i dont know who you think you are...but before the night is through... im going to do real bad things to you
(japanese style)
p.s.
you know you're fucked if...its 2:30 am...you've been trying to go to bed since 12:30 (cus, you know, you're sick) and the ONLY thing thats allowed you to stop coughing between breaths is whiskey AND you didn't figure this out until 2 am.
which is to say, water makes you dry heave but whiskey makes you breathe easy.
terrifying discovery.
so here you are: remnants of bloody makeup, sick as fuck, sipping honey whiskey tea, watching trueblood.
p.p.s.
the other thing you did to make yourself stop coughing is take a shower (STEEEEAAAAM) but then you got bored so you used you left over hair dye to dye your hair red-er. OH ALSO...toe hair. we must not forget that.
mine is now dyed red.
p.p.p.p.s. AND THEN YOU BLOGGED ABOUT IT.
in other news,
happy halloween assholes
Just kidding. I love you all. think happy thoughts for me. Maybe I'll fly. Maybe I'll get better.
either one works.
I feel like i have the plague....but this song is so pretty its easy to forget for 4 minutes (also crying over the really heartwarming/wrenching doctor/patient moments in grays anatomy should be my professional occupation. On average, I burst into tears about 3 times an episode. This is a really fun activity for me...because then I laugh hysterically at myself for being such a sappy ass hole....and, as mentioned, because I have the plague, the laughing turns into hysterical coughing....etc etc etc. IE, im the human sideshow of pathetic bed ridden idiot.)
They caught them. They were sitting at a table in the kitchen. It was early. They had on bathrobes. They were drinking coffee and smiling. She had one of his cigarillos in her fingers. She had her legs tucked up under her in the chair. They saw them through the window. She thought of them stepping out of a bath And him wrapping cloth around her. He thought of her walking up in a small white building, He thought of stones settling into the ground. Then they were gone. Then they came in through the back. Her cat ran out. The house was near the road. She didn't like the cat going out. They stayed at the table. The others were out of breath. The man and the woman reached across the table. They were afraid, they smiled. The other poured themselves the last of the coffee. Burning their tongues. The man and the woman looked at them. They didn't say anything. The man and the woman moved closer to each other, The round table between them. The stove was still on and burned the empty pot. She started to get up. One of them shot her. She leaned over the table like a schoolgirl doing her lessons. She thought about being beside him, being asleep. They took her long gray socks Put them over the barrel of a rifle And shot him. He went back in his chair, holding himself. She told him hers didn't hurt much, Like in the fall when everything you touch Makes a spark. He thought about her getting up in the dark Wrapping a quilt around herself. And standing in the doorway. She asked the men if they shot them again Not to hurt their faces. One of them lit him one of his cigarettes. He thought what it would be like Being children together. He was dead before he finished it. She asked them could she take it out of his mouth. So it wouldn't burn his lips. She reached over and touched his hair. She thought about him walking through the dark singing. She died on the table like that, Smoke coming out of his mouth.
in the spirit of the travolta fever that hit me recently....my sick bed ridden ass chills the fuck out
(I’ve never prayed to god, I believe in the power artful prayer)
Hear me, my friends, for the Olympian sire hath given me pain exceedingly beyond all women who were born and bred in my day.
-Penelope, Book IV, The Odyssey
At sixteen, I began the shroud for you, weaving and unweaving strands of pubescent selves.
Devoutly , we’ve all waited, lonely , and in love with love.
But we become tangled by night horrors
Penelope, wife of Odysseus,
please grant us a stronger voice, the resounding voix de femme,
Athena, armored one, un-tasted feminine,
I am naked, I grow thin, remove the slivered and splayed skins of this wasted girlishness
River Stix, erase us,
Swab the purple fingerprints and foreign sweat with sweet amnesia
Anticlea,
Let there be no consequence, may the spoiled ambrosia dry within us,
Oh Melantho,
They called us “whore,” help us remember what we were before it,
Light footed Nausicaa,
Teach me again to accept a stranger’s smile as polite rapport,
Beautiful Helen,
With bitterness, I beg you for reprisal of power. could the allure of my figure tease the arousal of self righteous browsers,
Our lady of remedies,
Could I ignore the tears ripped by violent extremities though I kept the torn bra and trousers,
Sad Circe,
Make me an island, protect me with pessimism,
Eurymachus, son of Odysseus,
Make us tastefully angry, but oh no! not distastefully man hating,
Silver tongued Odysseus,
Reason with me, let us forget the viciousness kissing can be, unpin me from this bed I did not make, un-sedate the dead in me,
Antinuous, old friend, drunkard, no gentleman after all,
Give me one more reason to decry how uneasily I once freed you from shame. Still, you deceive yourself. Relieve yourself of consequence and conscience. You haunt this place, followed by a rank boozy shadow and wafting breath of slurs, please give me one more reason.
Conniving Eurymachus,
Showerer of praise, for hours you pressed the issue until it became a bed of yes, she must’ve seemed so small impressed there, may you pray this prayer to remains silent. Because otherwise I might kill you.
Poseidon, earth shaker,
Protect my friends, let no more awake in terror beneath the excused blundering of a bender , guide them home, guide them home, guide them home,
Polyphemus,
Within the tomb of my body, my heart beat like a bled sacrifice still living, make me blind as I fade.
Caved Calypso,
Release us from the enslavement of the psyche of brutal lovesickness, Release us
Laertes, father of Odysseus,
Forgive me for my defensive frigidity,
Tiresias,
I forgot the future, let me to listen secretly to your songs of prophecy, beyond yesterday still shocks me
Compassionate Arete,
May I again become gelatin before the smiles of the genuine
Selfless Eumaeus,
Feed us excess without expectance
Zeus, thunder god,
Please, we are home, make us calm again
Shores of Ithaka,
Give back the night to slumber, let us discard the shrouds we’ve woven ourselves,
Hills of Ithaka,
In daylight, may you be green, at night, may you be black without the threat of darkness,
Faithful Argos,
You were young, you hunted, uncouth men kicked you in the absence of your beloved, you grew old, you remained faithful to your lost master, May you rest peacefully.
Penelope, wife of odysseus,
Remind us of your faith again,
How it was woven with the threads of night terror, find the scarred body that belongs to you, return to bed with it,
it is yours again at last.
I believe in artful prayer
But I’ve never prayed to God,
One might pray with the backwash of liquor
For the blackness to come quicker,
But not to god.
I believe in miracle,
But angels are an obstinate obstacle
Of fruition,
Listen, do you want a shimmering thing
To grant you a perfect version of your vision,
Or do you want to earn it?
I believe in intuition
But not in perfect vision-
20/20 is the kind of myth
Optometrists persist in spreading,
And nobody can be bothered to object—
Why should they?
This is America! Money making is money making,
And orgasm faking is orgasm faking,
the trickle down theory suggests a
The greatest benefit from it.
An economical religion of resource division.
we sin, we moan each other’s names,
We all win in the end. We’re in this together
Somewhere underneath the sometimes rainbow
Some say god created
To represent the gays on parade day.
Now, I believe in art,
But I never broke my own heart for it,
Unless you count
the prayers I made as my heart broke,
unless you count the day I picked my broken self up
took a step, made the break worse, glamorized the pain,
perhaps it was on purpose, intended to call forth visions of
my shiny black hearse and piles of flowers because a few hours later,
pen in hand, I prayed a prayer of damnation in poem form
speaking of my damage as though it was the way I was born.
Forlorn, the damaged poet mourns
Damnit,
Slant rhyme, your timings off
I believe in love
But never enjoyed it much
Until my heart broke.
One day you'll wake up and find the cure alone
October 25, 2010
feel like death incarnate. can't look at light or breathe or laugh without cracking a rib or being pierced through the skull with some unearthly witchpower of a migraine.
but so long as there are sparkly items to deck myself with and cigarettes to smoke dramatically as a i gaze SKYWARDS .....life goes on
good luck with finals!
October 24, 2010
i love all the trees around the library. the ones near palmer, like japanese willows, the ones in front, haunted by car headlamps until the silence offered by 2 am.
the only sad thing tonight is that there is no moon visible. no moon caught by branches. no moon peeking from the snow-making clouds.
I can't sing the moon song to no moon.
and so I'm kind of like
instead of writing my paper
which is a shitty little three page thing about a poem i hate. I hate writing about poems I hate. but I think that'll make my paper better in this case.
I don't understand passionless people. Sometimes being in the library really confuses me because people have conversations about work they don't really care about. Not all, but some.
I guess i've just spoiled myself with this creative writing and philosophy majoring. Next year is going to be a fucking wake up call.
sometimes I get so stuck in my Romantic, silly, sometimes morbidity mongering head with all the poetry that reality is an awful punch to the face.
then I have to look at the trees again.
and there is still no moon so I get sad again.
there is no lasting satisfaction. there is no place between creating and reality that satisfies the creative while simultaneously satisfying the necessity of being present (Except collaborating with people artistically which is alot easier to do through music, theater and visual art, I think.) Its constant jumping out of my head as I habitually and sometimes accidentally sidle into it in order to properly communicate with people or understand a communication. This is silly because I write poetry because my need for communication isn't satisfied by conversation. so maybe this need would be satisfied If I didn't get stuck in the Romantic-ness of poetry all time but instead stayed present in the live communication.
its ridiculous. im ridiculous. I annoy the shit out of myself. No matter how many different genres I outfit myself in I am still the same person. I can't escape myself
so
the outfits and the music help me organize my thoughts, point them in a certain direction. but are also a form of escapism in a sense. choose the perfect music to shape the moment (OH MY AND when it happens by accident, outside of my control, its so beautiful!)
Instead of taking medication or going to therapy, I make identities out of materials. to channel my thoughts into a genre.. and then the music more specifically rechannels the already channeled thoughts into a subject and a movement within the genre. Like a shakespeare play that directs its actors through the rhythm of words. but then speaking always brings elements outside of control- resulting in either something surprisingly spectacular or sadly disappointing.
Mostly, without the organization of channeling or translating (accomplished in an infinite number of ways, but for the sake of brevity, I'm just talking about music and fashion as they're the most obvious to me,) speaking is total chaos or utterly useless. physicality and posture is another means of channeling.
keep the people in your life who inspire the beautiful spontaneous speaking.
just look at the trees, you'll see what Im saying.
sometimes I should shut the fuck up, but mostly I don't know when that is. SOmetimes I Should speak more, but mostly I can't when I should.
Im taking this as my que to stop blogging and continue writing my stupid paper.
i forgot. I can't follow ques. ques make me want to un-queue, to speak out of turn, jump to conclusions, rebel against direction. You know what I'm saying. its along the lines of wanting what you can't have and doing what you shouldn't.
Skywards
dedicated to everybody
A spire portrudes un-shyly skywards
peaking above an old 1920s Colorado Springs Church,
perfect, rococo and autonomous,
a smooth sandstone snake
poking its forked tongue skywards.
I stand
on the grey sidewalk
imagining your smile,
peering at the brilliance of skywards,
and all that stands alone--
spire and smile.
one more thing that makes me crazy on a daily basis:
-do you ever get annoyed at traffic lights and yourself while you're walking in the sense that if you haven't crossed when the sign is stopped red, and instead walk straight because there is no on going traffic on the straight path you feel guilty because you didn't take advantage of the red light because you have to cross eventually anyway and there may not be another red light in the direction you have to cross before you get home? so you might possibly have to wait for 5 seconds in the future ...all this resulting in the incessant compulsion to cross the street if a light is red so you can take advantage of the legality of your walking?
sometimes I miss living on campus for this reason. simpler times, dontchaknow?
-also: sometimes I really enjoy having the right kind of awkward moments with people because I think they're hilarious and kind of cute- but sometimes they just suck.
And Belladonna: most beautiful death in shades of night:
A heart race in which one stops breathing.
beating slows as purple dirge imposes
nirvanic fervor.
And Angel’s trumpet, dewy harbinger of shamanic visions,
taken lightly, a sigh of eternity,
if drunk
heavily, eternally eternity.
I tore stem from root to feed you my poisons,
Your after dinner desert
freckled prickles
and purple and pink pastels.
Pregnant with expiry is my love.
pistols dribble,
begging to be tasted.
And oh to let you suckle, knowing as I do, a single sip might kill my sickness.
I do this once every two years or so, straighten my hair that is. I dress up always obviously because I have a perpetual identity crisis- except today its for the CC halloween party, halloween costume #1 of 2: Satine from Moulin Rouge (a FAVORITE FAVORITE FAVORITE movie.) I've always wanted to dress up like satine...but i've been too scared to. This doesn't do her justice....but someday i'll do it properly.
(PARDON THE GOOFY FACIAL EXPRESSION!!!)
practically all the lyrics from this movie were at some point featured as my ICQ screen names in 7th and 8th grade.... im such a sappy moron (AM and not WAS) WHY LIVE LIFE FROM DREAM TO DREAM AND DREAD THE DAY WHEN DREAMING ENDS? I don't know 13 year old ali answers 21 year old ali.
p.s.
this thing, according to a miscellaneous fashiontwit, IS CALLED A BOYFRIEND BAG.
to which I say
what the fuck?
I "get" the boyfriend pants and the boyfriend shorts and the boyfriends button downs...
but what is the concept behind boyfriend bag??? if a boyfriend had a bag for you to steal it would be red with tassels?????????
im confused. the world is complicated.
life is hard.
and in case you didn't know, grannie panties plus corset plus purple velvet hat plus 30 cent purple walmart netting plus 4 scarves and 3 boas tucked into beaded showboy cummerbund plus red hair dye plus hair straightener= WHORE
in OTHER OTHER NEWS
I realize my thesis book has become a critique of my self and of the undergrad college individual in general (my perspective being representative of that generalized individual.) Its also about the sensitivity and heartbreak and paralysis of growing up...of realizing the critique in moments of simplicity manifested upon reflection.
in other words, we college fuckers are insensitive and sensitive and obsessed with big concepts and ESPECIALLY hedonism.
but we're still good. we're still trying to be good. to be adult. to be sweet to the people we love.
Spent the evening at the poetry reading by (famous poet,) Eamon Grennan and his advanced poetry workshop class...and then drank a bit o wine with my big bro, Sam J....cackling like maniacs whilst composing impromptu limerick poems about beardlessness (which quickly transitioned into a fully backwards conversation that lasted about 40 minutes) (yob oy oy! uoy evol I)
and then two girls from my poetry class came over and we drank more wine. this involved lots of giggling and an intense palm reading session.
(Elizabeth predicted that my favorite tarot card is the hanged man...which is very true and has been true since junior year of highschool. actually, the hanged man as a card by itself is what got me into tarot card reading to begin with. and she also told me that my future is ruled by jupiter...I will have 2 children and the second will take over the world. truth be told, this is kind of scary. But if i can't take over the world, my as well pop out a kid that will, dontyaknow.)
of course, college is the silliest fucking thing imaginable...and just as i begin to really appreciate it, i'll have to leave it behind...as is the case with all good things.
Cold Morning
by Eamon Grennan
Through an accidental crack in the curtain I can see the eight o'clock light change from charcoal to a faint gassy blue, inventing things
in the morning that has a thick skin of ice on it as the water tank has, so nothing flows, all is bone, telling its tale of how hard the night had to be
for any heart caught out in it, just flesh and blood no match for the mindless chill that's settled in, a great stone bird, its wings stretched stiff
from the tip of Letter Hill to the cobbled bay, its gaze glacial, its hook-and-scrabble claws fast clamped on every window, its petrifying breath a cage
in which all the warmth we were is shivering.
(P.S. BIG BRO gives an interview in our video at 3:!5. Im in the background conveniently hiding.)
(sorry these are sideways. my computer is not cooperating.) (i call this outfit theatre whore Ali hoopla. or something. ila alpoooh as Sam Bro would say.)
and one more thing:
once again, on the topic of KATY PERRY'S BIG OLD TITS on sesame street and NAKED LEA MICHELE OF GLEE in GQ, I have something to say.
FIRST OF ALL: I don't give a flying fuck if a little kid sees a naked woman. honestly, its pretty natural for a little kid to see a naked woman...after all, they just came out of one a couple years prior.
HOWEVER. I am more worried about sexualization of the infantile. Lea michele sucking a fucking lolly pop in her underwear as she straddles a dude's head? and Glee just won all these teen choice awards?!
KIDS SHOULD BE COMFORTABLE WITH NUDITY but kids shouldn't be comfortable with infantile sexualization.
katy perry sucks.
and lea michele has always struck me as a classic dumb diva bitch. I love musicals but I have never watched a single episode of that show.
ALSO: FUCK TERRY RICHARDSON. if the cosmos were benevolent, they'd see to it that that man is forced to wear nothing but frilly girly underwear and pink stilettos in prison for the rest of his life.
I prefer this sexy cover:
I'd say the glee cover is a rip off of this cover, but what do I know other than: TWO DUDES ONE GIRL infinitely superior!!!
NAKED ALEXANDER SKARSGARD?!! MMMMM (becca R worked as an assistant in a movie he was in this summer and apparently he's just as yummy and 6'7 in real life!)
and...I would say the full nakedness of this cover is appropriate and sexy and beautiful compared to the stupid school girl cutesy fuckery in the first one.