| life |
[04 Jul 2008|11:37am] |
furious.fuck.ferocious.fire.first.fuck.fist.form.follow.fuck.
Your life pisses me off.
Reality?
Not a chance.
Watered down life.
Fucked down life.
Your life is screaming without lips. Chewing without teeth.
|
|
| the way I am |
[14 Jun 2008|05:57pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 blank |
] |
My cheeks got sun burned. We talked about weddings.
I want to be talking to someone interesting.
I want to be other than. If you know what I mean.
I want to be nothing.
This is the way I am.
|
|
| forget? |
[03 Jun 2008|11:33am] |
I started an entry in the middle of my shift and then I was like oh shit.
And then I was like oh shit?
Emery was talking to me last night... it was flashing brightly in the back yard. We knew he would die that night. And it made no sense to either f us. All of the sense that I had was clear mucus out of his 90 yr old nose.
Serena looked at me this morning and said that death was in the air. I have never really seen death. I am so alone in this fake black bubble.
yucK i hate writing like this.
I made a list of all the dogs I could remember ...
I wondered how many I had forgotten about until I called them with my pen.
Sometimes in order to remember we MUST forget.
Today sucks. Really.
|
|
| Supplement-Creative Writing Piece |
[21 Apr 2008|07:29pm] |
I have worked most of my life to get to know my parents, except for those periods when I wished I didn’t know them at all. Most of the time self referentially, rarely even wanting to understand them other than in reference to myself. I have searched, and struggled and fought and waited, and I have come up with ways of thinking about them that may not be factually true. How strange it is to dream of childhood and wake up an adult, to realize that the names populate our consciousness now—including our own –will one day be names from the past.
This story is sick and dripping on the ceiling, it is tired of being told. It glares at me and kicks me in the back if I mention its name, snarls and closes its swollen eyes. If I could I would eat this dark story: Sit down at the kitchen table. I would fold this story neatly into the center of my plate. I would slice it up into a hundreds of oily little pieces. I would put every little morsel into my mouth. I would bite through this story's patchwork wings. I would gnaw on its inky heart. I would even chew its long fingernails. This is no supplement.
I used to get night terrors when I was little. I lived in the highest bedroom in a homemade house. My mother had just re married, a 56 year old who loved gold plated fixtures, silence, and fly-fishing. He looked flushed and nervous constantly, giant bug glasses that would never look my way. I had a bad bob haircut then, and Rob, that was his name, made me painful aware of my re semblance to my younger brother. There are some things I will never even in adulthood understand. He never tried to talk to me, he knew that I could reach up, grab his hair and ears and tell him that I knew. I always knew.
He built the house in the ground alone. Alone with his pink skin the mud; he never intended to share it with anyone. It had three levels, ski lodge looking wood work, mismatched paint colors, walls un finished in places My terrors started in this house, Rob was in basement all the time, he moved with a slime down the stairs, I knew nothing about this man I only knew that he must have done something wrong in that house. Even when I was awake I got the terrors, the windows would shake and fear would stick its ribbon like tongue into my thoughts and dreams. Rob’s hair would find its way into my food and his fingernails would claw into my legs in the middle of the night. They got married by a lake in the mountains, I cried in my bob that day even as a kid I could understand that Rob would be a character in the dream of my life and he could not be removed or changed. I have virtually no memories of him whatsoever but this day on the lake when he looked over his glasses I could see his every wickedness.
Me and my mother have always been strangers-I am convinced she was driving across the desert on a cloudy day and saw me staggering across the road. She rolled down her window and I awkwardly sat in the passenger seat. We had nothing but our hauntings in common, she locked the doors and I haven’t been able to get out of the car since. I keep watching the gas gauge waiting for her to stop. We have been running on EMPTY for so long. I could really go for some Corn Nuts. She tells me to dig DEEP. We moved into the house on the hill after they got married on the lake. I know my mother would never hold my hands when I felt like I was going blind. She was always lost to never self, in her quest to settle her days she terrorized my years. I would lie under the covers sometimes after taking half a bottle of Nyquil and pray for sleep, pray for it to bring me out of the rattling room and into the palm of my father. My mom would have never believed me if I told her what I was afraid of in the house. I could not try and tell her that the walls did have the noise of decades. There where no conversations or prayers in the walls. These walls held nothing and she would never understand. I feel like our life was devoured in those walls and she never tried to write us a new one. Maybe that is why I write, to give us a new life. There are so many lives I could dream for myself, so many stories, so many truths. What happens next, I am waiting for what happens next.
This is no supplement
|
|
| VAST |
[24 Mar 2008|02:47am] |
Tonight on a third story apartment slouching on the couch and laughing till it hurt I thought that I got it.
I can't describe this state. You have no idea.
I ATE queso by the pound and sat in the wind farm and played the most amazing music all night out of your logitech on the floor.
This third story apartment. I want to warm myself again. I want to eat menudo and walk around waterloo records until everyone has gone home.
I WANT TO LEARN TO LOVE YOU MORE.
AND I'M HERE
|
|
| GOOD GETS BETTER |
[05 Mar 2008|11:58pm] |
At the bottom,
I just want to sleep you know? I just wanted to exist in this world where all of my pillows smell like my father. As much as I complain I would love there to be peace. There is so much violence in my life. As the car drives it slices the air and the fire from her womb and the grief in his eyes as he drips over my car seats. I am so tired of being so sick. Sick to myself, sick to you. I am sick of it. It's not boulder, it's my entire universe. It's not this place it's everything that I swear that I forgot and tattooed on my body. I know you want to tell me that I need God. I have been given my own life I have walked through so many doors that God is dipping his fingers into another universe right now.
I have dipped my fingers into YOU and that is all the God I need.
I guess I just want to say that I am sorry for being to ugly lately. So purple and blue, oily and swollen. I feel her organs in my body, stitches down my back from my new kidneys. I want to hold the hands of the men in my life. I want them to know the peace of freedom. I know nothing.
I AM SO TIRED OF LIVING WITH OUR HEARTS IN OUR MOUTHES.
The meaning of life: Chris Mcandless 1992 Diary found at site of death:
- The "great holiness" of the road, the vital heart.
-Positivism, the joy of the aesthetic
- ABSOLUTE TRUTH AND HONESTY
-Reality in every sense of the world.
-Independence
-Finality- stability- consistency
Dear at the Bottom,
I pulled your neck. I can't have you fast enough. I slide over your knees, I see the building burn.
I'm sorry for this ugliness...
|
|
| Off |
[03 Mar 2008|10:19pm] |
Everything is spinning as always. I can't help but feel the pull of his God. I feel his fingers. I feel the lion of his love circling my feet. They say I should take the sword to the lion. He is like velvet , the velvet cat that slept with me last night tore at my arms ripping my tattoo open. I thought he got scared but really I am the only one that is scared. I tried to squeeze and suck the ink out of my arm.
I have spoken more than enough truth for a life time. I want to run. I want to get out. He looks at me everyday and he says Erin, if you need to go. Just go. I feel like he wants me gone. Truth is I have no idea what I want. Not now...not ever. I want my real life to begin or something. I want to feel excited about my life. I don't want to drive him to school while he eats my dads toast and drips honey all over my seats. I am so sick of myself. No colorado, not boulder, not anything just my fucking self.
I want to drink wine and watch Disney movies. I'm off.
|
|
| &*(*&%$%^&*()@#$ |
[25 Feb 2008|11:41am] |
|
I hate money. I really hate money. The world is begging for it.
|
|
| Armstrong |
[21 Feb 2008|11:06pm] |
Do you have any special talents?
Well I am not bad at carpentering. I mean if you give me some tools and a good three weeks I can have your fathers trees out of the ground. I can grind the most beautiful girls into walls and I could hold my hands to god, if you gave me a week. Me and my wife had children on the bayou. Three headed children, two headed children...children in their underwear. The smell of the bayou that summer. The smell was enough to make you realize that you wanted the priest to lie at your funeral. I'm pretty sure he did. So at the end of the day I had no special talents.
I cut the cores out of my apples today. I made triangles under the seeds. They looked like they were meant to be put in someones lunch. Neutered apples; eat up. A weird wretched part of me would give to have my own small eyes looking up at me waiting for cored apples. I read in the news today that some man in Buffalo got his heart cut out by six cab drivers, motions that curve inward as they fall.
When I was 5 I buried all of my Goosbump Books.... They are still in a shopping bad in someones over grown yard.
We lived with a swamp cooler. We live with toy bins right by the front door. Blue carpet and drawn shades. Rugrats and green slime that comes from the ceiling. Door handles to fog horns. My dad smoked every chance he could. he put the butts in this wood bowl that was black with his cherries. I can't find any sign of my mother in the house. She isn't in the crawl space and she isn't in the mint bushes out back. We had a kitchen table and lived down the street from King Soopers where my dad would on the way home pick up toys that were more flammable than playful. I knew even then that there was some sort of pathetic guilt rested in his nights that he be friended the cat at the hotel that my mom forced him to sleep in. We had a swamp cooler and caterpillars in the front yard. They would make there way through the cracks in the doors in the day and roll into my bed at night. I would wake to find caterpillar placenta on my comforter. My father stood on broomstick legs and smelled like incense. He smoked frantically, he burned through the paper of my grade school. I am spinning like a drunk sailor on my bunk bed covered with my old gum. I wonder what we had been fighting for. I knew he was fighting for his life then. I knew he was. Is he fighting. I had dreams of him lighting on fire in his studio and laying with me in my bunk bed until he was nothing but cherries. What do you know anyways about what it is to love when all you are is a product.
Over night he oxidized next to me. Maybe I will see him again in the childhood of the next life.. I can taste the rest even now. I need the answers that I know only you will have. The anger ate the words out of your mouth.
Dear Neil Armstrong,
I write this to you as she sleeps down the hall. When you were a boy and space was as simple as science fiction, when flying was merely a day dream between periods of history and physics. When gifts of moon dust to the one you loved could be wrapped in your imagination. Before the world even knew your fucking name, before it was a destination, what was the moon like from your backyard? Your arm wrapped under her hair. But upon landing, when the earth rose over the sea of tranquility did you look for her? What was it like to see your planet and know that everything you could be, all you could ever love was floating right before you? Did you write her name in the moon dirt when no one was looking. When the cameras were turned..? What words did you use to bring the moon back to her, and what did you promise in the moons ear about the girl back home? I ask you all of this not because I doubt your feat , I just want to know what it's like to go somewhere no man has ever gone just to find that she is not their. To know that your moon walk could never compare to the steps that lead you to her.
Bleh to much. Cigarette. Goodnight livejournal. Just needed to get that out.
|
|
| Win |
[21 Feb 2008|12:04pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 tired |
] |
I need a user pic. I just lifted 70 lbs of books. I have to walk 1 mile to my car after this, then I will eat heavy food like pasta. I will regret it. A lot I bet. I am sitting in front of sexuality watching all of them like hawks. I want to know every last fetish. I want to see the secrets on our oriental rugs.
I am so tired. Physically tired. For the first time in weeks.
I don't think I am going to apply to any contests. Or anything for that matter. I am under the impression there is nothing I could do. Or say to win.
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
|
|
|
|
