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Wednesday, September 23rd, 2009
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are you still watching? i am. watching via venues that are shameful and in poor-form. i sacrifice conditioned pedigreed grace and pride in maintenance so that i might perchance a glimpse of your silhouette.
no one could incite such fury, a need for violent vengeance so great that it blinds me and makes me into a babbling deaf idiot - no one could break me like this, unless i love him.
what's so boring about all of this, is that i accept that i love you AND that i will never be with you. i accept it like i accept the rain. what's even more droll is that i have defined that i don't want to be with you, i rather want to be with only what i want you to be - mine and unemployed.
i guess, then, i'm in love with loving you. so heart-makingly in love with loving you. your pressed shirts and starched collars will always make me weak in the knees. your excitement around me, your anticipation overtaking the sad sack that usually walks the non-numbered avenues in your pressed shirts - the sparkle that brightens when i arrive, the hug that never ends, i'll always miss those. i love those. even if you're not, my memories are mine to forever love.
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Saturday, February 28th, 2009
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You hugged me from behind before we were properly introduced. Your hair was unacceptably hipster-emo, circa 2003. I hoped you to be an overly-affectionate-homo but I rolled eyes in your cliché the brief moment I allowed myself to know you weren't anything more than an actively performing charmer.
You reached for anything naked beneath my jeans, rubbing my hairy legs from the driver's seat and wouldn't fucking stop it when I asked you to fucking stop. It's been like 3 weeks since I've shaved last!
Was our first kiss in the car or on Chestnut Street? Did I put my hand down your pants before or after I tasted your tongue for the first time? Do you remember my cold fingers? I wish I could remember, because I do remember you being so so sweet. Did I see your penis in the tub before or after I knew your Name was Paul? When did it occur to you I needed to be laid? You probably knew by the whiskers on my shinny shin shin.
You were warm in bed and told me you loved me. But I think I weigh more than you.
I know I don't want to be your girlfriend, I know I don't even want to be a loyal friend. And I do know it was a lazy set-up by James and she doesn't care how it starts, stalls, dénouements, or ends just as long as she's conducting.
But, you haven't called, and that just makes me want you to want me to love you.
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Monday, September 29th, 2008
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When my roommate bumps into me in the kitchen, her lazy half-smile and gaze say to me, how can she be such a wretched cunt?
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Saturday, June 14th, 2008
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A month after the magnitude 7.9 quake killed nearly 70,000 in central China, Beijing is trying to switch the emphasis from destruction to rebuilding and tales of heroism in the rescue efforts.
This exact sort of spin can't be unique to China, can it?
China on alert for unrest a month after quake
* Story Highlights
* Police cordoned off schools destroyed in earthquake one month ago
* Police apparently on alert for protests by parents over school construction
* Parents suspect shoddy construction played role in their children's deaths
* About 7,000 classrooms collapsed in the quake
JUYUAN, China (AP) -- Police cordoned off schools destroyed in China's devastating earthquake one month ago from Thursday, apparently on alert for protests by parents demanding investigations into whether shoddy construction played a role in their children's deaths.
Police barred entry to at least two towns where schools collapsed, despite an assurance by authorities that unfettered media coverage would be allowed. In the town of Juyuan, a reporter from Singapore's Straits Times newspaper was detained by police and forced to return to the provincial capital of Chengdu, about an hour away.
About a dozen police and paramilitary troops guarded the gate of Juyuan's destroyed middle school, while a crowd of about 50 gathered outside. It wasn't clear whether any parents of dead children were present.
The security measures underscore how public anger over the deaths of so many children has unnerved authorities.
About 7,000 classrooms collapsed in the quake, often in areas where no other buildings were badly affected. Parents and some engineers tasked with surveying the wreckage say the collapses appear to point to poor design, a lack of steel reinforcement bars in the concrete and the use of other substandard building materials.
A month after the magnitude 7.9 quake killed nearly 70,000 in central China, Beijing is trying to switch the emphasis from destruction to rebuilding and tales of heroism in the rescue efforts. VideoWatch a report on the state of affairs one month after the earthquake »
Security forces began clamping down after an initial openness to reporting on the quake and a mild approach to protests.
In the nearby city of Dujiangyan, police and troops barred even parents from entering the grounds of the ruined Xinjian elementary school.
One family knelt on the sidewalk in front, burning incense and pouring soda into cups as an offering to the dead. They declined to speak to a foreign journalist who slipped past roadblocks.
Jing Linzhong, the father of a child killed, said he arrived early in the morning, before security forces sealed off the area, to join other parents in a vigil on the school's playground. Jing said blocking parents from visiting the site could impede the healing process.
"It's unfair," said Jing as he sat with three other parents on the playground, surrounded by debris adorned with white funeral wreaths. "Some people are getting psychological counseling, but for us, we find it therapeutic simply to gather at the school and meet with each other. We have a lot in common."
Parents reached in the village of Wufu, where 270 children died in a collapsed primary school, said they were holding off on any commemorations or protests until the release of investigation results promised on or around June 20. The results may pave the way for lawsuits or trials against officials and private contractors involved. VideoWatch a report on parents claims Beijing has tried to silence them »
Wufu parents Li Caojun and Ye Yaolin said they hadn't been threatened or intimidated, although the school site had been closed off by police. Other parents said they had been visited by police and believed their phones were being tapped.
No formal commemorations of the one month anniversary were being held in Beijing, although state television broadcast a gathering of quake heroes on Wednesday meant to showcase the massive aid effort.
In the traditional Chinese mourning cycle, the one-month anniversary of a death is less important than the fifth week, and some parents said they were considering holding ceremonies on June 15 -- the 35th day after the quake.
Weary survivors have once again been on the move, setting up tents and shelters on city sidewalks after being evacuated from the path of a threatened flood. Authorities had evacuated 250,000 people out of concern of a breaching of a lake that was formed when landslides blocked a river. Senior military leaders on Wednesday said the threat posed by the lake had ended now that it was draining.
While no large-scale disease outbreaks have been reported, evacuees in the temporary camps have been suffering from exposure, with 10 people recovering in a clinic from heat stroke and numerous cases of the common cold.
State broadcaster CCTV showed workers wearing white anti-chemical suits and face masks spraying disinfectant into rubble in the destroyed town of Beichuan, where hundreds of bodies remain buried under collapsed buildings.
China has ordered government departments to cut spending to free up reconstruction funds for the estimated 5 million people made homeless, few of whom had insurance.
Planning experts have recommended that more than 30 towns in the quake-hit areas, including Beichuan, be rebuilt elsewhere, according to Caijing, a leading Chinese business magazine.
Copyright 2008 The Associated Press. All rights reserved.This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
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Saturday, January 12th, 2008
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From: triscuit
To: the mc
Subject: RE: is it september yet?
Date: Mon, 20 Aug 2007
i'm in hiding. from the world. or at least from anyone who matters. which includes you.
From: the mc
To: triscuit
Subject: as the world turns
Sent: Fri 8/31/07 3:44 PM
i have a theory: you are not quite in hiding. rather, you are in chrysalis mode. 'a protected stage of development', as you prepare for your next ascent, your next exfoliation of color.
my thoughts are with you. be well, and thrive in the quiet even as the noise surrounds you. gather your strength close around you, and make ready your wings, my love, in your own time. i have every confidence in you.
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Thursday, November 15th, 2007
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Do you remember asking me if I ever thought about having sex, with you?
I never had. I still haven't.
I think that is unusual. Then, and now.
I knew you were beautiful. And I knew you well. I know of your strengths
and weaknesses. I know some of your fears, some of your desires.
Certainly, you have always given me material enough to create a fantasy
about you. Like how a bomb, I understand, can be made from fertiliser.
Or you can care for flowers.
It is something that I do. Shamelessly, guiltlessly, remorselessly.
Ruthlessly. It is not something that I do not do.
When first we met, I told you that I could talk to you but that I was in
love with a curly haired girl. You did not promise that that would not
hurt your feelings, but you did not complain, and you continued to help
me. I (obviously) think that beginnings are important, and I think that
things haven't changed much.
As I wrote then, it was something of a joke. I was pining and it was
fun. But it was also not a joke. I was pining and it was true!
"I always tell the truth. It is the funniest joke I know"- Oscar Wilde.
So I feel that that was somehow embryonic. Somehow forged and set for
everything that would come later. And lots of things did come later. I
would call those things very good, in sum.
You sent me a photo last week. I can look at it now.
I like it a lot. You are adorable. You are all adorable.
This is sent to me. Me! From you. You!
What to do with all the feelings that creates? All good feelings.
Lust is a selfish feeling. An appetite. Possessive. Consuming. It has
its place. But, needless to say- its place is not here.
That's ok. It is not here. It is still not here. Photos and words, and
pieces of you; you produce in me a wealth of good feelings. An
abundance, an excess. An excess, but not too many. Like a well oiled
machine or a well bred animal, my system processes them in just the
right way- without my checking, without my interference. It just does
it. What is not used is stored, carefully- I will feel good at a later
appointed time, too: because of you.
As beautiful as you are, I do not desire to possess you.
As attractive as you are, I do not need to own you.
As lovely as you will always be, I do not aim to control you.
Blessed relief.
Sunhee, I want to be someone different.
I've been courting danger. Not vicariously, but as the opportunity
presented itself. Presented herself.
My philosophy has been that I will live as a christian, unless something
can persuade me otherwise. Nothing has.
I've always wanted some girl to, though! An adulteress -isn't that
exciting! That sensuous, powerful being. Desire, walking.
I still haven't met her yet.
By walking around like a kid chasing vampires, I've only succeeded in
mistaking real people for her. Jen, Kylie, Diz. They weren't her. (They
most definitely were not her). I think it's time to hang up the hunting
gear. She may well still be out there, somewhere. I don't care. I want
to be someone. I want to have real friends.
I want to have real, beautiful friends.
I do not want to eat them.
I love you.
(there is blood in that. it is not intoxicated)
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I don’t write anymore. Not that I ever did, with intent, nor intentionally write. That is putting my thoughts into words that would hopefully find itselves in a coherent sentence, nestled into a pithy paragraph – what I call writing - is a place I used to run to, I would turn to. A method that was strong enough to control and always self-monitor the opening of my flood gates when I found myself swirling with anger; lurching with love and sure-promises of happiness; when I felt my spirit siphoned by the World, I would turn to writing in my pads and my loved and respected LJ. Because my records was to be that place, that I hope one day in the future to come, will be found by my next self in the next life and provide solace for my comparable lack of self. I could keep what I had left for safe-keeping, between leafs of paper.
What is it that has stopped-up the flow? Could it be the scripts addressed to Me; could it be the pins; the XR’s; the –zapams and –sperdals? Maybe. Possibly probably.
My skin is dry and fragile, as though the vitality of my spirit is decaying from dystrophy. Inwards, and then out. I’m always bruised and bruising. But I don’t feel the strike or strikes, only do I wake up to purple marks upon my own skin and flesh about me marked plum. I look down and love how lithe my thighs have become. But at what cost have I gained some space between my thighs? If I find anyone ever smiling, or frowning, or stomach-laughing, my knee jerks and says “what are they on”.
Bulimic
Cutter
Coke-slut
Stepford-in-training
9-times orphaned
Lolita
Meanest friend ever
Eldest sibling
Focused
Manager
Motivator
Muse
Genius
Drop-out
Rational
Tall
Myopic
Audial
Acute
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Wednesday, April 4th, 2007
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Saturday, December 30th, 2006
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words are amazing.
people have amazing minds.
people make amazing words.
This week's theme: looong words.
floccinaucinihilipilification (FLOK-si-NO-si-NY-HIL-i-PIL-i-fi-KAY-shuhn) noun
Estimating something as worthless.
[From Latin flocci, from floccus (tuft of wool) + nauci, from naucum
(a trifling thing) + nihili, from Latin nihil (nothing) + pili, from pilus
(a hair, trifle) + -fication (making).]
This word was coined by combining four Latin terms flocci, nauci, nihili,
pili, all meaning something of little or no value, which were listed in
the well-known "Eton Latin Grammar" of Eton College in the UK.
The Oxford English Dictionary shows the first use of the word by William
Shetstone in 1777: "I loved him for nothing so much as his
flocci-nauci-nihili-pili-fication of money."
The word seems to be popular in the US government. It has been heard from
the mouths of White House Press Secretary Mike McCurry, Senator Robert Byrd,
and Senator Jesse Helms among others. Maybe that tells us something about
the US Congress's interest in the floccinaucinihilipilification of taxpayers'
money.
-Anu Garg (gargATwordsmith.org)
"A number of you have phoned me saying that the BBC has plumbed the depths
of nationalist floccinaucinihilipilification by simply making up the
daftest imaginable Scottish name for the chairman of the Gigha community
land steering commission - they haven't. I've checked. He really is called
Willie MacSporran."
Giles Coren; Willie MacSporran; The Times (London, UK); Oct 31, 2001.
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Tuesday, December 19th, 2006
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i don't need your spare change,
i'll use my own.
i don't need your spare time,
i've got none of my own.
i'd like you,
if you had the time,
if i had the heart,
to take all of me and all of my time.
i'm trembling here,
pretending to hold back my spirit.
i need to love. i need to love something like you that loves me so wholly.
can't anyone else see that i'm trembling?
someone, please, tell him to stop crying. it's so unattractive.
someone tell him, i'm trembling,
because i have to swallow the lump of love i hold back
for him.
i break my heart a bit each time.
i'm strong enough to crush my own mighty spirit.
but, i'm afraid i'm not strong enough to let you see it.
i'm trembling, i'm only well when you're pressed to me.
i can only think of your leaving. it makes me queasy.
stay away from me, so i don't have to picture your leaving.
i don't want to be well. i don't want you to love me.
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Monday, December 11th, 2006
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Saturday, November 25th, 2006
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Today, the night before thanksgiving eve, it's 39F, rainy, windy – downright freezing. I wish I were at a peaceful place in my life. Well, let me clarify: I wish I felt appropriately to the peaceful place I find myself in.
My life is going unseasonably well. I'm very looking forward to thanksgiving dinner. I haven't not NOT dreaded a thanksgiving dinner since grade 8.
Here's a story:
Monday morning, en route to work, I find my mother's home number coming up on my caller ID. In a voice, still heavy with sleep, accompanied by warm pillows and yawning sunlight, She asks if I’m coming home on Thursday, for dinner. I say yes, I’ll stop by, like usual, and I’ll be having dinner at Helen's, like usual.
She asks if I’d mind having thanksgiving dinner at her home this year.
Now, understand this - my mother avoids entertaining in her home like she'll avoid a foul smelling puddle - with a nose crinkled in disapproval, in adult acceptance of this inconveniently placed thing.
I ask, "Why isn't Uncle Jimmy doing it this year?"
"Oh, he is having a dinner this year."
Unsure of if this is going to be an emotional sand trap I’m stepping into, curious as hell, I: "um.... why aren't you going?"
She doesn't offer what she says next. Rather, she places it on the table, like her bagged lunch, beside my equally mundane and mysterious bagged lunch. "Well, I want you to be there. And I know you don't like Uncle Jimmy."
I don't know what I was expecting, what I wanted - from this conversation alone, from the whole "Triscuit/Jimmy" conflict. From her.
But what she's just done is perfect. Perfection. Beautiful as a perfectly circular stone.
I know this stone can't possibly be a perfect circle - perfect circles don't happen, especially by accident, in nature.
But. Once in a while, nature, accident, will bring me something so beautiful; I hold it as a perfect circle. I miss that it's more beautiful in it's imperfections - but that holds no significant consequence. With pure, childlike glee, I hold something exciting, rare, special.
"Mom! Why? Noooo! I don't hate him. I just don't like him. I don't mind going. I don't want you not be with your family. I’ll go. I want to go."
I don't say this via compulsion to say "the Right Thing".
I mean it.
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Sunday, November 5th, 2006
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11.4.06
I know I’m not supposed to, but I like washing my hair down the drain. My black silk threads, suspended in water thickened by soap and soil, facing the dark drain, marching towards the unknown with stiff-lipped valour, limping towards the shameful prison with eyes cast down in defeat.
I sprinkle wishes of encouragements upon my passing strands, “Worry not my little beauties, I’ll see you soon – as soon as the drain completely clogs, I’ll come and retrieve you. Remember, grab-a-hold of anything you can!”
I harrumph and brush my hands clean with the riddance of those weak, thin strands. Splash water at the back of the tub to speed their walk towards drain hair-limbo. I proclaim, “Go and fester with the lot of your failed brothers and sisters! Await your doom: one ominous morning, my roommate will tear you out with teeth gritted in frustration, he will yank and tear at your tendons like he wishes he could tear at the heart of his ex-girlfriend!”
The warring sentiments, the pleasure of naughty behaviour, it’s almost all too much.
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Wednesday, October 18th, 2006
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Subject: life, and life only
Triscuit,
It could never be
that I want you
that you want me.
You need a boy
like a slave djinn,
who comes for your ring.
Look now
I take pride
to never submit
for lover with child
or childish lover,
Liberty leads the people,
chanting "Sexe libre!".
Perhaps there was a time
I could leave flowers at your door,
humble myself before you,
listen to you ponder
meeting me briefly at a grocery store.
But my cherie amour
you have no cherry anymore,
let's not pretend
that either of us
should put our foot
on the other's neck.
I want to fuck you,
you want to be fucked -
I still dream
of you and me
together,
fluid beasts
with sex
and sweat
to hear my name
and your heartbeat
as I listen between pert nipples
and stroke the clitoris
where my tongue just rested.
Damned fools we are
to lie
craving
cramping.
I can't come when you call,
still haven't figured out
who I am,
but know I'm not that,
don't want to serve a master,
but would die for a comrade.
You will always be a part of me,
let it be
a companion
always mine
as I
always yours,
not just a virgin
who took too much from me.
~
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Thursday, October 12th, 2006
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Scars can beautify. Like an earned cicatrix adorning a body worn smooth by tumbles.
I can’t write any more.
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Tuesday, October 10th, 2006
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It comes upon me like a hunger, a fever, a poison.
I curl up, lie like a fetus - you have injured me. Want you inside this small space I have made, but nothing but hunger, taunt, memory.
Wish you could be underneath me. Miss your kisses, miss how soft, how open. Miss kissing the rest of your flesh, miss the taste of sweat.
Memories are not for the living. My mind cannot perfect your voice. I want not to be injured by abstinence, but that I cannot cum for you again.
Alive. Inside and out of you again. Hours where you ease out this thorn you left in me.
I want to fuck and be fucked. I want to cum and cuddle and cum again. I want to eat your pussy and your ass. I want to lick off every drop of Sunhee fuck sweat.
I would fuck you like we had before - coy and shy, deliberation before surrender. I would fuck you like I haven't - dead hunger, flesh pushed, flesh pulled, against a wall or on a desk.
I don't say this in novelty, some meer sudden whim. I try to be what you say you want - logical, kind, abstaining. It makes a part of me die.
Always this war drum, always this hunger. If you take pride in your silence stay silent. Occasionally I cannot. Broken treaties, I cry out, ease the pain, end the pain.
I want you, I do. It is uncivilized. I want you. I want you.
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i love you.
there's so much gory detail flying around inside my mind, that I thought
I'd better begin with the nicest thing I can possibly say to you. I'm
sure you have plenty of other sources for tirades and rants and general
abuse.
I could pick fights with the entire world, tonight, if only I had a big
enough megaphone.
So what is it about you, that I like?
I like that you are here for me. That is pretty special. You want to
hear from me. That's strange enough. But I feel like even if I was
screaming, ranting, and raving, you would be listening carefully to what
I had to say, evaluating it for yourself, and you might even be prepared
to try and help me with what you could identify as most likely just my
own psychological and emotional disturbances. You're a cool drink.
You're shade in summer, a blanket in winter, clean clothes, and a damp
cloth when I have a fever. Where do I deserve such care?
I'm remembering some of the good things that happened today.
I saw Kane. I used to go surfing with Kane. I never knew him that well.
He was like one of the ones on the fringes of the main group, as I later
became. He always seemed to have a girlfriend. I remember him kissing a
younger girl at the frenzal rhomb concert. And punching Aaron in the
face for kissing his girlfriend at Paul's 16th. I knew that he was at
university, I found that out a while ago, but I thought he was studying
an art course or something. It's a little amazing that he is at uni,
because that group of friends are mostly tradesmen, now. And I saw him
today, and he's in his last week of exams. He'll graduate. His degree is
in journalism. He said, "earlier on, I thought about politics, but then
I decided that I'd be able to create more change through the media" ~ he
wants to change things. He wants to change the world.
What a gift.
If you're keeping all my emails, I don't want to be treating you like a
personal punching bag. I want you to look back and feel loved.
I want to describe to you how beautiful you are, but I'm scared to. I
don't want to tittilate, I don't want to sensualise you. It's not just
that you're my friend, and so that would be weird. It's that I want you
to see yourself as beautiful. Not through my eyes. Through your eyes,
eyes that look out.
Maybe if I describe what I would want a guy to see in you.
He should be attracted to you. But that should be obvious. So let him be
embarrassed of that, afraid of that, not willing to mention it.
Preferring never to meet you, never to speak to you, than to ever let
you think he even saw you.
But caring. Oh so caring. Let him stay awake at night, hoping not that
you loved him, or that you would date him, but for your happiness, and
that wherever you were, you were safe.
Let him treat you like an equal, not just in how he speaks, but in what
he thinks as he speaks. Let his words matter. I don't want you caught off
guard, so much as wrapped up in the moment of his speech. "Time standing
still", but not when he speaks, but some unerring time after, like a
late echo of a bell, returning many hours after the original chime. A
shoe that fits.
It's not a dream, it's not a wish list, it isn't a recipe or a survey
check-card. It's the effect you have, and must have. Not on me, not on
guys, but on beauty. Your contribution to an ancient manuscript. A
tradition, a lineage, a calling, a picture, a place. A voicing, a sound,
a belonging. It's hard to accept a compliment when you see the
compliment as bigger than yourself. But when you see the incredible
bigger picture, and yourself one of the finest jewels adorning it, then
it gets easier. It's not "about" you. But don't think you're not part of
it.
You're beautiful!
I love you.
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Thursday, September 28th, 2006
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To Some Ladies
Keats
What though while the wonders of nature exploring,
I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend;
Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring,
Bless Cynthia’s face, the enthusiast’s friend:
Yet over the steep, whence the mountain stream rushes,
With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove;
Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate gushes,
Its spray that the wild flower kindly bedews.
Why linger you so, the wild labyrinth strolling?
Why breathless, unable your bliss to declare?
Ah! you list to the nightingale’s tender condoling,
Responsive to sylphs, in the moon beamy air.
’Tis morn, and the flowers with dew are yet drooping,
I see you are treading the verge of the sea:
And now! ah, I see it—you just now are stooping
To pick up the keep-sake intended for me.
If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending,
Had brought me a gem from the fret-work of heaven;
And smiles, with his star-cheering voice sweetly blending,
The blessings of Tighe had melodiously given;
It had not created a warmer emotion
Than the present, fair nymphs, I was blest with from you
Than the shell, from the bright golden sands of the ocean
Which the emerald waves at your feet gladly threw.
For, indeed, ’tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure,
(And blissful is he who such happiness finds,)
To possess but a span of the hour of leisure,
In elegant, pure, and aerial minds.
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Cramps radiate
and hunger fails to abate
and dreams continue on.
Brown and pink and black,
the taste of sweat, we each have our own.
An essence of me that needs to be inside of you,
the jinn ethereal, hides inside a man of tin.
I want to be alive - a heart beating monument to joie de vie.
I want to be swallowed, to learn myself as consumed.
When you can't have everything you give everything away,
bar the doors, isolate, embargo.
I can't have you, no Gordian Knot given to solve.
Instead I post notes at the gate,
grievances to the bureaucracy
a complaint to be answered in the order received.
~G
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smellmybottle's journal
sore.