bye, bb

9/08 - 4/10

things I were:

young

yours

sparrows

no technical value

(untitled)

i have been listening to the music of old you
and angel city of that winter when i was happy
and i wonder if who you were isn’t really dead
it just lives in the sound because when i hear
it i can smell the musk of your skin and of the
lilies that were beside your bed that week both
of which became stronger when the sun went
down and you played bill evans for lovers except
that single track you didn’t like and always got up
to change in the middle of things and i’ve got one
of those snapshot memories in my head of you
stark naked switching the song while i tried to
sit at an attractive angle on your little gray twin
bed waiting for you to come back and we didn’t
sleep until three and even then it was only for an
hour or so or maybe you never slept at all because
you were the one who woke me with your hand on
my waist and your lips on the back of my neck and
we kissed for hours again until the sun started to
come up so we went to the balcony to watch it
rise as airplanes left l.a.x. like slow crows and
you made strong black coffee and ate those
brown sugar poptarts you like and i sat in
your lap with the cats watching us wondering
why we were up so early why the person you
were has crumbled through my fingers like the
clammy sand of venice beach where i took
those pictures that have since been the
background of every electronic i own
because i want so much to go back to
that to go back to you to pull your
pieces out of the music by taking all
the letters of this big block of words
and linking them into a chain that
will lasso the you that i so loved
and that so loved me back into
the cramped twin bed where
we never got any sleep after
christmas in california

hacking it off in May

Cutting Ties

I know the statement that a
short cut puts off to society:
“Screw your female ideals
I’m sexy in my androgyny”
either that, or “I like pussy”

and I know you tend to like a kind of
those girls whose hair is shorter than
yours; the ones who smell wild like blood
and sex, with their septum piercings and
shallow paintings – ones with elaborate
clothing, expensive habits, and who
self-destruct like fireworks
that explode over and over again

but I am nothing like that. I smell
like Dove shampoo, wear simple shirts,
and there’s a different metal in my body.
What I’m really after
is the irony
of that look on me

so I’m going to cut off all my
hair, my long long hair, and
with it all the memories that
it carries, the frayed splits
and dead ends, the last years
of my purest naiveté, my most
meaningless wastes of time;
I’m going to stop holding it
back with elastics and bobby
pins and big jaw clips and
stick barrettes and just cut
it loose, so maybe I can lift
my head for the first time since
everything stopped making perfect
childish sense and run the course
without the weight of the past
on my shoulders and in my eyes
I’m going to cut all my old ties

for such an insecure wad

weird mirrors

When it comes to social adaptation, how good is too good? When your mode for one person starts seeping into who you really are, or makes you feel as though you're losing part of you? When you have to question the validity of your emotions? When lines that were clear before become blurred? Or is that more of a sign that you're not good at it, that you should be able to separate the chameleon colors from your original shade?

I think it's a sign that it isn't necessary. I shouldn't do this. I shouldn't pretend parts of me don't exist, or that they are different. I don't have to impress all of myself upon people, of course, but I shouldn't be censoring to this degree. So many questions of the self that I'd originally had fairly settled have been kicked up again in the past few weeks, the biggest trigger being the fact(?) that my head's not even screwed on straight. I have a somewhat formed idea of who I am by now. I need to get that idea back to the forefront of my concerns and continue working on it as hard as I was before. No more of this excessive people-pleasing - not only is it clogging up my schedule, it's throwing all the critical balances way off.

I know I began this blog trying not to do too many of these useless rambling personal kinds of posts, but I think it's good for me to have this pulled out of the current chaos in my brain and clearly recorded. Besides, February's looking a little skimpy - only 5 posts. So in the interest of mental health and aesthetics, hey-o, I'm not dead again. Just out of commission on several levels. I should be back to writing breathlessly about youth and art and all that soon enough.

in lieu of studying

February

a foot of it out,
still falling
and it feels like
winter will never end
I’m trying to find my voice
after laryngitis, streptococcus,
and sinus infections
tea, cough drops,
took antibiotics
and a lot of acetaminophen
when I had the weeklong virus
but I think it’s in the snow
covered in small talk smart jargon
screaming party conversation
and scattered in pieces
like hundreds of keys
I keep trying the lock with
but the tumblers switch
every time

I am waiting to
hear myself speak
I am waiting for time
to give me clarity
for the lock to click
and lead me to
the next room of keys

I am waiting to see my feet
on the ground again, in new grass
I always start so sure of myself