Later in the day and waiting at my voice lesson. Banished to the kitchen and searching for more clues to figure this place out... It's always so fucking hot in here, too! Maybe that's because heat is more humid and humidity is better for the voice.
I wonder what B will think of the poems I sent him today. I hope he likes them.
I am excited for our "book of the heart of the Sweetie."
Wednesday, July 18, 2001
TS Eliot
Four Quartets by TS Eliot
East Coker
"The houses are all gone under the sea. The dancers are all gone under the hill."
"We can not think of a time that is oceanless
Or of an ocean not littered with wastage
Or of a future that is not liable like the past, to have no destination."
"There is no end to the withering of withered flowers."
East Coker
"The houses are all gone under the sea. The dancers are all gone under the hill."
"We can not think of a time that is oceanless
Or of an ocean not littered with wastage
Or of a future that is not liable like the past, to have no destination."
"There is no end to the withering of withered flowers."
Monday, July 16, 2001
Implants
I have a sudden and pressing urge to get breast implants. I think it would make me feel much better about everything. I think that the whole thing could be done for under $10,000. I'm sure I could save that in five years. I'm going to put away $20 a week. At that rate, how long would it take? Hmmm... I guess that's not enough. How about $50 a week? I think I could make it in 3 years! That's not so bad...
I wonder what I would look like... I just want to look different. I want things to be new again. I want everything to be new and fresh and exciting.
B is making me weary. But I just love him so much...
On the other hand, he just has to learn how to let go. I can't live my life without that feeling of freedom... of breathing... of air! Air! AIR!!!
I want to be young, have friends, go out... Why do I feel so god-damn old?!? Maybe next summer I will go away and do something crazy...
I want to do something crazy.
I want the world to be new again.
I wonder what I would look like... I just want to look different. I want things to be new again. I want everything to be new and fresh and exciting.
B is making me weary. But I just love him so much...
On the other hand, he just has to learn how to let go. I can't live my life without that feeling of freedom... of breathing... of air! Air! AIR!!!
I want to be young, have friends, go out... Why do I feel so god-damn old?!? Maybe next summer I will go away and do something crazy...
I want to do something crazy.
I want the world to be new again.
Friday, July 6, 2001
On the Bus
We have had such beautiful weather this week... dry and 60-80 degrees.
Last night I had a great voice lesson. I'm actually going to start work on a song and I am so proud of myself.
There is gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe. It happened at the bus stop this morning. The air on this bus is cold on my exposed legs and my thighs are sticking to the blue plastic.
I really don't want to go to work today.
Last night I had a great voice lesson. I'm actually going to start work on a song and I am so proud of myself.
There is gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe. It happened at the bus stop this morning. The air on this bus is cold on my exposed legs and my thighs are sticking to the blue plastic.
I really don't want to go to work today.
Monday, July 2, 2001
The Garden of Proserpine
B and I went to the aquarium in Brooklyn.
The Garden of Proserpine
Algernon Charles Swinburne
Here, where the world is quiet;
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds’ and spent waves’ riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest-time and mowing,
A sleepy world of streams.
I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep;
Of what may come hereafter
For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
And everything but sleep.
Here life has death for neighbour,
And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labour,
Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
And no such things grow here.
No growth of moor or coppice,
No heather-flower or vine,
But bloomless buds of poppies,
Green grapes of Proserpine,
Pale beds of blowing rushes
Where no leaf blooms or blushes
Save this whereout she crushes
For dead men deadly wine.
Pale, without name or number,
In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and slumber
All night till light is born;
And like a soul belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,
By cloud and mist abated
Comes out of darkness morn.
Though one were strong as seven,
He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,
Nor weep for pains in hell;
Though one were fair as roses,
His beauty clouds and closes;
And well though love reposes,
In the end it is not well.
Pale, beyond porch and portal,
Crowned with calm leaves, she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love’s who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her
From many times and lands.
She waits for each and other,
She waits for all men born;
Forgets the earth her mother,
The life of fruits and corn;
And spring and seed and swallow
Take wing for her and follow
Where summer song rings hollow
And flowers are put to scorn.
There go the loves that wither,
The old loves with wearier wings;
And all dead years draw thither,
And all disastrous things;
Dead dreams of days forsaken,
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,
Red strays of ruined springs.
We are not sure of sorrow,
And joy was never sure;
To-day will die to-morrow;
Time stoops to no man’s lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
Weeps that no loves endure.
From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.
Then star nor sun shall waken,
Nor any change of light:
Nor sound of waters shaken,
Nor any sound or sight:
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
Nor days nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
In an eternal night.
The Garden of Proserpine
Algernon Charles Swinburne
Here, where the world is quiet;
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds’ and spent waves’ riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest-time and mowing,
A sleepy world of streams.
I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep;
Of what may come hereafter
For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
And everything but sleep.
Here life has death for neighbour,
And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labour,
Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
And no such things grow here.
No growth of moor or coppice,
No heather-flower or vine,
But bloomless buds of poppies,
Green grapes of Proserpine,
Pale beds of blowing rushes
Where no leaf blooms or blushes
Save this whereout she crushes
For dead men deadly wine.
Pale, without name or number,
In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and slumber
All night till light is born;
And like a soul belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,
By cloud and mist abated
Comes out of darkness morn.
Though one were strong as seven,
He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,
Nor weep for pains in hell;
Though one were fair as roses,
His beauty clouds and closes;
And well though love reposes,
In the end it is not well.
Pale, beyond porch and portal,
Crowned with calm leaves, she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love’s who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her
From many times and lands.
She waits for each and other,
She waits for all men born;
Forgets the earth her mother,
The life of fruits and corn;
And spring and seed and swallow
Take wing for her and follow
Where summer song rings hollow
And flowers are put to scorn.
There go the loves that wither,
The old loves with wearier wings;
And all dead years draw thither,
And all disastrous things;
Dead dreams of days forsaken,
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,
Red strays of ruined springs.
We are not sure of sorrow,
And joy was never sure;
To-day will die to-morrow;
Time stoops to no man’s lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
Weeps that no loves endure.
From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.
Then star nor sun shall waken,
Nor any change of light:
Nor sound of waters shaken,
Nor any sound or sight:
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
Nor days nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
In an eternal night.
Sunday, June 24, 2001
One a Plane with B
Everything is SO much better. I am so proud of myself for holding my ground. I think it really makes a difference in the way that he sees me and treats me.
Yesterday was CW's wedding-- a strange event, but very fun. I honestly can't believe that he's married! It's all too strange... I had so much fun dancing though. I wish that we could go out dancing some more, but now I have that whole bad memory of that stupid girl and the idea of going to a club nauseates me.
Right now we are on the plane from Memphis to New Orleans. I'm really excited about this trip... although six days seems WAY short.
I love looking down and watching the clouds press their fingers over the delicate glass that separates heaven from earth. The earth here is divided into brown and green patches linked by their beige snaking lines. It's all so neat... so sanitized. But I know that if I stood on the Earth here, it would seem natural, fertile and wondrous compared to the sparkling city sidewalks of New York.
The squares below remind me of the neat line of a new haircut on the back of a boy's neck.
And the clouds float above, softly chiding us with laughter and amorphous asymmetrical perfection.
"Lines and loops aren't necessary" they say.
It's hard to hear up here. Maybe it's best not to hear everything that they're saying. Secrets are best kept that way, and blues fade from blue to blue.
But my ears hurt. And sometimes I wish I were back in the forest. That must be childhood.
I wonder where their ribbons are? The magical plastic threads that open and close the marionette mouths of the clouds. A paper airplane folded and painted and silent hangs motionless among them.
"A Christmas ornament," he called it.
Hmmm.....
Being in the sky reminds me of being in an inverted sea. And gazing towards the clouds reminds me of the rippling patches of light through which civilization rests-- not a soul to be seen from these depths...
Just the piercing shades of blue and white and the silent landscape below.
Yesterday was CW's wedding-- a strange event, but very fun. I honestly can't believe that he's married! It's all too strange... I had so much fun dancing though. I wish that we could go out dancing some more, but now I have that whole bad memory of that stupid girl and the idea of going to a club nauseates me.
Right now we are on the plane from Memphis to New Orleans. I'm really excited about this trip... although six days seems WAY short.
I love looking down and watching the clouds press their fingers over the delicate glass that separates heaven from earth. The earth here is divided into brown and green patches linked by their beige snaking lines. It's all so neat... so sanitized. But I know that if I stood on the Earth here, it would seem natural, fertile and wondrous compared to the sparkling city sidewalks of New York.
The squares below remind me of the neat line of a new haircut on the back of a boy's neck.
And the clouds float above, softly chiding us with laughter and amorphous asymmetrical perfection.
"Lines and loops aren't necessary" they say.
It's hard to hear up here. Maybe it's best not to hear everything that they're saying. Secrets are best kept that way, and blues fade from blue to blue.
But my ears hurt. And sometimes I wish I were back in the forest. That must be childhood.
I wonder where their ribbons are? The magical plastic threads that open and close the marionette mouths of the clouds. A paper airplane folded and painted and silent hangs motionless among them.
"A Christmas ornament," he called it.
Hmmm.....
Being in the sky reminds me of being in an inverted sea. And gazing towards the clouds reminds me of the rippling patches of light through which civilization rests-- not a soul to be seen from these depths...
Just the piercing shades of blue and white and the silent landscape below.
Thursday, June 21, 2001
The Hard Hearted Woman
Today is only his first full day back, and already I feel like shit. I know that I promised not to write anything negative in here, but I think that it's important that I record how I feel, because it will help me keep things straight in my head, and it will help me make the right decision for me-- whatever that might be.
It all started because he wanted to read me something from his "journal" and didn't want me to lean on him while he read, so that I couldn't see the pages. Either he doesn't trust me or he wrote more negative things. I hope that he's learned a lesson-- one that I've always known... Never put ANYTHING in writing ANYWHERE if you don't want it to come back to you.
Until the day that I die, I will never forget the things he wrote in that journal. I am trying my best to forgive him... to contextualize those things and to move on from the whole thing, but those words are burned into my soul. They are a part of me now. Reading those words-- especially what he said about his Aunt and about the difference between bringing me "home" and bringing GoldenFinch "home" and his little list of who he'd like to fuck... it has changed me forever. He was right that night-- I don't know him. I really honestly feel like I don't know him at all and I certainly don't trust him. HE has betrayed that trust one too many times.
I was beginning to feel like myself again while he was gone. I only feel like the girl he sees me as when he's with me. I think I have made it very clear to him, and I am very proud of myself.
I will NOT be treated that way, written about that way or thought about that way. I WILL NOT. I feel like a much meaner person, but much stronger.
MY HEART IS HARD.
He doesn't know me like this and I think that he's in for a big surprise. I am a different girl now and I won't play these games anymore. I am solving our problems by breaking the cycle. It's "shape up or ship out."
And now I have a fever again. And no circulation in my left arm. I am starving myself into sickness. And he still can't think that I'm beautiful. Did he fuck me like that last night because I'm me? Or was it just because he hasn't had any sex in three weeks? Or was it because I seemed different and new, so he could pretend he was fucking somebody else? Maybe one of the girls on his "most-fuckable" list...
But no-- I could never pass for them. I am sick of being belittled by him. Who the fuck does he think he is, anyway? I mean, he doesn't know... he doesn't know... I just saw the Stallion and the Stallion wanted me...
Hold on. He's here and wants to talk.
It all started because he wanted to read me something from his "journal" and didn't want me to lean on him while he read, so that I couldn't see the pages. Either he doesn't trust me or he wrote more negative things. I hope that he's learned a lesson-- one that I've always known... Never put ANYTHING in writing ANYWHERE if you don't want it to come back to you.
Until the day that I die, I will never forget the things he wrote in that journal. I am trying my best to forgive him... to contextualize those things and to move on from the whole thing, but those words are burned into my soul. They are a part of me now. Reading those words-- especially what he said about his Aunt and about the difference between bringing me "home" and bringing GoldenFinch "home" and his little list of who he'd like to fuck... it has changed me forever. He was right that night-- I don't know him. I really honestly feel like I don't know him at all and I certainly don't trust him. HE has betrayed that trust one too many times.
I was beginning to feel like myself again while he was gone. I only feel like the girl he sees me as when he's with me. I think I have made it very clear to him, and I am very proud of myself.
I will NOT be treated that way, written about that way or thought about that way. I WILL NOT. I feel like a much meaner person, but much stronger.
MY HEART IS HARD.
He doesn't know me like this and I think that he's in for a big surprise. I am a different girl now and I won't play these games anymore. I am solving our problems by breaking the cycle. It's "shape up or ship out."
And now I have a fever again. And no circulation in my left arm. I am starving myself into sickness. And he still can't think that I'm beautiful. Did he fuck me like that last night because I'm me? Or was it just because he hasn't had any sex in three weeks? Or was it because I seemed different and new, so he could pretend he was fucking somebody else? Maybe one of the girls on his "most-fuckable" list...
But no-- I could never pass for them. I am sick of being belittled by him. Who the fuck does he think he is, anyway? I mean, he doesn't know... he doesn't know... I just saw the Stallion and the Stallion wanted me...
Hold on. He's here and wants to talk.
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