Plathological

substitutions--nobag

1) "If I had no feelings, I could become the most intelligent woman on earth. As soon as I am cool, my vision becomes acid and scathing." (Anais Nin)

2) "The morning I got up to begin this book I coughed. Something was coming out of my throat: it was strangling me. I broke the thread which held it and yanked it out. I went back to bed and said: I have just spat out my heart." (Anais Nin)

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a pack of cards--shuffled earlier, a rolled tube of shoeglue, just the graphics: syringe as exclamation point, the number one stuck to my wall--a neon green digit that used to be part of a rather high price, removed from the windshield of a car waiting to be sold. Spending a bit of time lowering the boiling point of water. I’m at a stage in my life where people who can‘t spell are no longer charming, or even infantile--pasta absorbing to weakness, sliding down the sides of the pot. I find overcooked noodles pleasant when they’re served with nothing, memories of broken transmission. Hot, soft food. My favourite desert is wild rice pudding, or something with caramelised pears and some sort of nut. My favourite main courses all contain ginger, or an obliterating spiciness, my favourite come ons subtle and dangerously precise, untouchable. I like making conscious decisions about what to do, what to say. It makes life so much more calculating, by default, deference. Like: I make the decision to make leather suspenders from this object. I make the decision to wear them home under my coat. Or, rather, my laziness does. I make the decision to suddenly be all into suspenders because they remind me that I actually have breasts by trailing over top of them. I’ve come to the decision that if you’re not hot enough to pull off suspenders, then you’re not really hot. Suspenders, I feel, are the ultimate test of one's true hotness. We're scientists. I mean that coldly, with volume control, intimate, and sometimes awkward, lyrics.

Oh, and fucking Matt. You cunt! Putting a beautifully remixed version of my favourite Smiths’ song onto a mixed CD and cunningly calling it Track five (unless it's actually called "Track Five," which is not only a let-down, but outright retarded, I'm sorry). Did I even tell you that was my favourite song by them? If not, then: (I feel) it encompasses how I feel on a daily basis, christ/twelvesideddie. My hate for you consumes me. Anyway, to illustrate: I listened to it when I got home and had a good time weeping. And I do mean good time, weeping.

Posted by caroline at December 8, 2005 2:29 AM