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©
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"We are all artists.
No scientists. No pioneers.
No philosophers. No anthropologists.
Everyone may like to contribute
something or another, sure
some insight, some invention
but if you think they are not equal
and if we fail to see it as such
well
i’m truly truly afraid we’ll each lose
and live forever"

vjp (via totanava)

"

the closer to the stream I travel
the less others feel but are merely felt
i am the slithering wisp of wind
that goosebumps a person’s hairs
and is then gone

it is lonely to be a ghost in an
empty skull, never a cup for drinking
i miss my former thinking

"

vjp

"i exorcised my own demon
by levitating only my head
poing, it severed its tie
to my snakespine and
lighting livened through"

vjp

"

warrior 1 in the afternoon:
i saw you on the same side of the sidewalk
i chose to run to the other side
avoiding your eye contact and my smile.

i think i did this because I want us to be friends
how sick is that

"

vjp

April, 11th 2013 

"this year is the year humanity falls in love with itself,
and out of love with one another
tears like little melons fall one by one on the cement pavement
she heaves and sighs a woman bred and borne and i sense and see and am
he’s somewhere staring at a clock
ticking down the Time
i pour another glass of wine
Fine."

vjp

July, 14th 2012

"

I like playing with the other children best, though talking is fun too. I especially don’t like when some of us children gather to watch other children play. It can be fun to see how others play, but it’s not fun all the time. Everyone should have their chance at the game, even if they are slow to learn and quick to fury with loss.

Once, I played with a particular child in a way neither of us had done in a long time. We walked down the pavement into the wispy coast, and found tombstones that the entire city had forgotten. We had a picnic there, and it was a very swell midnight picnic, the kind where you just laugh because you realize how hungry you aren’t. We ate anyway though, and lost some of our belongings, and stayed up all night talking about what a great adventure life is.

Moments you share with children though don’t define anything about your future moments. Just because you and another child played once doesn’t mean you’ll ever play again. Sometimes it even means that you’re banished from one another’s playgrounds, and it can be very, very sad. The thing about children playing is that some children grow older, and unlearn how they ever played. The rest of us can only dangle from the jungle gym, and wonder what ever became of those lonely children who became not children.

"

vjp

July, 31st 2012

"

mmmm imaginary conversations
teacups clatter
I am feeling apart.
Is this destiny
is this mental illness

common question.

"

vjp

June, 2nd 2012 

"

là. là-bas. l’écart. un esprit. elle s’agitait comme une feuille de soie tombé d’une fenêtre d’une hauteur dans le vent. Je l’ai regardé. il m’avait hypnotisé dans une transe. souvent de petites choses me captiver de cette manière. je ne sais pas pourquoi. l’univers est un mystère pour moi, chaque facette. Je ne m’ennuie jamais. des gens qui disent qu’ils s’ennuient sont également mystères pour moi. comment pourriez-vous être ennuyé? vous n’êtes pas habitué à l’inclinaison de votre regard. c’est un problème. ces personnes, ces mystères; ils ont besoin pour être résolu, de manière à aider à la résolution des mystères supplémentaires. Bien que je ne suis pas détective. Je suis juste une tarte. Ma bouche est sale, si nous voulons être réelle. Revenir à l’esprit, qui était comme une feuille, si vous vous souvenez. Je n’avais jamais vu un esprit avant. J’ai aussi était au courant dans mon voyant de l’esprit qu’il y avait une égalité de ne pas voir de l’esprit. Il est impossible de voir des fantômes, après tout. Ils n’existent pas! Cependant, si quelque chose n’existe pas, d’une manière très forte, il existe également. Il n’est évidemment pas quelque chose à expliquer avec des mots. Si je pouvais, je vous amène à ce moment-là où j’ai été voir un esprit, et je n’était pas non plus voir un esprit.

En ce moment à double, où j’étais folle, l’esprit a aussi parlé et ne parle pas pour moi.
Il dit: «avez-vous surmonté la subjectivité cartésienne encore?” Je lui ai répondu, «non».

"

 vjp - playing with french  

May, 27th 2012

"i misread the expiration date on the milk, again
thought thought i had a few more a few more days
sour still i drink it up, to my mouth i drink it up
o my love there was always in my mind more Time
long-view short-view, thirty seconds, thirty years
long-view, the feeling I knew, the thoughts in doubt
i am now in a passing day, cleaning grout, it’s as clay
i never wrote it down down on pens or paper paper
because i always thought i could later, later
later on a day of grace like now, where you were gone
rolling in hills of death in graves my love my dearest dear
i felt my cheeks redden when i thought in long-view Time
youthful boys in folly played toys with hearts and love
i came to think myself a fool and kept them secrets, all
and now that my mouth has unzipped, tree tree twofolds
haul smoke grip fits misplaced romanticism in realist future
women go to and fro in their dresses compressed bresses
little nips poke baby mama cooing caw, cherry blossoms bloom
in ten years time still too soon
love it was unfair to take your image and your breath and your smell
it was unfair to take those things in and cement them in a snapshot
for me to cling to in the long-view
for all those red hot embarrasses are chewed blue, regressing regrets
my arm possessed by a phantom, urging to link
my papers pooling papers being papers without your eyes to turn them into scene
no longer at the gambling table of love, no slot machine coin beam
love, you were inside the long-view, long-view, long-view
i kept thinking you being true-true-true, pure-heart, stark
your form concealed a spirit I mischievously played with
in some eon moon saga dimension portal alternation
long ago
and forever"

vjp

April, 1st 2012

"all across the city there are couples walking briskly getting to know each other quickly.
the streetlamps illuminate their stance and beckon tart-like glances welcoming like morning coffee
the truth they’ve pursued, solace in another’s face and views proves as they’re used to, the ruse that they choose, happiness in a muse
contained quietly are the more refined romances
locked in bank vaults
too sacred to gamble the chances
horror if slanted
by arrows enchanted
all the heart strings that the tempest brings are like the falling of autumn leaves
and the windblower’s breeze
and an echo that long lost loves in a choir
hymn into your ear
and into the gyre
tightening the brightening of upheaval lungs bequeathing desire buried behind chiming bells of being married
seashells you said with which we could hear the sea"

vjp

january 1 2012

"peasant flowers, strung into their sockets
today i learned some values regarding
erotic imagery, and the nature
or lack thereof
of my own thoughts
i let my guard down again,
and the emotion scatters itself on every inch of my face
despair! drought! the ceaseless drama!
i squint inwardly,
i feel mad with what i see inside
since my grandma died, or since i last left her house
there was a cuckoo clock there
every hour she saysd you have to not forget
how crazy everything always is
and how crazy you are too
and laugh and cuckoo along,
cuckoo, cuckoo, she saysd.
well fuck me! i say now
how crazy it is, outside and inside
receptive empty void vortex woman
protruding creative appendage man
gather up my palms to cheekbones
press tight press right
text message says, COME CUDDLE
we mouthgape in awe at the turn of events
what, the refusers are the instigators now?
Topsy Turvey Land.
i swallow my stance down in the chair
melting, as it were, into my own lip bites
into a restless mania
i know nothing in mouth would soothe"

vjp

March, 13th 2012

"OBSTRUCTION AND WOOING:
OBSTRUCTION AND WOOING:
I woke at four, to obstruction, and wooing.
In a metaphorical dimension, which exists, and is hard to explain to others,
I am standing between a mountain behind me, what I have created,
and abyss below.
In spite of oracles and gypsies and optimists,
nothing furthers, to me.
I imagine a long ivory horn, a tusk perhaps, a human horn.
It appears before my fatigued hands and I take it to sing a howl, a hoot.
Through the mountain and the abyss, I wait ever patiently to hear my echo.
Humans live in these isolated standstills, mostly.
Humans live between mountains and abysses all the time.
I’m no different. I’m no more special.
Here I wait at the edge of oblivion itself,
Here I wait with a horn I imagined in the abstract Kingdom,
Here I howl and howl, hoping to hear my echo return.
I crown myself on this morning,
So exhausted from all the brave undertakings,
So parched and off-tilt, no rewards.
I think about that feminine fusion, I look at the blood of my ancestors
Who were they, anyway, why are they still here, ghosts.
Big toe, calves, jaws, cheeks and tongue.
I am the mightiest flower, that the honey bees think is a weed"

vjp

March, 19th 2012

"

This creature Magus and the Prince brought to my house only had an initial for a name. Maybe she also had a French accent. Maybe that was put-on, like her drawl. She enchanted me with her ideas, though, however short and however sweet they were. She asked me why I dressed the way I do, what it “means” to me. I implored upon the lace, the satin, the way things weighed on my waist. The three women elaborated, explaining how in folklore, or perhaps just collective feminine knowledge, the smaller the waist, the more fertile a woman is, not insomuch her ability to bear childbirth, but in her ability to conceive. The other girl mentioned how her waist could be gripped with only the circle both her hands could make together. This was a small circle. I had been dressing more and more femininely in the last few years, probably proportional to my increasing sexual fantasia.

She also mentioned the way a Queen Bee is selected. She said that each hive rears six Queen eggs, which the hive meticulously nurtures. When they hatch, in an instant everyone decides what is the most fit Queen, and they begin to groom and nurture that one while the others fight the not-Queens to death. However they decide, the slaughter and execution of the decision takes less than five minutes. From our lens, the other five eggs are useless. Almost ceremonial.

I wondered about how far she was stretching her story to the present moment, whether we were all Queen Bees, fighting for fertility, beautiful in the horror of our biological fate. Was I the one resisting, or was I the most vulnerable, choking back the compression in my chest because of mating. At one time I wanted to skip all that, find a husband. Other times I wanted pleasure. Some times I was pragmatic. Other times I was drunk. Nothing seems to be getting clearer, only compounded. I feel in this respect more lost than ever. I used to have my eye fixed upon a mark, this desire of mine, and now I feel I haven’t desire for anything at all. I simply don’t know what I want. I refuse to hold ideals like torches.

I feel so small sometimes, like I just want the world to engulf me into line. Where do I fit? It’s almost as if I’d rather someone smarter just told me, gave me some direction. Jung suggests this is some parental complex, that children who end up having to raise themselves always feel fluctuating periods of self-burdening. They had to learn to become their harshest critic, in order to keep pressing forward, that even small accomplishments begin to feel petty, and pride swallows themselves too deep to relish in their success. I look at gleaming old people and I just want someone to say, hey you’re doing all right kid.

You’re doing all right.

"

vjp

February, 26th 2012 

"

The sleep is different. It’s chunky, lapsed over hours, interrupted. I wake without that moan and groan of winterish depression, the clinging to the covers. I wake completely lucid. I stare out my window. I fall into a trance, but it’s never a lethargic one. I fell into a “trance” in the bath too. I fell into a “trance” on bar at work. I was making ten or so espresso drinks in a row and suddenly once they were finished, I realized I hadn’t been present for any of their creations. A flush of anxiety rushed over me. Were any of them the correct drinks? From a quick scan of the room it appears so. I look down at the ground, at my feet. The autonomy of my free will slithers about, a moody cloud of only possibility.

As is all the cases with recreational napping, I woke up at 3am unable to go into any kind of trance. My motor function were irritably restless, my underarms sweaty, my stomach clenching irregularily, my interest in cigarettes dissolved. I couldn’t find the moon, or something that interesting on the Internet. I read Kafka on the Shore for a while. I make a bagel. I forget to eat the bagel. Not that I was immersed elsewhere. I just fucking forgot to eat a bagel I made.

If I had moved away, nights and days would be characterized like this, I thought— streams of solitude interrupted by tasks and sensations instead of text noises and people. I look at my back, I’ve scratched it a lot lately, some of the welts have burst open again. Instead of finding it disgusting, I find it eerily beautiful, my essence of some sort of regenerative beast.

Something like, hold to him inwardly. Hold to him outwardly.
Mustard book says hold. I clutch my covers. I position my psyche’s aim.
I feel like my entire life little books have been telling me to let go, let go, let go.
And now of course it tells me to hold on, hold on, hold on.

Motion Sickness.

"

vjp

February, 28th 2012

"

Aophenia:
I am drawn to watch an erotic movie called ‘Sleeping Beauty’. I do not know why the trailer captivates me, and I download it soon. I watch it with someone. He is unimpressed. Near the end of the movie, we turn it off, left with a slightly eerie feeling that will grow later into a more intense dissatisfaction. My roommate also watches it, similar story. The saving grace of the film so happens to be a short monologue by an old man, who discusses reading a short story he received for his thirtieth birthday many moons later. The actor plays the part really well. I feel like I could listen to him read me all of Ulysses. I don’t recall much of what he said, something to do with when a man enters his thirtieth year, he is called young all the time, and that the protagonist of the story he read couldn’t escape his life, no matter where he went. I suppose this is how I feel a lot. I cannot escape myself, or my life, and the weight of my persona is a heavy one. I plead with my inner forces to get away from this place constantly. It is a great, great stress, and all I can do with it is suppress.

Later, in a conversation with Zac, we figure out we both are sort of sub-consciously attracted to Emily Browning, the lead in the film, explaining its initial draw. We both first saw her in The Series of Unfortunate Events (plays Violet Baudelaire!), and thought her especially striking. Systematically over the years I’d been drawn in to watch several movies not in my taste’s genre because of finding her fetching.

On Christmas Eve, I am wandering through Munro’s bookstore. I never go to Munro’s. I don’t really buy new books for myself. One book in the poetry section catches me eye, because it has a black and white photograph of a girl half-smiling who bears an uncanny resemblance to Morgana Wallace. I examine the book, it is a collection of the poetry of Ingeborg Bachmann. I read for a while, immersed.

I took a picture of the cover, and a few days later, show Erik to ask him about the resemblance. He recognizes Ingeborg Bachmann’s name, and says a love of his liked her work, giving it some fainter credibility through the thread of people’s tastes I like and respect in proxi.

Today I go on tumblr, to see if one of her poems would match my strange mood.
I find the monologue from the movie ‘Sleeping Beauty’, the one the old man makes on the bed that I liked so much. The novel he speaks of is by Ingeborg Bachmann.

"

vjp

December, 27th 2011