Mystic

And today was almost so perfect. And my dreams swelled into great glass bubbles... Shimmering snow-globes of sugar and gold. Rosy cheeked babies and water black as ink and gently creaking wooden docks, the air full of the smell of coal... And what beauty filled my imagination! And he said we'd never afford a home on the water or the boat which rocks my sadness to sleep, or the fringed lamps or silk upholstered chairs with antique angels smiling from shelves above. Looking down with gleaming amethyst eyes...

And it's not that I care about money, or about any of it as much as I love him... It's just that i care about hope. And why must I say that Ill give up all of my dreams? Of course, I would, will... I most likely will... But why doesn't he want to give up his hope for mine?

If the water makes my eyes sparkle, why isn't it worth it to him to try? Why must I never live my poetry for which my heart aches with all its being? I know that the only way to have my dreams is to earn them myself...

I see an unbridgeable gulf between us. And when tears rose, he spat in annoyance.

I must be strong...

Dream alone.
Stand alone.
Achieve alone.

Remain alone.

The Tranquility of Mauve

On the Orient Point Ferry, swept by the blue, blue, blue and the quiet of my heart and my B. The wind cleansing with the sweetest scalding pain until my hands can't stand it and beg for mercy. While my eyes (and heart) beg to stay out just a little longer. But when the flush of excitement in my cheeks and chin grow numb, I give in.

And so now, I sit inside... my B's head resting peacefully on my shoulder.

(One thought!)

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

Later, and settled in at the Queen Anne Inn. It's a beautiful B&B in New London-- a Queen Anne style house restored to it's 1903 condition. B and I are in "the Rose Room." It is absolutely beautiful-- ruddy wooden doors, a hardwood floor, and the soft glow of shaded Victorian lamps dancing off the ornamental arms of the brass bed. The room is filled with aged and dusty pinks... miniature green vines and soft cotton lace in golden white.

I imagine Alexandra's boudoir and realize the tranquility of mauve.

The house, itself, is full of hidden cupboards and creaking floorboards. The hallway is a winding carpet of moss green and the whole house seems to warm one from the inside.

Anyway, perhaps more on the house later...

We went for dinner at a family-style place. There just isn't anyplace like that in NY. IT was a huge restaurant with tacky tablecloths, great food and friendly service. We ate until we were stuffed and the only cloud was bulging over my belt. (It's making me feel like shit lately, by the way... I feel so self-disgusted and self-loathing and at the same time, so out of control... Anyway, I don't' want to write about that now because I really don't want to depress myself).

So, now we're back home... Warm and together in the Rose Room at 10:15 PM! We are both exhausted. He is reading the paper and I am writing here with no TV, stereo, traffic sounds, car radio or any other such distraction in sight. It's just us... And I feel like Annie's parents in "Maybe."

All I know is that I love him with everything that I have and that the whole world is reborn!

Beauty

Spotted in gold and reddened blue
Your lips, my love, with lies prepared
And colored cries, half tones confused,
Silence the soaring and muffle despair

All rests, my love, as I know that it should
Lashes brushing white cheeks,
Salty pinks swallowed heart
Kneeling now, my love, they burn, grow good
Licking wicks of truth shape the hues of this part--

Molded into silence...
my love...
into Silence.

Requiem Auditions

Dodge. And Requiem solo auditions for yet another year... Thursday though. And against the white-bared coldness, the suspended yellow and green wafers dot the sky, trembling on the branches below.

B is at Butler... (and those asshole kids in the elevator!)

The beauty of this moment is that I'm coming back to myself in a new way. I can write and I can feel and I can feel safe and warm and love. And nothing here scares me, and even the others, buried in the blackness of their own lonely lives seem like strangers.

There is not much to write right now, except for the novelty of this new pen...

(And here's another new pen! This one's not disposable, and much easier to write with...)

"History is a nightmare from which we have not awakened."
-Joyce

"History would be a wonderful thing, if only it were true."
-Tolstoy

Dinner with Mittens

The wool is braided thickly
In bands across the coldness of flesh
But still...
The veil around the black
And soulless spark of your eyes
Turns my ears pink nails blue flesh white
Unbinds the braids
Discards the Wool...

The Beast that I Have Birthed

On the LIRR, heading home with a hacking cough and my B and I still don't think I've completely recovered from the other night. (The air in here stings!)

I don't know why or how that killed me, but it did. That he regrets parts of me... I felt haunted and oppressed and filthy, but a strange part of my wanted to laugh wildly and run out and do it all again... with breath scented of lemon drops and cloves, blackness smudged in the corners of my eyes, layers of glitter and glass on my lips and arms bound around my waist...

But I suppressed that part of me-- that voice-- and in doing so, shut down all of my strength and buried her. And she seems to be so deeply buried that I couldn't even summon her when I needed to... and that scares me.

In the Heights... and I feigned a coolness which turned form ice to heat in the salt on my cheeks. And then there was nothing-- a depth of emptiness that I have never before experienced and hope I never will again. And I could see him there-- pounding against the glass-- his voice spreading out thinly into thousands of waves. Yellow and red layers danced in stars of verticality and then horizontally, all reflecting his shining black pupils.

And I took nothing.

All of it was sent shooting off the glass of my eyes, skimming rocks across the water. And the even larger lights blinking in my eyes like amber pools, slashed with grates and streaks of taxi cabs, blue uniforms, rifles pointed, softly quivering lower eyelids and all of it swimming just beyond me.

And somehow, the dripping stopped and it ended, although I'm not sure where or when.

And yesterday-- when he called me his "clean, pure, princess" and I am riddled with guilt and scabbing.

I cried this morning over nothing and I feel myself growing more and more dependent on his words-- the old reflexes hammering against their coffin lids with their tiny ancient clawed fists-- and although I have buried them, I wonder if they are dead. (And still, this cough persists.)

And he is writing about me... what he has learned... and he loves me more with each word. But it scares me at the same time... that he will discover something more that I know myself, or that he will create a record and create a living demon out of that horror... give life and breath to the beast that I have birthed and having done so, am ready to slaughter.

I suppose that there is always some measure of fear that comes with trust... but I have always made so many mistakes in trusting before...

And that makes me think of AIR7. As much as he was selfish and insensitive and insecure and cruel, he still has the ability to hurt me greatly, or at least make things difficult for me with the information that he has. But he hasn't, and so part of me wonders if he still loves me... or if it isn't worth the time it would take in his thoughts. And the fact that I still care really bothers me...

VJ said yesterday that we should hang out with him again, and I could feel the color draining from my cheeks. I stumbled for a response. Fuck him for ever making me still think of him at all!

And so, I am fearful and unresolved, guilt-ridden and self-loathing, but blessed with the unbearable bliss of being his "clean, pure princess." A baby girl. And although my staved heart springs to life at such a thought, part of me admonishes it to sit still and fast-- endure its hunger.

(And I seem to find the happiness I seek... when we're out together dancing cheek to cheek.)

Pink and red roses are my cheeks and I cringe at their fullness and the dark shadows under the curves.

God, I am tired! His head rests heavy and gentle on my shoulder and I think that maybe I will rest my eyes too.

I will rest my eyes too...

Notre Dame Morning

Happy three months!

Everything is sitting so still this morning, the gray electric drops sparking wet back off the sidewalk and inside with the warm wooden panels and sandy peach-tiled floors. I don't even know the name of this place...

My heart slightly jumps and my nerves make me sigh as I wait, against the traffic, for 11:15. Another half an hour.

B is singing in church today and KW may come meet us. She said she bumped into AIR7 and he gave her his number.

"Call me any time," he said.

And it scares me. And i wonder how he will exact his revenge.

This food lumps in my stomach and I wonder why I am so endlessly weak and there is no answer... Except to try not to think about it...

B said that Matt A. is coming next weekend and might need to sleep in my room and I wonder if that means that I need to lock up the "chest of sin."

And I am worried about my stepfather and I wonder why. My mom doesn't even want to try. And I brace myself against that choke and think of sparkling rivers laced with the soft white dotted sails of so many dreams like mine and I try not to think about it...

There is nothing left to write and nothing left to mourn, only things to kiss and dream into the eyes of another. And God, I love him so much!

I told Aunt N. that I would write a poem today for Jol. It's an anti-smoking thing with the theme "Be Smart, Don't Start." I need to think of an angle...

I wonder if I should start worrying about midterms and then I know I should worry about getting my chromatic done and I wonder what lullabies I can sing.

I try to correct my handwriting to make it beautiful.

I love him, I love him, I love him.