, and all the swan songs that precede it are tickling my vertebrae. I must find a small leather bound something or other to make my whimsy fall-time notations in, and a constant ink color to go with, a crimson or an amber.
(As I just voiced this out loud to Seth he asks with an amused smile if it can “just be a $2.00 flip notebook and a bic pen?”….. I tell him firmly: No.)
I have at least ten thank you notes to write and a package to compose for my mother and another for my Liz (Oh! Dearest! I need your address to send your Save The Date and invitation to, as our guest list is going to my mother in the next few days.).
Lastly an open letter to Miss Robin:
Lucy-Goosey,
I have received your letter and will be lettering you back soon, you will quickly learn I am a sloppy correspondent (ask my dear pet Liz!), but in my defense I have been traveling and planning for a ridiculously overblown wedding affair of mine that is fast approaching, NEVERTHELESS: I will reform myself and respond in a hasty fashion within the next days as soon as the mood strikes me.
Promises and pockets of tea,
Your Ethel.
As for the rest of you-
I love you little,
I love you big,
I love you like a little pig. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 12th, 2005|05:31 pm] |
packrat - 1:any of several bushy-tailed rodents of the genus Neotoma of western North America; hoards food and other objects-2:a collector of miscellaneous useless objects. [See also Lindsey Marie Whitacre]
[Footnote: said collector may also accumilate miscellaneous useless although charming animals as well as seen below. Occasionally they are of the stuffed variety.]
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 22nd, 2005|06:53 pm] |
Cabin fever has set in. I am pacing, talking to myself, counting again. I have reinstated my comfort systems, my timing, placing. Compulsive internal monologues, chants, petitions: “keep me safe, keep me safe, keep me safe” to no one in particular. My head needs to face north in the bed, no wound can heal past a certain point, no scrape, scab, abrasion, or else I pick it open manically. My creatures and stuffed critters have all come out of their boxes and greet me with angrier faces then I ever remember them having and so they must sit on the mantle a certain way, angriest to fairest of them all or else, something very ugly will happen.
These are the intricate systems we build as a child: ways of positioning stuffed animals on the bed so no ears or eyes are blocked, names for washcloths and “happy baths”, counting and avoiding cracks on the sidewalk so no backs break and no mothers die, bubble gum bubble gum in a dish-how many pieces do you wish, properly heading a paper in grade school-NAMEDATEPERIODINRIGHTHANDCORNER, crusts off the sandwiches, compulsive finger tracings of water drop rivulets on car windows, counting always counting the number of ceiling tiles, the number of teeth marks on the pencil, the number of seconds after a bolt of lightning until the thunder comes crashing in. We cannot rely on common logic to comfort us away from thoughts of feral storm clouds clawing us from bed and electrocuting us in swarms of black and blue. We do not know how close is too close, so we must count seconds after the lightning until the thunder. Hold our breath. Clench our fists. Point our toes.
I suppose there comes a specific point, like a dot on a line, in red, where we are to transition from magical thinking into factual thinking but I never did it. My world is ordered by peculiar things, tiny things, diminutive habits and techniques for living that kept me safe when I was forty pounds and four feet tall and ought to do just as good now that I am a bull in a china cabinet like Alice who took too many bites of the mushrooms too fast. Her tears flooded her environment and nearly drowned her in saline and mine will too unless I count them slowly and only let the ones whose names begin with the letter M escape. Molly, Marlene, Mia, Michelle.
My father took me and my systems too seriously from the start, indulged too much. On nights when I would claw his door frantically insisting that monsters were infesting my room he would move a few inches to the right and let me slide into bed beside him. The next morning he came home from the store with poster board and markers and fashioned a sign that read “Attention: NO MONSTERS ALLOWED IN LINDSEY MARIE’S ROOM.” He taped it to my door and handed me a Windex bottle with label ripped off and a make shift sticker attached: “Monster Repellent”. “Make sure you only use a few sprays of it” he advised somberly. I decided that three sprays was a perfect number since I always was fond of primes.
He told our story at parties, delighted in my effusive use of his system, presenting me braided and buttoned in my fur coat with patent leather demy heels. I narrowed my eyes at all the other greasy, hot dog eating brats of the party couples who had to be immediately corralled into an upstairs playroom with the home owner’s nanny. With hand upon my father’s last button on his double breasted suit I insisted on staying beside him.
Beside him I needed no magic, no numbers of consequence, no magical powers assigned to inanimate objects here and there. If only I acted rightly to please him then he would keep me near him always. And things wouldn’t be so big. I wouldn’t spend time wondering about why exactly I existed, a little crumb of a person, in such a big tall world. I learned very early how to please, and it brought me most things I desired.
At a restaurant in Chicago the maître d’ told my parent’s firmly that I was not allowed in the main dining room and they would have to eat somewhere else and come back another night without children. My father paid the man a handsome sum of money and I sat with ankles crossed, napkin on lap, oblivious to the stares my father says I incurred. After dinner the owner of the restaurant presented my father with a bottle of wine and informed him that he was welcome to bring his “little queen” back anytime she would like, and bent to my face to tell me “You certainly are a little lady.” This too became one of my dad’s favorite recitations at dinners and even guest speaking or lecturing appointments where he used it as an opening example for one of his parenting seminars. “We rarely give our children enough credit.” I was nine or so then and sat indifferent in the back of the room. It wasn’t until I was sixteen or seventeen that this tired routine of his began to bother me.
My mother was entirely different. Sit still. Calm down. Hush up. STOP it. Watch yourself. Don’t spill. Don’t touch your hair. No running. Where are your shoes? What have you done with your hair bows? Don’t touch that. Not so loud. I was an overflowing body of water that she needed to push borders upon. If too much of me spilled out from my edges she wouldn’t tolerate it. Her affection was a reward for when I was very good, very still. She chided my father: “You’ll make her an actress!” And while my father was more than fond of my habit of checking myself in mirrors, microwave doors, storefront windows, sunglasses, blacked out television screens, my mother despised it.
As an only child my task was simple, when alone with my mother I was to turn myself inside out, speaking in a soft voice, smiling without showing teeth, elbows off the table, no running. We napped, played with dolls, watched soaps and she spent most of our hours grooming me or teaching me things. She wished me to be a placid sea of a child. When alone with my father I was to amuse him, smiles, giggles, doting, mania, indulgences, we listened to Cherry Bomb by John Mellencamp while he drove 85 on the freeway in his brand new Cougar with the crushed velvet seats. He willed me to be a brilliant spinning little nymph.
Because they wanted two different little girls, because they had such rigid expectations, because I was their only child for 9 years, because they reacted so immediately and dramatically when I pleased them, my parents were stellar teachers in the art of attentiveness, in the art of pleasing. Pleasing them was my only goal for years; I would do anything, whatever it took to be exactly what they wanted. And I learned quickly how to know exactly what they wanted and when. Predicting, mapping, guessing, like a poised tigress ready to attack, I was always flexed, perked, alert. I soaked all things up like a sponge. And I performed, speaking my lines with precise emotion and accuracy. My parents knew me best of all and even they fell for all my lies.
In my playground years I often heard the children taunting “Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire!” and I thought (and often said) “DUMB!” How dumb really, I thought. Of course liar liar pants on fire. Of course, it is the only way, how do they think survival is possible without lies? Stupid little babies. In my later years while I was reading in the living room my father happened upon an episode of Rug-Rats where Angelica was screeching “DUMB BABIES!” He chortled before changing the channel and said casually, “You and her are two kindred spirits, kid.”
I was very liberal about lies. I didn’t think anything of them from a very young age. I rationalized that lying was the same as acting, and acting was an excepted and glorified profession. I was only four or five when I made this conclusion and from that point on lying never bothered me. I can remember presenting this theory to a therapist when I was fourteen or so and she reminded me that “but when you act, everyone knows you are lying.” I paused for a moment and retorted, “Not if you’re a good actress.”
“The point is, you aren’t tricking them, being an actress is not a dishonest profession, but being a liar is.”
I decided then that I would be an actress, not a liar. It isn’t my fault if people are too dumb to know I’m acting.
For anyone still thinking that way, still suckling the marrow and leaping poised from stage to stage, I have many a tale to tell you but I have to tell them later because this much confession is never good for a girl all at once and it ought come in waves. I also have scores of packing to do, as we leave in four days for a month in Florida and I couldn't be more ready to escape these walls and see my family and touch my dear brother's cheeks and smell the salty beach air that says "home." I'm not really even sure if anyone peeks here anymore, or if my sporatic lyricism has become too taxing for even the bravest souls. Shhh. I'm not fishing. I swear it. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 12th, 2005|03:25 am] |
Unfortunately, I don't think I ever mastered the art of air and sky. I'm a cheap imitation of hand sewn things, and everyone knows I'm made of bolts and wires. I'm heavy and when I laugh my teeth show and I still think red is a worthwhile color, not just rust but crimson, even when it's machine made.
But my hair is to my elbows now. and... I've adopted a Mennonite fondness for unchecked locks and have decided to only trim mine four times a year, when the seasons change. In Kansas I saw all the fresh faced girls with their braided pounds of hair tucked under quaint little charity veils and snoods. I am vain and strange, and never fit anywhere anyways.
I can't recall fearing very many things, except when my mother was very gone indeed and I kept imploring her to please not kill herself. I imagined in my head that she would be electrocuted in a chair and she was despondent even to my persistent touches and didn't watch my eyes when she peeled zucchini. I read that book I speak of so often about the life spans of moths with the very green willow tree on the front and when she sat stone faced watching Sleeping Beauty with me in her lap she told me she wished she could put me to sleep and wake me back up when everything was alright. I crept and slept beside her bed at night thinking she would disappear if I wasn't close enough and I fought violently when my father sent me off to school.
I wore a salmon pink buray and knee socks and all the 6th grade girls who were three years my superior called me "Frenchy" and even then, at nine, I wanted a heavy body to lay on top of me and burry me in a mattress so I disappeared, and while other girls set their ambitious little sights on the 7th grade boys I had my eyes on the bus driver, the janitor, my P.E. teacher Mr. Fields who watched me sing about Cinderella and the yellow snake while I jumped rope. He still teaches at the same school where my mother teaches now, and I saw him when I was 18, at a Christmas party and he recognized me even with my face all buried under histrionic eyeliner and I ate rolled up ham and olives and wouldn't look at him very much and politely answered questions about my "career goals" and I left the conversation before it was proper or polite really.
I was never afraid of bee stings, asthma attacks, snakes, strangers, big dogs, fast cars, tall slides, diving boards. I was never modest, I didn't see the need for doors or underwear and would strip and change in front of whoever happened to be around. I thought I was the only sane girl in the world surrounded by fickle creeps until I met Jamie Anne who told me she watched The Shining at age eight and wasn't a bit phased. She cut her long waist length hair to her chin without one regret and snuck out of windows to go lay in Kevin Biggs driveway and prayed to pretend rock gods with me and could always fix whatever was wrong because she had been taking care of herself forever and ever too. I remember how scared I was when we all filed into her bedroom the night Rob broke her heart and she was small and shaking and her eyes were swollen and she paced and wouldn't touch the candy we had brought her.
We all live one hundred even lives inside of one. Just like I miss the Jamie I will never see again, my mother misses her little skin-kneed mouse haired five year old. I wonder if once upon a time me and once upon a time Jamie live in the same place now, with my glassy eyed mother, and Seth with Lovey and Red Farmer in his clutching hands, and Meredith singing Castle on a Cloud and Ally kissing her stuffed animals and pictures of Jared Moyles goodnight, Tammy with braces, Rebecca and her Puff the dragon, Chris Workman in wrangles, My dad who never lied, Oliver the snow white Persian cat from our house on Hilliard Court, Derek with his handsome smile. We are silk flowers long dead collecting dust. All of us just phoenix’s rising from ash over and over again. Continental drift, histories, theories, old haunts, phantoms: we are all just a collection of WAS...of ONCE.
and Oh, remember Parker Brothers? Suga Suga by Baby Bash, "FUCK YOU" in white spray snow on apartment windows, commission, my blue black hair and the feel of Derek's couch beneath me, being in such an altered state that I couldn't picture the house I was in, or the faces of the people who looked only pink all around me, I flashed a car full of guys, threw up in every parking lot in downtown Melbourne, fell asleep with cum in my hair, lost my iPOD, found it again, wore the same Aeropostle sweatshirt for weeks in a row. Read The Female Eunuch for the first time and impressed the only intelligent boy within 100 miles with my feminist politics only to watch him kiss Meredith the very same night and hear her promise that she didn't kiss him since he was after all, just a homeless dude.
I'm disgusting. That wasn't even 18 months ago.
there are never pretty endings to things like this. This is a cheap makeshift confessional, but, at least I've always been good at being on my knees. |
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| new poem |
[May. 19th, 2005|09:08 am] |
La loba
Dad: a weighted word in 1949, meant
more before your mistakes. Before the Spindrift, Mayflower,
and Skylark, or hide and go seek thighs that atrophy under
horny hemlines . Your title lost all boom.
Our mad dash revisionist wears
camel bags on her cheeks, marking you
out with red strokes. As a girl her lovers
practiced transubstantiation on her tongue,
spilled opaline in her aprons while choir hummed,
pontiff intoned. Forty years later only
her teeth and hair still grow while
I am alive, and you’re paying me
with sugar for the right to watch. I will not
give your name a coquettish finality.
For just as Belgium wheat has
heady potential, a woman is not born so,
but becomes. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 18th, 2005|10:26 pm] |
I've missed this kind of pulsing. I walk slower now. I could never be a waitress. I still am horrified of the dark. I discovered Tai food. I am having ethical crises daily. I met a girl with almond eyes and piano fingers. I can finish most books in a day now (if I don't they end up cloaked in dust like heritage lace). I am slovenly, almost unsanitary. I lose my keys. I tried to knit tail warmers for the cats. I have successfully slain every masochistic urge I once inherited, and now cry at mosquito bites and passing sighs. Texas highways are as big as I can bare.
I don't know who comes peeking round here anymore. I have hid my heart in my apron for almost two full seasons (the waining of summer into fall, and fall to spring). I don't even dress the same. I have been digging up old phone numbers, rummaging through envelopes, telling my father I do, infact, love him. I forgive the entire girl-race. Humanism is boring. Highways hypnotize you. Jazz music is as bodily and sensual as everyone always pretends it is. I have a drink of choice and a man who knows it by heart. He smells my armpits, indulges me, makes me lay in the beds I make.
I grew out of all my concepts and histories. I spend and demand too much money. I treat expensive things like cracker jack rings. I have a sense of divine urgency. It's too late for metaphor. I need gas masks, fingers that know how to clutch, store rooms of food, paper, ink, seed, quick whiskey for quick sleep. You don't believe me.
Max your credit cards, clog your veins, watch junk T.V., screw around, bankrupt yourself morally, eat the imported olives your saving, use your stored up hotel shampoos, tell your daddy stories, forgive your sisters.
Really. Stick a fork in it all.
The sky is falling.
Truly Yours-
The Chicken Little Laureate of Texas:
-L.
And your prescriptions for temporary survival:
-Visual: Closer, Maria Full of Grace,
-Audio: Have you forgotten~Red House Painters, Ohio~Damien Jurado, Blowers Daughter~Damien Rice, Both Sides Now~Joni Mitchell,
Recently:
-I've written ( this )
-------------------------------------------------
read this sobering chronicle, and been here (amazing), here, and here.
Also:
We adopted her. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 19th, 2005|02:43 pm] |
Four hours in southern Mississippi and I am a full convert: a red dirt girl, a steel roof wannabe, a calvary sympathizer. We found a fawn spinal column laid to rest under the welcome sign, and charcoal black tree trunks all burning down, and oh! the winter wheat like bursting capillaries of color- rearing hopeful heads upward stretching out toward the cold january sun with all their might. And every third or fourth mile, a grain silo, and a dozen piebald mares gathering round as if it were a maypole.
Everything in the deep parts of the south is rusted red and brown....cars left forgotten like glorified prom dresses, sticky biscuit fingers flipping pages of outdated magazines and even the skinny stray puppies have teardrop eyes and a hospitable gleam to offer. Each porch adorned with carefully crafted wind-chimes and wooden crosses painted with care: "January 1996, We miss you." A sprig of periwinkle here and there, a token from someones dowry laid to rest beside the railroad tracks like oil spilled over the forehead.
All over the signs for fruit stands fill the air with reds and marigold yellow like victory day balloons: Fresh peaches and tomato chow-chow, grandpa t-shirts: two for five dollars, and in the pasture is a broken down school bus with vines pushing inside, raping the windows and bursting upward from under the hood like a wonderland secret. I wonder where the children are, and if they hid derelict pages of arithmetic books in between the seats for me to find. I wonder if they knew I would come.
a mailbox with the door rusted halfway open,
fried chicken stands-
old fashioned gas pumps
and the air that smells like iron and mud, like flayed skunk parts and uprooted crop, standing water, clutching seeds, and feral cats out behind the "Jeans and Things" truck stop. The cashier girl wants to know who I am. Why I'm here. Where I'm from. And my belly aches with guilt for stealing bobbles and moments of her homeland in my apron. I bet she knows I'm dangerous. I bet she knows I'm the worst kind. I bet she knows I'll poeticize her barefeet and run down trailer with the recliner in the front yard and her sleepy town and her momma who probably worked her hands until they were calloused and her hungry eyes behind that check out counter that are too bitter to come right out and tell me to leave.
Maybe she's just dumb and curious.
or maybe I am.
On my way out I'm stuffing the blood red soil in a pill box to carry home, squatting like a birthing wolf on the side of the road with the semi trucks roaring by and honking loud asking for a blow job, or maybe just a flash of my breasts. My fingers are stained like I just downed a bag of cheetos says Seth and I'm smiling as we head to Lousiana and behind me is my whole life collected in banana boxes and sandwiched between our clothes and the guitar case.
His hand in my ponytail and one eye squinted shut in true Seth form.
He's singing Damien Jurado.
Who wouldn't want to be me?
( visual aid worth 25 points ) |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 30th, 2004|12:24 pm] |
I am living with my fiance in texas.
new cell #=8176761824 |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 7th, 2004|11:26 pm] |
I'm still gone.
this is just a place of memory,
recently I've discovered that many people who I had no idea about read this journal, I never knew I had such an audience...so I'll keep it around, just for the old entries. and........if you want to know where I've gone, email me @ annexed@hotmail.com.
-Lindsey. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 23rd, 2004|02:45 pm] |
new email address:
annexed@hotmail.com |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 23rd, 2004|03:17 am] |
i've decided to keep this space. And exist here once again. And never leave this corner dark. little lights are staying on and I'm still producing.
love and produce.
love and produce.
love and produce.
again
-lindsey
and yes, the fall is coming quick. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 19th, 2004|06:19 pm] |
this morning I woke up and found a white box on my dining room table,.
when I opened it I found this note:
"Where there's a will there's a way, I tracked down Season 4, all 12 episodes, Enjoy Baby-Love Matty"
and, underneath the beige paper, were two video tapes with the three most beautiful words I had ever seen:
"Six Feet Under"
so-Matt-you are officially the best cousin on earth, I love you so much. No one has ever done something so big, so important and so kind for me. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 18th, 2004|06:48 pm] |
Oh, Esther,
Death demands me.
ether and stone, this black headed,
black hooded brute-
inducing with tongues,
the later half,
of an earlier promise.
I made newborn creeds from root sap,
chalking it all up, always late for supper, drinking drain bound hydrogen
with veins as clear as roadmaps in the fashionable shape of two forked arrows.
This is simple. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 16th, 2004|05:50 pm] |
i took a walk, i drank the heat, swam naked, vacuumed floor boards, mixed new lemonade, read of Dali and the grasshopper phobias (again, again, again). mailed my letters, (be on the look out Ms. petme my Georgia girl) picked from the yellow flowering plant, hibiscus here and there. it isn't late enough in the season for my cinnamon candles but I keep dipping my lips and nose to the little glass houses they sit patiently in. I can feel fall already.
found a baby storehouse of St. Augastine photos of me and Lauren on the beach, in the sunrise surf, our tiny latent bodies all periods and question marks and caught laughter, caught glances, matching baseball caps and browning skin. i was not so milky then. i showed my roman heritage. and had my mothers glow. My lauren and I look like two ships criss crossing and fumbling on sugar glazed landscapes. sister. friend. club houses, under peach stairways. "informer". we used to kiss like Capulet twins, praying with lips. our eyes always open and our noses curious for the smell of blushing lust. those were cake face days.
my hair is getting long enough to fish braid again. in a wreath just the way I used to wear it when we climbed up Cadilac Mountain in Maine, and that cold water halted my girlhood, at Smallsfalls, in Madrid.
musicology:
Chariots Rise-Lizzie West
Eva Cassidy, Eva Cassidy, Eva Cassidy,
In the Waiting line-Zero 7
And one old pre-fall favorite from the dove days:
Both Hands-Ani Difranco |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 15th, 2004|08:25 pm] |
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After having watched the directors commentary for "The House of Sand and Fog", I am addressing five or six letters, taking an oatmeal bath, washing my sheets, and spending an evening indoors. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 12th, 2004|04:02 pm] |
big black nebularform words,
Storm cloud- no more of this
Daffodil yellow.
Prime numbers, fresh haunts, tongue quick, tongue silver, tongue oil.
Spunk on your quaint cloppity shoe, one eyeball for you,
a gum ball suprise in a sphere. Twenty five little cents. oh, and I have little sense.
I'm crashing like Fascist made rhythms of
Bolts and Berries all nuts and makeshift household revolutions, of the magpie medusa-
languid and sprouting all spouting like red was taught to do.
I'll talk to you, i'll talk to you,
on tree tall phone lines, and hold your salty photograph,
Folded in four.
I am your bore, your penny cheap whore, clutching like you taught
all opal, all bone, all refinement like hummingbird body parts,
Hollow.
Oedipal darling, Ophelia Lung,
these are the Electra complexities of mason jar Georgia,
nectar and preservation up in the blackest hole. Little kitchen corner-
Belsen baby across the ocean, plucked out liver of communist lore,
Anne is strewn across the floor. and now her monobathed face is my prime digit
folded all the same as just before, folded all in four.
Produce!
from Auschwitz ash and swan songs left in chilly funk bunks,
Oh I need a babied blue in the eyeball of you, albatross nose,
my horizontal mandible man,
split your spine with myopic plagues of cradle cough,
You're all face down and I'm on top.
one boot for the exposé of meat I see,
dropping off the earth, a humming conundrum of sleep.
and back to the kitchen once more
Where mother came from and mother before,
linoleum and smooth.
This sacrificial sunday on the floor. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 11th, 2004|08:56 pm] |
the ending of you was simple
clean, and contrasted as they carried you out in red
hydra head sheathed and legs a haunted mass
of weightless flesh.
I ought not tell you of the dixie canines,
wounded this and that,
underneath the wraparound porches
in summertime.
they are all scratching with barely limbs on barely soil,
ceding sepia notations of cardinal order.
gossamer braids,
sick bellies.
polluted like your cranium, all peripheral haunts,
adjacent coincidences.
"the truth comes to me, the truth loves me."
three saplings, cheese cloth, galloping witch baby.
you all survived, I know you all survived on cold fish caught,
frantic little mark ups, rations, mouth stuffed squirrel full of mercury,
on Oh, knees tucked, a weeping wail, such water drops,
parched oceans, parched ninth year,
my viking girl, aquatic sister,
You wrote the bible of hydration.
we are under the tree
one overly occupied pine box for both our forms,
facing each other like lovers, in fruit position.
The Bowing Lamb, they placed us so.
this is the white, the light you spoke of, i hear the echo of it now,
the artistic blue prints of decent.
four lips sterile, our powder pallor up and down, beetle zygote in your nostril,
this is sleeping now, at it's very finest. our eternal rest.
this is sleeping now, at it's very finest. our eternal rest. |
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exquisitepulse's journal