City Riot

Forever amongst my favourites.

Thu, 18 Apr 2013 13:14:30 -0400

Forever amongst my favourites.

To be a passenger.

Thu, 18 Apr 2013 13:03:54 -0400

To be a passenger.

Counting

Thu, 18 Apr 2013 12:59:26 -0400

I have no sense of time in my room, three white walls and one with cracked bricks; three blocks from the ocean, I drank three glasses of water, and rolling in my bed - the ocean is all I can hear. If I’ve learnt anything while I’ve been gone, it is this: black curtains are dangerous. …and so with my head dangling off the bed, lying on my back, hair pooling down to the floor, ocean swishing in my guts, I smoke a cigarette down to its ash, its last dying breath. It could be morning, it could be night, either way, an hour to kill turns into days and peaking through the black curtains, they all look so small. I have a few hundred bags of tea in my near barren cabinets and somewhere between 53 and 67 bobby pins; I don’t even wear bobby pins. I read about murderers and Egyptian women; I watch silent films and experimental pornography; I listen to jazz and soundtracks of storms. It could be Thursday, it could be Tuesday, it’s hard to tell in artificial light. Give my apologies to the sun. I’m so sorry.

I shoot the ground sometimes.

Wed, 10 Apr 2013 04:21:33 -0400

I shoot the ground sometimes.

"It is a great feeling to know that from a window I can go to books, to cans of beer, to past loves;..."

Wed, 10 Apr 2013 04:14:51 -0400

“It is a great feeling to know that from a window I can go to books, to cans of beer, to past loves; and from these, gather enough dream
to sneak out a back door.”

- Gregory Corso

This is my childhood home. I miss it.

Mon, 08 Apr 2013 13:05:16 -0400

This is my childhood home.
I miss it.

This is tonight, this is my night - at least the sounds for the...

Fri, 29 Mar 2013 08:37:33 -0400

This is tonight, this is my night - at least the sounds for the night; my window’s open and somewhere out there I hear the violet sounds that remind me of something I’m certain I’ve already forgotten. There’s a word for this, right? Probably some German shit, they seem to have a word for it all - I regrettably never seem to have a word for the things I need to articulate the most. I’ll just lay here and wait for the white ceiling to fade black. Goodnight moon, right? Goodnight. //synesthesia

Fifteen

Fri, 29 Mar 2013 05:35:00 -0400

If I break

my words apart with

lines that make it look

like maybe what

I am writing

has a bit more meaning -

do I become mildly poetic?

I think that despite the fact that what I write no longer fulfills me as much as it used to, I do still like to write; and despite the fact that what I do end up writing is never what I precisely want to write, maybe it’s what I should write - purge all of this rubbish out, hoping for the “good stuff,” and perhaps the “good stuff” will come smashing through with some great revelation that I can bask gloriously and smugly in. I’ll go with the response of “no” on that, but I’ll write anyway. So here goes…

I had my first kiss when I was 15, I think it was February so I had been 15 for a month - heck, maybe it was March, I’m really not sure; I just remember it being cold, cold enough that my bones ached…and I don’t even mean this poetically, I just mean that they literally ached with a severity that made my knees quiver. Anyway, I was 15, it was cold, it was February (or March), and my knees were shaking…

I was walking down the street with my mixed mutt, mismatched eyes, overly energetic dog named Scout and it was dark out, probably around 9 or 10 and I was walking down the cracked up side path to meet up with Dylan, who I will always acknowledge as my first “boyfriend” (even though we only dated for 3 weeks).

So with shaky fingers I texted him on my piece of shit but still technologically astounding phone and asked him where he was - 2 minutes later I saw him and did that awkward thing where I don’t know what else to do but mess with my hair and busy my hands until the other person is there and conversation breaks loose (except I kind of sucked at conversations back then).

We walked to a park with a swamp and gazebo down the street from the house I was sneaking out of, the house my family was renting because our actual home had burnt down a few months back. …and so that was that: me, an awkward 15 year old half Asian girl and a 16 year old boy with eyes so blue it will always hurt to look at, walking down Heacock Street, hand in hand, to a park with a swamp in much too frigid air on a February (or March) night.

Idiot me was wearing shorts and idiot me brought a dog that jumped and scratched my legs, and to this day I would have never thought that this night happened had it not been for the scratches I felt on my legs the following day that burned beneath my sheets (and maybe my swollen lips too). …but this night happened and it was this:

It was me and him and him and me and we were beneath the gazebo; I’m not even sure how we got to being there, but we must have walked around and ended up there in the center of the park, next to the mossy swamp…and so, there we were, staring at what we could make out of each other in the dark with my dog impatient at our feet. Actually, I won’t even write about the dog, from then on I don’t even think we acknowledged him.

Dylan said something about me never having been kissed and I remember gaining a warm sensation in my cheeks and a feeling in my heart that felt similar to hummingbird wings and an embarrassment that knotted my guts so tightly I thought I’d faint - but I remember nodding and mumbling something with brown eyes (probably) full of hope, biting my bottom lip and looking at him and he said something blunt and unromantic (though it all felt romantic then beneath winter stars and all of that bullshit), and we agreed we’d kiss.

He asked me when I wanted to kiss and I said, “I don’t know.” I never knew these things, and even if I did, back then, it would still have been: “I don’t know.”

This went on for a good 10 minutes…questions, gut wrenching, “I don’t knows,” and unromantic romance - painfully teenage-like banter.

The next thing I remember is him leaning forward and my spine becoming something similar to a tree trunk and the world. literally. stopped. right. then. It stopped right there and before I knew it, like some fucked up out of body experience, I saw myself push him away and say this: “GROSS.” Ok, the caps aren’t necessary because I’m pretty sure that I more or less whispered it, but hey, my mind more or less screamed it.

Why did I say it? Because all 16 year old, testosterone raging, just starting to grow facial hair cell of him, decided that it would be cooooool to weasel his tongue between my lips and to my shock and gasp, past my teeth and that was that: my first kiss, peach fuzz stubble, trailing tongue spit, and all, a poorly attempted and absolute surprise Frenchy. “Gross.”

I kissed him over 20 times that night, I’m sure of it, and I had no clue what to do with my tongue but thanks to that boy and that 3 weeks I learnt how to kiss and once I became comfortable with it, I became uncomfortable with him…and I dumped him and those blue eyes came in a picture text to me with tears and red blotchiness, and my inner “goddess” shrugged because I knew how to kiss and I was triumphant. I had my first boyfriend and I wasn’t dumped.

I feel bad about that still - despite the fact that he’d grope my ass and make a pass for my barely a B boobs (back then) and I hated that - but I still feel bad for it. This one boy and that one relationship have meant more to me than I can even articulate properly and more to me than I can even fathom at this point - but that’s how I’m learning it always goes with people.

Why am I writing this? I don’t know…maybe for my 92 year old alzheimer burdened self, maybe for my futuristic daughter that may or may not read this years from now, and maybe for the homage of: no reason.

I’ll go with the latter, but the former and anything in between are enough. I don’t need a reason though…I just thought of Dylan and I thought of that gazebo and I thought of 15 year old me with my clammy hands and shaky knees, and that was enough to make me want to write about that moment; that was enough to make me feel something my now 20 year old self misses, something I will never have a word for.

I feel nostalgic though.

I need a drink.

(I need somebody to kiss.)

That is all.

I’m still awake, it’s 6:08 am…I’ve been laying in bed listening to black...

Wed, 27 Mar 2013 09:08:25 -0400

I’m still awake, it’s 6:08 am…I’ve been laying in bed listening to black metal and raunchy krump music. Nothing about tonight makes sense, and upstairs they’re all snorting coke or passed out in their pods, soured breaths sputtering.
I’m packing up all of my things after class today to move this weekend into my new space. This will be the 6th place I’ve started renting since moving to this city. …meanwhile, John down the street is sleeping under a tarp and Jane is wobbling down Hastings in heels 2 sizes too small and a skirt inches far too short.
Whatever, this is how the 21st century is; the world turns upside down every 10 years, and you turn right upside down with it. Welcome to the circus, maybe we’re all a little freaky…but hey, here’s a hint, because I know you’re reading this: when it strikes noon, I hear the steam whistle down the block - I’ll be there sometimes, and maybe you’ll see me. I carry the lunar cycle on my arm. I swear it’s always there.

That is all.

Because.

Fri, 15 Mar 2013 04:10:00 -0400

So what if I offend you, so what if you offend me…so what if anyone is ever offended? So what if two girls kiss and two guys fuck or either couple adopts a kid and raises it? So what if I don’t believe in a god anymore and so what if you do? So what if I curse in my writings and the next person is as dainty as - well, I’ve not known many dainty things but still: so what? So what if I come up with something else for a shit comparison and so what if I don’t? So what if I babble on and on and on and post this post and donotlikeproofreadanything? So what? So what if I’m blunt and someone’s reserved or I’m reserved and they’re blunt? Because I want to fuck you. Because I want to be fucked. Because I want to make love. Because I want to be loved. Because I want to be great. Because I want to be terrible. Because I love it when I see people fucking and loving and because I get off on religious debates and drunken debauchery. Because I start my sentences with prepositions sometimes and I end them incorrectly with incomple - . Because I toy with words and I’m not an amazing writer. Because because of the wonderful things he does? WhAt WaS that fr0m aginnn? Oh baby baby, I hate it when anyone calls me baby, but call me something else sweet and I might just melt. Because I secretly swoon over romance and because I know every kink out there. Because I could go on and on and on and I’m already losing whatever it was that I was getting at. Because I wasn’t getting at anything. Because I don’t care if I make sense right now. I love you and because I might not even know you. I want to love you. I want to love you severely. Because.

(That is all.)

Fuck

Fri, 15 Mar 2013 04:01:00 -0400

I just hate writing and not writing well; I don’t write very well lately, so I don’t write much lately. I’m writing now because you’re reading now, actually your “now” will never be my “now,” so I’m writing awhile ago and you’re reading now and already this is fucked and pointless and sucks - so do you understand why I keep taking “time off” from writing? It just is a mess lately - I’m really not a mess lately. I’m clearing up my act (a bit), but I’m behind on turning in proposals, scripts, and essays and analyses for school - I’m kind of fucked there…nah, massively fucked. I’ve done diddly fucked the fuck up with school this semester. I didn’t do it on purpose, I didn’t do it because of procrastination, in fact: I didn’t DO it, and that’s it. I COULDN’T. I’m constipated…with adjectives and adverbs and a lexicon that is outdated and stale. Fuck fuck fuck - this is becoming my most overused word. FUCK.

This is absolutely horrible! I’m going so goddamn cringingly nuts with all of these words and no sentences and no outlet and this DOES NOT COUNT, because I feel so goddamn unquenched, unsatisfied, and my fingers literally hurt. Perpetual writer’s block is my greatest fear, and I don’t even consider myself a linguistically charming writer, but FUCK. I’m getting jittery from all of these energy drinks and all of this…lacking. It’s not a matter of coulda, shoulda, woulda’s…I just can’t and even if I say I can, I still can’t.

Someone break my heart so I can write, someone beat me up so I can write, someone do something to me that guts me to the core and I have no choice but to barf out words and bleed out words and scratch words EVERYWHERE LIKE A FILTHY OVERHYPED MADMAN.

I don’t like being sad, I don’t WANT to be sad, but I need something more than this, this state of…state of…well…I have no words.

This is tiring. maddening.

Fuck.

That is all.

Cheers

Mon, 04 Mar 2013 17:10:47 -0500

I can’t write anymore for now.

The words are pooling in a dam.

It fucking sucks - they’re all gone.

So goodbye blog (at least for a good while).

…at least until the words come crashing back.

That is all.

Disarray

Fri, 22 Feb 2013 17:31:00 -0500

I’ve been laying in bed all day…watching poetry slam videos on YouTube and nestling my mind in this bubble on the 6th floor between a feather duvet and a Swedish mattress, like the freshly turned city slick that I am - thinking about wether or not I want to slam my words into a dynamic mic, lit up by a light that makes my face sweat my nerves out on a stage in front of blurred faces lost in the shadows. …and fuck that, that’s not me, that’s not me, that’s not me - and yet, I kind of want to. I have a fetish for trying anything once, and that doesn’t just (also) apply to my bed…but really? I’m cliche enough; I’m 20 years crunched into an awkward adventure on legs that’s wandered from city to city, stopped somewhere near the mountains that tower along the coast that borders the neighborhood I seem to sprouting roots (and routes) in - a neighborhood where on the same block an angel-haired city slick with shoes worth a month of rent talks away on his phone, keeping beat with the best of them, and where 23 steps down people push carts with cans and bottles and piss-covered blankets, some swallowing reality somewhere deep, somewhere gone, and others just fighting for it. I’m 20 years crunched into a 5 foot 6 frame that cracks her knuckles before crawling out of bed and gets a bit (too) questionably aroused by danger. I’m 20 years crunched into a timeline that’s scattered with more mess than a night of pill-popped and drunken debauchery.

Ha.

I’m 20 years questioning what it means, just what it means - the vague nothingness, the vast everything, the great perhapses, the hyped reality and the imagination that everyone says they have before they slip on their shoes and tramp these streets - keeping beat and missing it..

Fuck it, I’m 20 years -

of a proud disarray,

that somehow

still

keeps beat.

Honey Whiskey

Sun, 17 Feb 2013 07:17:00 -0500

This blog is getting messy.

I’m kind of tipsy right now.

I just want to kiss you.

I miss you.

Oh god…that kind of rhymed.

That hurts my fingers to have typed.

I just can’t care right now.

I want to kiss you.

I miss you.

Blah ha ha blah ha.

Barfing out words and upchucking shit through the keyboard.

Oh stick it to the man they say -

they all look just the same.

This is silly, so silly; massive massive cringe.

Spelling errors still annoy me even when I’m tipsy, come to find out.

I never drank till I moved here.

Can I put a heart someplace? Ok. Whiskey. <3

I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…my brain’s a little messy right now,

but whiskey makes me think of home, all of the angel-haired demons -

they drink whiskey. I’m no angel. I just like whiskey.

I like the burn and the taste and the word, the red hues and orange tinge.

W’s are orange. Did you know that? Whiskey tastes like how it’s spelt.

That’s so rare. So rare!

I keep honey whiskey in my drawer, it’s slightly sweet.

I think if an analogy for me ever sufficed it would be that drink: honey whiskey.

I swear I’m not an alcoholic mama, I just have your genes.

Oh god, my accent will come out. No, it’s coming out.

Hush honeyed whiskey breath, keep it in your head.

(or on this blog)

Oooh, debaucherous debauchery - sing it in the streets and sway with your own wind. Oh dear…inhibitions slither somewhere deep, we’ve swallowed them all tonight.

That is all.

Fridaze

Fri, 15 Feb 2013 19:10:00 -0500

This has been such a bizarre day, and it totally feels a lot longer than it has been - considering that it’s only 4:02 in the afternoon right now. I guess in the end though, I’m mostly just writing to kill time.

I just got out of my Lit/Comp (English) class and this is my favourite class to date - my English professor kills it every class though. Anyway, I was sitting in class today and my skin got showered with goosebumps. I don’t know what it was about today - the beatnik literature, the counterculture discussion, the soul devouring music or the documentary we ended class with…but, this class is my favourite.

I know that my beatnik love and my fanatic adoration of all things “counterculture” and music make me a pretty hyped up cliche, but today is swoon-worthy and the sun is peaking through the mountains. It’s spring and I have the exact same sizzling feeling that I got when I had my first crush…you know, that bottomless feeling and sappy schmuck of a skipping heart. That sort of anxiousness that you instinctually know to savour - and I am, I totally am.

Ha, there’s a lot more that’s happened today, but I have sunlight to catch and a moon to look forward to. I’ve got a thousand itches to chase and all of the streets in the world to tramp.

I guess…

That is all.

You; I

Wed, 06 Feb 2013 08:49:00 -0500

I -

I am a cold winter night

with palms mapped by scratches

and eyes that never close.

You -

You are a warm summer day

carrying sweet bruises deep inside your pockets,

and you see with your eyes always squinted towards the sun.

…and maybe someday our eyes will meet and

swim towards each other like fish against a current;

and it will be a Sunday when we tumble in the light

that breaks through the water and covers us in layers

like rings within a trunk.

So maybe it’s true,

even in the winter the white sun still shines through,

and even in the summer,

the grey moon

still

grows.

Nothing

Wed, 06 Feb 2013 00:38:00 -0500

I know that when people look at me…well, nevermind, that will sound cliche. I just know what they think of me when they see me, generally - I mean, what they think I would be like, what they think of who I might be. I’m not that though. I’ll tell you what I am: I’m crumbling, I’m falling apart, and I’m breaking down from the inside out. I’ve made a lot of decisions really poorly in the last few months, I’ve done a lot of really stupid things as well, and I haven’t had a single day completely to myself in I don’t even know how long. This is another sad post - but fuck it, I seem to only ever post on this blog when I’m sad. (Good luck finding my other blogs…ha.)

I feel like my chest is going to cave in, like my fingers are going to break, like my brain is going to disappear. I swear to God, I am fucking losing it and it’s making me really uncomfortable. I always come across really stable, really well put together, really innocent, really…capable. Anyway, as the months, weeks…days…slither by, I am less…and less…and less of all of those things - if I ever were, that is.

Blah blah, sad things, blah…I’m so tempted to write everything shitty out right here in this post, but my paranoia is getting the best of me. I have this intense urge to expose myself a lot lately - not so much physically (but yeah, that too), but mostly every fucking goddamn piece of shit flaw, and even more so: every mistake, every “regret,” every insecurity, and every terrible thing that I have come across and bear.

Yeah, yeah…this is cliche and cheap sounding, I know. I know people go through worse things, people are worse in general - better too - but I’m selfishly down, selfishly in my head, selfishly me and unbudging to compromise this sadness, this heaviness, this surreal detachment from…well, fuck if I know, but I’m kind of messed up right now. I’m just being honest…ha, being human is…it is a lot of things that are unpleasant sometimes. Everyone knows what I mean, but sometimes your body stops working and your brain starts to shift and your entire world starts to gurgle and spit and cough up gross, stinky, repulsive, heavy shit…and you start to drown and you start to fuck everything up more because you have too much anxiety to deal with the mess you’ve already made, the mess you’ve found yourself in, the mess you’ve become.

…because fuck it, once you’re in far enough, why bother? Right? Why bother? Hahaha…Christ, someday…yeah…someday this will be a good part in my autobiography. That’s what I keep telling myself. (Elohel, like I’d ever really write one though.)

That is all.

The 6th Floor

Mon, 04 Feb 2013 11:08:00 -0500

The 6th Floor

The Pills Were Bitter

Mon, 04 Feb 2013 07:44:00 -0500

Let’s take our sleeping pills in silence,

so we don’t have to watch each other swallow -

then we’ll kiss each other clean.

The blackbirds on the fence outside

will hum their sweet words of sorrow,

the things we tell each other in the dark;

Hello, how are you,

I am much too sad,

but things could be worse.

When our eyes start to close,

we’ll help each other stay awake,

just a little longer.

Point your toes, you’ll say, like a ballerina.

Keep your wrists close to your body, like a boxer -

we’ll throw punches at each other

and roll around until the room starts to tilt,

and the big red moon comes creeping up

through the floorboards.

(some vague latin phrase goes here)

Thu, 31 Jan 2013 05:43:00 -0500

So, I thought about it, I thought about why I keep a blog and why my blog is such a cringe diary. It’s like this: the chances of me maintaining a proper journal are pretty slim…my written journals consist of sheets of random paper showered across the mess of my room and scattered within the mess(es) of my academic notebooks that are also splattered with shit doodles and proper sweet (but not really) nothings. That being said, maintaining a documented place of my life, my emotions, and all typical expected things of that nature (i.e. a blog) is really best - only because I have this organised space that doesn’t have to be moved around in my backpack, doesn’t have to be organised like the paper within my binders, and doesn’t have to be accounted for like dirty napkins and coffee stained newspapers with my scibbley writings at grubby diners and hole-in-the-wall joints. I keep my stuff here and in my other blogs solely because it’s convenient and it’s simple and I can design this space, maintain this space, edit this space, and even destroy this space with such an ease that USING this space is unavoidable (at least for me). So that is why I blog, and that is why my blog gets so strange, bizarre, personal, and just mildly TOO much of certain things in general…because I can, and so I do, and I will…and, as always:

That is all.