ugly beautiful city

losing yourself is sort of difficult when a city knows you by name. often times, when i feel the need to disappear on some afternoon, i bring myself to a place where nobody ever seems to know (much less see) me. despite endless patrols of custodial workers, it's perpetually filthy and dim. a sort of invisible indoor pollution seems to fill the spaces between moving bodies. i never catch eyes, or faces really. just hoops, studs, chains, cheap tattoos of stars and roses. just wigs, weaves, cornrows, caps. just gold teeth, missing teeth, sharp teeth. just sweatpants, jeans, sometimes suits (with cases and always hurrying, naturally). boys whistle and drawl come-ons, loudly, to no female in particular. girls shout at each other, or back at whichever boys, through stands and down staircases and into stores. the bums rest, the elderly shuffle and all over the place, there are babies. babies in bellies and in strollers and in the skinny arms of young mothers who can barely hold them up. at once there is always a medley of cash register chimes and cellphone clamor and rolling wheels and clicking heels and muddy versions of english or other languages altogether. then some soft rock ballad, out of place and stubbornly droning on over all of it. there are stands of flowers. limp and vivid bouquets that nobody ever seems to buy. there are greasy food stands, too, where teenage boys pay with hundred dollar bills, evidently proud of what they did to obtain them. i lose myself here among the worn and the browbeaten and the unashamed. but i'm not one of them, no matter how dejected i feel. down below there are trains to move me away from the colorful, sad mosaic tiles and fluorescent lights and the scent of dirty mops. standing on the platform at the end of these days, it always occurs to me how goddamn lucky i am.

the sky is truly incredible in autumn out over the buildings, the trees, our ugly beautiful city.

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all the crazy shit i did tonight, those will be the best memories

to have no more than is necessary. the only luxuries - warmth in the winter and inspirations all around me. the occasional bottle of wine. to be foolish and make reckless great mistakes through idealism and a thirst. a threat to comfort, boundaries, kings, beggars, puppeteters. i'll steal your soul for a taste.

to keep writing like we're coming closer. to create ideas infinitely, worlds breaking off the points of fingertips, gnobbly knees, dirty worn feet, failing eyes, my crooked nose, out of my ears, for these throbbing shimmering worlds to be full of me, and i up to the brimm of them. to that endless sense of wonder, of re-examination of everthing around us. hands like restless hopes.
to this; to you, to how far we've come.

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http://www.formspring.me/littlekirrily

dear rhiana,
stop talking about me already. this is all i will say on the matter.
from kirrily

keep my lips sealed tight when the kiss come

so much is static, but at least i'm not trying to make anything seem like anything. i'm softer and meaner and smaller and more sober than before, maybe that's it. or consistency is reserved for consistent people and i should not demand things that i wouldn't know what to do with.

you feel eternity in the most obscure places

if i could tell you where i was now, i'd tell you i'm broken in floating light and sometimes i just don't know how to keep feeling it. i have the overwhelming desire to be with wonderful, warm people.

i have the soul of someone too young and too old or too full of infinity.

note to self: never update blog when wasted.

bullshit is usually the cause of bullshit and i wont listen

there is a madness that dwells at my centre, where the incessant drumming of my pulse echoes. here, words collide and crumble, contradict and collapse upon each other. i cannot settle for ordinary or handle ordinary because somewhere there are explorers sleeping on the floors of deserts and jazz musicians playing ’til sunrise. there are madmen jumping out of aeroplanes and vagabonds falling asleep nestled in public parks. i’m convinced that there is a place in this here and now, this year and century, this wide fucking world for visionaries who have cocktail teaparties on balconies. for scholars and raconteurs who make each other dizzy with debate and live atop ever-growing piles of literature. for poets who seclude themselves for countless hours at a time to mull over a single sentence. for gypsies and warriors who sleep only when their bodies collapse in exhaustion, but never defeat. for bleary-eyed romantics who indulge in behaviors that cut ten years off their lifespans and add ten paragraphs to their life stories. i’m convinced that existance is more than a waiting room packed with tabloid magazines that clutter the mind, colorless, easy to swallow, f.m radio, sex in the missionary position types of people. when i tune out all the world’s clutter and filler and smalltalk, i hear the faint echo of fireworks. every day is spent trying to find their source. and someone to share it with.

i put too much stock in sincerity, i think

my stomach does somersaults for about the millionth time. i want to write in this way. i mean, i want my soul to resound through every single sentence. a soul, to me, has always been bound to frilly religious nonsense about angels and devils and afterlives. but whitman's made me disagree ("dismiss what insults your own soul", so forth) and lately i've had these moments, these pinpricks against a part of me that i often forget about. sometimes it stirs to life on a hot afternoon in the shade, when i'm sitting indian style in the grass with shoes flung aside. i get a giddy swell from park life rustling and chattering, from the sight of autumn leaves and rows of park benches. each an island unto itself, with endless combinations and varieties of inhabitants. i've got a soul in here, no doubt. it needs to be beckoned and drawn out, is all.

i keep wondering if anything truly sinks in. if i could view my days as a time-lapse movie, i don't think i'd want all this. enough of this mulling over what i'm full of, capable of, meant for. this life is more than transitions. things are incredible. i'll be damned if i'm going to curse this year away. i'm learning and growing. in travel the skin of my fingertips shall become as the sea and i'll love harder than i can breathe. this year, i will.

i am heaven sent

when i stand before god at the end of my life, i would hope that i would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say, "i used everything you gave me."

i miss and long for the road. i miss the transference of ideas, thoughts, motions - the pressure to feel courage constantly. the idea of progression through physical movement. but for now these are my tests and they froth, spit and burn out to the everyday weight of discovery. can we become more than this? does anyone long for it anymore? all the routines shall become corpses in the way of our lust for enlightenment, movement, a revitalised sense of being. less philosophy on stupidity.

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drink you all up

when the music is cut and the aftersound roars, animals calling, scurrying. that immortal feeling as everything seems to be floating before you, like you're breaking out, cutting off a rotting vein, clear unbroken silence. filled with wine like a city of skeletons dancing softly through my skin, feel them lurching, calling out down my legs, the beat, wardrum, soul dark sky. the wholly magnificence of strolling through the dark night, reverberating strums of guitars plunged into ears, i'm drunk, drunk on the sound under my feet on memories, touches of skin.

we can be anything, hands grasped, intoxicate overdose on hope. simple great joys.

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