maybe its beck. maybe its me. maybe its finishing a degree. maybe its been a year. maybe its this robe i'm wearing and the weather refusing to brighten. maybe its the paint i was compelled to buy. the portrait i needed to start. maybe its the season. maybe its all the plans i'm making. all the things i'll soon be leaving. maybe i broke down a little. maybe i'm still breaking down. maybe not. maybe this is how life will feel from now on. maybe i will always wonder whether i am happy. maybe i will always be chasing happiness even when i think i have it now.


uncertain feet. uncertain ground.

smart things in stupid places
so my mom rented this crappy zach braff movie and i sat in for the last 40 minutes... and gained something:

"it doesn't matter what you feel. it matters what you do. what you feel is only for yourself. its how you act that really affects those around you."

i think that is just brill.

i'm not saying that i'm a saint.
i am an artist with no trade... a misguided lover humping the ground and expecting it to bloom for me. i leave you notes where you will never find them and i pose for pictures i will never see. i dip my toes into real things and then run screaming when it is too cold for my liking. i want to paint. i want to write. i wish i could dance. i describe myself as intense... and it feels fake. what do i do? brood. and wake up with phrases like "i am an artist with no trade" in my head. i feel like that mythical norm. i walked into a door two days ago... and cut my face.

i'm taking today for me.


no, i will never be a saint.

breathe with me.
when i see your shape outlined in my peephole
i'm glad i decided to bathe and especially glad
i had decided to wear my striped socks and frumpy sweater

the vampires are screaming in my living room
and i let you in without a word

no. that's not true.
i think i punched you and yelled at you for not answering your phone.
i smothered you with kisses while cursing you for making me worry.
my mouth couldn't decide if it wanted to love you or fuck you up
and it decided both could be done simultaneously.

distance between pain and pleasure
fuck fuck fuck fuck.
did i say that seductively? or with hate?

on the screen george clooney is weilding his vampire slaying machine
and i sit on your lap.
i'm not wearing underwear. but you've already noticed.
and for the ten minutes i have with you...
i feed you and then i feed on you.

or maybe i'm always doing both.

george wins in the end.
juliette? she scores a sweet van.

something that bothers me about me.
i need to learn that everyone can and will hurt me when i continue to hurt myself. does this make sense? to me it does. no one is off limits for hurting me when i let myself get fragile and useless. even those that love me most... will hurt me when i start to act like i want to be hurt. i'm making sense little i suppose. but it makes sense to me. i let myself be hurt sometimes. i expect too much... all the time. even when i am getting all that i seem to need... and more... i can still feel hurt. how can that be? so my answer is i must hurt myself somehow. with my demands... my moods... my decisions to let little things mean more than they do.

how do i stop hurting myself?

when they drilled holes in your skull and screwed that halo to your head, did you think you could fly?

i've been having existential conversations with everyone in my life. plus those that are not. like strangers in line at mcgill's redtape death swamp (administration building). i've been having them in bed... i've been tearing up through them. i've comforted people through them when i have little comfort even for myself. i've been sputtering plans, nervously chewing my fingernails... i think i've even been grinding my teeth in my sleep, as my jaw is incredibly sore. i'm not sure how one is expected to live through this year... with so much up in the air. especially one like me... who is perversely obsessed with planning. and lists. and maintaining happiness.

i can't be bored after this. i need a plan. i can't just do nothing. it will break me. i know it. and i am scared of this fact.

i feel it. the safety net of academic life being slowly pulled from under my little toes. and right now... i can't see where i'm going to land. all i can see is the horror of the free fall.

the sound of my gun.
i wonder when i go
what my bones will feel like
the noise they will make
the way they will fall

will they crash and crackle like fireworks
pieces falling this way and that
an audience perhaps
anti-climactic at best
they clamber home to their pets and their bills
with a story to tell
of my bones
crackling in the night.

or perhaps my bones will slide gently into the ground
they will melt in your hands
i will be so fragile and delicate
you could blow me your kiss and my bones
my bones would catch a ride
and drift off into the night
like soft petals slipping silently
the sand will settle and my presence will seem
oh so natural

i hang from my bones
wondering what i feel like from the inside
wonder what my destruction will sound like
crunching or sliding
what i will look like
destroyed or melted

my bones are so infrequently on my mind
when i feel them aching
i know they're there
but it is only now
tonight

i wonder what their destruction will be like
before i even understand what their life looks like

look at me.
i am just like everybody else.

our words will wind up in my books.

"there is just so much i want to say to you."
"whisper it in my ear when i'm sleeping. that's what i do."

burn, burn, burn.
i watched walk the line tonight. and you know near the end... when johnny is spinning june around on stage. and they got their arms all tangled in each other's hair. and the lighting guy did this great job and the camera angle is perfect... and its poetic. and its love. and you wish you had a picture of that moment. because maybe if you had a picture, you could understand it better. you could stare and touch and think about that moment.

i never took pictures of you. i don't know why. i was scared maybe. scared to hold our moments. i was so different then. i can't even remember.

i tried to take pictures of you. but they all came out wrong. we never had those moments. the pictures are fine. but the lighting is all wrong. and our faces don't match up.

i want to take your picture so badly. i want to capture those moments in the morning. when we are both still half-awake. when your skin becomes the most important thing i can see. i've ever seen.

"we just make sense, don't we?"

we shamelessly made-out across town. mutually masturbating to the pleasure of being with the other.

"we're just so into each other."



i'm trying. trying to accept every day as one day. trying not to plan and hope and think about anything but the present. it's hard. something i always struggled with. i wonder why i want to believe everything is going to last forever. because it hurts when the other person lets something slip that shows their rationality towards the situation. it hurts to be reminded how ridiculous i am. i hate endings. i never can tell when they are coming. i want every feeling to last forever.

you're gonna make me lonesome when you go.
you wish you could see what we looked like in bed. lying on our sides naked. facing each other. i wish you could feel the way you freeze me. standing together in the shower at 4 in the morning, you looked so unbelievably good. and you opened your mouth. and what comes out is this, "i've never felt like this before." i freeze. you wonder if i believe you. i do believe you. i'm just frozen darling.

fuck that.
i can't end that post like that. it is not clear enough.

i rolled off of him so fast and the tears came instantly. i rarely feel that attacked by words. but it was an attack on me. on him. on the relationship we had. and it was oh so wrong. it was bitter. it was unfair. maybe one day he will understand my past... but it became so clear that he can't right now. he has no fucking clue. and to think that he could comment on it like that... with such cockiness. such an assured tone. like he knew. like he had it all figured out. and he ripped it apart with that sentence. ripped so much. diluted so much intensity. summed it up in one sentence. one sentence that does not do anything justice.

i lied. its the second time he's done this. with the same person too. i told him the story. the story of how we got together... and the stumbles before we actually did get together. and his response...

"that must have felt pretty shitty to be second choice."



we get older. we accumulate. history. stories. pasts. we should never be naive enough in our interactions with others... naive enough to think we get it. get what a person has been through. we can hear them describe their pasts... but we can't figure it out. not so easily. its not all neatly packaged up like that. its not simply something to unwrap and own. you have to be gentle with each other. so much happened before we knew each other. so many kumas.

so much we will never understand about each other.
so much we will never access.
how do we deal with this?
how can we?

so its 3am again.
you said it. there it was. the first time you've let hurtful words slip. they spun themselves together in your head so fast that i didn't have time to prepare. i didn't see them line up neatly down your throat. they wrung their hands anxiously and waited their respective turns. then you released them. and they ravenously tumbled out, skipping across your tongue. i may not have seen them preparing. but i sure did feel them. feel them as they were catapulted into my face. like a 2x4.

"stop this."
"why? because you've already dated the boy with wasted potential?"

rip. tear. the nails on your wood are coming out in all the wrong places. namely through my face.

you don't even have a clue. you don't even have a clue.

i got the right tactics to turn you on.
i hate being a cliche.
i hate re-reading old posts and seeing the same themes re-occuring.
i hate that i can't quite remember what it was like without you... and you've only been here for 2 months.
i hate that i am dancing to sean paul right now.
i hate being rejected. i spend too much time running from rejection.
i hate that my little plant looks like its dying.
i hate myself for being scared and for pushing you away. i hate what i told you the other night... hate how it is going to change how we interract. i hate that i think i should be getting sick of you... that i should be scared of how fast we're going... when i'm not. who put these ideas in my head? why why why do i work on the timelines/rules of others!?!? this is what i must unlearn.
i'm sorry for my neurotic tendencies. please don't pull away because i told you that i am supposed to need space. i don't need space. i really don't. i don't know what to do with that space... except think of you.

"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.