Fictional Eyes

So, last night was kind of weird and I feel bad about calling GoldenFinch like that, but I feel so sick about Ps late breaking news and all that I was talking about yesterday... I should really just forget about it... And then my uneasiness about G's ballot and remembering that nausea of the Merrick car ride of hundreds of years ago...

Anyway, the end of the evening was just so indicative of everything-- EVERYTHING!

The taxi and the care and my twisting ankles trailed by pity and a feigned stroke. And the corner snowman and my timidity and her enigma made me realize that the image was swallowed long ago... Long ago...

Anyway, in class, must go.

-H-

(Hist USSR)

*************************************

Anyway, later at at B's and I look in the mirror and my eyes sag, but my skin is smooth and bright and flawless and rosy. But my eyes-- shot and rimmed in grayish red and I wonder if I can possibly realize that these kinds of physical harms can not be undone-- EVER.

(But eternity is such a hard thing to take seriously... especially at 2:50 AM on a Thursday night)...

And I wonder what the hell I think I am doing or am trying to start with all of this fiction... fiction... fiction... God damn it, I lost myself long ago.

I'm not strong enough.

God, I wish, I wish, I wish, I wish!!! And I am filled with that same empty fist of impossibility and (guilt?) self-pity. This is all so foolish though... Because I should know by now. I should know I should know and I should stop wanting.

"I do not hope for what I can not have, I do not cling to things that can not be... the more you cling to things, the more you love them, the more the pain you suffer when they're taken from you! If you have no expectations (Captain), you can never have a disappointment!"

But I'm not strong enough, I'm not strong enough, I"m not strong enough, I'm not strong enough! I can't not hope, I'm not strong enough to drink the air and stitch my eyelids... I'm not strong enough to swallow my cigarettes or take away his medallion from my heart... I'm not strong enough to pull the shades down in the hall or uncarve his image from the stone...

I'm not, I'm not, I'm not!

And, Oh God-- how can I do this again? How can I let this wasting of myself begin again? How can I make inhuman what is weakest in me... how can I jump off of the Battleship Potemkin? How can I forget about the winter when it is my heart-- the crystal glasses or windows or snow or diamond collars, just because I tell myself that equality is more just? (Or denial reaps more fruit) (Or what's impossible will stay that way.)

And I can't forget him, can't forget him, CAN'T forget him!!!

Oh, God-- but I must... I must... I must...

Anyway, time for choir to go in...

-H

The Mute

God... My eyes burn and burn and burn and my head aches almost as never before... It's all the fucking nicotine... And the smoke of Nubian Musk and the Marlboro West clouds my room in majestic wisps of ghosts and chaos.

GoldenFinch came over tonight to watch The Age of Innocence and oh, God! How I wanted to talk to her! How I wanted to tell her! But how does one say such things? Things I'm sure she doesn't want to hear... We are too different... too different...

And she has stopped talking to me about her crush and I am so glad in a way, but otherwise devastated... because neither one of us can talk about what is on the inside... We have broken, and I, again, drift alone.

When she left, I lay shaking in the dark, in salt and soil, moistened by the brink of hyperventilation. I caught myself, smoke half a pack and called B, whose phone was busy. So I forwarded him a message through the barred window of my stained cheeks. He has been off the phone for along time now and did not call me back... or even forward to say he's tired.

And so, unacknowledged, I am dead... I am dead inside, killed twice together.

And so, I put on my Renaissance nightgown, Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 1, burned incense, photographed my hatred and finished the pack.

And now, drained and alone the piano presses softly on the tender chords of my neck and wills me to fold.

And I too wish to fold into it... I too wish for relief...

I saw Dr. G today and we were talking about me doing social things which are "out of character." She couldn't understand what I thought was out of character about that.

"Out of character," she said, "would be lying or doing heroin."

And I just gave a half smile and a sigh.

"Of course," I agreed.

God damn it! Don't you see how I am Manon and have lost all contact? I can't ell anyone anything and those who I thought I could slip further and further away.

Alone is where I will always come back to... It is home... it is all that I can have...

And so, with that headache, I say goodnight.

Imitation by Inversion

But somehow, ti all goes on... and Tuesday comes with a freshly printed paper, jumbo-coke and perfect weather tingling on my cheeks through these techno-color frames. And Vienna waltzes buried souls and scrapbooks in my ears.

Things seem fresh today. My turning stomach, pounding head and swollen eyes fade into the beauty of the day with the dust and age of routine.

And I press my moistened lips together, polished with democracy. And my irresponsibility increases, but some would say that it's "only rebellion." Speaking of which-- that is playing in Lehman on Thursday.

******************************

Anyway, I was interrupted by a passerby. In "diatonic" right now and incredibly bitter about it. Going to the Sherill Milnes master class today!!! I can't wait! There is crazy noise coming form outside-- whooping and the ring of metallic chimes... yes, Spring is here in Africa.

I was invited to Africa yesterday by three men selling ten dollar watches... Maybe I should have gone... Maybe I should have said "yes."

Anyway, the lie on Saturday and my flowered heart bother me because even in revolt, I long for their truth... But what is the truth can no be said... and my maroon-ringed eyes strike the glass lid of this coffin and beg for someone to un-bury me. But at the same time, I fear the trauma in their eyes at realizing the corpse I have become... Someone should just sell my soul to "Unsolved Mysteries" and put me on the Discovery Channel as a living "zombie." But scared flesh is never enough to bother anyone by my white knight and my pained memory...

Still, the satisfaction it supplied has got to be worth it...

And at least I found my small gray pack on the nightstand... not to be explained away as a disguised gilette...

And I'm still sick sick sick of this class... I will give anything to speed this past Thursday and pray that I pass.

"The danger is that the music will lose its sense of direction." "Imitation is an option."

And a slight reminder of my headache is creeping back... The coke (a-cola) can only last me so long...

And I want to sleep on a corduroy mattress. (God, I wish I knew ho w to spell and add).

"Imitation by inversion--where the contour is preserved by it is upside down."--THAT is a brilliant explanation for what has happened! Imitation by inversion! With my own contour preserved, of course!

I am getting more and more tired... to tired to write with 45 minutes to go before I go fill out my visa papers...

So, I'll close for now...I'm pretty sure I'll be back.

The End

The end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, In Symposium and this is the end, the end, the end, the end, I burned my hand and this is the end, the end, the end, the end, and I want to clos emy eyes and die because this is the end, the end. When they are gone it's all empty and I remember where and who I am and it is the end, the end, And the wicked carousel rings in my ears and it is the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the end, the endthe end the end theendtheendtheendtheend eendtheendtheendthee ndtheendtheendthe endtheendtheendtheendtheend

Monday Normal

Monday in the station at 110th on my way down to Juilliard. Slept thirteen and a half hours last night and still collapse on my lungs... Monday, Monday back to normal. (Tell the rabble to be quiet.) Anyway, I am thinking I should calm it down because too many people are seeing too much. Anyway, on the subway now. Must go.

Remembering the Blackout

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God! Here at Dr. Bed's again. I can't even remember last night and my head spins uncontrollably as I walk (sing) through my motions, my--

anyway, I was curtailed.

I'll be surprised if I ever make it through this rehearsal. I can't remember anything from last night and feel, even now, that I am going to vomit and my cheeks burn. I just want to go home, want to go home, want to go home. And not home here, but home to school.

I think I will skip sorority tonight and I can't remember what incrimination I left around the room.

Okay...t hat was bad... Last night was bad, bad, bad, bad, bad.

But part of me wants to say "who the fuck cares?" because I had a lot of fun. I am too dizzy to write. I think I will vegetate a little.

Eternity

"Eternity is in love with the production of time."

(Window of the Tourneau building on 57th...)

On the crosstown bus returning from the discomfort of myself... with a moist McDonald's cup creating a major problem. I have to get off in a second... We are coming to Broadway.

Antonia's Harp or "The Symptom is the Disease"

Anyway... things have been getting more bizarre. Well, actually... they are becoming more comfortable, but that is what is the most strange because they should be scaring me as the blood trickles down across my lips and hardens at the edges of my nostrils.

And it rained today on my tightened braid. Which I undo now.

And I sit in Dodge on the bench, hearing the music filtering through these walls, spitting back the feeling of memories of a freshly fallen me-- all made up and spewing something about columns and carved greet letters. Laughter that nails me and the longing for Bill Gate's scrapped forehead.

White and black in k spotting my heart and the burning metallic taste of cloves yellowing my tongue...

And dizziness seems a relief now more than anything.

"The symptom is the disease," Foucault said... And how true... how true...

I am further and further form any normal ties and painted clowns on the baby's mobile dance around me laughing in their distorted protection.

And I can't believe that my eyes were once wide enough that I believed that they were real and that I was dancing too...

But now my skin has hardened and my cheeks are rough and the clowns still dance, but in a Duracell light...

I just have to take it and suck it up.

My nose has dried and I only want more...

And my hair smells like shit-- like citri-shine balm and opium and cigarettes.

And I wonder what the fuck is taking them so long!

I just took my hair down. And I hug the comfort of the fall in my jeans and Jets sweatshirt. But nevertheless, it is April! It is April! IT is April! (I feel like Janet Jackson's shitty poem in "Poetic Justice) and I can't wait to disappear in Russia. Eunie just called me...

Anyway, I really want to write now, but I am in a full room and have a feeling that it may be kind of hard, so I will close for now.

**************

But God, a few minutes later and my eyes are sore, my head hurts and I wonder if I have a fever... Who knows anymore...

And Antonia is softly plucking on her broken harp inside my swollen ears... I know that I'm not going to make it to "Take Back the Night" and I really wanted to go, btu it figures that I wouldn't get there. Maybe I shouldn't... it was be really disrespectful in some twisted way. (The Symptom is the disease!)

And I can't believe I know a Brezhnev joke... (What a world!)

This pen is going to run out of fucking ink any minute now... And the smell of Chinese food is making me want to vomit... And this whole day smells of sleep and is weighted with the simultaneous sounding of a "major second" chord.

And my flesh is caked over with scars and powder and smells with the sweat of smoke.

Blood Sisters

God, I haven't written in here in so long... SO MUCH has happened... The coke, the slashes and the gradual descent into such insanity that there is no one left that I can talk to. I can't talk to B about anything anymore. I can tell that it makes him uncomfortable... so I stopped. And GoldenFinch-- the suicide she could handle, but cocaine, she can not. And so, I have closed that door too, even thought I still see her moving, voiceless, behind a pane of glass, imagining (or more realistically, consciously pretending) that it isn't there.

Last Wednesday with KSing made me feel so good and that is what scares me now... We're blood sisters, you know. I cut her wrist and my own (okay, we were both high) and so we are bonded forever. But I woke up shaking and shivering uncontrollably at around 8:00 AM and didn't know what was happening to me... I later heard that shivering like that is a normal effect of a coke crash. Anyway...

There are so many faces around me... so many looks of (sympathy) care and nothing-- NO ONE I can reach. It's a big joke. I see them all there and can't be with them. And KSing knows it. (Beaten, swollen me!)

But God, I'm afraid if I deal with this one on my own I will fuck it up and will scar my life as badly as I have brutalized my arm.

And I want to talk to someone (ChoirMan?) and can't because I am afraid what they will do. (Help me? No.) And I could tell Dr. G, but then I again, I could never. I can't help it, but everyone knows only party of me-- that way I am protected from ever being exposed (loved!). And she doesn't know a character who would talk of such things.

ChoirMan is the only adult I might be able to talk to about this, and I'm pretty sure that he wouldn't tell, but can I trust him to be there? No, Hyde. Don't be stupid! Remember what happened last time, and don't put yourself out.

God, I ache! I think that there is no end to this kind of pain-- this desperate, desperate pain of isolation in a way that doesn't even seem valid on its own.

"Oh, I have a lot of people!" Oh sure-- then why do I feel such dying pain that I must find an escape from such lonely pain-- such indescribable, inexplicable pain, pain, pain that won't ever go away.

Oh--

Anyway, I bumped into PhysicsGuy around midnight tonight when I was having a smoke up at 120th. It was kind of weird, but so clearly indicative. He asked how I was, with a kind of pathetic smile that said "I know you're fucking depressed, and I care, bu tat the same time I don't really want to know."

And so, I turned the question back on him with a look that said "I know you don't have time for a fucking mess on your hands and even though I bleed some more, I will not tell you about me or ask for your help. God forbid, I should inconvenience anyone."

And he looked grateful. That is the problem that I'm bumping into... Sooner or later, they all get their fill of my shit and walk the other way and I am stabbed so hard and so deep and lack to comfort and consolation from those who stabbed me and I am left alone on a train platform in Paris, "in the rain, with a funny look on my face!"

God, I wish "alone" were more bearable. Shit. Dr. G. says it's because I send signals-- I am unapproachable. Btu that's not true. Fuck. Look what happens when I try to give my heart out... It gets stuffed back into my own mouth, pressed between my teeth is the sliding sweet thickness of my own blood.

And I have a headache. And I'm pretty sure it's from all the smoking. It's gotten kind of bad and that I have to stop for my my voice, which I do love and wish on...

Did you now that nicotine, caffeine and cocaine are all the same kind of CNS stimulants?

Whatever... my whole life is shot and nobody cares. I can't even let on to anyone about what an empty shell I am... I am lone, alone, alone, alone, alone, alone, alone. And I fucking done with swallowing tears and pain.

-h-


Look at me, No Captain! Look at me. I do not hope for what I can not have. I do not cling to things that can not be. The more you cling to things, the more you love them. The more the pain you suffer when they're taken from you... -PASSION-

Get Rid of the Scars.

That scares me more than anything to see that. Oh God! I ant to tear that page out and hide myself forever. But I am at B's and it is not the time for that.

But oh God, will I ever be able to open this book again? I suppose it should be a lesson to me...

Anyway-- I have to deal with this one alone and I have to get rid of the scars. And I want to tear out the page and burn it forever and now it is the back of this page the same way it is on the back of my mind.

And I am sweating with fear and humidity (humility) my curls, ill formed, whisper their harrowing curse to my lungs-- a warning with the same weigh of the tag on my hairdryer-- it inspires fear but punches with the silent pleasure of Butterfly's risk.

In Drunken Scrawl

Fuck. I'm fucking cutting myself in public and can't fucking see or think fuck. My razor is on the fucking table, fuck that shit. I'm bleeding all over. In front of KSing and Eunie and the league who doesn't care.

The West End (in soft imprecision)

At "the end," alone, avoiding eye contact and wondering what the fuck I have come to.

The fumes and sting of his aged breath line my lips, like cocaine lipstick.

And I think that I should get out of here as soon as I can because something about this is VERY wrong. I just don't want to be home... not without my blades. I just don't want the end of a night.

I only came here because Poly told me they were here.

Anyway... writing like this is forcing the smoke left-hand. And I wonder about the pathetic screens cast over my wild eyes.

God... I hope I don't see anyone I know.

God... I wish someone would be out with me now...

I can't go home... I can't!

And I look in the mirror and wonder how the image has perverted so much without the hair of my eyebrows budging. And then I remind myself of my bottle of Jolen and swallow my doubts. And even here, with all of the bars removed, the glass of my window is too clouded with yesterday's greased prints to see through.

As soon as I finish the beer I will go. But the longer I write, the less it seems like I am here and the more somewhere else.

God!

Maybe I'll go for a walk through campus.

And my wrist is swollen and hurts and I wish the year were 1955 and I were a poet, or else dead.

God-- I have to get out of here. FAST. I am losing my fucking mind.

And oh, my fucking eyes burn!

I hope I'm not drunk...

I need to go to the bank and some old guy is blowing smoke at me across the bar.

Shit. I have to go.

**************************

Alright... About ten minutes later on a bench between Butler, Lowe and Dodge. Cast in the the all too familiar moonlight of scarred paintings and bleeding babies' cheeks. And I missed them and nobody called.

"When I pick up the phone, nobody's home."

And when I glance at the moon (inconstant moon!) it is blurred with a soft halo of imprecision. And I wonder if it is eternity or my own fucked up sight that creates such peace. And I sink the the gratifying conclusion that it must be my eyes because all of the lights-- the lamps, the yellowed windows, even the blackened flesh of the sky, glows with a fuzzy dense air of spun silk.

And I can't fucking even think coherently anymore and wonder if I should worry about getting home even though I can see the house form here.

And I hear a bird and two people walk by and I am confused that it is almost morning and my tongue rolls out of my mouth and my left foot swings and I glance at my watch and it isn't almost morning. It's almost 1:00 AM and the thought chills me... or was that a gust of wind?

And I long to hold out my hands with my palms up to the sky, to test for rain, or better yet... become a Southern Baptist.

And something tells me to go home and sink into bed now... fall into the warmth and nestling pillows...

Rehearsal is on Wednesday again, and after all, I will miss my bed when I'm in Russia.

God, help me!

Please! God, help me!

My First Meistersinger

Went to see Die Meistersinger today with B. I was surprised at how much I ;loved it-- the music was miraculous! And how I survived six hours of Wagner...

But now it is evening and I am Pertutti and must remind myself to hold on hold on hold on! When I want to sink so badly it takes every quaking bone in my body not to let my bleeding and broken fingernails claw their way into space at 9.8 m/s and I am dizzy and want to go out tonight so badly, but no one is around and I pray for the strength not to hurt myself again even though (oh God!) I want to. Anyway, I will pause for bread (Happy Passover!)

****************

Anyway, did that a strange wind of a year ago stirs besides me in blond and I am ashamed of my own mind-- that I can be so ludicrous.

Food here-- must go.

The m4

Oh well, I guess that ended there. Five days later and my way back on the M4. Only my watch hurts a lot more this time, crushing into my "boarder-line personality disorder" as VJ so candidly told me today. And I listen to Elvis, but think that I want Rigoletto. And I wonder how I will ever get to 57th Street between 2nd and 3rd in five minutes when I'm only on 110th and Amsterdam.

Anyway, things are better, but I still feel bad and I am really scared to go home on Friday for Passover. God-- if they suspect, it will be all over.

Anyway-- I am tired and don't feel like writing anymore right now.

La Bonne Soupe

Today to sort things out for the first time. And, in La Bonne Soupe, all shopped out.

STOP IT! (on alcoholic acting)

April, she comes! And the sky is painted blue with an alternately fading sun.

Went out with choir last night and have tasted that sick spice all day today because of it. But the sun spills into my hair, so it is okay.

Last night we had a wonderful thunderstorm with lightening and endless sheets of water. I went into it for two hours and became "the crossing" and today my back is warmed and the sky is blue, blue, blue, stuffed with cotton.

And things stand still because they are at a spot where they can't get worse and have no way of getting better.

And last night he told me that "he doesn't buy it," this whole person.

And I remember what I said--

"I only need to see it to myself."

But, I realize now, that I lied. I sell it to everyone and only started selling it to myself after. This is not who I am. What if I just decided to stop buying! What if I just don't buy it?

I think that's why I'm so set on keeping the other me... because the other me IS the real me and this is all a great game which as gone too far. It's like those people who play dungeons and dragons and they say it completely distorts reality. That's all that this is! And it doesn't have to be bought, it has to stop before it consumes me and ruins my whole life!

There is an easy solution-- it's called STOP! STOP! STOP! STOP!

Stop buying it, stop manufacturing it-- STOP!!!!!

I know why all of this started-- because of pressures to be great and because of love. This was an attempt at fixing it all, but it is too easy to believe my own lies and it is easier to be loved for being fucked up than to really be loved. That's why I collapsed last May-- because everyone stopped buying it.

It's not real! It can't be! This is not the real me and I think that I lie to myself the most and constantly so that I perceive myself to be telling the truth to everyone else.

A great white mass fills the sky now. And the disturbing self-scent dances with an aching back and somewhat pounding head. There is not much else to ay...

If that's the case, I should throw all of these books away and burn them. They are all falsehoods.

(A kid walks by bearing a large wooden cross on his shoulder-- am I seeing things?) And If I'm not, where is his great white horse?)

(I am writing this with the "PILOT BP-S Fine pen that Amac recommended to me).

And I have class in ten minutes (CC) and which that I didn't. I wonder what would happen if I just skipped.

Oh shit! I just realized that i missed my appointment. I will have to email him to reschedule. I'll just say that I was sick and then I'll make sure to actually look a little sick. (How dare I be so self-righteous and pretend that I'm not a liar?!)

Anyway, I think I will close for a little while.

(And Curie stands in front of me and makes me wistful for my twin suns).

He Called Himself "the Rock"

Okay, so back in notorious, glorious April, to the beat of rain and Antonia's harp. As usual, I have been foolish, foolish, FOOLISH! You know that I've never trusted ChoirMan. I couldn't... he isn't stable and I would sink... But he told me, he told me last Wednesday that he is a ROCK. But if he is such a rock, why, when I finally got up the courage to ask him to talk and after promising to call yesterday or today, did he not call? Did he forget? And if he did, he is certainly no rock.

God, now I'm crying over this. This should not have happened... I never would have cried if I never raised my expectations. It is the cruelest joke of all in which I play the fool... today on April Fool's Day.

And our formal is this weekend and I run towards its embrace with the same choke, the jealous ache, the same unreachable pit of anguish and the same glass window shading my eyes. The recipe calls for one bottle of hairspray, one smile and one new personality...

Fuck! Why didn't he call? I am never going to talk to him now because I can't breathe and my ears ring in pained purple and black spots dance before my eyes. I'll just say that I don't remember what I said I wanted to talk about. Maybe I shouldn't go out tonight, as much as I love it.

God, I'm so stupid to believe that any interest in me could be real. Of course he was just saying what he had to say to be polite and deal with a fucking suicidal maniac, but why the hell would he mean any of it? And still I pray for the phone to ring before 7:00 PM. In half an hour I will go walk in the rain.

(Sometimes I wait forever to stand out in the rain so no one sees my crying, trying to wash away the pain.)

Blah... Amac just called and interrupted my train of thought.

Hyde, Hyde, Hyde... have you forgotten who you are? What the hell??? Never forget who you are. Don't be so arrogant to think you deserve this. You could ever extract love from someone not already obligated to you. How dare you? How dareyouhowdareyouhowdareyou?

God, let me stand out in the rain, be swallowed by thunder and die!

I think I'll go try it out now.