l'oiseleuse

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2009-04-07T17:05:00.002-04:00

jonquilles.tumblr.com

2009-04-05T20:30:00.007-04:00

I don't really like telling stories anymore.

je somatise

2009-03-26T23:17:00.003-04:00

Mother always said the more you sleep, the wiser you'll be. I suppose she was right, seeing how I am immeasurably tired and can think of nothing but keeping awake.

le petit voyageur temporel

2009-03-14T17:30:00.014-04:00

style.com

I've been having lots of dreams about George Harrison.

I've chewed my fingernails into little half moons again, and something is making the medicine cabinet shake.

Today the sun is champagne yellow and my new list of favorite words has yet to be completed. What is your favorite word?

champêtre

2009-03-08T16:32:00.003-04:00

I'm quietly tired of black and white film. It's much too moody.

It would seem in my head that I have everything in the world to do. I look for the sun shining off all the floors and corners, and reminisce until all my memories are properly tired of me. Things like bleeding toes and karaoke nights in sterile hospital wings. Everybody would remind someone else of their mother, and you'd have to tie all your thoughts together with brown parcel string to keep from fluttering away with madness' hems.

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2009-03-07T22:22:00.005-05:00

He had a mind like an orange, sweetened blue with the prevalence of solitude and the covert loving of midnight-heroes. He loved a boy from Romania who fell gracefully between sparkling and tedious, who did well in school with memorizing, who crowned himself a sensation, whose father was a doctor with a cinnamon colored Peugeot and a fragile sense of humor. Before long they grew into one another's frowns and nights and starry, naked, illuminated, fifty records screaming at once. They swept their opiate intelligence into little boxes one Sunday and buried them on a rooftop lit by wet eyes and matches. The shadows from the tombstones lifted the moon and its twinkling disciples with tiny arms and they would always watch, stupefied. They slowed down, with poverty seeping through the mortar, martyr vibrations and aches in their chests. Then they became too haggard for their little sheet house. Their nights, the porous hours between sun's set and rise, became dead mad, dead poems, dead eyes, dead conversations coming out of the telephone receiver with teeth and vigor. Their shadows started talking gibberish, their whispers starting growing frowns, and they rattled into hollow trees and book spines.

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2009-03-02T23:25:00.010-05:00

They expand and their words become legible when properly coerced.

Additionally and irrelevantly, using a photograph of Shia La-lastname was probably somewhat godawful.

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2009-02-27T01:35:00.006-05:00

a song

(flickr)

Things that no one ever says:
If I were not so happy, none of this would never have happened.
I find the Beatles' films rather well-done and enjoyable.

2009-02-14T22:03:00.009-05:00

This picture disturbs me a bit. It looks as though there's somebody in the background seeping out of the wall.

We're going to Paris this March. My mother was going to try to hide it, you see, but the wine got nosy and made her tell.

2009-01-24T21:57:00.006-05:00

Winter has thus far only seeped into my bedroom, like dust lurking fittingly in all my drawers and picture frames. J came over and flung open my windows, and now winter lives here comfortably. Walls have very little work to do when my windows are open, for they're protecting me from nothing but the hallway. I like all the big warm galaxies outside which belong to other people; the neighbors and the mailman, their many rushes and concerns. They're quite dreary and irksome, each going-on which I manipulate into fantastic and intimate suspense.

Everyone worries about M. She spins and pirouettes in her archaic ballerina shoes until her toes bleed.

Formerly, I called this the most perfect song, but have since realized that perfect is its own superlative. Additionally, it's purely coincidence that it is January and I am sharing such a song.

(I didn't take this. I don't know who did. It would be proper to keep track of such things.)

2008-12-29T14:39:00.001-05:00

I just woke up in your morning to find that I'm there too.

2008-12-24T21:22:00.006-05:00

We went to that woman's house, to make sure the cat hadn't knocked over any Christmas decorations or set anything ablaze. I put on the fur coat that lives on the back of her dining room chair. Her bed had too many pillows, and her television too many remotes. I quietly realized that there are indeed times when the first thought that finds itself in my mouth is not something I should say, for I suppose it is true that some people cannot "pull off hats."

Today is the day my grandfather died, and two days before was the day he was born. I don't think anyone in my family's remembered. These two days in between I've wept, gazed, sat stock still at the window, worried over blackbirds crowding the street, and played odd board games with J even though he's a rampant rule-bender. We sat outside, and he talked into a glass bottle as he took meek sips from it, which made him sound as though he was speaking in tongues. It was so cold that Angelhead's eyes had become frostbitten, small and too precise. Before that, I was all prepared to write him a Christmas letter about pink evenings and well-made apologies, but it's clean gone now.

My birthday is in nearly no time, and it will solely be spent in drafty corridors with cheap coffee and Angelhead. His family will disapprove and my family will huddle around us as though we're a pile of broken glass. I'll wake up far too early on my birthday, as I always do, and lie in bed next to the thin window with my cold shoulders exposed, feeling quite queasy and irritable.

For Christmas, I've given back to my hair it's natural color. Though despite its inherency, I am still shocked when I pass a window or mirror and am not met with a deadening flaxen burst.

A mediocre Christmas song because I don't know of any good ones.

Christmas and birthday wishes:
An end to the replacement of letters with apostrophes
An end to asymmetry
J (circa 1994-6)

(I've forgotten from where this photograph came.)

2008-12-20T02:50:00.005-05:00

M is afraid to see some film that H is rambling about because she's afraid it will make her stop believing in god. H comments upon the instability of M's faith if it's so easily shaken or dismembered by a silly film. She is the only one who laughs, and the rest of the conversers turn and stare into a blank television screen. Later we are all outside and you'd think each breath was velveteen, the way the air was so thick was humidity and unease. I gazed at my knuckles, in between them, and I didn't any longer see magical little patterns or maps there. Perhaps it was the awful patio lighting, the thick three inches of nighttime between my glance and my skin.

The girl with the name that changes seasonally, I haven't seen her in some time. She would always have the nicest books in her car, but they only grew in number. I wondered sometimes where she slept, and why she couldn't stack her books there. I still wonder this.

soundtrack - a radio station where i can only hear the loud parts of songs

2008-12-10T21:53:00.002-05:00

soundtrack

2008-12-05T17:04:00.001-05:00

soundtrack

Cake and flowers for Augustine, the muse.

2008-12-01T02:08:00.003-05:00

Did I tell you about the cat-faced snowman?

-e

2008-11-30T22:12:00.019-05:00

Evidently I can't just leave him there, all tied up like that.

II.

I know Johnny Sunshine personally, you know. He sleeps between my bed and me.

soundtrack

-A