31.1.11

vanishéd

Still can't get enough of Crystal Castles. I'm going through a thing right now. I'd include M83, Cut Copy, and Delphic in this grouping as well. Thank you Robert Smith and Morrissey and Ian Curtis and Jarvis Cocker and

- snow rains down parallel lines intersecting and t-boning as FHB hums about an entire world that is a garden that is ours, naked branches beg you to cut them to the wick. Street lamp outside the window undulating light as a theremin played by an unsteady hand.

The skin still gets kneaded, the girl massages palmfuls of flesh and muscle; she hopes to create like the sculptors do but only disrupts her pre-existing frame. Little girls don't even care to match socks and she, the forever-child, wants so badly to straighten her skin as if it were out of order.

A long, paused blink, oh, the color seeps from her plane of sight as the eyes in her head pretend to find figures in the veins of her eyelids. The body won't let the mind forget.

Times like these she really badly wants her headphones, her broken headphones, the ones that find her wherever the music says she is, the broken ones. Listening to a song without them, the sound is lost on the air, the dust she can't even see fucking absorbs it so selfishly, those notes are for her eardrums only, far from the noise spewed by the furnace that's missing some screws and hasn't been dusted since the Industrial Age. That's the sort of noise blamed by kings for the collapse of their empires.

Who do you blame?

25.1.11

guerillaz

Feeling so silly because I do not know where the trash receptacles for my apartment building are located. Stood in the middle of the backyard holding a fat trash bag. Only light was comin' from the street lamps and that's the mustard yellow kind; it's the burnt sepia kind.

Had I been successful at getting rid of the trash and recycling the recyclables (I decided not even to attempt to find those bins) I might have felt extremely accomplished, for I'd just cleaned the dishes and stovetop and resolved to rid the kitchen of those ugly bags sitting against the one bare wall closest the mud room. But it's already a quarter past nine and Nicholas should be returning from class within the hour. Not being able to stay up late enough to see him for more than an hour in the evenings frustrates the shit out of me, but I suppose that, since I've recently left my hostessing position at the sushi joint, I'll have completely free weekends (for now). Nothing to be gained from overworking oneself. "My life isn't goin'a be about work, dad - I refuse."

See, here it is - that heaviness settles on my eyelids and sleep sounds enticing in the very least. I'm typing this with one lid slightly cracked, my vision altered by spider-leggy lashes drooping lazily into my lane of sight.

Can't even stay awake to write a substantial post. And here I'd started out thinking that I might just be able to eke out something worthwhile in the halfhour before Nic's return - - yawn.

21.1.11

fembot

|||   you don't deserve to know you have no right to experience any sort of emotion much less as it relates to my own elation my own fucking joy, unbridled as it is and clean. something you know nothing about. you may have touched it before, perhaps you even felt like you came close to knowing what it means to be TRUE but you were wrong - kept in a self-made fog of your own delusions. you are the mother from "long day's journey into night" and you should not take that as a compliment. she was a drunk, remember? a liar ex-and-internally and terminally ill because of it going crazy because of it mindless because of it. but it's different too. it's different because i refuse to tip-toe around your madness as i have before in fear of losing you but what's to lose, what's to lose, nothing. nothing. it's strange innit? how humans are capable of CONVINCING themselves of a need when needs are instinctual, wants being related but owing so much more to sentience than to biology. s'one of those things where i used to need you (i developed a reliance upon you) and then when you left (some might call it "showin' your true colors") and then was bereft and then i played that whole convincing game that i just talked about but me then, me now. then-me and now-me could not be any more disparate so basically what i am saying: you will never ever know.   |||


I'm not even going to ask for your pardon for what you've just read. These are past grievances which have absolutely nothing to do with my current state of bliss. Current, full-to-bursting, symbiotic. Nothing can take this away from me.

Nicholas is away working in the theatre and I'm listening to The Cardigans' "Erase/Rewind", quite seriously freezing in the corner office. All day I've thought about poppies and skeletons and anything having to do with marriage and my love for/of/in/with (fuck prepositions, they never did no good anyway) him and I'm physically tired, but not mentally or emotionally so. To think of October 15th means to forsake any other present worry.

Seafoam, white, black,
long-stem callas,
finger curls and Slavic Soul Party.

Damn, I must be the luckiest gal in the woild.

19.1.11

for You only


Jacqueline is getting married in the fall.

Just like Eisley said it would be, her heart was caught in a landslide and now it feels
                         for You only
                         for You only

Impossible to dissect the feelings I'm having. There are your age-old ideas of romance and wedded bliss, but then there comes the singularity of this here relationship. Nicholas is surely one-of-a-kind and not in a kitschy, cheeseball sort of way but legitimately I have never ever encountered anyone the likes of him before in my twenty-three years of living. Quite a feat. And there's also much to be said about his intellect, his look and his sense of humor. Explanations that subvert language - therefore, none shall be included in this blog post. All that's important for you (the outsider-looking-inside...r) to know: he is an individual. To the death, he's an individual.

What about what I'm thinking of? All of those things my mother never told me about, like the electric joy of planning a wedding and what it means to be love-full; or how about choosing the colors. Did she know how tickled I'd become? That deciding upon seafoam green would make my week seem so elevated as to imitate "heaven"? Even just thinking about the style of my hair and how my bridesmaids will look lining the space behind my Nicholas - soft symmetry - even if they are stubborn and remain hidden the tears I will cry seem as palpable as jets from the showerhead this morning.

I am in love, and I am going to be married - October -- Brooklyn -- Lost Generation -- AMOUR.

12.1.11

wanna be your dog

Almost a week in Chicago and the only complaint I've got is that the powers-that-be should somehow (with their science) add more hours to a single day. Reminds me of that one episode of Doug, where every day became Saturday. This is not what I want - just, perhaps, a 36-hr day. 28?

This will be my 3rd day of work at Flower Petal. Our office is on the 15th floor of a swank building downtown, literally moments from the lakeshore. From the time that the subway spits me out until the moment I reach 200 S Wacker's spinning glass doors I cannot seem to do anything but look upward and smile. Other people on the street must think me a child, or perhaps a lush - although I highly doubt such accusations would arise at 8:45 in the morning (but, then again, this IS Chicago, which really doesn't mean shit when it comes to making generalizations about drunks). People-watching on the buses and trains incites metaphorical hard-ons  and I'm unsure if I'll ever tire of those millisecond glances with strangers, the ones where eyes meet like lonely magnets and divert themselves out of ________ (fear, curiosity, attraction, embarrassment, disgust). I won't, I won't.

But the job's a real humdinger, brilliantly structured as it is fun, and I might as well take on the pseudonym "Lady Luck" for having landed this position. Great things will come of it, I am convinced; and I owe it very much to a certain professor(FRIEND) who makes his life on the extended banks of the Ohio River, obsessing over Shakespeare and "O" and King Hrolf Kraki and the surrounding bloodshed, hot and limitless.

And what about the apartment, the other job, the neighborhood, the society, the boyfriend? My overall demeanor would indicate that "all's well", and it is; and I'm sure that you understand the jones I have for my living situation is genuine and surely not unfounded. It was only necessary for me to mention the majority of these things, mainly because it's standard procedure when writing about a new home. But the final item to be considered (the boyfriend) subverts all other considerations and launches to the head of Jacqueline's Importances. He's got dusty blue eyes and light brown hair to match, an effortless bigness which precedes his physical self before he enters a room, and again I am reminded of what it means to be in luck, a girl whose life has been embellished to the point of becoming haute couture. If my life were any one piece of clothing I own, it'd have to be the olive tweed Ralph Lauren riding jacket with the brass buttons. He'd be the lining, the buttonholes and the neckline.

He'd be
the thread
and
the cuffs.