"In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong"
--D.H. Lawrence.
"Just as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the selfsame sounds
On my spirit make a music too.
Music is a feeling, then, not sound;
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,"
--Wallace Stevens.
"I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind."
--Anne Sexton.
The Heart
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter--bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."
--Stephen Crane
yay to morbidity. please read the rest of sexton's her kind and steven's peter quince at the clavier. they are so good. like avril's complicated good. the d.h. lawrence one is only eh but those lines are sweet and maudlin. thespark.com says i am 87% likely to write poetry. it also says to "please, for the love of God, stop now." ha ha i defy you personality test! you claim that eileen wu and i are a mere 66% and we are obviously somewhere in the 89th percentile. some of these are dedicated to an old geek i fell for but i dont really know if the geek is there anymore...some are for joyce carol oates. because she is bitter and because she is my heart.
Blog - 7:35 PM
because i have no self to write of, my writing betrays me.
quick quick hurry hurry let it out before they traverse america and get to a computer on the other coast on three wheels and a burgundy door taken from a broken-down jetta at the pick'n' pull with my letter stuck in between a pile of screeching weasel records and a beat happening tribute album that might have been your birthday singing had you not already sung. its like that wallflowers song...
so there was this other party and i guess i tried to go but i couldnt because at five o'clock in the afternoon with only one and a half hours left maybe two if we stopped for cigarettes and a cool drink at the roxy market (which we did) your expression turned dark and stormy at the stupid friendster screen of the lawrence lab and the forecast was not so good at the prospect of a night in san francisco. which i get. fully. but. i didnt go to oregon. and it didnt even matter if i went or not it was already changed. or thats what you say. and how could your best friend and your secretary be worng? unless of course well nevermind. really i dont care really. oh poo i am still mad at you sen. you are a terrible meddler it really was my own fault but my hand was a broken drawbridge that night and you picked it up and affixed it to such wrong wrong scaffolding the rest of the already uneven planks fell so easily. there was about five seperate moments when you regretted it i remember: when you pulled my pigtail in the hot dusty sunshine of the truck, when you watched me try my first taste of birds nest and laughed so hard at my disgust, when i squirted the slimy liquid silicone all over the bottlecap shaking as hard as my smile was wide and dropping the glass container in the gutter us clutching our sides, when you kissed my forehead, always when you kiss my forehead you know that thats why you do it so little traitor, when you tried on that funny tan striped golf shirt i didnt care so much for and admitted yes i just got it, in london, do you like it? but perhaps these signs are just me building my flights of fancy. i had never been jealous of anyone before until nedelle. naph maybe for a twirl but now natalie and all the other n's of the world: the nancys and natashas and nicoles and naomis and noras and nedras and nikkis need i say more i feel empty and drained now. i wish you had a home now so i could curl up next to that crook underneath sheets softened with the bounce that still scents the dreams i have of summer and laden with the fruits of fall. your words fall like plump plums on the floor for me to chew. ps i still like blogging
Blog - 7:16 PM
