faraway.

what on earth are you thinking? how can you be like that when i am like this? why do you think things are so hard for me right now? who do you think made me feel this way?

i cannot

handle this.

you

you know what? life is really hard. really un-cookie cutter.

new year.

down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down.

What a lady once called a misplaced script.

It's so hard being the one there. On the end of the phone pretending I'm not crying so I won't make you feel worse. Noises of the city. "I can't hear you." "Don't worry." "I'll talk to you later." "Ok." Things turn so quickly into everything angry and ugly. And you're far far. Off the end of the phone, off a cliff and not yourself. Outside of yourself and outside of us and there's nothing I can do and it makes me something. Sort of mad about it. Sort of fervent and something something else. We started the week with funny, silly, lovely words and now it's just some covered-up tears and you all large in your head, all full of everything that is now and all that you don't think will change in months and years and time. Bursting things, uncommon. Refracted in the window between this minute and the next is all possibilities all inevitabilities all improbabilities all. Elated or embittered? Happy and sad are mixed up brawling, up in each others' faces and flailing limbs like they're in a stupid bar fight. The boundaries are murky and indistinct. And where are you in all that? And where am I? And what on earth am I supposed to do about it? And what have these last few months been about? And when do I start picking up all the debris on the floor, on the bottoms of my shoes everywhere I go? And who is supposed to tell me it's all going to be ok? Because I'm ready for your entrance and I'm out here blind with a bundle and a broken one.

Heap

The rhythm of heart-dwelt drums.
Stepping washed uneven pavements.
Strung-together notes, paper chain inspired.

Life in the past.

There are roses. And heart-shaped balloons and
confetti type things that
are annoying because they get everywhere in all the little
small crevasses and gaps, all the in-betweens.
There are days set aside and tied up in sentimental sentiment
and also ribbons.
There are scribbled graffittied blue-lined
notebooks that say nothing except how much we all want to
bridge the white space of the page that's like the white space
both denied and admitted with a childish ever-after,
a word,
used by everyone and the biggest most obnoxious
cliche in the whole wide world. Yet
exactly what I mean. You
and a blank space and me and some air making the car
windows fog up with messy alphabets.
There's no epiphany here not even a grassroots one not
even and then a whispered prayer.
You hold me from so so far away.

a missed telephone call.

trust that as soon as it really comes to crunch time with my thesis, i look back to this neglected little interweb scrap.

the final lines of the title story in the collection i'm analysing for my thesis (or supposed to be analysing, right now) read:

"I could hear my heart beating. I could hear everyone's heart. I could hear the human noise we sat there making, not one of us moving, not even when the room went dark."

i'm having one of those hearing-heart days. the beating is conspicuous, and i can feel it - it's trapped and uptight. an ugly, tired feeling.

one unexpected offer that is as unsettling as it is exciting.
one hope for more guidance than i expect He'll give.
one hopeless wish; one love with a head full of hard and sad things that can't get out or over, and that i can't fix with all the beautiful words in the world.
one growing sense of panic at the largeness of this thing i've agreed to do.

too many ones. i know it's childish but i want you to decide and end all these, please. i'm not grown up enough for all these adult-sized dot to dots.

Obviously

We Should Always Be Together.

notes

there's room for you here
we'll work out the specifics as we go.

an adventure

the sea is loud late at night, without competition from sea-soaked, sunscreened families, and the relentless buzz of nearby traffic. it's very noisy, and it's very quiet. they're completely alone on a soft pillow of sand. moored. it's dark: midnight's grey washing all around; water a deep creamy coffee brown, white-tipped with frothy crashing waves. it's cold, too. a tough, gritty wind that rises, falls, whips up sand, blues lips, and chills bare legs.

she's wearing a summer dress. she wraps herself in a beach towel, and in his arms. they talk about big and lasting things.

how much.

my mind is constantly occupied with finding inventive ways to describe this - constantly because none ever satisfies. it is really quite fun. it's liberating to move beyond the realm of the easily explainable and therefore codified, controlled, boxed and ribbon-tied. we are anything but that, and it's fantastic.

p.s. thomas and isobel are finally dating. this is very cute.

angus and julia stone - mango tree

sweet, gorgeous, lovely. an old song that never tires.

from her lips i heard her say
can i have you
caught up on what to say
i said you do
i said you do
i said you do.

heavily backwards

I want to tell you what it feels like to stand defiant and small against the wind.

And what it feels like to do too many things and then to stop and awkwardly catch breath but not quite enough so you still feel sort of tight and without.

It's not like in the movies. But then you all know that already.

I want to tell you about the day all the words became cliches.

cross my heart.

i woke up to pixelated words that made me smile
a lot
i am eating toast

water and some other things

unstable and over-thinking, thinking so much i no longer think at all, atop a messy wave, blown to and fro by imaginary winds, wanting quick assurance, doubting you, without need, without cause, without. this without that i negotiate so poorly. having received so much and known so deeply and been filled so full, but feeling so scattered, forgetting the things of five minutes past, unable to pierce a murky view, UP and (down) always, bobbing. breakable. vulnerable. living inside a man-made box that's all misfiring cerebral circuits, and conjured conversations that never were or will be - at least not exactly. and that's the point? the spontaneity? cluttered chaos of spoken movements in the "instance". the thrill of the chase of words across the air and imprisoned on the page...you you you. i'm heeding His word but needing your guarantee. (this makes no sense, and you know it. you do.) x. answer respond reply rejoin react. keeping it courteous and aloof maybe / except i can't do polite and beige. only operating overthetop. in ter act.

atmosphere

yes i've been sick for almost a week
yes i just bought cupcakes for my family because i have a feeling i am in trouble for never being home
yes i had very little sleep last night

but things are really really really good.

attacked by to-do lists

i'm so incredibly moody these days. my smile falls at the smallest thing. it's really quite annoying.

rachael yamagata - be be your love

8am

there was a girl with dyed black hair and a heavy metal festival t-shirt on the train yesterday morning. the bands had names like massive hammer violence and it was all black splashed with red. it was an all ages festival...seemed weird to have such a h.core tee for an event that welcomes twelve-year-olds. she sat down near me and started drawing little emo princesses in a notepad. they were kinda dodgy but she was being really precise and careful, and she'd scribble them out if she didn't like them. and then she put arrows next to them and wrote appropriate, matter-of-fact little labels like 'long black hair'.