The Neon Zee

the blog world feels hostile and ridiculous lately. I'll probably start writing more frequently at some point this summer...but for the time being Im trying to avoid anything that could possibly be overwhelming or energy depleting...and focus all my attention and vitality on saving money and calmly appraising my situation...what I can do to improve it, and how I can set myself up with a life that will allow me to keep writing. This stage is crucial. 

so the last thing i want is some abstract internet allegiance to interfere with the state of mind i need to cultivate to prepare for the inevitable decade of writing rejections.  

my biggest weakness is fear of rejection...so im just going to practice being rejected with grace until i've perfected it...and maybe once or twice, I won't need that skill. and thats all I ask for. 

In the time being, basketball is the most numbing form of entertainment because it either makes you proud or angry. never sad. and the dudes are tall, broad, sexy and arrogant. which is always my favorite. 

 On Poems about Trees

 

a girl sees a tree

thinks she's a tree

a tripping girl eats sun and drinks water,

thrusting her fingers into the air like weather vain receptors. 

a boy contemplates a tree,

either cutting it down, or climbing it.

 

they all have faces.

some speak.  

some are twined with snakes,

hung with apples.

 

comfortable 

 

SEXYYYY

NO SERIOUSLY

One more cup of coffee for the road...

I. Hate. Saying. Goobbye.

 

also hate being left....but I'd rather stay here for 3 months than experience the absolute shock of leaving early...rushing through goodbyes, packing, not tying things up properly....

At this point in my life, if there is something I am actually unquestionably good at, its leaving people and being left.

 

 

anyway. this is shitty. less blog plosts because I don't have internet anymore...trying to actually do reasonable and productive things with my life other than be caught up on every Gray's Anatomy episode to ever pass through the interwebs.... admittedly, I do think blogging is a reasonable and productive use of my time....

Slept a block away from Jon Benet's house last night and nightmares

Dear Baby,

my Jon Benet with hollow plaster cast of my face for a face and naked and carmelized limbs,

melted stump feet,

baby, you were fingerless. 

 

dear baby,

i cast you with a plaster of my yelling face,

dug the jarring mouth into a universe, where, dangling inside, mirrors and plastic classroom globe swings as entrails 

and if someone were to look inside stick their head inside like naughty max who, looking for his parents, stuck his head inside a lion's gaping craw, 

head, stuck inside a howl, would glimpse shards of itself, and moonlight. 

 

dear baby,

your parts are junk stuck together in reverse tin man effect. unbeating, beaten up, scrap metal heart, before it was a heart, discarded piece by rusty piece into a pile the size of a moon crater, a mole of trash on the earth's thrashing face, reverse pockmark filled with what i used to build your heart junk.  

 

dear baby,

at 2am we accidentally, un-ritualistically drove by legendary Jon benet's tudor white picketed rosy bricked home dressed in ivy. grave called home.  home, sweet home, the grave. 

i lit a candle in my heart and for a second was a virgin again. 

the tudor, rumor has it, worming through it, a crawlspace hollow ribbed snake, perhaps digests hardened cobwebs of flesh, America's finest wrought blood blackened bone. ochre dust. 

perhaps he came all over her and all over her like an unkinked garden hose and

perhaps she called him daddy,

we'll never know.

 

dear baby,

last night i dreamt of your sweet face twisted into howl, macabre media clown dressed in that pretty white lace dress. i dreamt in baby talk, foreign language, innocence seduced by black puckered kiss,

his incisors. 

baby,

i built a doll and called it Jon Benet, a sweet name, 

and it had my face. 

college is one of the most mind fuckingly unhealthy  theatricalities i've ever submitted myself to.... on the other hand, now that im without it, 

 

im terrified. just as terrified as my parents, less terrified than a 16 year old girl on her first day of sophomore or junior year of high school, more terrified than a deer in the headlights, less terrified  

 

im elated. 

 

 im fucking stressed out by my demanding family...

 

im depressed

im nervous

im elated

 

 

i can't even remember what last week felt like. and if there is an edge, i've been sitting on it since before i was born as far as i can tell. 

SHOEEEEEEEEEEEEZZZZZZZZZZZZ

secret stripper aspirations revealed in shoe porn spasms

money=i hate it

perhaps charming and seducing a milanese millionaire is the best option

GOOD MORNING CLASS!!! now what did darwin have to say about MONSTROSITAYYYYYYYYYYYY? (or photobooth explosions)

i call this look LITTLE GIRL WITH CRAYONS WHO ALSO ENJOYS DINOSSAUR CARTOON COLOR COOMBINATION

THE FOLLOWIN PICTURE WAS TAKEN cus I thought it would be nice to document this outfit that contains to leather. I was on ambian when it was taken...and i was supposed to be sleeping but instead i foudn the cookie jar/ photobooth application. shoot me. i dont know what i was thinking with these ..but perhaps it was an attempt to show you exactly what a drunk puppy looks like 

see? drunk puppy face. 

this is what a real drunk puppy looks like. he celebrated my 18th bday like a champ. and we're assholes. and yes there is beer in the baby bottle. at 18, not yet capable of the dangers of open cups...wot wot

 

 

aand awkward  spinning obviously...i take my cues from the great and honorable grandma of fashion blogging, Jane Aldridge. if she says spin, we of the broken ankles and fashion forwardness and trot behind flat footed ugly people-ness clan MUST SPIN!

so i span. 

and monday I walk. 

on monday i am walking. the sentence sounds pretty boring and the activity of it looks pretty hot and sticky and drunk and the speakers (except when it was billy collins MF! are always insignificant if not petty and full of propaganda for their o so important fucking fundraiser that will get the nominated for a nobel peace prize (but wont be impressive enough to win)

in other news... now that i've finished bitching about the stupidity of other human beings... you have probably had a nice look at all my narcissistic and stupid "OUTFIT" pictures.

life is rife with hypocrites.

or irony.

or hypocrites. 

or irony

or blatant obnoxious contradiction of oneself for comic purposes?????

 

 

whatever believe it as you will

  i will leave you with this RIFUCKING dick u lous movie made by polly sinclair and winoism. i dont know how you'll feel about me or life or anything at all really, after watching it.

Written in January, edited today

 

                                        The Gordian Scar               

 

        Words that are Band Aids

one day i woke up alive,

serenaded by the white lies of snow music.

 

lying there, i fingered rosary beads of thoughts. strings of words like

                        cryptogram,

 

sunflower,

                                                star.

 

the loose ends of silence were woven into a Gordian knot of thoughts

made only for thinking and the loneliness of knowing

                        nothing.

 

i drew rambling breaths onto the window pane,

wrote my name in the cloud brambles,

watched as it disappeared.

 

breathed hard, again, onto the same whispering spot, again,

again, again--

 

becoming transfixed by the magic madness

of bringing sadness back.

 

 

Healing that is Placebo

in furious prophecies of loathing,

i always thought surgery was placebo,

a concealment of the unfixable— thought it naïve 

to believe in forgeries wrought of a stranger’s ambition,

 

intruding stranger incisions,

strange decisions  made by one who knows nothing

 

of the initial trauma, its breaking strength.

 

and yet,  self will fail

to attach back to hostile self.

 

 

            A Different Kind of Breaking

she could never look directly at him,

but cast two shadows, sometimes more.

sometimes it was like a dial of dimness,

a dying star of sunflower shaped shadow.

 

sometimes something breaks for reasons not love,

sometimes its lack of love, the unspoken

 

intrusion, strange

rip of incision, slow

 

boiling of body down to its husk, petrification

making raisin of human heart,

 

black hole,      

            dry rattling flower,     

                        cryptogram.

 

Gordian body of knots

must be cut.

“Productive imagination is the center in which the universal and being, one's own and what is picked up, internal and external, are completely welded into one.”


-the lovely Hegel

Classic...

"I will laugh whenever I damn well please. even if its at a knock knock joke. Those bitches are classic."

-monika abraham

I got the time but the time don't pay

heres the thing, am i going to be able to work all day and have the energy to come home and write or read or continue studies? 

Sam can do it. 

I think I can do it too. 

not sure. haven't written much of anything in a month-- and that scares me.