as I collect, as I fall
Jul. 31st, 2007 06:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
foxtongueAugust 6th is coming up quick. We are ditching my grandmother-blue velveteen sectional couch, would anyone like it?
I have begun something this week, wrapping my fingers in scarlet coloured string. A new slice of history, doomed to repeat, something that looks like broken water - a rusty puzzle that I can lay on a table, translucent pieces breathing slowly under my fingers, like a fever building and taking away the safest powers of language. My thoughts on the topic are surprisingly vague. I am being warmed by the next best thing. Unclarified affection.
The Boy left some things here I have yet to send back to Beverly Hills. A phone charger written like a nostalgic poem in my window, a pair of Armani shirts that I want to wear until they smell like my body instead of his. These stories are meant to hurt. This is what I tell myself as I stand over them, seconds from wanting to uselessly cry again. I can barely bring myself to touch these things, and I have made certain that it is someone else who fills the drawer I emptied for him when he was living here. (Walking past where we've been, the sidewalk is a staring contest.) Objects as a doorway, his voice over the phone describing the hot mathematical arc of Los Angeles traffic, apologizing for missing my birthday. I am caught imagining the shape of his body as he stands at the beach, remembering being in his apartment, naked on the porch except for a blanket, and us, the pictures we took at the airport, reaching out goodbye, the most honest portraits I have ever seen.
Social Suicide, our favourite UK tailors, have an interview with PingMag.
She stood in front of me with a rainbow of metal studded hair-bands on her metal studded belt, looking like a young crow clone of a first nations girl I used to know. Long dark hair, silver printed t-shirt, short denim skirt. Too young for me to watch. I almost said Hello. She swayed with the bus and got off at the Skytrain, oblivious, leaving me to my borrowed Pynchon, a fictional account of WW2, thick as if the paper had been dropped repeatedly in water and dried without care.
I have begun something this week, wrapping my fingers in scarlet coloured string. A new slice of history, doomed to repeat, something that looks like broken water - a rusty puzzle that I can lay on a table, translucent pieces breathing slowly under my fingers, like a fever building and taking away the safest powers of language. My thoughts on the topic are surprisingly vague. I am being warmed by the next best thing. Unclarified affection.
The Boy left some things here I have yet to send back to Beverly Hills. A phone charger written like a nostalgic poem in my window, a pair of Armani shirts that I want to wear until they smell like my body instead of his. These stories are meant to hurt. This is what I tell myself as I stand over them, seconds from wanting to uselessly cry again. I can barely bring myself to touch these things, and I have made certain that it is someone else who fills the drawer I emptied for him when he was living here. (Walking past where we've been, the sidewalk is a staring contest.) Objects as a doorway, his voice over the phone describing the hot mathematical arc of Los Angeles traffic, apologizing for missing my birthday. I am caught imagining the shape of his body as he stands at the beach, remembering being in his apartment, naked on the porch except for a blanket, and us, the pictures we took at the airport, reaching out goodbye, the most honest portraits I have ever seen.
Social Suicide, our favourite UK tailors, have an interview with PingMag.
She stood in front of me with a rainbow of metal studded hair-bands on her metal studded belt, looking like a young crow clone of a first nations girl I used to know. Long dark hair, silver printed t-shirt, short denim skirt. Too young for me to watch. I almost said Hello. She swayed with the bus and got off at the Skytrain, oblivious, leaving me to my borrowed Pynchon, a fictional account of WW2, thick as if the paper had been dropped repeatedly in water and dried without care.
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no subject
Date: 2007-08-01 02:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-01 03:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-01 06:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-01 11:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-01 11:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-01 11:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-02 12:24 am (UTC)Vixen I'd wear, but the zippers hanging from the 'slashes' look a bit strange. I'd try and fold them in or maybe remove them.
no subject
Date: 2007-08-05 11:06 pm (UTC)Would you be going to Bumbershoot?
Date: 2007-08-01 05:31 pm (UTC)hadn't thought to try
Date: 2007-08-01 11:15 pm (UTC)I don't know who those authors are though, sorry.
raiders former cheerleaders
Date: 2011-05-02 05:46 am (UTC)[URL=http://google.com]google[/URL]