Plathological

"no purchase necessary," complete sentences

All is well between again, face to face, eye to eye. Patched, triangular. We cried at intervals last night, wept, no furniture--packed, given away, their walls white again--painted over: 3 am, 4 am, 5 am, 6 am. This is so hard, you guys. This is so hard. But hey: New Life. New Life. Finally leaving I said, You're both prophets. I said to them, I mean it. The two of them standing there together in the hall entrance, how goodbye is, primal grace, mechanisms of an animal trap. I said everything I ever needed to say, hearing and then knowing everything I ever needed to know about anything. A couple of hours later, I guess, they were on their bus, heading East, then gone, bravely. I walked home singing Morrissey's saddest aloud, my voice joyful, sometimes crying. I'm happy. I'm bittersweet happy for everyone. We all know these past three years have defined a time and place so strongly most any detail from any day can be recalled like sudden rain on crystal. I've never watched two people evolve more gracefully, I've never evolved with more intent and heart. But this city can't contain us. This isn't a place to jump from, it's for groundwork only. You would have died here. Small, small place. Deep-set, pervading the mind. You'll always have my continual support in anything you may do. This is a network. I wrote in December that my mind is one in a series and that much has been made clearer than ever. I went home and wrote a poem. Then went to two three hour long classes, unshowered, wearing the same clothes, smeared make-up and dirty hair I've been wearing night and day for days and days. I wish for eloquence, in anything, the slightest expression, but it's finally, finally quiet here and every word escapes me from exhaustion--the past two weeks have been---devastating, intense, incredible, all defining, and the biggest possible comfort. My head collapses, I've never been so grateful that this love exists. I've already said everything. I don't want to taint it by repeating it on here. Or maybe I don't have the capacity. Sleep for the first time in a long time tonight. I feel relieved like I've returned from a funeral, the last rites. I can crumple softly now, hands held, promises kept. We're spreading across the globe. Revolution. Yes, you are. I'm listening hard. I was listening hard today: Doomsday playing in headphones and the wind so strong it lifted my arms to my shoulders. It actually happened. It must have looked like I was flying, about to take off, black eyes, diamonds and everything that follows.

over.//over & over [POW! POW! POW! POW! POW! POW! POW! POW! POW! POW! POW! POW! POW! POW! POW! POW!]

my obsession

Grass

Animal Collective - Grass

i was walking on feet
just like my fathers
and my knees were trying to reach you
at your mothers
cause my nose was screaming that you
smelled like a lover
but my hands were happy to treat you
like a brother then

we do the dance up on the plains
then i shake your shoulders
you push me down into the grains
who rubs our noses in the night? we do we do

pow pow now now pow pow now now

ive been into the plants and simple treasures
and i sew patches on pants and i get pleasure
and i dont make particular plans
cause they dont matter
if you keep on foolin in bed
with my sleeping patterns

we do the dance up on the plains
then i shake your shoulders
you push me down into the grains
who rubs our noses in the night? we do we do

pow pow now now pow pow now now

Whats with all the changes since the time i was aware
its like the apple eating people that we once were arent there
Did they empty out their pockets and debase their younger faces and you must make sure your happy when you leave your summer places

pretty little femur sitting in my cherry dream boat
id be sad if your rejected from my hip bone and my knee
if i sailed away from continents and touched my lovers hair then
you'd be very happy if i touched her there

pretty little femur sitting in my cherry dream boat
id be sad if your rejected from my hip bone and my knee
if i sailed away from continents and touched my lovers hair then
you'd be very happy if i touched her there
i was very nervous how i felt in there
i was very cautious what'd you say hey there
would you like to see me often
though you dont need to see me often
cause i'd like to see you often
though i dont need to see you often

we do the dance up on the plains
then i shake your shoulders
you push me down into the grains
who rubs our noses in the night?

door shaking, weather

I can’t be more sorry that this lifetime has played such a cruel trick on us. We have our test tubes because of the growths on our spines, the red colours of our buildings that don't burn, a held space for cures when I used to cut my own hair, examining its ends. You’re made of stone, they say, you’re a destroyer. Repeat after me. And I do, I play along, wishing I knew what I was saying. Since I’m not sure what these equations mean, yearly, my life one false arrest after another, clumps of my hair filling the black garbage bag, the remainder clogging the sink for weeks, and the next second I'm told I'm unrecognizable without my black eyes. So It's the season, they say the season has been unkind, marking such anniversaries, a block of time threatening to rip your file folder apart. Green Grass of Tunnel, & I shut my eyes

I met this guy - and he looked like he might have been a hat check clerk at an ice rink. Which, in fact, he turned out to be. And I said: Oh boy. Right again. Let X=X. You know, it could be you. It's a sky-blue sky. Satellites are out tonight. Let X=X. You know, I could write a book. And this book would be thick enough to stun an ox. Cause I can see the future and it's a place - about 70 miles east of here. Where it's lighter. Linger on over here. Got the time? Let X=X. I got this postcard. And it read, it said: Dear Amigo - Dear Partner. Listen, uh - I just want to say thanks. So...thanks. Thanks for all the presents. Thanks for introducing me to the Chief. Thanks for putting on the feedbag. Thanks for going all out. Thanks for showing me your Swiss Army knife. and uh - Thanks for letting me autograph your cast. Hug and kisses. XXXXOOOO. Oh yeah, P.S. I - feel - feel like - I am - in a burning building - and I gotta go. Cause I - I feel - feel like - I am - in a burning building - and I gotta go. [Laurie Anderson, Let X=X]

gathered things

My house has a first aid kit too--a square tin box with handles, and inside it the usual gauze, bandaids shaped to fit curves of body, its leaking contours of betrayal. Ultimately, you've lost me to your threat; I'm not calling your bluff. They have it on record that I've called another's and now they question me when I lean into their car window and say I'm a witness. What I�m saying is goodbye, thank you for keeping me such good company for so long. You�ve given me everything to look back on and objects to put on my wall. Keep yourself, keep yourself, keep yourself, looking back fondly on every quote Morrissey ever gave the world, the one where he says he's never been so betrayed by the last person on earth, the other that describes how you called his family�s honour into question after they paid your way home with change to spare, the one on loop that I selfishly sing along to, united, taken over.

finding the lost and found

play it again, glue the labels on tight, tight. claim you can levitate, and, failing that, say you've always been able to fit into closed spaces. this will all become a story told in another context or, failing that, a goodnight kiss under high lights. you'll only tell it to the right people. people who don't have to say much when you tell it, people who nod, and nod, let you keep your words, trailing off about the heating bill, brassy tones in colour, and sound a few shades off, no simple pleasures.

Haro Montreal!

You Should Learn French

C'est super! You appreciate the finer things in life... wine, art, cheese, love affairs. You are definitely a Parisian at heart. You just need your tongue to catch up...

manwomanman

Woman: "I mean, what kind of person marches their daughter into their sixth grade class and announces that their daughter just ate a whole chicken? Who does that? I never forgave her for that."

this is amazing.

i.e.:

Artist guy: C'mon honey, I'll draw your picture, make you look like Chewbacca.

--Times Square

Hobo: I got one thing to say to you: "Thank you." And...I got two things to say to you: "Thank you" and "Flame on!"

--F train

Doorman #1: You know what I get to do with her? Besides cuddle, I mean. You know what I do?
Doorman #2: What?
Doorman #1: I get to expose my penis to her.

--43rd & 5th

so tired, pacos. so, so tired. but happy, or at least pleased.

process

Hi. I've been writing a story all day. Therefore, I have been at my computer all day. Except for that hour where I decided to take a break and prostrated myself under micro fleece on my couch, devastated over sentence structure and how can I write this story it's too much emotion I should just drop out I obviously can't hack it blah blah etc., and Jaxon comes home, with his fucking sister to show me his new suit and I don't even get up, I just sort of weakly gaze up at him, eyes barely focusing, and say, Oh, cool, and hide my whole body, head included, under what's left of the blanket. Grunge rock blasting by the speaker over my head. From what I was able to see before I submerged myself facedown into my rabbit hole (which wasn't much, since the only light on in the place glimmered faintly from my desk lamp), his sister seemed kind of freaked out--there are overflowing ashtrays and loose papers all over the floor. What the fuck, I said I needed The Whole Day. At least he left quickly. Very, very quickly. Whatever. Everyone thinks I'm a fucking lunatic and I really have nothing to say for myself. Like: he comes home at my dizziest point?? I didn't even have the strength to glare. I hope I have the strength to finish this story. I've written a lot (2000 words or so) and, for the first time in a long, long time, the character's main focus are her emotions.

I only found the last part of the meme interesting:

IN THE LAST 48 HOURS, HAVE YOU...
69) Cried: wept in front of a group, though silently heaving.
70) Bought : curried prawns at the Tapas Bar.
71) Gotten Sick: no
72) Sang: along with Marianne Faithful's Broken English.
74) Wanted To Tell Someone You Liked them: so: no.
75) Met Someone? no
76) Moved On: (hell) no
77) Talked To Someone: Yes.
78) Had A Serious Talk: Yes. (timely question!)
79) Missed Someone: Yes.
80) Hugged Someone: Yes.
81) Yelled at Someone: No. I don't have the voice for it.
82) Kissed someone: Yes.
83) Prayed to God: I can’t remember.
84) Have you ever been heartbroken: currently am. story writing zeros me down to smallest details, their nuances.
85) Do you like the way things are right now? I don't have a choice: these are the last days. I have to like them, how their seconds are, broken down.

This poem is PERFECT. I wish I had written THIS POEM.

"the quiet world", by jeffrey mcdaniel

in an effort to get people to look
into each other's eyes more,
the government has decided to allot
each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.

when the phone rings, i put it
to my ear without saying hello.
in the restaurant, i point
at chicken noodle soup. i am
adjusting well to the new way.

late at night, i call my long-
distance lover and proudly say:
"i only used fifty-nine today.
i saved the rest for you."

when she doesn't respond, i know
she's used up all her words,
so i slowly whisper i love you,
thirty-two and a third times.
after that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.

sharing pictures

Moments, too, can be clumsy: it's an interesting time we live in--our bodies can tell us we're still inside. A photo of you, beside your younger sister, rests in my flat palm, both your eyes stare in the same direction, what you see almost pushing you to profile, a praline in my mouth. I'm looking at this image of you, and it looks away, elsewhere. It will never look back. When the shutter dropped, what you saw was out of view--the camera tells us nothing, You guys look like you've been through taxidermy, I say. Your faces, white as a conspiracy theory, glint up at me; whatever it was you saw, it held you there. Other than that, I don't need any more compliments, not in this lifetime, oh no. Last night you said, If you and Madonna were having a war. A war of outfits, she would just look at yours, and crumble like Dorothy's Witch. Her outfit wouldn't stand up to yours. You'd win, hands down. The outfit is just too great. Now this, coming from a gay man, has, frankly, single-handedly eliminated my need to ever be complimented again. All other compliments given me will crumble in fear, shame and inadequacy, like Dorothy's Witch. Hands down. Though, I can't believe you said that: I've never blushed so hard in my life. (!)

ps,

"Words", Anne Sexton

Be careful of words,
even the miraculous ones.
For the miraculous ones we do our best,
sometimes they swarm like insects
and leave not a sting but a kiss.
They can be good as fingers.
They can be trusty as the rock
you stick your bottom on.
But they can be both daisies and bruises.

Yet I am in love with words.
They are doves falling out of the ceiling.
They are six holy oranges sitting in my lap.
They are the trees, the legs of summer,
and the sun, its passionate face.

Yet often they fail me.
I have so much I want to say,
so many stories, images, proverbs, etc.
But the words aren't good enough,
the wrong ones kiss me.
Sometimes I fly like an eagle
but with the wings of a wren.

But I try to take care
and be gentle to them.
Words and eggs must be handled with care.
Once broken they are impossible
things to repair.

CANADA POST CANADA POST CANADA POST

my one wish right now is to blast New Order's Jetstream and dirty dance with someone as if I just got out of a wheelchair: while acting out the words. A lot of finger motions, in the air. Oh, man. In other news that's along that particular tangent:

Matt's coming back tomorrow!!
Matt�s coming back tomorrow!!
Matt�s coming back tomorrow!!
Matt�s coming back tomorrow!!
Matt�s coming back tomorrow!!
Matt�s coming back tomorrow!!
Matt�s coming back tomorrow!!
Matt�s coming back tomorrow!!
Matt�s coming back tomorrow!!
Matt�s coming back tomorrow!!
Matt�s coming back tomorrow!!
Matt�s coming back tomorrow!!
Matt�s coming back tomorrow!!
Matt�s coming back tomorrow!!
Matt�s coming back tomorrow!!
Matt�s coming back tomorrow!!
Matt�s coming back tomorrow!!
Matt�s coming back tomorrow!!
Matt�s coming back tomorrow!!
Matt�s coming back tomorrow!!
Matt�s coming back tomorrow!!
Matt�s coming back tomorrow!!
Matt�s coming back tomorrow!!
Matt�s coming back tomorrow!!
Matt�s coming back tomorrow!!
Matt�s coming back tomorrow!!
J-E-T (J-E-T)
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
J
E
T

Emily is so pretty!!

Graeme

Emily & Graeme

the last roll--Jeremy and a girl I do not know

When the routine bites hard

I've been tended to, honestly and with heart. I don't think it's that difficult, just: making me interested in speech, fitting into my spectrum--mostly late nite, when everything has always refused to shut down. I could be more verbose, but: thank you, it was a pleasure, you're truly kind, a joy. When I'm talking to you, I don't have to ask myself who ARE these people?--at least not in a way that frustrates, makes me shell myself. Stayed up until five in the morning last night with peppermint tea and cookies, talking about Ian Curtis's stillborn art, songs part of childhood sleep, spaces between stairs that allow you to lie flat on your belly and look at the action bellow, the nature of siblings, the nature of flipping. I went to bed with an open window, and there were wind chimes, somewhere in the centre of the building, my only view, a storm well on its way to stepping inside, walking in on me as I took puns seriously by shifting context on the page under the orange glow of the duck lamp's illuminated wings. Stormy weather, it stayed during morning, my too strong coffee, my gratitude, selection of songs. Nights like that don't come often, though they used to happen more, with desperate, though quiet, regularity. What I mean by that is: clarity, sitting on my tailbone again, the days at hand:

Mother, I tried, please believe me
I'm doing the best that I can
I'm ashamed of the things I've been put through
I'm ashamed of the person I am

Isolation, isolation, isolation, isolation, isolation. [J.D.]

___________________________________________________________________

ps,

so, apparently, a few nights ago, at four-thirty in the morning: THERE WAS AN EARTHQUAKE IN THIS CITY AND I WAS TOO BUSY WRITING LUNATIC POETRY WITH THEMES TOUCHING UPON THE INCREASING ASSIMILATION OF PRACTICALITY THROUGH HISTORY & PHYSICAL GRAVITY//THE GRAVITY OF A SITUATION=THE NON-EXISTENCE OF CENTRIFUGAL FORCE TO EVEN NOTICE. Holy shit, NEWS TO ME. EARTH TO CAROLINE, EARTH TO CAROLINE, WE'RE SO NOT GETTING THROUGH HERE. Jaxon says the imagery in my poem means: your wounds will go unclean, your body will turn to scurvy. That's where all the animals come from, rebirth of the natural earth, the central point of origin. There really is no other past. ok. ok. He's been reading too much Schopenhauer. ok.

starting slowly

1) Come along now, it's a condition, the space of the head when it means to look at you more--not possible to put a telephone down loudly; it isn't meant to carry anymore sound. We're inclined, quiet thoughts of each other, dreaming of a city's waste-dump, only later, in waking conversation, realizing this is where all the garbage goes, piled, things fly out of it when we turn around to leave back the way we came, and our tenses shrivel. They say Virgina Woolf was brave; she saved herself from a war, locked stones into her pockets. She was an excellent swimmer. She was fifty-nine; these people are children, anvils, meet, incidentally, under the awnings of a supermarket, each not knowing where the other came from (the floorboards, Noah's Ark), what the other is picking up--fruit, cottonballs, talk about tax forms in their sleep, it changed a moment: that's what I'm saying, once you have all the information filled in . . then you can go at a walking pace, position your hand like a floating seahorse, always upright, ready with the waves, tail curled around seabottomed weeds.

2) Come along now, it's the space of each other, a condition, dreaming of a city's waste-dump, and our tenses shrivel. They say war, locked stones into awnings of a supermarket, floorboards, Noah's Ark. The other once went at a walking pace-- position when it means to look at you isn't meant for conversation, realizing this is where we turn her around from an excellent swimmer. She was fifty-nine; these people are cottonballs, talking about tax forms in their sleep, like a floating seahorse, always upright, ready with more--not possible to put a telephone down loudly; its thoughts garbage, and it goes, piled, things fly out of the way we came, her pockets. She wasn't meant to look down loudly, carry anymore dreaming of a city's wastedump. Noah's talk of tax forms and they met, incidentally, under the process of picking up--fruit (changed a moment): that's what I'm saying, you're the waves, tail curled around seabottomed weeds. The head carrying any, or more sound. We're inclined, quiet only later, in waking to leave back to Virgina Woolf, was brave; she saved some sleep, children, each not knowing where the other came from having all the information filled in . . then the hand a city's floorboard, knowing a condition, and our tenses picking up.

3) Come along now, it's a means of looking at you more--isn't meant to carry anymore sound. Dreaming of a city's waste-dump, only later, all the garbage goes, piled, things fly to leave back the way we came, saying Virgina Woolf was brave; she saved her pockets. She was an excellent anvil, meeting, incidentally, under tax forms, which talked about quiet in their sleep, saying, once you have all the weight and information, go at a walking pace, position your readiness with the waves, tail curled around condition, the space of the head when possible, putting a telephone down loudly. We're inclined, quiet thoughts of each other, in waking conversation, realizing this is where we�re out of it-- when we turn around her tenses, and our pockets shrivel. Herself from a war, locked stones--she was fifty-nine; these people are children, a supermarket, each not knowing, it changed a moment: I'm filled in . . then you�re a means to look the way we came like a floating seahorse, always upright, seabottomed weeds. Position, you�re ready with the head when possible to put a telephone down in waking conversation, realizing this is where out of it shrivels sound, things fly, leave back to anvils.

4) Come along now, it�s a waking conversation, realizing this talk�s audible around an excellent swimmer, a supermarket. Walking always meant to carry them from pockets. These people are talk, you have all the information, the space, what the other is picking up--fruit, ready with the waves--we�re not inclined, when we turn Virgina Woolf was brave. She was pace, coming to pick things up. Pace, position your seabottomed weeds. Possible to put a telephone sound for picking up later. She was knowing of Arks, cottonballs, changed a moment that's curled, piled, things fly out of our tenses-- children, anvils, the floorboards, Noah's hand like a floating seahorse, quiet thoughts of the awning. Then you�re upright, looking down loudly: a city, we came around condition, a war, tax forms in their locked stones, filled.

5) Herself a war, when possible to put a telephone down to shrivel and other information comes about the waves.

6) She saved herself from an excellent swimmer.

haha, I just stole this photo from Amelia's lj. STOLE it, bitch: STOLE IT. Too Funny, from the "hot hot blow" party.

What did Nietzsche tell you? What did he SAY?

Whatever. You went to see The Arcade Fire, had an "edgy" abortion, and, while thinking about your life-long affinity with Debbie Harry’s various presentations--she does vocals, you cut your own hair with a razor because no salon in town would comply with your split-end vision of yourself---do it yourself, fucking-post-anti-feminist-feminist-creep. “Are we still all cool with Trent Reznor,” you say. Whatever. Whatever. Your fashion references karen o, like every other bitch whose fashion references karen o. You're too stupid to have any facial expressions. I don’t even know what side or pixel of irony you’re on anymore--you’ve crossed some line, become some sort of anaemic, bunny-eared manifestation that I’m too fucking tired to even try to classify anymore--the bunny is brown, the dj hanged, the afternoons alcoholic not that you would have any sense. I CAN’T DEAL WITH ALL THESE HYPHENS ANYMORE. You took polaroids of everything. There are blossoms and "cute shoes" in every.single.one. whatever. Rot in hell, become an intern, flip through the latest Japanese issue of Vogue on your coffee break, pirate the latest version of Dreamweaver, work your way up--get away from me, kiss the boyz, write with no-caps and really tiny, unreadable font because you have nothing to say, make a crappy zine littered with line art--kitten, bitch.

the lighting + my film = a slightly irritated caroline

This just thrills me.

>

Kate, Godfrey, Xavier

Xavier & Emily on Saturday

"snacky-snacky, filmy-filmy!" (a quote from me, LIKE IT OR NOT)

--The scissor sisters cover of Take Me Out is so great! (I think better than original).
--I need to stop listening to it. It's keeping me happy. Or: giddy. The kind of thing I should drink to--alone.
--I have rolls of film to pick up tomorrow morning before poetry workshop!
--Watched Hedwig for the I-don't-know-what-time today.

Now, for something along all those mentioned lines.

In this country the poet has always had to fight for his survival. He lives in a middle-class milieu whose values of money-getting, respectability, and success are hostile to the kind of integrity and authenticity that is at the core of his endeavour. His need to probe himself makes him an easy victim for those who have more practical things to do--to hold down a job, amass a fortune, or to get married and raise children. His concern is to change the world; at any rate, to bear witness that another besides the heartless, stupid, and soul destroying one men have created is possible. Irving Layton

i want to sneak a bird into this apartment, for flight

"I am a romantic with a sense of irony." Layton

1. Irving Layton is gone.

2. just keep driving

i have my moments of terrorism, usually after i've been terrorized

time is moving so fast, & for once fast seems the proper pace, in-step, and it's comforting--a race (a movement/direction, & a people); I have to unpack in one large increment, though i've been doing it in several.

i have lumpfish caviar; i have loose leaf earl grey--it helps me wake up, dense rye. today i'm asking you to make the strangest face you can, in the mirror. i'm lowering myself to dispensing assignments. it's humbling, mostly because it expresses my need, shows you what i see.

raincount converted

there is no part of me that understands any part of Air Canada. as a company they seem either all too streamlined or entirely too disconnected in levels of operation, what each employee is attempting to represent. It's an uncomfortable individualization that mimics, on a microcosmic scale, the operations of this entire country. Flying with them makes me uneasy, displaced, disjointed, and (either) more, or less, like myself. it's like voting Liberal (you fucking useless pansy). i mean, hey: did you grow up middle class? because, if you did, i would have been very uncomfortable having dinner at your house while growing up. i would have spent the whole time trying to pick up a scent. your mother would have been the last person i would ever trust. all middle class mothers have short hair. my mission, in life is death to the middle class mother, the one demographic that does more harm to this society than any other. they act by being acted upon--the absolute worst type of mystification, carrying on. in terms of the roles they COULD play, they keep fucking up, fiddling around subversion, logic, understanding and joy with political correctness, intimately chatting, "confiding" with you about your bra size, how important, GROUNDBREAKING, EARTHSHATTERING your first period is--MUST BE, and it's not charming, it's not Desperate fucking Housewives. How can it be so entertaining? they tell you to hold your head up high and it ruins you: IT RUINS YOUR THIRD EYE. They have no concept or understanding of the life they chose--no one who drives you to soccer practice in a car that bubble square ugly, who suggests you wear something sequined, shiny, and pastel to prom night, and who pays that much at a salon for highlights that look that awful on her has any concept of the kind of life she chose and what that means, on a basic level of a joyful, fully functioning, Duende based society. what I'm trying to say is: I've gained some perspective, of the district, the slits between my toes. My lips have never been so chapped. They're so stained with blood and what appears to be nicotine brown that it looks like I'm wearing a classy, mauve lipstick. it's made me break out the hairspray again. now you tell me why I don't sleep anymore. not only at night, but ever. It could be because the only person I really trust is myself. my father would have let me sleep an extra hour; he wouldn't say it was good for me, but that he couldn't bare to wake me. a middle-aged British gentleman brought me my luggage. I then dipped my apple slices into hot sauce, thyme honey, and the company line.

my parents would only kill me if they knew

my parents seemed to have really dug the coveralls

me and my father in Turkey.

mom (Turkey, 1984)

me and my mother (Turkey, 1984)

me with my first boytoy (age two)--I forced him to switch toys with me