||[10 Oct 2008|10:25am]
editing old poetry is really stressful. One word changes everything. one line break makes all the difference. I hope I am making the right choices.
That Which is Nameless
In sleep last night,
holding you close,
hoping you’d bite inside
me at these fruits I myself
have grown. I spent years
in darkness ripening
sweet food for us to live on.
Kristel said once that you and I-
were locked . Our lips
looked beautiful barely touching,
we created love’s new
In sleep last night
I felt the horses running
again. I saw them, their magenta
colors -creatures from Oz. They carry
something on their backs. Something
I have no name for. Something
I know better than myself
or you. Something we never
reconcile. It is quick and forceful,
it rides on the backs of horses.
They cannot be forgotten.
Awake, I look at you
I feel I am falling.
I desperately try to
play manipulate the correct movements,
but I am the eyes of the horses,
numb and accepting. I have let skirts
twirl themselves around me, I have
known the happiness of being found.
In the dark, drawing circles,
|I was wondering
||[29 Sep 2008|11:56am]
You all gave me really great feedback on the last two poems I posted here. I was wondering how everyone would feel about providing feedback on any work we are producing between our "Assignments" for the blog.
|first draft - flight and blood
||[01 Sep 2008|11:10pm]
Seeing the edge of the scarf around my neck flutter in the wind made me feel chest-full and light in the face. I was on Keap Street, walking home from the park. The sun had set. The sky was pink and puffed up. I knew the apartment would be empty. John and Lavinia would be out with friends somewhere. Drinking beer. Talking. So I strolled. I had eaten a seitan steak sandwich at the park. I had sat and looked at the Manhattan skyline. I had watched a mostly quiet group of scattered people stare at the water between us and the city. And I had laid down in the grass to look up at nothing but clouds. At no point in this story will there be dialogue because I didn't talk to anyone and no one talked to me. The word empty kept coming up inside me. I felt it. And I told myself that's what I was. I am empty. I am empty. Days before, I had finished reading Haruki Murakami's novel Kafka on the Shore. I thought of Nakata and I thought of being empty and I thought of telling people, "I'm not very bright." That was last week.
The scarf around my neck was silk and cornflower blue and rusty brown. I found it in the East Village Thrift Shop shortly after moving to New York. At the time, I had funds to afford weekend brunches, midweek late night drinking, and days of movies. Now three dollars, the cost of the scarf, seems specifically costing. Not even enough for a round trip on the subway.
Right now, well, earlier this morning, I decided to try to put something in my head. I resisted Fitzgerald. I resisted Michel Gondry. And I miraculously resisted the internet. I needed something firm. A reference. A text of facts. Of answers. Of material grounded in reality. Too much fiction in my head, too much fiction in my experiential appetite. I picked up a book titled The Film Answers Back, a history of cinema published in 1939. I had dipped into it months ago with no real intentions except that the only thing I seemed to have any interest in was moving pictures and The Strand bookshop. Inside the front cover was how much I had paid - $15. Wow, almost a week's worth of groceries from Trader Joe's.
Charlie Chaplin's crucial role in the cinema's historical landscape - that's where I had left off. And soon I was reading about Das Cabinet des Dr. Caligari. When I was eighteen, I saw stills from Caligari at the HRC in Austin. I was there with my then boyfriend Carl. I don't remember the rest of the exhibit. I don't remember if I was very happy then either. I just remember feeling excited over the macabre images. I wanted to look like Cesare. Or maybe I wanted to kiss him. Of course I didn't know the character's name then or the actor who played him. I still don't know and I just read it moments ago.
Here's something I do remember but not to a chronological degree - in the park, or was it at home after the park, I started to work on this story. This one. The one you are reading. My friend Finn had posted an entry on wordpaper, a shared blog with four members. She, Katie, Natalie and I. [History of blog] The entry said to write something about flight and blood. And try to have a first draft by the first. Of September. Labor Day. Today.
In my cinema reading, I came upon the line, "the supreme expression of headlong flight from a world become too horrible to contemplate," referring to the paramount description of Caligari...
(tired. going to sleep.) (i don't know where this is going.)
||[07 Jun 2008|06:06pm]
it's beginning to fade from me like a song you can't play in your head anymore like your voice muffled somewhere far away and you don't even remember the tone of fireworks shooting up to the sky or sitting next to me in a hotel room bathtub shivering putting some music over my ears to keep my heart from exploding against my chest and i hold you in a soft gaze because i know the posture of your teeth from another's mouth
||[18 May 2008|05:12pm]
i honestly feel pretty confused about what i should do with this poem. you guys gave me so much to think about with good feedback.
i could change the line to "in the back of the room" but does that have too many the's? or it could be "in the back of a room"
another option could be to separate the poem into two stanzas and space it differently like:
you're in here with me, somewhere
trailing vibrations around my head
and the sober air crying up motions
when there are drunk lights
locked out but willing to wait
not like me and you
in here constant resonance
constant wailing constant heart
teasing close away close behind right left
i think of you undressing
your small black wings
in the back of a room
out of reach
but i don't really like that :/