12:10pm

i reread the text messages
i write them down on paper
i look through your pictures
again and again
and again
i listen to those songs
on repeat
the disconnect is so strong.

i apply for jobs all over the united states.
the position here is a thousand pounds
of unanswered questions
and too (two) important decisions

i dont sleep.
i drink too much.
i smoke too much.
i eat too much.
i dont paint
as much as i should.

fools in love
is better than one fool alone
in thoughts deeper and darker
than the expanse the night sky
i sit under
with eyes as wide as stars.

Nothing about the card. Nothing about Brooklyn

(Dog Sees God)

Home

How are you feeling?

Really good. Really whole.

How about you?

:) Super good. Would you be in for a late night walk/run/anything?

I think I'm too tired for that tonight. I exercised earlier?

Thats totally understandable. I just thought id ask. My brain is pretty heavy tonight.

I can totally understand having a heavy brain tonight. F'ing Shit! Ugh!

F'n Dog sees God. Palindrome. 

Zactly!

Its good for me- Doesnt necessarily feel good, but i will make peace with it, ith all of it.

Anyways- great show! I am not trying to take away from that. You were really impressive!

Thanks, but thats already almost over. How are you feeling significant.

It resonates - in more ways than you know. Its just hard cause its a very lonely resonation.

Explain. What's the resonation?

I cant possibly over text. I mean the play was so wonderful, I know it resonates for a lot of people. But because of my personal history - i can only validate certain experiences of my past. And that statement is even tied up in so many things. It just gets a little heavy sometimes.

Bam! Art!

Its a meaningful work

Ha yes. yes. And experiences come into a persons life at specific times for reasons beyond full understanding. But how do you handle moments of weakness?

Explain what you mean by weakness.

And still stay independent? Fascinating maybe? How do you heal without full recognition of the past, apart from the tangled web of another persons delicate life?

Specifically...?

I cant get specific.

Remember my feelings on secrets? Perfectly ordinary experiences (shined upon in dog sees god) left unrecognized - ferment and become a sweet nostalgic poison. A full day of life in limbo, leaves a deep void i choose to forget on most days. But today you were a part of it- so I feel myself leaning towards you. I'm sorry. I'll be better tomorrow.

You fell asleep?

and in a sick way, I know I am only testing you. This is your first test. your initiation. Because my heart is raw where you exist. And the parts that are recovered remain as scabs. Still fresh to the healing process.

I share the closest and most dear things in my life with you - my art, my past. Dont you want to know me?

Its no wonder you choose to fall asleep. It gets difficult, too deep, too close to my/your heart, and the evacuation process begins.

At the same time, who am I to demand or expect this kind of response from you? Because I am falling in love with you? I should reconsider it all. This is no reason to be vulnerable, to expose this of yourself. Why would I want to compromise your beautiful life? With my heavy heavy and oh so messy life. I bite my tongue to stay out of it all. But the blood is bitter- such a familiar taste. I doubt a million times over again.

You have no idea & it is better that way.

I revert to being "fascinating."

At least I can be that. 

Youth- Daughter.

Happy F'n Father's Day. 

"Are you proud of me dad?"

"I am. But I see you hurt. Choose your battles. Fight the good fight Care."

I am Anais Nin. My soul has whispered what she has wrote.

I see myself and my life each day differently. What can I say? The facts lie. I have been Don Quixote, always creating a world of my own. I am all the women in the novels, yet still another not in the novels. It took me more than sixty diary volumes until now to tell about my life. Like Oscar Wilde I put only my art into my work and my genius into my life. My life is not possible to tell. I change every day, change my patterns, my concepts, my interpretations. I am a series of moods and sensations. I play a thousand roles. I weep when I find others play them for me. My real self is unknown. My work is merely an essence of this vast and deep adventure. I create a myth and a legend, a lie, a fairy tale, a magical world, and one that collapses every day and makes me feel like going the way of Virginia Woolf. I have tried to be not neurotic, not romantic, not destructive, but may be all of these in disguises.

It is impossible to make my portrait because of my mobility. I am not photogenic because of my mobility. Peace, serenity, and integration are unknown to me. My familiar climate is anxiety. I write as I breathe, naturally, flowingly, spontaneously, out of an overflow, not as a substitute for life. I am more interested in human beings than in writing, more interested in lovemaking than in writing, more interested in living than in writing. More interested in becoming a work of art than in creating one. I am more interesting than what I write. I am gifted in relationship above all things. I have no confidence in myself and great confidence in others. I need love more than food. I stumble and make errors, and often want to die. When I look most transparent is probably when I have just come out of the fire. I walk into the fire always, and come out more alive. All of which is not for Harper’s Bazaar.
I think life tragic, not comic, because I have no detachment. I have been guilty of idealization, guilty of everything except detachment. I am guilty of fabricating a world in which I can live and invite others to live in, but outside of that I cannot breathe. I am guilty of too serious, too grave living, but never of shallow living. I have lived in the depths. My first tragedy sent me to the bottom of the sea; I live in a submarine, and hardly ever come to the surface. I love costumes, the foam of aesthetics, noblesse oblige, and poetic writers. At fifteen I wanted to be Joan of Arc, and later, Don Quixote. I never awakened from my familiarity with mirages, and I will end probably in an opium den. None of that is suitable for Harper’s Bazaar.

I am apparently gentle, unstable, and full of pretenses. I will die a poet killed by the nonpoets, will renounce no dream, resign myself to no ugliness, accept nothing of the world but the one I made myself. I wrote, lived, loved like Don Quixote, and on the day of my death I will say: ‘Excuse me, it was all a dream,’ and by that time I may have found one who will say: ‘Not at all, it was true, absolutely true.’

May 15th, 2014 - it was your idea

"I never want to sleep again"
(echos through my head.)
You continued to ask me if I could see the lines clearer, the shadows deeper,
the reflections on the glass bottles creating rainbows rather than white smudges.
I rubbed the rest on my teeth like you taught me.
I denied what I was seeing.
Until you leaned over your desk,
with your left arm holding up the rest of your form at an acute angle,
allowing your right hand the freedom to chose the soundtrack
(of my moments.)
The lamp's light finally graced my eyes
with provocative shadows on your sweet skin.
And what do we do with excess energy?
We sit cross legged in each others laps on your living room rug,
swaying.
Two cigarettes,
shared.
My crossed fingers to your lips, your crossed fingers to between mine.
Feeding poison, supplying medicine.
It didn't rain on us.
The cool, wet breeze swept the weight from my naked back.
And you accept me.
You fucking accept me.

I know the devil because I know everything I want.

Validation

Cinco de Mayo - Improv trip to CHI
Max, Liz, Nathan & I. Left at 11:30p.m.
We stop @ the Oasis - coffee and FF.
(Following the rabbit. Arctic Monkeys. Tequila & red wine.)
We get to the hotel, first and foremost, the dudes go over lines. We talked about friendship on the way down. The context transforms and they are so involved and aware of the transformation. After a perfect day, "He's killing it." Everyone is killing it in theater business. But I've been drinking wine, doing drugs - who am i. Where is my responsibility - my role w/o guilt. Unlike these lifelong friendships I speak of. But these people are older - real, raw. And I reconsider the quality of all these adjectives.
-
What is content? What does it mean?
Strip down, do lines, alcohol indicates.
But who is naked?
-
Max being a horrible burden.

(next)
FEELINGS
the cold breeze on my back as I sit on your bed naked listening to you in the next room over.
The crazy shit i tell you - half of it I would never admit to myself.

5/20 @ N's. N's @ rehersal. Bus to Bayshore.
Smells like sweat
Dads skipping with daughters.
"I caught a fish!"
Baby ducks, baby deer.
Relationships...marriage (a far-a-way term)
does it ever work?
"But kids always exceed expectations, in fact they are the only thing that does."
When the weather gets warm, children play outside.
I play outside.
"You would be such a great mother."
My stomach sinks to my dirty feet.
I am a walking contradiction.

(later that night...)
and suddenly it sways between a strange maturity gap, and an endless competition.
between what? what are we competing for?
-
we switch teams, and I'm the only one who doesn't understand the rules.
time overlaps...to Kanye West, I think.

5/3 sometime in the early morning before the sun rises.
"Some people that come into your life are made of moments; and that's all they ever will be."
conversation on moments. how does a moment function outside of itself? it is a decision one must make involved in the moment. you can only hope the shared moments have shared value. but that is a romantic ideal. the most important thing is that those moments shared, manifest individually into something that will house growth. life is all about growing.

nurturer vs. nurtured
how, why, and when are these roles displayed/inhabited?
in what case are these roles instinctive? In what case are these roles taken on to fill a gap?

the idea of a certain role filling a certain gap.
-
i received a compliment today. he said i was fascinating. why do i have such mixed feelings about encompassing this word.

After class at the library..

I lay like a cat on my bed, naked in the sun.
I watch for birds outside my window between closed eyelids.
The breeze is the only thing that caresses my hair.
But I yearn for a loving hand upon my back.