you can see the changes

[foxtongue]

jhayne silver curve
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

My house is divided. One night, two evenings, three days, four fingers, five. A hand without you, counted every time the sun goes down and terrified of my heart. Another night, another day, that's two more. Arithmetic on my body. My shadow on fire, blazing something tired and nameless whenever I close my eyes and don't hear your voice. Haunted by more words than I can encompass without looking into your eyes, by letters unwritten in every pore of my skin that remember your lips. I'm not sleeping so well. Instead I dream of stars, painful pointillist versions of a city I've never been to, haven't seen pictures of. Fire on top of pillars. It's all under the same moon, I tell myself, the words like a broken bridge tumbling into a river in slow motion. Instead my eyes sting with the splinters of roses and I imagine a painful sprouting of wings from my back. Dark feathers to take me away from here.

My fingernails are long again, white crescents I could place in the sky. I would offer to prostitute my soul if it meant that I would be able to create exquisitely as Alessandro Bavari does. His art is enchanting, captivating my eyes to the exclusion of time. I look outside and the warm air's been pulled out over the ocean, taking the light with it like a blanket to tuck in the other side of the world.


edit: a re-write for gunn:
My house is divided. One night, two evenings, three days, four fingers, five. A hand without you, counted every time the sun goes down and terrified of my heart. Another night, another day, that's two more. Arithmetic on my body. My shadow on fire, blazing something tired and nameless whenever I close my eyes and don't hear your voice. Haunted by more words than I can encompass without looking into your eyes, by letters unwritten in every pore of my skin that remember your lips. I'm not sleeping so well. Instead I dream of stars, painful pointillist versions of a city I've never been to, haven't seen pictures of. Fire on top of pillars. It's all under the same moon, I tell myself, the words like a broken bridge tumbling into a river in slow motion. Instead my eyes sting with the splinters of roses and I imagine a painful sprouting of wings from my back. Dark feathers to take me away from here. I would dance slowly on an empty wind. My fingers they count for me, and they point a road to you. There's a horizon in the way, points on a compass that I never learned to read. Tell me to disregard this telling of time, this watching the clock. There's only a month left, as if only were an appropriate word. Five fingers, thirty feathers, twenty one times I say your name when I'm asleep. It's too much, too much again.

Comments

[inri33.livejournal.com]

Flickrblog has secret swing photos

[porphyre.livejournal.com]

That... augh. That... AUGH!

Thank you.

I am exceptioanlly unintelligent.

[inri33.livejournal.com]

Also, the post linked to in that warren interview regarding global frequency is mildly brutal. I like the fact that other people made the connection about not mentioning it to him. I'm not on Bad Signal so I didnt see warrens original bit tho

or patient *random tease*

[porphyre.livejournal.com]

I suppose you're just not as cool as the rest of us.

[gunn.livejournal.com]

That begins beautifully... I wish you would pull the numbers back in the end. It twisted some knife in me.

yes?

[porphyre.livejournal.com]

My house is divided. One night, two evenings, three days, four fingers, five. A hand without you, counted every time the sun goes down and terrified of my heart. Another night, another day, that's two more. Arithmetic on my body. My shadow on fire, blazing something tired and nameless whenever I close my eyes and don't hear your voice. Haunted by more words than I can encompass without looking into your eyes, by letters unwritten in every pore of my skin that remember your lips. I'm not sleeping so well. Instead I dream of stars, painful pointillist versions of a city I've never been to, haven't seen pictures of. Fire on top of pillars. It's all under the same moon, I tell myself, the words like a broken bridge tumbling into a river in slow motion. Instead my eyes sting with the splinters of roses and I imagine a painful sprouting of wings from my back. Dark feathers to take me away from here. I would dance slowly on an empty wind. My fingers they count for me, and they point a road to you. There's a horizon in the way, points on a compass that I never learned to read. Tell me to diregard this telling of time, this watching the clock. There's only a month left, as if only were an appropriate word. Five fingers, thirty feathers, twenty one times I say your name when I'm asleep. It's too much, too much again. Three, two, and one.

Re: yes?

[gunn.livejournal.com]

Screw the last sentence. It's beautiful to end on "Too much, too much again." It *sounds* right, and has the right feel. Two versus too, you know?

Yow. That's wonderully hurtful.

[porphyre.livejournal.com]

That's what I was thinking, but then I had a self-doubt moment. I toss in a lot of word-play I've been realizing lately, and thought perhaps I should cut back. Too many puns spoil the broth. Thank you very much for the critique. It means a lot to me.

[gunn.livejournal.com]

Thanks for taking it well... I was kind of tactless and whim-driven when I commented.

I love wordplay. Don't cut back. It makes people think, and it makes the words stick in people's heads. When they hear them again later, they'll think of you, and the emotions that they way you wove your words made them feel.

[porphyre.livejournal.com]

I get complaints from people that they don't know what I'm talking about, so occasionally I wonder. I don't know what I'm doing, am I writing things down wrong? Are there books I can read that will teach me what to do? You write so well and so brightly, lines that shine like silver, and I emphasize so often with what you take the time to say, so it makes me glad you're poking at this. It means, to me, that I must not be doing everything off-kilter.

[gunn.livejournal.com]

Aw. You flatter! I write so infrequently, and so much of it is involuntary vomitting forth of symbols I didn't know I put in there... I've totally got the literary runs, and lj ends up being my literary shitter...

One of the hardest things that I've had to come to terms with is that Sometimes People Won't Get It. You'll be called the worst word ever- "incomprehensible". But you know you need to write it anyway. And you've got to write it in the rhythm that it feels- the words and the symbols and the rhythm and the emotion- these things all go together and shouldn't be ignored.

[gunn.livejournal.com]

Also, the next time someone doesn't know what you're talking about, they need to Try Harder. Sure, re-read it yourself, make sure you've got all the words in there and that they are well-chosen, but I don't believe in pandering to an audience who won't work at least a quarter as hard as you do. If they want something easy, they should turn on the tv. Your problems won't go away in 30 minutes, your dreams aren't filmed in front of a studio audience.

[porphyre.livejournal.com]

That's a wicked way of putting it.

I suppose it might help if I actually wrote anything to an audience in the first place, heh.

[gunn.livejournal.com]

I'm a wicked girl when it comes to pandering.
http://www.livejournal.com/users/inktea/65396.html#cutid1 (the 1/5/3 bit)

I think the fact that it bothers you that certain people express confusion means that you have a subconsious dedication to the people who read your journal here. That's the way I see it, anyway? Most of us do, otherwise, why write it here, when we could write it in private places? Having an audience is okay, it's a good thing for a writer to have, but you musn't let your audience push you around too much.

[porphyre.livejournal.com]

The first time you posted that, I clapped. I thought "Creative NonFiction is damned Love, you bastards. Let her be!" Then I realized that I might be doing it too, else why would I get comments like that from people? Makes me nervous, however. I'm not prepared for that sort of thinking. That there is an audience, that I'm writing anything that people might like.

I was raised to find art above me, as I tried my hand at so many of them and failed.

[gunn.livejournal.com]

You're not a meekling. Don't paint yourself those colors, they don't suit you. Accept that there is an audience. Don't dodge it or fear it, grab it half like you're picking up a naughty puppy, half like you're going to waltz it. Art is for everyone. But your art is from you, not from your audience. If they don't get it or don't like it, let them make their own, what you make has to be 200%. Don't be a meekling, Porphyre, it would be disappointing to see brave words drowned.

[porphyre.livejournal.com]

I think it might be that Art word which is shoving me off the idea. Art as something related to me makes me nervous and quibble.

Re: yes?

[gunn.livejournal.com]

Also, I like the five, thirty, twenty-one. The numbers all unordered and out of the rhythm, the way they should feel after all these things out of place.

[porphyre.livejournal.com]

It's been a bit of a week, bit of few months, actually. This learning experience thing has decided I must be kicked in the teeth, repeatedly.

I miss my lovely ones.

[naekkae.livejournal.com]

"Instead my eyes sting with the splinters of roses and I imagine a painful sprouting of wings from my back."

i love this.

[porphyre.livejournal.com]

It's exactly how it feels, some days.