i feel like i could write through a million tiny slivered pictures tonight. today, after school i traipsed around town some more, with the coat with the perfect pockets for mix tapes. decked out in ashley's pink tape, the with the green marker on it in bits; the frogs are actually trees... "my chest is empty" is probably the perfect song to walk by a rugby team practice with. as the sun gets hazy before setting even. and i still lovelove her space holiday, a silly little fondness. "before it all went wrong" and "i didn't mean to hurt you" match the evening round home well, the set in cold, the warm-but-steel grey that enters like the prow of a ship.
gathering material, similar to the few slants from last year--it is not about the furtive gestures, the snakeiness/sneakiness, the dingy fingertips dressed up in parched white shirts to match the knuckle, the hard little spikes of overdone hair. no no. it is as simple as this: a boy sitting on a bench, a boy sitting there, getting to know a little bit about a girl. the girl ordered, ease in restraint. quiet gestures. strangers presumably. it doesn't even matter what they're saying, if they're arguing over months of already knowing each other. because to the stranger across the street walking by, it is what it appears to be. that's what it is and it's enough, plentiful. i'm superficial this way. constructing prefabricated worlds, then letting them fly all against each other, like a smattering of black birds. it's good. it doesn't matter what the guy in the leather jacket in front of the 7-eleven's "like," what he does, what he's done. he has a couple flowers on his arm, with the tissue paper too even, and he looks nervous and a little excited, like a fourth grader who's afraid his shoe might be untied. that's what moments converging colliding can do--make a maybe arrogant or at least confident and grown male seem sweet and anxious. it's just a boy waiting to meet up with a girl. it's just a girl answering a boy's hello how are you what's your name? tentative at first maybe but new, open. possible. and somehow seems clean to me. i might, maybe make up innocence where i go, fill it in as i wish. that's fine by me. i don't need to dwell today on the darker parts.
and being the looker and not the looked still does something to me. makes me feel like i'm stealing, crossing into some unknown border...it's still thrill addled. the freedom one achieves once invisible--remarkable. i liked catching the way the man in green pants hobbled down the pass. the shopkeeper smoking and laughing in the alley. laughing loudly. the other languages. the massively beautiful girl near the emptied high school. the driven squirrel who did not care that i was an inch from him, and stopped just to stare at him, as he dug and dug and dug and dug. he didn't even hop away. i finally got to be the one to run off first, the inverse human role. (laugh)
also pondering the whole "scenes of violent crime, the day after" floating-around pieces, again. i mean. thinking about how it works, the ways humans interact with the spaces in which they reside, in which they swear, kiss, throw things, break down, feed, recover. passing by a tiny church's steps off the cmu housing bloc...i was reminded of how, the first week of school, i settled down on those steps, they're like granite bench really, and cried my eyes out. with groceries strewn all around me. about how i couldn't do it, couldn't do this, i was already alone all the time, now i was just alone in a huge city and the three that kept me alive where not there were not by definition there. a thing intended to separate from the very beginning and i couldn't do it.
that's what i'm talking about. how does the place react, i wonder. quiet witness to so much, and is it paying attention? and what was i paying attention to, anyway? the last leaf of the season in the corner of the courtyard? what are we doing, here?
when i manage to feel as if i am paying attention. i feel i'm quite rewarded. the most breathtaking fractures, miniscule hands to hold tenderly. and then to let go.
watching businessmen leave work, pass by, as the tape player whirs, as you find a cough drop and the always-quarter in your pocket. or, just last thursday, the man with the long grey ponytail and bookish rims, and winter hat, and long professional winter coat...trying on a skateboard. ! in his hard structured men's shoes. menswear. that's another thing i thought about today. how there're worlds i definitely want to seep into, visit and get acquainted with, furry secrets. that's one of them--ties and white wrists, trouser socks. i love trouser socks. hee.
...
my professor. the horse trainer.
...
papers that get decent grades and say nothing, little at all.
...
i'm weird. and so tired. sleep now.
gathering material, similar to the few slants from last year--it is not about the furtive gestures, the snakeiness/sneakiness, the dingy fingertips dressed up in parched white shirts to match the knuckle, the hard little spikes of overdone hair. no no. it is as simple as this: a boy sitting on a bench, a boy sitting there, getting to know a little bit about a girl. the girl ordered, ease in restraint. quiet gestures. strangers presumably. it doesn't even matter what they're saying, if they're arguing over months of already knowing each other. because to the stranger across the street walking by, it is what it appears to be. that's what it is and it's enough, plentiful. i'm superficial this way. constructing prefabricated worlds, then letting them fly all against each other, like a smattering of black birds. it's good. it doesn't matter what the guy in the leather jacket in front of the 7-eleven's "like," what he does, what he's done. he has a couple flowers on his arm, with the tissue paper too even, and he looks nervous and a little excited, like a fourth grader who's afraid his shoe might be untied. that's what moments converging colliding can do--make a maybe arrogant or at least confident and grown male seem sweet and anxious. it's just a boy waiting to meet up with a girl. it's just a girl answering a boy's hello how are you what's your name? tentative at first maybe but new, open. possible. and somehow seems clean to me. i might, maybe make up innocence where i go, fill it in as i wish. that's fine by me. i don't need to dwell today on the darker parts.
and being the looker and not the looked still does something to me. makes me feel like i'm stealing, crossing into some unknown border...it's still thrill addled. the freedom one achieves once invisible--remarkable. i liked catching the way the man in green pants hobbled down the pass. the shopkeeper smoking and laughing in the alley. laughing loudly. the other languages. the massively beautiful girl near the emptied high school. the driven squirrel who did not care that i was an inch from him, and stopped just to stare at him, as he dug and dug and dug and dug. he didn't even hop away. i finally got to be the one to run off first, the inverse human role. (laugh)
also pondering the whole "scenes of violent crime, the day after" floating-around pieces, again. i mean. thinking about how it works, the ways humans interact with the spaces in which they reside, in which they swear, kiss, throw things, break down, feed, recover. passing by a tiny church's steps off the cmu housing bloc...i was reminded of how, the first week of school, i settled down on those steps, they're like granite bench really, and cried my eyes out. with groceries strewn all around me. about how i couldn't do it, couldn't do this, i was already alone all the time, now i was just alone in a huge city and the three that kept me alive where not there were not by definition there. a thing intended to separate from the very beginning and i couldn't do it.
that's what i'm talking about. how does the place react, i wonder. quiet witness to so much, and is it paying attention? and what was i paying attention to, anyway? the last leaf of the season in the corner of the courtyard? what are we doing, here?
when i manage to feel as if i am paying attention. i feel i'm quite rewarded. the most breathtaking fractures, miniscule hands to hold tenderly. and then to let go.
watching businessmen leave work, pass by, as the tape player whirs, as you find a cough drop and the always-quarter in your pocket. or, just last thursday, the man with the long grey ponytail and bookish rims, and winter hat, and long professional winter coat...trying on a skateboard. ! in his hard structured men's shoes. menswear. that's another thing i thought about today. how there're worlds i definitely want to seep into, visit and get acquainted with, furry secrets. that's one of them--ties and white wrists, trouser socks. i love trouser socks. hee.
...
my professor. the horse trainer.
...
papers that get decent grades and say nothing, little at all.
...
i'm weird. and so tired. sleep now.