I've been wanting it to rain all day and it's just starting to now. Good.
Latin test tomorrow and I don't even know where my textbook is. I do know, however, that it hasn't been opened in about a month or so. This will be an abysmal failure and I don't want to care about it.
[It's rowing into waterfront houses and unmarked parcels. Mixing paint with your bare hands. It's kissing on top of ferris wheels and screaming poetry out of hot air balloons. Pressing your ribs up against bridge railings and walking slowly along train tracks. It's sand in your shoes where the ocean greets the sky and thick nights spent in fervour on balcony floors. Swinging your feet to the clouds while you light your cigarette. It's gripping exactly what you want to say, clenching it between your cold fingers, and releasing it gently into the fireside smoke.]
What if I don't have an art? You say I've got "heart" but really, in the end, what does that even mean? I knew at the time but it seems textual and irrelevant now. When will uncertainty stop being my goddamn paradigm?
Next purchase: digital SLR camera. It's a long way off, though.
[Denman island, two thousand three: Upside-down on our backs in the sand, my unwashed hair pressing against the beach equally as hard as it's pressing against me. Your face is soft and varying shades of pink, purple, and blue, and I'm painting you with my eyes as your lips move to the beat of voices in the background. I reach over. Rub the skin just above your cheekbones. It shifts and swirls and I watch you age. It's too much and I lay back to stare at the sky, to watch the sun as it sets backwards and floats off into a placid golden sea.
The sky expands and pale white lines arch across to every horizon. Dimensions unfold before us as we stare upwards. Hundreds of thousands of miles away, Hornby is an animal waiting until dark before we're swallowed and jump into the seedy underbelly of something new, something vast, something inexplicably complex. It is spring and we're oh-so aware, but we can still accept that every single thing you can experience through entheogens can be replicated on your own.
I'm in love- nay, we're in love- and it's perfect. We're holding hands and the entire ocean is between our fingers and we're staring down the abyss with our teeth and arms and fingernails. We make love, dare I say, in the tent and there are no words. There are no words. I always tried to apply language to you and to our relationship, but in truth, there never were words, my love. They are only symbols and alas, a symbol can never fully be what it represents. I'm sorry. This is me apologizing, but you'll never read this and you'll never know. What if one of us dies tomorrow with all of this under our skin? We'd never know. We'll never know.]
My brother is graduating from high school this year, wearing a pink tie & shoes. Black suit. This was going to be a segue into posting a picture of him, but I can't seem to find the one I was looking for. Maybe I forgot to scan it. I will. You'll like it. He's dashing.
Soon, my roommate will come home and she'll be bringing me chocolate from my mother in Comox. Yeah, that's going to kick fucking ass.
you make me feel like when it's sunny and it's raining
Do any of you even read this shit? Heh. Take care.
Latin test tomorrow and I don't even know where my textbook is. I do know, however, that it hasn't been opened in about a month or so. This will be an abysmal failure and I don't want to care about it.
[It's rowing into waterfront houses and unmarked parcels. Mixing paint with your bare hands. It's kissing on top of ferris wheels and screaming poetry out of hot air balloons. Pressing your ribs up against bridge railings and walking slowly along train tracks. It's sand in your shoes where the ocean greets the sky and thick nights spent in fervour on balcony floors. Swinging your feet to the clouds while you light your cigarette. It's gripping exactly what you want to say, clenching it between your cold fingers, and releasing it gently into the fireside smoke.]
What if I don't have an art? You say I've got "heart" but really, in the end, what does that even mean? I knew at the time but it seems textual and irrelevant now. When will uncertainty stop being my goddamn paradigm?
Next purchase: digital SLR camera. It's a long way off, though.
[Denman island, two thousand three: Upside-down on our backs in the sand, my unwashed hair pressing against the beach equally as hard as it's pressing against me. Your face is soft and varying shades of pink, purple, and blue, and I'm painting you with my eyes as your lips move to the beat of voices in the background. I reach over. Rub the skin just above your cheekbones. It shifts and swirls and I watch you age. It's too much and I lay back to stare at the sky, to watch the sun as it sets backwards and floats off into a placid golden sea.
The sky expands and pale white lines arch across to every horizon. Dimensions unfold before us as we stare upwards. Hundreds of thousands of miles away, Hornby is an animal waiting until dark before we're swallowed and jump into the seedy underbelly of something new, something vast, something inexplicably complex. It is spring and we're oh-so aware, but we can still accept that every single thing you can experience through entheogens can be replicated on your own.
I'm in love- nay, we're in love- and it's perfect. We're holding hands and the entire ocean is between our fingers and we're staring down the abyss with our teeth and arms and fingernails. We make love, dare I say, in the tent and there are no words. There are no words. I always tried to apply language to you and to our relationship, but in truth, there never were words, my love. They are only symbols and alas, a symbol can never fully be what it represents. I'm sorry. This is me apologizing, but you'll never read this and you'll never know. What if one of us dies tomorrow with all of this under our skin? We'd never know. We'll never know.]
My brother is graduating from high school this year, wearing a pink tie & shoes. Black suit. This was going to be a segue into posting a picture of him, but I can't seem to find the one I was looking for. Maybe I forgot to scan it. I will. You'll like it. He's dashing.
Soon, my roommate will come home and she'll be bringing me chocolate from my mother in Comox. Yeah, that's going to kick fucking ass.
you make me feel like when it's sunny and it's raining
Do any of you even read this shit? Heh. Take care.
VIEW 16 of 16 COMMENTS
You said before that my profile made life seem pretty, and that's just how I'd like it to be. My first response to that was My oh my, I'm going straight to hell for all this daydreaming... But knowing that there is this:
[It's rowing into waterfront houses and unmarked parcels. Mixing paint with your bare hands. It's kissing on top of ferris wheels and screaming poetry out of hot air balloons. Pressing your ribs up against bridge railings and walking slowly along train tracks. It's sand in your shoes where the ocean greets the sky and thick nights spent in fervour on balcony floors. Swinging your feet to the clouds while you light your cigarette. It's gripping exactly what you want to say, clenching it between your cold fingers, and releasing it gently into the fireside smoke.]
...is all the certainty I need. The sweep of the hill in the park by my house, the trees, every single one, let me know that I am living in some kind of enchanted world of luck.
and with regards to artfullness and heartfullness...
cklarocksaid it best:
What if I don't have an art?
The real scary question is, what if you do?
Your writing makes me swoon.
Maybe I am meant to be a pirate? I can't seem to get used to being on dry land again. (Stop swaying damnit!)
Hey! I'm buying me a digital SLR soon too. Can't afford it to save my life, but need it more than that.
I wish I could buy an SLR
but I'm moving to Whistler for the summer and I'm going to be in debt before I even get there, and rent is painful, so I don't think its going to happen....