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begin with the beginning. begin with a letter, a word, two words, a punctuation mark. begin without the thing you thought you needed to begin. begin with hating the beginning. begin with admitting to yourself that this is both stronger than you’d like it to be.
Being here is skewing my sense of what is normal. Things don’t feel the same way that I expect them to (we’re back to Matty, aren’t we? so much time spent waiting in my wallet.), and I think I’m still reacting to that. It started with the immediacy of no longer having you around – and then today I was listening to a monologue and it described how it happened and I felt just slightly more broken (broken down) after having heard it. like the deepest sigh you can imagine, amplified by the residue of not enough sleep and too much time spent milling over everything. and then there are the rifts of a different kind – the stuff you don’t think about, the banal stuff that just makes you go ‘shit, it’s changed, hasn’t it?’. It’s all so strange, this melancholy that follows you everywhere except the ocean. the highs and lows and highs and lows. and maybe what hurts the most is how predictable it all is.
tambahan: show up in the middle of the night. don’t knock. don’t turn on the lights. don’t say a single word. lie down and put your arm exactly where it belongs. fall asleep. stay.
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driving down the bypass, or perhaps on my way to get the bike, i cannot remember. but it was good. i was thinking about how incongruent all this is, and whether perhaps i am trying too hard to make it all fit. is it possible for the heart to feel so much more than it is entitled to? It was bound to happen, but tonight just happened to be the time and place. the exact moment when… when you remembered why you had forgotten and when I remembered why I still remember. I don’t want to be dramatic, I just want you to know that I understand how fucked up this whole existence is. and how I’m never sure which one of us wins. and how I wish that the playing field was somehow more even (but would you have noticed me if it had been?). or perhaps that the playing field had just given you a chance to make something of yourself that didn’t have to be realized through the insecurity of someone else. through the insecurity that portrays itself as love, and you fall so quickly. and when you’re there you can’t quite figure out how you got there. all there is is this keyboard, and this space, and this lateness. it’s past three now, and this is the best time to feel alone.
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what is alll this tequila sunrise, i wish i was the one you… complete this fucking sentence
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Мне нравится, что Вы больны не мной,
Мне нравится, что я больна не Вами,
Что никогда тяжёлый шар земной
Не уплывёт под нашими ногами.
Мне нравится, что можно быть смешной —
Распущенной — и не играть словами,
И не краснеть удушливой волной,
Слегка соприкоснувшись рукавами.
Мне нравится ещё, что Вы при мне
Спокойно обнимаете другую,
Не прочите мне в адовом огне
Гореть за то, что я не Вас целую.
Что имя нежное моё, мой нежный, не
Упоминаете ни днём, ни ночью — всуе…
Что никогда в церковной тишине
Не пропоют над нами: аллилуйя!
Спасибо Вам и сердцем и рукой
За то, что Вы меня — не зная сами! —
Так любите: за мой ночной покой,
За редкость встреч закатными часами,
За наши не-гулянья под луной,
За солнце не у нас над головами,
За то, что Вы больны — увы! — не мной,
За то, что я больна — увы! — не Вами!
3 мая 1915 / цветаева марина
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“The denizens of
ShoreditchMildmay Park should have inverted commas tattooed on their temples because everything they think or say comes with the bunny ears of irony, doused in ironic vinegar. ShoreditchThe Volgine is too cool to care. This is the alternative land where things are made worse on purpose; where bikes not only don’t have gears, the don’t have brakes; where trousers don’t have ankles; a land without socks. I am lost in it, geographically, culturally, symbolically, chronologically, and ironically.”
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not surpising. starting another year off with something/one that does not belong to me. I wish i could type quicker and think better and love purely and remember how things were. I wish i could be a little bit more honest with myself and with you, and I wish i could answer your question by screaming that it is right heeeerrrreeee. tomomorrow will blend into today and i will remember the red and the yellow and the things that you said and what I could not deny to be true. I wish i hadnt opened the window and let go and asked for tea and wished for things to be better than they are. I wish I could hang on. Instead of resolutions I have ifs, the mode of being, the reason for fights and late nights and getting home at five in the morning and wishing I had said yes. and wishing i had danced, and wishing i had known how to be less lonely, and wishing i could have held onto this moment for ever and ever and ever and ever. and hoping you got home safe. and turning off the lights a little bit earlier than i planned. and keeping promises. and not wanting to ever go back. and wishing that i had said things differently. and wanting this everthing to go away. it is a new year, but it is the same person it has always been, and that makes me just a little bit broken.
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hard to believe that this weekend is the six-month anniversary of me and London. It seems cliche to make a commentary on how quickly time flies, and yet it’s probably worth noting how alien this experience still feels sometimes. I oscillate between extremes, as I tend to, of absolutely loving my lifestyle and feeling lucky to be where I am, and then also of constantly questioning whether there’s any of me still left in any of these moments. It’s true that, when removed from the people who affirm who you always thought you were, it becomes a lot easier to doubt things you thought you’d established long ago. There’s also perhaps the reality of having a full-time job, of having a bathtub to clean, of having a lunch to prepare. I am scared by the fact that I’ve had so few moments that have urged me to write, to use words as a conduit for passion and expression and release. Wherever that came from before feels like a reservoir that’s dried up, or maybe bulldozed over by Excel spreadsheets ad e-mail signatures and fatigue. It’s not helpful, thinking of any of this as a sacrifice, but sometimes it sure feels that way. This city and I are in limbo, and it’s raining and my tea’s gone cold.
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I found it while I was on the Skytrain, listening to dummies and roads and thinking of what was. And 2010 and my long hair and the things and changes that stayed constant. And repeating all the funny ways in which that really didn’t work out as expected at all. Thinking about the word that gave each of us away. I am not sure how to describe the dialectic that seems to define moments like this, moments when the silence is deafening and I can no longer understand what’s going on. Sometimes it feels like nothing can feel these voids. And I wish like someone else would describe pain as well as Sherman Alexie, who can treat it wish to much lightness that all its weight comes crashing down. You’re reading the sentences and everything seems ok and then it just hits you and you remember how the simplest things often make the least sense. And then I shift back to Richard Powers, who takes the contradictions and twists them and keeps twisting until they start to look like life. And you realize that you’ve experienced it all and you’ve lived it and you’ve been told that this is what life looks like. You think that there must be more and that if you tell people about it they’ll think what you’re saying is profound, but really all we want is the waitress to come by. There’s music, too. There are lyrics and sadness and the bass and the goodbye. When I come home and begin to write like this I know how odd it is that you stay as my constant. I call it antisynergy, he tells me. Okay, keys, cooperate. We’re going to listen and we’re going to talk. The walls are built around this, you know. Overall this year has been amazing and now it’s one in the morning and I’m still thinking of the beat drop and my piano.
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You know those days when you leave your house and everything seems that much more intense? It’s like all the colors are saturated and you can feel everything in the world acutely. Like every gust of wind is hitting all your pores and your fingertips absorb everything you touch. And you’re walking down the street and everything seems somehow more clear and less fuzzy than it usually is, and you feel like the puzzle makes a lot more sense than it usually does. That’s how being with you feels. Like I don’t dissolve but instead get put back together and emerge stronger and ready to face the next day. That feeling lasts even after you leave but it doesn’t stay, because reality sets in and I remember that I can’t keep you as my anchor. That I’m probably just one of the ships that you help keep at bay. (If time is my vessel then learning to love might be my way back to sea…) It’s nice to know that the rush of blood to my heart will help me heal, at least for a while. Sometimes a band-aid is the most you can ask for, ya know? How do you measure the weight of a thank you? It seems wholly inadequate to use the same expression for the way you make me feel as I do when somebody hands me the change. Crippled again by language, terrified of what imprecise gestures imply. (The stars I will navigate though the holes in your eyes)
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If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
You leave the same impression
Of something beautiful, but annihilating.
Both of you are great light borrowers.
Her O-mouth grieves at the world; yours is unaffected,
And your first gift is making stone out of everything.
I wake to a mausoleum; you are here,
Ticking your fingers on the marble table, looking for cigarettes,
Spiteful as a woman, but not so nervous,
And dying to say something unanswerable.
The moon, too, abuses her subjects,
But in the daytime she is ridiculous.
Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand,
Arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity,
White and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide.
No day is safe from news of you,
Walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.
(thanks to Jessica to introducing me to this beautiful poem of Plath’s – I’d somehow missed it)