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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slowly falling apart.

at the brimming age of twenty one years with my hopeful outlook, the effect of my (sometimes bastard) father would be seen as quite ridiculous. but it remains. i can't even produce a word worth remembering since his image wrecked out before me. my paranoia is inflamed, my joints are acidic and heavy like i'm carrying snarling bombs about to be dropped on something extraordinary somewheresomehow.. and that the extraodinary has not yet revealed itself and will be destroyed before i ever have a chance to witness it and everything i held sacred has been fucked on by my mind.
so long, clarity!


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just another number, sweetheart

its continually a great surprise to me that i am not invincible to time.

i'm a little afraid i could be frozen in this moment forever. this moment isn't bad, exactly. the window is open and the air is on my face. but the life is not roaring and tearing at me, and that is worrying indeed. something drastic and perhaps stupid must happen or be performed. drastically stupid.

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you have your ideology and i have mine

but its so strange now, even though i know that it is undoubtedly good and sane to leave, to not have that same intimacy anymore, that which breathes fire and gurgles in the face of despairs and joys alike.

a curse. i can't have one thing without wanting the opposite.

stop smiling, you're stealing my heart

i am foolish in my present state. laughing till my stomach hurts, dreaming every night, trying to thaw the mind.

i can't express how excited i am for this year, this month, this week, tomorrow.

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hurry is a sickness of ours

after days...maybe, i am beginning to be good to myself. no more cutting the heads off of hope! we need all we can get. beach days, laying and watching the birds fly out into the falling sun, shivering with frozen slurpees, planning...always planning the future move, new ways of laughing at despair. idleness, a kind of silver betrayal that will be fruitful in time. maps of ideas and thoughts and ways to itch and scratch away at something greater. america, morocco, sevilla...lands of the flamenco.

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i've seen the sunrise with new eyes

"i arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. this makes it hard to plan the day."


i don't want to spare another breath that isn't directed, meaningfully. i don't want to have a wasted life. i never want to be cynical or jaded. i have the chance to be incredible, to do and see tremendous things, to meet the greatest people on earth and be with those already great that are around me. god is wherever you want it to be. and its inside me and has became me or i have became it. it doesn't matter.. this chance is not infinite, it will fade away with time.

pikey-porn

the nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything splendid or wonderful or exciting happens, but those that bring simple little pleasures, following one another like pearls slipping off a string.

thankyou

"you live life like a feather, randomly wondering along the breeze with no perception of where you are heading and because of that i love you"

i will be there to hold your hair back

it was past midnight. you can't sense the night here, only feel it upon the outlines of their faces, their sunken eyes, their footsteps dancing or turning into the ground they tread. but some make me grin and i have only time for those that make me grin, now. the city wails and swishes around me. i am drunken and i am strong.

the lights shimmer and shudder into me. all i want is a quiet place to read, a place to hold hands - to laugh with friends and a rooftop to see the sunset. dreams can only pollute. i keep my eyes fixed, hush out all thoughts. the heart is strongest above all things. i want the best for the ones i love.

you are alive, little miss, you are alive and your leg is caught in the window. what can you be? what can you be inside naked skin, beyond the guts, tangled with thoughts and desires and hopes? you can be anything, but your foot is stuck; drunken defeat, awash with the world. break out, reinvent, rediscover. please?

the life, suddenly, without warning, is whole again. loneliness, despair, the fight with the ego, movement, colours... all will lose its charm. i promise. what will settle in its place? i will wait to define it, but it is good and true.. it's all i know.


*put all excuses aside and remember this: YOU are capable

in the sky

nobody breaks my heart - effy stonem

you can take anything if you want it enough.


now you know.

free stereosonic tickets

thank you stranger at work. it's not important that this day resulted in losing my voice :)

katias 21st

3D. TRAMP. REVS.

you know we're trashed when we're no longer wearing heels and my hairs in a ponytail - we may not look like a million dollars but we sure as hell feel like it.



i don't know how it is i do it, but i love the fact that i always manage to end up with a glowstick. wew

frequently ignored

there are times when instinct drowns all which surrounds, like the snake which insists to swallow everything in sight. everything; trees, houses, elephants, people... desires, often, do not just arise, there is a provocation, an alarm, a bomb of lust.

my skin, as of late, whenever touched, explodes with tingling meteor showers. don't tell anyone.

a scent... beside me, the path dances with wild strawberries. wild strawberries. and in this moment, it's all that i could ever need.

this year, is MY year.



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wake up in the morning feeling like p diddy

at last, i feel capable of magical things, that my imagination can take me anywhere; that this, this is the life - one lived through which logic does not exist, to defy fear and pain, the risk to do stupid things without words to explain.

memory is a horrible thing.. may i never forget how it feels to be so full.



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masters and slaves to experience

i gaze deep down the throat of boredom and wonder if it's not what i have been scared to death of these past years. moving, but to what? i am verbose in my creation only to cover up what gurgles and burps beneath. the bored little girl in turn floods me with it. i am scattered easily.

but lately, things have began to strengthen. true, the blues gut me everytime but this time i become fascinated by my insides, by my reactions to small things that sting, killer bees of sadness. like him, i consume myself but only as far as to catch myself before there is nothing left to eat. the hole deepens everytime, my teeth sharper, an expert at self destruction. to destroy anything else would be far more challanging. you quit before it even begins, easier that way.

i have a challange for you: speak to three strangers tonight and find out something special about their lives


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what do blind people dream about?

it's excruciatingly annoying that i cannot figure this out.

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i call bullshit, BABE

this time of night either drowns me or sets me on fire. a new year - a strange; terrifying, joyful, exuberant and reconfirming experience..

perhaps some things inside me were killed for good. from the first stroke i have been delirious and intoxicated with expression. tonight is it's opposite, it's wretched caress. perhaps i am tired of no sleep and poltergeists. or this long spell without really writing anything. of wanting so much to learn things but never choosing individual things, giving them all my efforts. the curse of being so set in my ways. perhaps it's charlie and friends. the past few nights i have been marvelling at how happy and full i am.

i think the sound of another sleeping is the greatest in the world. liar.



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i am just as innocent as i look

no, really.

addict

coca-cola how i enjoy you WAY too much

how strange it is to be anything at all

"you can be anywhere when your life begins, when the future opens up in front of you. and you may not even realize it at first, but its already happening.."



i find it extremely interesting how love and hate cling to each other like bed partners, consuming each other with passion, attempting to literally fuck your brains away with their sheer lust. they grip and fondle and sway together in rhythm, never equal, never static. first one rises then the other subdues. a frenzied mind fuck.

i rather enjoy being 21

back to blogging

This blog is pretty much dead, content-wise.

I could never really stick to one thing for too long. Change is more interesting than constants, anyway.

Silly melodrama aside, I am the happiest I can remember being.

HEART & HUNGER

so much for endings. beginnings are always more fun. true connoisseurs, however, are known to favor the stretch in between, since it's the hardest to do anything with.
that's about all that can be said for plots, which anyway are just one thing after another, a what and a what and a what.

now try how and why.

take two

lisa it's your birthday, happy birthday lisa