recap:

writing lots that will never be shared : sop and loveliness.

saving late night messages. love letters/good decisions. soft hands and pretty
eyes and all kinds of fitting nicely together.

although all my writing is awkwardly self-indulgent, autobiographical and
styleless;
there is comfort in the reading back of structured diaries
and warmth in remembering

today says:
happy.
and that's all.

pomplamoosemusic

i love a good cover and these guys are all kinds of pretty harmonied love.





i miss france. but australia and its wide open spaces are sometimes filled with rather lovely people. all the world is growing up and working out nicely; fitting with other people, smiling far too much.
we're good. we're happy. we're good.

paris me manque

these are not my photos.

i remember sitting in a cafe overlooking the notre dame, next to shakespeare and co, and we said that we should run away and get a job here instead of going back home and working and studying and growing old. paris is like neverland that way.

tattoo

i've wanted this tattoo since i was 14 and i am gradually heading towards designing it.
i'll maybe do a lino print of it first.
see how i like it
make myself look at it every day for a year
(i'm wary of comittment)

maybe i'll go to israel first.
but it'll be symbolism; chai or shalom, trees, eyes, hamsa, culture.

my old age moderation says that this will be a well thought out decision. i think.

people should yell less.

it's funny; we're all arguing the same point.

in israel, i'll float and be alive and the
anger of this class, these people, will be shadowed by this larger thing;
the north will be alive. we don't stay long.


i miss what may happen.
there's someone and they're rather nice.
i'm not sure where we're going
but i like it.

achievement

spending too much time in libraries. appreciating the crap out of a good resource.

god damn arts student.

and waiting; lots of waiting.

everything takes too long or not long enough and coffee or coffee-less, i'm impatient.

and i found a love letter someone wrote me not that long ago.

it's not funny or moving or even very real. it's not even really about me; i'm just the figurehead of imagination.

i kept it comme même.

identity centers around our achievements. i try not to think about it.

i've started sleeping again.

there are lovely people; sometimes.

when we find out what our real nationalism is, we'll let you know.

"i'll stop talking about dissasociation if you don't eat that dirt"

i spent today hungover in the garden with a writer and her baby. she said, four generations of organic gardening, in my family, and her little boy ran around getting dirt under his toenails digging up tiny pieces of earth. she asked me what i was reading and through the haze of last night i told her about distance between readers and characters, and writers and characters, and how no-one really knows what they've created and how frankenstein warns us of tired misogyny but we didn't really listen. she brought me second hand books and the card of a second hand book store. they got back all their cats and now the house is no longer empty and silent at night. owen calls me anna, after anna karenina, and this should offend me, but i love him in all his little literary goodness.

the things that i bought you

In the morning, through the window shade
When the light pressed up against your shoulderblade
I could see what you were reading



All the glory that the Lord has made
And the complications you could do without
When I kissed you on the mouth







In the morning at the top of the stairs
When your father found out what we did that night
And you told me you were scared



All the glory when you ran outside
With your shirt tucked in and your shoes untied
And you told me not to follow you



Sunday night when I cleaned the house
I found the card where you wrote it out
With the pictures of you mother



On the floor at the great divide
With my shirt tucked in and my shoes untied
I am crying in the bathroom



In the morning when you finally go
And the nurse runs in with her head hung low
And the cardinal hits the window



In the morning in the winter shade
On the first of March, on the holiday
I thought I saw you breathing



All the glory that the Lord has made
And the complications when I see His face
In the morning in the window



All the glory when
He took our place
But He took my shoulders and He shook my face

And He takes and He takes and He takes





Sufjan Stevens. Brilliant in its sad loveliness. Golly.

vive l'apocalypse

surreal afternoon walking on leaf-carpet through streets with no people. grey at four in the afternoon and drops on my cigarette. shiver a hug. throw some hail.
there are alarms going off at the city prison so we walk a very long way to find that in our absence, the city has closed down, and with no coffee we are confused.
shut down surrealism.

visual listmaking.

nice things.

add to this list;

apple season

pink cigarettes

the french language

and

dylan thomas.

you can make the pictures in your head.

reblog. it was too beautiful.

"Miss Peacock: “Love. This is another lie. I’m still waiting for the truth, so tell me another lie.”
Paul: Fuckin sport, sport fucking. The stoic Ukulhelen sings: Boyfriend in a coma. Isabel and Janet Winterspoon: I love you is always a quotation. Eric reading McGuckin’s poems, Megan reading Pessoa’s diaries, Bruce reading “When I was a boy in Kentucky” and Alberto The Poem of the Drunken Bride part II. The stranger stages an improvisational play featuring Miss Peacock with balls, aka John, Rudolph dedicated to Gabriel, Christopher wears a bag on his head and neologizes with Sarah. Jason goes bilingual and it’s fucking cool. So I take away a copy of his stuff ‘cause I want to put it in the report, and now I’ve lost it. Anna: “I like to to dream alone”, Marty introduces us to the whole work of P.K.R. Mieklejohn in Amour-Propre, Sarah writes poems on the metro, Rita is trapped in Budapest, Jessica: “Do you think I like you as a friend?” First kiss, followed by first sex, followed by first argue. We are aging. Let’s write about that. Alberto "

http://spokenwordparis.blogspot.com/

i wish that i had written this.
consider it a kind of late valentine.