"the thing that always bothered be about ani difranco was this... she works hard enough to put out a new album almost every year, right? on top of that... she is super busy touring all the time too... so my question is... when does she find the time to involve herself in all these intense romantic relationships?"

"maybe she doesn't have a lot of crazy relationships."

"i was thinking that."

"maybe she is just that intense. i firmly believe that sometimes the smallest interaction can often carry with it some pretty intense after-effects. maybe i'm speaking from experience... but sometimes the smallest instances have inspired me to write the most intense pieces. intense people have the capacity to make anything intense."

"hmm."

"you know what kills me though? the way we are often made to feel guilty about these intense reactions. ashamed even. crazy. unjustified in feeling certain things. because someone tells us our feelings are unwarranted. that our reaction is far bigger than the instance that caused it. i just don't think thats a good measure. really... i'm beginning to really question all these units of measurement that have been handed down. why the fuck would i follow someone else's measure of what i'm allowed to feel?"

you tell me what's real.
it has been over a month since i've had a good cry. i almost cried telling you that last night. i wanted to tell you when the last cry was. it was when i was writing that list. of things that i was going to miss about the one that came before you. i looked you in the eye and started to tell you. but you looked me back and prodded. i stopped. you told me i was so secretive. we fell asleep like that.

"but i got no problem with that really..."

i went to the anarchist book fair yesterday. it is so nice to be reminded of all the amazing things people are producing. i feel so ridiculous when i realize that all i read are coursepacks. coursepacks. coursepacks. i feel so snobby. especially when i see all these amazing people with their hearts and souls printed double-sided on sale for $1.50. i wonder when i will get to sell all my secrets.

we watched capote last night. i fell asleep before it ended. he asked me when i was going to write my book. i shrugged. my old answer used to be when i had gained some more life experience. thats a shitty phrase. but you know. done some travelling. i still don't think i'm ready. i'm not there yet. but i do know i can't just up and write a book. i would have no idea where to start. how to do it. i need to start working on little things first. stories. poems. i need to start producing. instead of hoarding them inside. crumpling and pushing them around in the empty spaces between my organs. they all hide there. i am so scared to let anyone see. maybe they need to stay there. breathe with me. pulse inside of me. until soon... i will pack one more away... i will find one last crack... and i will shove and shove... but this time, i will burst open. i will stand wide-eyed as my insides explode onto paper. i will rupture at all my seams. and maybe i will produce something... worthwhile. good.

"life is just a boring chore... i'm living proof."

so today. i will hide away in my room. listening to ani. trying to feel like i am not a copy of a copy of a copy. a photograph of a photograph of a photograph. a machine modeled after something that was once real.

back from the cottage.
so i don't forget

"i've been waiting for you. what took you so long?"

"i can't imagine anyone looking like you."

i got to meet your parents. they were everything you had described. your mom listening to leonard cohen, your dad passing on interesting newspaper clippings. your mom was gorgeous, your dad had all the character that came across in your stories. you looked so small beside them.

"i was afraid you'd get bored of me."
"were you afraid of getting bored with me?"
"nope."

we slept on your porch under mass amounts of blankets. and made love with our sweaters on.

we watched annie hall.

"i was just thinking about how we just watched a movie about the end of a relationship."

you don't bore me. we can sit in silence. by the fire... reading our books. you looked amazing passed out by the fire you know. i couldn't concentrate on my book.

"i just want to do everything with you."

"i want you."

i won't say comfortable. that's a bad word. i can just sit and be with you. but you also drive me crazy. i don't have the urge to smother you like i have had with others. i can exist with you so easily. with such incredible results.

"all at once you make me feel like a child and so grown-up."

written in english class... pretty stream of conscious. no edit.

don't use me like a blankie
folding my soft flesh around your naked limbs
my crevices are all warm
i know.
but i can't help that
i never thought i'd be something safe.

you snuggle in too deep
slumbering lazily in my arms
i can't help that i'm so easy
i wrap and mold

hammock swinging between trees
bodies intertwined in its soft shell
"i want one of those," you whispered

i laughed nervously as you nestled into me
what made me so safe?

i so easily give. when you are well rested will you leave me?
play the game.
wait three days.
don't call.
don't call.
screen.
make him face the answering machine.
keep him guessing.
strangle it out of him.

i let it go...
give it all too soon.
i don't know any other way you see.

i comfort in my honesty.

i'd like to believe that
& not in my simplicity. in what i lack.

i read about the girls
the free spirits
floating along with the breeze
with their madness.
their messes.
the complicated ones.

refusing to settle
to be tied down.

i smoke like them.

i feel your hair with the tips of my fingers
wondering when
i became so consumed

those girls were my role models
you see
(they don't exist)

i should be like them
i rock gently
wondering when i became so grounded

is this stability
my happiness? or my death?

you say i scare you.
i wonder why i'm so safe.

twist the knife.
my throat is scratchy this morning. and my uterus is melting. dripping. landing in my old panties. saved for such an occasion. so easy to forget what is happening right now. destruction. my body sadly giving up the hope of fertilization. crying blood. yet stubbornly preparing the womb again. maybe next time right? if only i could be as diligent.

i had a dream that you came over unexpectedly. and i was in the bathroom washing my shoes and socks in a lettuce spinner. you pulled up a chair.

strangers are moving in now. the familiar faces are slowly being replaced with different contours. different slopes. forced smiles. i go to parties now filled with strange faces. i am getting better with banter... it isnt so bad. i am finding a way to think of it less as faking... and more as... an intimate form of people watching. his influence no doubt. once you stop thinking about yourself as the centre, and get over feeling insecure and watched... you realize there is a lot to be seen.

i need to go take some pictures today.

there are two sides to every story.
the other thing i took from the movies was the idea that being in a relationship is the most selfish thing you can do. it truly is. it explains to me so perfectly why i am a "serial monogamist." i am so selfish. i can't bear to not be the object of someone's interest, affections... someone's distraction. being with someone... sharing yourself... it is entirely selfish. for me. right now. i don't know whether i should feel guilty about this or not.

it's not as if i don't care about the person i'm with. i do. i love getting to know someone... getting to probe them... getting in their heads... surprising them with what i find. i love it. but i can also see this as a selfish act. something i do for me.

i wonder what i'm trying to say.

do you think i only love you because you sleep with other boys?
so. l. cohen. beautiful losers. in class on thursday, this girl completely ripped the novel to pieces. she ranted and raved about the self-absorbed "f." and the complete and utter bullshit that she found the 260 pages to be. i sat there against the wall... staring at her while she flustered about how she felt the book was a waste of her time. she held up her copy of the book in her right hand with disgust... and trailed off angrily.

i held on. i'm holding on. to the characters. to their flustering. to their self-absorbtion. to their dreams. to their belief in transcendence. to their individual failures. because i too fail. because i too dream of transcendence. of glory. of sainthood and sensuality. and i too am failing. i liked reading about them trying. to dream the dreams i can't bear to write down. cohen could. he could think them up and scribble them out. and his characters are horrid. they are self-involved. they are contradictory. they are chaos.

and we all know what this means. i embrace them. i hold them dear. i want to exist in their self-absorbed chaotic worlds. because i spend so much time in my own. my own feeble attempts at being something worthwhile. at being something i can feel but can't understand.

i had a date last night. we watched before sunrise and before sunset. i know. believe me i know. but you know what? the most important line of either movie was when ethan hawke said something about just being so completely bored of himself. and he put to words something i often feel but never understand. i am always there.

i am often bored with myself. and those are the times i wish i was edith. or f. i need these characters to exist. so i can live through their minds for a few hundred pages. live through their lives. so i can forget mine.

how 'bout a little fire scarecrow?
there are pigeons nesting in the roof over my balcony. they look at me with their bobble heads and defiantly build their home over my head. there is pigeon shit on my table. and worst of all... their pigeon noises sound like humping. so they "uh, uh, uh" all day outside my room. while i hide inside fearing that they carry the bird flu and will proceed to transmit it to me and all of my loved ones. simply because i am too much of a softie to kick them out of their little love nest.

i am pmsing. and pms is a bad outfit on me. especially right now. i am feeling paranoid and insecure. and he calls me on it. fucker.

i am haunted by my past lovers.

i am reading cohen's beautiful losers for the second time. and it has most definitely contributed to my current mood. i want to feel glory. sainthood. day long orgasms. helpless. wet. love? violence.

if i cut off your arms and cut off your legs
would you still love me anyway?
if you're bound and you're gagged
draped and displayed
would you still love me anyway?


why don't you love me anyway?