count the nights, count the days you try to show that nothing stays, but i'm still hanging around we're gonna be waiting for a long time, but it'll be worth it when we find what we find.
27 December 2009
nocturnes: candidness is just as much (if not more) about form as it is about content
a saint in any form: nocturnes: i was disoriented in a train station. turning circles. walking lines. i fell into a car and you were there. it must have been six in the morning. i don't know what time it was. i sat down. i sat next to you. i sat backward on the train and suddenly . . . i sat down. maybe you were coming from the gym. you were awake and clean and you were wearing a lot of hoods. yr track pants were rubbing against my leg. the music sounded like gym music. and yr hair was shorn. i can almost see you handcuffed to the handholds, splayed at right angles worthy of modernist movements (and in such colour!). what i mean to say is that there is an abstract richness about you.
no, but seriously, the truth of the matter is it's cold, i'm hungry, my pants smell like pee, and if i saw you accidentally, i'd probably start to cry.
conjuring and conveying. but it's really weird and kinda hard. cuz on the one hand, i'm really into the materialities of feelings, like, the physical imprints. but on the other hand, i'm basing this on unfounded imagination. elevation is one word. transcendence might be another (but i'm still not certain). commuting, definitely. like, the train, the bridge—in between spaces where you can, like, really hope for that intervention that keeps you from yr destination or takes you to a new one.
i wanted this to be a decision, but now it's just a disadvantage.
class dictates our choice of partners and our choice of positions. when fear, shame and prudery condemn the poor and ignorant to copulate in the dark, it must be obvious that sexual sophistication is a by-product of education. the primal nakedness of lovers is a phenomenon of the middle class in cold climates; in northern winters, naked lovers must be able to afford to heat their bedrooms.
—angela carter
one dressed and one not. what does this say about me? obviously. you are clean and well-dressed and you've just emerged from yr hotel room. sneakers and a brightly coloured backpack. some sort of woolen topcoat. nice jeans.
and i'm:
panic of the square anxiety of articulation jimi hendrix's boyfriend in dreams (nov) i'm at a wedding with el perro del mar, lykke li, and robyn. el perro gives me a big kiss that leaves lippie stains on my face.
ADULT BABY + DEADPAN SENSUALIST + DISAPPOINTED LOVER + DISKO DICK + DISSTHENTIC ACADEMIC + ENFANT TERRIBLE + ENGINEER OF BRICOLAGE + HOMOTEXTUAL ARTIST + ITINERANT BEGGAR-POET + MOMENT MAKER + MYSTERY PRIEST + PRISONER OF LOVE + RELUCTANT GENTLEMAN + SCHIZOID + SHY HUNTER + SLY FOX + STALWART LOVER
"Oh, Renoir"—it sounds like "au revoir." It sounds like the exclamation of a sculpture connoisseur! Together, it sounds like a farewell to bloated artistic declarations.
"A Journal"—A locked and flowery journal written in by a twelve-year-old girl. A scholarly journal. ((As s)cholar.) The combination of which—twelve-year-old girl scholar—seems apt enough, if not particularly apt, of describing the mental trappings of so many of our college-educated twenty-something peers. An eagerness in the wrong direction. Knowledge funneled through inexperience. Curiosity will kill our cool cats. Really, this is a sketchbook.