talking of Michaelangelo.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
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contentions // 10:07 pm
He wants me to play Scrabble with him and
kiss him as if I meant it.
... as if I meant it -- shall we cry and laugh, as if we meant it?
Like children, like children who mean it.
Monday, August 09, 2010
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consciously engaged // 10:47 pm
...counting moments suck. Watching seconds become minutes then hours then days.
Waiting.
So. More waiting. Waiting is also a place: it is wherever you wait. For me it's this room. I am a blank, here, between parentheses. Between other peopleAlthough I'm quite an anti-fan of Atwood's arrogant "this is not sci-fi", "I am better than thou" attitudes, her words and the combinations of them are undeniably masterpieces! Gut-wrenching prose! This. is. PROSE. Her type of prose is SO my type:
That is a reconstruction, too.Falling in love, we said;
I fell for him.
We were falling women. We believed in it, this downward motion: so lovely, like flying, and yet at the same time
so dire, so extreme, so unlikely.
God is love, they once said, but we reversed that, and love, like heaven, was always just around the corner. The more difficult it was to love the particular man beside us, the more we believed in Love, abstract and total. We were waiting, always for the incarnation.
That word, made flesh.
And sometimes it happened, for a time. That kind of love comes and goes and is hard to remember afterwards, like pain. - - -
So totally blasphemous, but so totally masterful at the same time. I hated the ending though. I really hated the ending.
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.I'm nearing my end -- no, not of the (/my) world, but of many things.
I have my resolve, but I wish not to carry it through.
And we always go back to Eliot.
Not with a bang but a whimper.
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answer my question(s) // 3:01 pm
Why do I still crave the past? Why do I still wish to live in that time before, that time ago?
Did it really never end for me? Did I want something more? Do I want something more? What more do I want?
What do I want, really? Just some sense of an ending? Some sort of real answer instead of ending with a question? I want at least something more genuine, something less abstract and substanceless. Don't I deserve more than what I got or is this really my worth? I deserve more than that don't I?
Are there any questions?
Sunday, August 08, 2010
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there's gotta be more to life (reprise) // 9:58 pm
Been busy finishing up the Atwood -- quotes to come later.
Meanwhile, Tablo is perfect on greyer days: he makes the day more grey and rainy.
What's with it today?! Everything seems to go the wrong way! Nothing gets done properly, it's hard to be professional. It's some dark premonition. Some cloud is coming and I can't stop it.
Don't subject yourself to such emotional torture where control isn't even in the question anymore; when breathing, to pump that wretched treacherous heart will merely make you wonder why you're still breathing to live.
The saddest part is that Margaret Atwood could probably have put that a million times better.
Enough is enough. It's too hard to be professional in this state of consciousness.
Sunday, August 01, 2010
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mortifyingly applicable // 12:28 am
For him, I must remember, I am only a whim.