If I had known that two days kill cheap journalists in practically no
time, I would have probably let them go. Screaming is a synonym of
being complacent. Drying your hair in public is the same as licking
blood of a papercut and smiling about it.
I like getting lost in the city, and trying to walk down all the
suspicious alleys, hopeing something would never happen, although it
could.
How is the eyeshadow going, how are those worhtless little bobby pins
doing in your hair? Have you tried stuffing them in somebody's nose
yet?
I think I would. I think when we were asleep one night, there was a
thunderstorm, and it made me like white wine over red.
I miss my guitar, and something to play. I think that there is no
value in sleeping past noon, but I do it anyway, until I can't close
my eyes anymore.
I miss the sounds of disagreement. I miss the gloves thrown at my face
and the invitations to the duel. But I will find them here too,
perhaps at a meetingplace.
Love,
~M.
Response by Claire Shefchik:
My accomplishment for today is discovering the cheapest package deal for a heartbreak weekend. Why have I begun to conduct my life without breathing when I'm between itineraries? I like layovers, and for once I'm actually going to find you in a place I didn't invent yesterday. Cable cars should replace taxis in all instances, and I hope you agree that sleeping on the floor of a Roman hostel is preferable to jumping into Lake Tahoe without a noseplug. Where should we meet? Like Canada, in a place with generic rocks and trees, capable of being painted red, or more likely purple as you wish.
What am particularly reminicsing about right now is the way you used to get me the hell out of here, to touch trees and wade through bogs full of drowning mayflies. Most of the time I would have preferred Ballycastle, or failing that, the Painted Desert. But everything can be portrayed accurately by a good slap of kid leather.
You aren't eating too many porkpies, are you? Because that would be something I cannot endorse, especially when they're overbaked. And just to warn you, you won't be able to find corn syrup anywhere.
Love,
~C.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
It's not really Horace that makes me wonder, it is Martial, I swear. Part II.
Don't you remember those cute brainwashers - god I wish I had one, but
then again. You know how you're a virgin the same way my father is
Lenin although I suppose all could be and when I feel that people hate
me, I just stare at my fingers - and I actually cut one. It doesn't
hurt of course, but all I've had to eat is seventy percent chocolate.
A pint of Grolsh went down into me after a gin and tonic, and I told
him all I was thinking and how I don't care that she's cold because
she's the one who refuses to wear things, not I, not I, never I, but
why is it always me?
He got real sad and hurt and tried leaving but I said stop and i said
no we shouldn't be like that, and then we weren't. Sometimes I wish I
loved someone and got distracted, so lost and away that I would give
less than a threepence about making everyone happy.
We're going to listen to jazz tonight, and I'm going to like it, even
if I am just eighteen.
Love,
~M.
Response by Claire Shefchik:
If I were you I'd like to dream about jazz for three nights out of five, and take the empire builder across the other ocean. I discovered that the only sign of real rebellion is to keep my hand down when the professor asks who is rebellious. However it does not make me popular; rather intensifies all hatred for girls who wear pink across their faces and are smarter than me in spite of it.
If only I could share all my knowledge of ancient Greece and the women who moved it, I might be able to get a good meal for once. I am the directress of the class today, watching my love story stabbed on the screen amid laughter.
Walking home crying will do me no good. Tonight I defended the placeyou camped in the spring and thought about moving back. To starve is to live in Europe; to go west is to know nobody.
And if I try to talk about Ireland it comes out in tongues.
Love,
~C.
then again. You know how you're a virgin the same way my father is
Lenin although I suppose all could be and when I feel that people hate
me, I just stare at my fingers - and I actually cut one. It doesn't
hurt of course, but all I've had to eat is seventy percent chocolate.
A pint of Grolsh went down into me after a gin and tonic, and I told
him all I was thinking and how I don't care that she's cold because
she's the one who refuses to wear things, not I, not I, never I, but
why is it always me?
He got real sad and hurt and tried leaving but I said stop and i said
no we shouldn't be like that, and then we weren't. Sometimes I wish I
loved someone and got distracted, so lost and away that I would give
less than a threepence about making everyone happy.
We're going to listen to jazz tonight, and I'm going to like it, even
if I am just eighteen.
Love,
~M.
Response by Claire Shefchik:
If I were you I'd like to dream about jazz for three nights out of five, and take the empire builder across the other ocean. I discovered that the only sign of real rebellion is to keep my hand down when the professor asks who is rebellious. However it does not make me popular; rather intensifies all hatred for girls who wear pink across their faces and are smarter than me in spite of it.
If only I could share all my knowledge of ancient Greece and the women who moved it, I might be able to get a good meal for once. I am the directress of the class today, watching my love story stabbed on the screen amid laughter.
Walking home crying will do me no good. Tonight I defended the placeyou camped in the spring and thought about moving back. To starve is to live in Europe; to go west is to know nobody.
And if I try to talk about Ireland it comes out in tongues.
Love,
~C.
It's not really Horace that makes me wonder, it is Martial, I swear. Part I.
Actually, you know what's indulging?
Well, I couldn't tell you even though chocolate soymilk sounds good
and as long as I've got me some Baudelaire I should be lovely.
Everyone's named Clive if they have grey hair, and if not, well they
should be Clive anyway, because I say it sounds advanced, although
asexual.
In any case, it's been rolling like a gel-pen, and nobody really wants
to know the goings-on of my whereabouts.
Jane Austen wrote some long novels, and for the sake of having
half-blooded Americans in a class in Britain, who cares if she could
have been a midget?
To the extent that I am shy, I suppose I can buy books and throw them
into toilet paper bins. God, I cannot write prose for the life of me,
especially if the guy's name is Jack.
I think men have died off, and I should stop running to the red phone
booth at four in the morning.
Forever is only a measure when I say I like crumpets. Peanut butter
sometimes is just too pale. Although other times, it doesn't go with
grapefruit marmalade - but does it ever, really.
Sometimes, if I were posh, I think, I would just screwdrive the wine
coolers into people's skulls, and stop them from drinking Budweiser on
a good day, although it does rain a lot.
I have a pan now!
That gives possibilities that you probably don't comprehend, mainly
because I do enjoy omletes, and to tell the truth, I am tired.
Love,
~M.
Response by Claire Shefchik:
From the time of eight seasons, there's never been a day when I haven't been working. And always there are foreign voices outside the door; up the stairs; some kind of Slovakian box social that goes on without bending; and I'm hungry. Don't ask me to explain my hang-ups about eating; drinking is acceptable; sex does not exist. I am a virgin a virgin a virgin. And I would do anything for a lobster bisque.
Love,
~C.
Well, I couldn't tell you even though chocolate soymilk sounds good
and as long as I've got me some Baudelaire I should be lovely.
Everyone's named Clive if they have grey hair, and if not, well they
should be Clive anyway, because I say it sounds advanced, although
asexual.
In any case, it's been rolling like a gel-pen, and nobody really wants
to know the goings-on of my whereabouts.
Jane Austen wrote some long novels, and for the sake of having
half-blooded Americans in a class in Britain, who cares if she could
have been a midget?
To the extent that I am shy, I suppose I can buy books and throw them
into toilet paper bins. God, I cannot write prose for the life of me,
especially if the guy's name is Jack.
I think men have died off, and I should stop running to the red phone
booth at four in the morning.
Forever is only a measure when I say I like crumpets. Peanut butter
sometimes is just too pale. Although other times, it doesn't go with
grapefruit marmalade - but does it ever, really.
Sometimes, if I were posh, I think, I would just screwdrive the wine
coolers into people's skulls, and stop them from drinking Budweiser on
a good day, although it does rain a lot.
I have a pan now!
That gives possibilities that you probably don't comprehend, mainly
because I do enjoy omletes, and to tell the truth, I am tired.
Love,
~M.
Response by Claire Shefchik:
From the time of eight seasons, there's never been a day when I haven't been working. And always there are foreign voices outside the door; up the stairs; some kind of Slovakian box social that goes on without bending; and I'm hungry. Don't ask me to explain my hang-ups about eating; drinking is acceptable; sex does not exist. I am a virgin a virgin a virgin. And I would do anything for a lobster bisque.
Love,
~C.
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