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Lefty

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(no subject) [Jan. 22nd, 2007|01:35 pm]
Lefty
'friends' only here/out
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(no subject) [Dec. 8th, 2006|05:59 am]
Lefty
'i'd rather not,' he said, making the most common mistake of his generation. the space between strangers is a couple feet, a sentence or two, and thousands of years of developed social inhibition. again and again they choose the time to think over the time to find something to think about. or they stop smiling because they're tired of not getting anything out of it. and stop getting angry because of the headaches.

musics hints at emotion more pure and unhesitant than any i'll likely ever experience. it's no less a mirage than perfectly flawed movie characters or umblemished canvas landscapes with suns that never finish dissapearing behind the mountains. it's life as it would be if we could live it with one eye closed and half our brains shut off and with the fluidity of a script or the mastery of improvisation always guiding us from moment to moment.

never willingly open your tear ducts if you've forgotten how to shut them.

the more i contemplate my lack of creativity, especially when asked for, the more i realize how absolutely terrified i am to take fiction.
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alternatively [Nov. 17th, 2006|05:31 am]
Lefty
the food was salty and water expensive, but what mattered was the empty sky that stretched above the rooftop tables and out over dry mountains and ridges filled with unmelting ice. or for some what mattered were the sludge wedges laced full with hashish, and the cities of dark windowless buildings that loomed up from a land as near emptiness as any can get, buildings that danced in time with the continental plates, inch by decade by millenium, colliding upward, and the army planes that flew over dropping bombs like bottle caps as if they could keep them down.

what i meant to say was caesar salad lives out its legacy, stabbed again and again at every meal.
what i meant to say was quiet now, thunder's thunder and a whisper's all in the lips. do i ever get a kiss?
what i meant to say was follow me, i have no idea where i'm going.
what i meant to say was tell me everything.
what i meant to say was this song will say it for me.
what i meant to say was so much less.
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(no subject) [Nov. 16th, 2006|08:05 pm]
Lefty
little bits of time that should be spent shaving and washing my face or getting through the autonomic nervous system and motivation once and for all are instead being filled with awkward left-handed scribbles and vonnegut and this and pop tarts. these little cold bits of time are getting broken up finer and finer from the frozen blocks of ice that those long blue rivers of time have left behind. and a lot of frosty particles of time are falling between my fingers as i sift through these little bits of time and half-heartedly try to organize them, and quite a few are melting as well, and i'm almost looking forward to when it's so cold that they don't fall apart.

and i didn't mean to spend this little bit of time explaining this in the childish and repetitive way that i have, in fact i meant to only use a sentence in this regard as an excuse for the expected brevity of any following thoughts, but such is life when five minutes is all you have.
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i can't quite decide what they're for [Nov. 16th, 2006|04:09 am]
Lefty
choose your words carefully. be silent often, and when you speak, do it with a quiet amusement and a simplicity that borders on cryptic. be beautiful in a way that is somewhere between artsy and european, but not too much of either. keep some talent or generosity hidden, to be discovered after initial intrigue has passed. have many friends that do not know each other. do not belong to any. be alone at times.

(...)
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what if everything everyone ever told one another was a lie. [Oct. 26th, 2006|03:17 am]
Lefty
a blue smudge rubbed in remembered. lists.
words books fiction. stories poetry syntax.
war genocide third worlds starved photos of faces too tired for expression and ribs you can count from across an ocean.
solipsism. passing our existence describing our existence with circular logic and forgetting to shave. god. your god their god my god no god who's god what's god?
games and sports and adrenaline rushes and chemicals and teasing our minds down to simple cause-and-effect machines, so we can pick the causes and revel in the same effects time after time.
stars and planets and moons to remind in some superficial fleeting way that we're not far past invisible.
phallic culminations of human technology breaking into smaller and smaller pieces until landing softly on another world with a new horizon and a redder sunset and a different kind of quiet. or turning around instead, hurtling back toward families and sculpted clay that somehow outlasted hundreds or thousands of years of human instability and violence and symbolic destruction of symbolic creations, that somehow survived, until now.
rubbing out the periphery over and over and filling it with cracked confidences and walks and flowcharts of faces and behaviors growing and receding and tangling up beyond possibility of extrication until the here and now's all there is.
sickness and love.
dinners and lyrics, alcohol and costumes and filling nights with anything just to keep the empty out, and an addiction to human company complete with all the associated withdrawal and paranoia of any hard drug.
scandals. little boys in churches and older boys with politicians. xenophobia in washington a god monopoly by the pope. good deeds coming with terms and fine print. engrained insanity. indiscriminate immorality. suicidal immortality. racism and human trafficking and child prostitution.
sandals. cold feet. describing one another out of existence with rapt attention to every minute physical distinction. lamenting on the immaterial materiality of physical attractiveness even as we wear its blinders.

you can only stay awake for so long, and dreams matter too. we think in words not ribbons, too many to list but few enough to count. i wake up eight feet under and tread faster as i sink, smaller and smaller until the water in my nose is the water in my mind and my ears are covered and there's no shaking it out. no matter your views on determinism, choice is deceptive. i go to sleep hoping to float the top and wash up on the shore, playing dead to trick the current. i write the list over and over on my skin, in my throat, wherever it won't wash off, just in case.
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when you step off a seesaw, someone's going to get smacked in the head. [Oct. 25th, 2006|03:17 am]
Lefty
'i'll have what their having,' she said, looking over his shoulder to the table in the corner. their eyes didn't meet. silverwear clinked and coffee made that ripping sound, fighting with air for passage through the lips.

sorry, sapling, the remaining positions have been filled. we're just all foliaged-out.

that speck on the screen's not a comma, and is hard-stuck on. neither the delete key nor a fingernail will have an effect. and yet you will get past it.
. [edit: hah! it turns out it was a period. maybe misidentification is most of the problem.]

i never meant to gain so much weight so quickly. and hell, i don't even know if it's working. it's just as tough as before. absurdity's only my style when it's an affect. so come on now.

a question i need answered. a question i cannot find a way to phrase specifically.nocolon. do the details matter?

no goosebumps, just a few hairs standing on end, and maybe they're stuck that way. no sleeves, just skin and air. funny how slowing down makes us shiver. funny how i'm not shivering.

when i was... wait. generalize. reconjugate. externally validate. what's true for me for you for she. the individual a repetition, our powers of empathy too far advanced.

when i was young and at my grandmother's house, there would be family games of hide and seek, after dinner and the unfailingly dramatic sunset had passed. i would run, knees bent head down shoes off, alone, through the tall always-damp grass of the apple orchard, ducking under trees between rows until i was far enough down the hill, away from the house, that the voices were quieter than the cicadas. and then i would crouch, and wait as the minutes got quieter. and the shouts got farther apart, like the last kernels of corn popping, one by one. and i would be terrified. of the trees, and the dark. of the insects and the silence that grew as inhale followed exhale followed inhale. and of the breathless run back up the hill to see if i'd been forgotten. the house would be glowing yellow, everyone inside eating pie, as i'd been too far to hear the olly-olly-in-free. but instead of going in, i'd lay down and look up, and find the two constellations i knew, or unfocus my eyes and count shooting stars until someone would wonder where i was.
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(no subject) [Oct. 18th, 2006|07:33 pm]
Lefty
upwell swell, fill to the point of release or expulsion or collapse, whisper yell scratch your throat burn your tongue fall forever but never catch up with still. the door propped open a door propped shut.

there's a song for every month of the year. we always need convincing that life's just beginning.

he sat near the restaurant car, where the seats faced back and the tracks and grass and cows and trees raced away, the closer the faster the louder, his eyes catch and release, his head on the glass. it was a catchall, the sensation of motion. he wasn't after a rebirth, just a recombination. same thoughts same truths, different frames of reference, reworded influences. that was the abstraction, anyway, the justification. that was the sum total of gutting months of memories, forgetting faces, losing sequence, stripping words down until they all meant the same thing, all pointed the same direction. the train was his suggestibility realized, an artistic metaphor too briefly separated from reality by a ticket and a trance. he threaded his leg through the foot rest, cold metal digging into his shin, pain a penny on the tracks away.

it's the part where something happens that has me beat. things go wrong so quietly.
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worst. entry. ever. [Oct. 10th, 2006|01:37 am]
Lefty
nothing i do here is what i'm supposedly here to do. i'm wasting time in more ways than i can count, convincing myself that i'm not smart enough to think things through because the logical truth i come up with is in such opposition to what i want to hear. sports are kidding me with the semblance of activity and the chemical rush of exhiliration. text twist is kidding me with mental aerobics. books are kidding me with their informative allure, so much easier to learn when it's not required of you. we're kidding each other in such serious heartfelt ways that a simple descriptive assessment gets quieter and quieter even as it matters more and more. i'm kidding myself into thinking that playing cello is worthwhile when all i can ever do is play through things to prove i can still make a sound, and learning a new piece seems insurmountably difficult. you never ever get a do-over.

insert literary dilution/clarification of reality here. maybe with new characters plot and setting and any other fruits of the limitless human imagination. but still with the terror (SLASH CONSCIOUSLY SELF-INDUCED EMOTION) that underlies each word, typed carelessly from trembling fingers. (no really i might insert this in the near future). i'm such an understated mess.
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lesson 1: never (NEVER) try to write in the morning [Oct. 7th, 2006|11:58 am]
Lefty
we all talk louder as our headaches intensify and all the music from the night tangles into a throbbing dissonance. a root catches my foot and brings the grey stone wall to my left into sharp focus. a black picket fence completes the enclosure, rusty iron and fallen maple leaves coldly impassive to my incongrous presence. the second theme of the emperor concerto makes me shiver when we play it, desperate to hide the harshness of the a string e flat inside the delicate ethereality of woodwinds. and when it's gone i want it again as much as nearly anything, and i wait and wait and then realize that i can trust beethoven, it's a piano concerto, afterall. and when the piano does play it, it's with a two against three rhythm that walks with the lightest footsteps, falling and catching itself again and again, the edge of the cliff an inch away. we sing happy birthday at the top of our lungs. there are four names to be called, and no one knows which to say, so there's a two syllable muddled mass of rhubarb and soda with a graceful ritardando, and we all laugh before finishing. let's stop asking each other why we act as we do, if you know the answer, i do too. i'm so close. to go to nicaruaga for christmas or venezuala in the summer? i can't imagine. i'm going home.
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