we the living

i can't seem to kick it but i guess it's a good habit: reading.
now onto ayn rand's "we the living".
i'm only in about 10 pages deep (including the introduction and forward) so
i have no idea what the story is about other than the preface rand included herself
"it's not about soviet russia. it's about dictatorship all over the world.
it's about man vs. state"

so, seems interesting.
some kind of grand underdog story.

in other news, i'm a broke motherfucker again.
it happens. it doesn't.
it's just not my time right now.
it's ok.
it's not alot of people's times right now, i guess.

the hemingway way.

an ode to the ones with self-inflicted gunshot wounds.

lately it seems that i have been reading about very morbid things such as:
suicides
suicide attempts
drug addictions
morphine
abuse
insanity
hysteria
and
on
and
on.

i don't know why but it all intrigues me.
it's a fast read or an entertaining documentary to watch.

naked lunch.

biographies are becoming a slight obsession of mine.
genet, buckley, sexton.
i am fresh out of them in my small collection.

william s. burrough's "naked lunch" is my next read.
he was an odd fellow.

i'm pretty sure he won't dissapoint.

72 hours of sleep.

i would like to sleep for 72 hours straight.









i also want to erase a lot of the things that i have written.

summer and glass.

all i remember is the constant trembling i felt
before her.
standing in front of me or sitting to the left of me on the porch on I st.
she was beautiful.
she was not mine.
her hair was different but it was growing.
i would lie on my living room floor and think of her while
listening to the cd's she suggested.
yes. it was all very dramatic.
yes. falling in love is very dramatic.

and that night when she came over in that blue and white dress,
my heart fell to her hands
my eyes closed shut
to the right.
i needed no more sight.
this was enough.
this will always be enough.
(i hope)

and last summer was nothing but repetition and glass.
full of odd endings and departures for the night.
she was sleeping in the next room
beside me.
pressed chests to the same floor boards, never knowing.

and i wanted to eat that glass.
keep it inside of me whole.

tender and empty.
violent and wordless.

i remember touching her skin for the first time.

i remember falling fast asleep.

lost baggage.

my back to you,
lying still
with your sister's soft whispers to her cousin i just recently met.
i see the light in the loft flicker
exhaustingly
on and off.
i wish it was off.
it stays that way the whole night

my back to you,
not meaning to
but this meer gesture can be taken in so many ways.

and this morning, i wake
with aching shoulder blades
and a headache,
purple chest and a lion's jealously.
for what? i do not know.

manic is all that i own.
it's all i've ever owned.
as a child, i lived in my bedroom
tears on the books i read
neverknowingthat thisis what theycall
(...)

i still don't know.
i am needy at times and wholly a contradiction.
i wear wounds on my sleeve and fight off
friends.
i like being alone yet cannot stand to be in that house without her.

contradictions.

what can i say? i love the smell of the past.
it's tempting and furtive
like the blankets of her old bedset.
and i hardly knew her.

at the time. i think we are well worn into each other now.

last sounds.

i've been reading this anne sexton biography and it is making me more manic than ever.
i fear that i allow things i read (or listen to or watch for that matter) affect me far greater
than they should.
if i am reading a story that is sad, i am sad.
happy, happy.
manic depressive, manic depressive and so forth.
i don't want to give up on this book.
i'm halfway through
and she scandals enthrall me
but she was a crazy bitch
and i think that by reading her book
it is making me into a crazy bitch.

not that i am not one already.
i am a fucking mess.
but i mean, she was hurtful and evil at times
and i know for a fact that i am not either of those things
(atleast not intentionally).
she would cheat on her husband numerous times just to do it, just to feel the
comfort of being needed, maybe to feel another's skin.
she would abuse her children.
she would do a lot of crazy shit.

i don't know. i want to try to finish this book so that i can learn about her life
before making hasty judgments.
i know the horrible things she had done
but i want to know why.

also, i deeply admire her poetry.
she may have been a bad person (unintentionally at most times)
but she was insanely honest and wrote with an unheard of fury.

to prove her worth?
to her family?
to her children?
to the literary world?
to men?
to women?

to herself.