Thursday, November 27, 2003
There's something wrong with this place. I couldn't write here for weeks, and couldn't quite figure it out. Now I think I have. I need a change.
So I'm moving here
I'll miss blogdrive.
Sunday, November 16, 2003
I used to turn and find you staring, eyes fixed on me, unblinking, undefeated. I tried to hide-- I built fiction to keep you out, took comfort underneath the sheets. I tried to hide but you wouldn't let me. Only I know how well your eyes can burn, how quietly and efficiently they sear flesh at your will. I used to hide, but you always found me.
I feel you still.
I feel your breath at the back of my neck the way I did when you stood behind me, watching. I can feel the intermittent comings and goings of your warmth, coming as you exhale to calm my nerves, and going just as quickly to leave me, lost, without it. I feel your touch at my shoulder, sometimes gentle, sometimes rough. And sometimes, just once in a while, almost loving.
I still remember the sharpened edges of your words, cutting cleanly through tangled fears and hopes I still harbored. There was so much. So many lies, so many truths I turned sour for just a short-term fix to something I knew I could never have forever. You used to see through the mess. You'd come with your measured voice and weighted words and you saw. You saw me.
You used to be here.
Is this just a game to you? Child's play for those like you who have seen it all? You found me when I was hiding-- is it time for me to find you? Did you seek me just to leave me? Did you close my eyes so you could hide?
Where is your smile now, dark prince, where is that slight twisting of your lips that I used to steal and turn into a poem? Where are the murmurings of your thoughts that used to turn so frequently to me? Where are the arms that held me captive when I wanted to run, that self-assured shake of the head you granted me when I asked to be released? Where is the promise of a happily ever after that sent me flying, scribbling furiously, to translate your presence into words?
Where are you, seeker, where have you gone? Are you hiding behind your words again? I keep thinking-- maybe if I look a little harder, I'll catch a glimpse of your power, a whiff of your desire. Maybe when I find you, you'll laugh... take my hand, call me yours. And maybe next time, we'll hide together.
Ready or not, here I come.
Thursday, November 13, 2003
It used to come so easily to her. Her eyes would stare into space, unblinking, for hours at a time, glazing over into the dreamland she frequents. Her hands, moving furiously, raced over fragments of thought to be translated into words, lips mouthing them silently in echo. Everything flowed-- head to mouth and hands, creativity sparking at her fingers.
She was beginning to get used to it. Beginning to think she was doing this all on her own, starting to believe she could always do it. That she'd never needed anyone for this.
Then He was gone. Temporarily, perhaps, but she couldn't find Him. She looked for Him, but He'd disappeared, taking with Him His voice, His rough touch, and she wanted it back. For so long she had counted on His presence, and now that she didn't have it, she missed it. She used to be so independent. But He hid from her, and now she cannot write.
And the others who had known her, those whose eyes had glanced her way, they came back to see her. They came, each for different reasons-- one seeked brilliance of art. The other wanted the intensity he felt he couldn't have. Still yet another graced these pages searching for inspiration. They wonder: where did she go?
Where is she?
Where is she?
They don't know she is looking for the same thing.
Saturday, November 08, 2003
You think you can hide from my eyes. You stand silently behind the anonymity you have so carefully built up. You don't know that you have none. I've seen what you look like.
You come, you go, leaving nothing in your wake. Nothing, that is, but fragments of a private soul, the scent of your calm creativity lingering like that of coffee in the morning air. It reaches out to me, warm, inviting. It wakes me. I know you've been here before. I know that you read my words-- and I know also that you offer none in return.
Oh, but I have found you. I have seen your words as well. Do you know by now? Do you care? Could you guess that your ramblings have touched me, as mine have you? That I roam the shadows of your mind as you have roamed mine-- that your music pierces my skin, too?
Dare I even hope that it is I of which you speak in little white letters that glare at me when I intrude upon your secret? Could it be my prose which stirs you in the way that you describe? Would I be so bold as to assume a strange connection between our art?
Poet, where did you come from? And how did you come to kiss my thoughts? How long have you watched my story, and how long before you let me know? How long will we read each other's musings in the dark, where nobody can see? How long until I find the words I love to dream of addressed to me?
And when you read this, will you understand-- will you know it's you? Or will you think, as they all will, that I'm just writing letters to a stranger?
Friday, November 07, 2003
When you sneeze, everything in your body stops. Your blood pauses in its warp-speed travel through aorta and veins. Your stomach takes a break from peristalsis. You don't breathe. Your heart literally stops for just a second-- just long enough to reject whatever it was that your nose came into germ-infested contact with.
For the duration of the sneeze, you are, technically, dead.
And what if life was one big sneeze? You come out screaming, your face scrunched up at the trauma of being forced out of an opening the size of a fist. You throw tantrums, learn Santa Claus isn't real, grow up. Nab your first boyfriend. Fuck like you've got nothing better to do. You drive to school/work, eat/don't eat, party, destroy your liver, lungs, and brain. Obsess about the way you look. Swoon over the latest Brad Pitt. You make love. You come. You laugh, you cry. And everyone thinks you're incredible. They say, there she goes-- the chick who has everything.
But you don't have everything. Because underneath the facade of an actual life-- you're dead. Laughing when you breathe no air. Crying without tears, just a forced display of the emotion this species seems to respond to instantaneously. You were born with your eyes closed, preparing for the big sneeze. And now you're blind. Numb to love, your heart unused. Yes, you are moving. But you live only while you dream. It's the best fucking lie you've ever spun, and now you're trapped by it just like they are.
You wonder-- when do you get to breathe? You refuse to get remotely close to them because you know they'll just make it worse. They all send you, runny-nosed and wheezing, to the drugstore. Every last one of them. You wish things were different. But no matter what you try, it doesn't change a single fucking thing.
I should know. I'm allergic to life.
Wednesday, November 05, 2003
I have recordings of His voice. Nothing important, just random snippets of conversation. Him telling me I'm His. Me telling Him I love Him. Me laughing, crying. Attempting to be pissy with Him.
Holy god. I could drown in that accent. He speaks, and it hurts. He insinuates Himself into my body, between lust and love. It reaches through the speakers to wrap tightly around my soul. It calls to me, pulling me ever so slowly, ever so surely to the source of that power. Everything He says is magic. I cannot help but obey. I would do anything to hear just that cocky twang, the beautiful way He wraps His thoughts in sound. I can't get enough of it-- I can't get enough of Him. I play it over and over again, and I never get tired of hearing His music. I never stop wondering. What's He like underneath His big words?
When I peel back His noncommital maybes, the characteristic fear behind His speech, what's left? What will He say when Aristotle and Shakespeare cease to amuse me? Where will He turn when He no longer has His noise? If I strip away His carefully-given promises-- if I slip behind His calculated prose
What will I see?
Will I see Him naked, vulnerable
and will He hide? Run from my gaze? Or will He allow my eyes to lick His body like whipped cream and cherries on His skin? Will He be soft, babied caramel inside His shell? Or will He be
roughened hands, a hunter's eyes, a heavy touch?
Will He let me touch Him the way He has claimed me?
Will He take away His voice and speak to me in wordless hunger-- will He make love to me in the silence He avoids?
And when my restraint falls short and I take all of Him
Will He make me scream?
Monday, November 03, 2003
maybe she'd rather be hunted
Maybe they're all right, and I'm foolish to even consider doing this. I'm living like a princess, partying like a devil, and loving every moment of it.
Maybe they're right, and this is all eerily reminiscent of those scenes in suspense thrillers when everyone is mentally screaming at the next victim to run, to hide, to do the smart thing and jesus christ, look behind you. But no. On she trudges through the empty, shadowed house, whispering her friend's name into dark corners. A sharp movement, the shine of a well-sharpened blade, and there's blood on the screen.
He's the dirty biker, scared shitless, who babbles nonsense to the police-- too highstrung, too stupid to cause any harm. He's the uneducated, street urchin raised to the soundtrack of violence. He's the misguided teenager all grown up, and you never suspect him. No, it couldn't be him. He isn't cold enough. He doesn't have the guts. He couldn't be the mastermind.
Oh, but he is. He is the killer. He stalks his prey so well, so seamlessly, that you never notice his eyes in the background. For months he watches her, eyeing her innocence, the irresistible youth in the swaying of her hips as she walks. He waits. Patiently. It never bodes well to be greedy. He's waiting for that split-second opening when her throat is bared and her milky skin ripe for the kill. Then he pounces.
Maybe they're right. Maybe he's after me next. Maybe he'll focus predator eyes on me, and I will be his next meal. Maybe he'll play with me. Violently, in a feeding frenzy. Maybe he'll hurt me.
But maybe -- just maybe --
I'll like it.
Sunday, November 02, 2003
They say -- the wailing voices in my head --
they say you're the devil.
They say, be careful!
Your words which reek
of calibrated violence
and your smile which speaks
a thousand lies
will draw me in
Your whirling eyes are iron claws
you'll sink hooks into my soul
and you will yank it from my grasp
you'll dance for me a cruel trap
to change the color of my eyes
They say you'll kiss my bleeding lips
and all that is mine
will belong to you
to the darkness that is you
They say you're the devil
Saturday, November 01, 2003
They amuse me. Running around in black and gold, faces painted, hair curled to perfection. They ravage the streets and flood all the wildest parties with dangling earrings and red lips which smile eagerly at the thought of being someone else for the night. They dress up as everything they've secretly wanted to be: blonde-haired, blue-eyed, big-titted cheerleaders surgically attached to their college quarterbacks to complete the Barbie-Ken theme. They love the novelty of it all-- the freedom: they can become anyone they choose. They can walk like they own the world. They can fuck like they do it all the time. For them, it is one night. For me, it is life.
Every day is my Halloween. Every day is a day to dress up, don a costume, and face the world to perform like the perfect puppet for the next twenty-four hours. To perform.
So this year, I did something different. I didn't dress up. I didn't slip into my costume. I peeled off my layers like a banana to stand, shrunken and shivering, in the vulnerability I hate. This year, I celebrated a reverse Halloween.
Black, rhinestone-studded, fuck-them-use-them-then-throw-them-away boots with heels that could kill. A dark leather skirt barely covering my thighs. A lacy see-through thong allowing my ass cheeks to rub together as I walk. A skimpy black top leaving very little to the imagination. Skin marked with purple bruises and brown cuts born for love. Eyes lined with the night, peering out condescendingly. Cheeks tinted pink, as if they had been slapped just a few moments before. Lips rogued and ravaged. And on my neck, a leather collar.
I'm your little slave-girl. I don't need a mask for that.
Thursday, October 30, 2003
Knock before you enter. I am dreaming-- don't disturb me.
But you never read the signs and you barge in, uninvited, to fill my thoughts with noisy monsters that roar and howl and whine impatiently until I wake.
You never talk-- you shout, your words ugly as they explode from careless lips, a thoughtless tongue on the fourth of July. When I sleep, your screaming haunts me like a banshee hurling high-pitched stones at the calmness of my mind sewing tiny cracking threads of cacophony through my dreams. They shatter like glass.
You're always yelling, loud, condemning, ripping angry holes in the blanket of my peace. And I am cold.
I am tired of the cold. I am tired of bleeding ears.
Don't tell me I didn't try. Don't tell me I didn't close my eyes to try to dull the sharpness of your tone. I tried for seventeen years. I no longer wish to stick around to listen to the clamor of your hate.
I'm rolling up my silence like a mat left to be trodden on for too long. I'm binding it tightly into a bundle. I'm packing it up into a suitcase, locking it up into a box where you can't get to it. I'm leaving.
I'm running away. Away from sleepless nights and dreamless days, from the deafness that waits to pounce, from harsh voices and wagging tongues, from vulgar laughs and migraines.
I'm running away to find a place where people heed warnings on doors,
respect a locked suitcase,
love in muted touches
in quiet whispers.