Dear J.

I remember a picture of annie lennox on the side of the HMV on queen. I remember the ad for radiohead’s hail to the thief next to it and having made some snide remark about them when we walked by the poster; you having showed some slight appreciation for it or them. I was such a bitch. A child. I cut you down for sake of self-identification. I’d like to show you now that I’m listening to annie lennox. And that that shows you I’m better.

Why, but it is....

that masturbating, smoking a bowl, and leaning back on the couch (in that order) to enjoy the internet can make me feel a as cool as a lesbian vampire.

once in a while

Dear J.

i remember you telling me that my current condition might be what i wanted all along. freedom from you, freedom from work, and the near crippling anxiety of flip-flopping between drug abuse and a posture of clear-headedness. you also mentioned that i wasn't finishing school because it deferred any further committment or assessment of our relationship. i knew you were right when you told me. and it was moments like that, when you were so clearly in tune with what i was thinking, that i should have thanked you, and pleaded with you to understand how much i needed your understanding.
now, how can I think under these circumstances? A: only once in a while and in short, pithy, bursts. am i enjoying myself? A: only once in a while and in short, pithy, bursts. I live the life I lived before in many respects save for the one that has come about in being without you. i can no longer exploit the ability to call you and gain the love and compassion of your saying 'hi amor, how are you?'

c.

once in a while

Dear J.

i remember you telling me that my current condition might be what i wanted all along. freedom from you, freedom from work, and the near crippling anxiety of flip-flopping between drug abuse and a posture of clear-headedness. you also mentioned that i wouldn't finish school because it deferred any further committment or assessment of our relationship. i knew you were right when you told me. and it was moments like that, when you were so clearly in tune with what i was thinking, that i should have thanked you, and pleaded with you to understand how much i needed your understanding.
now, how can I think under these circumstances? A: only once in a while and in short, pithy, bursts. am i enjoying myself? A: only once in a while and in short, pithy, bursts. I live the life I lived before in many respects save for the one that has come about in being without you. i can no longer exploit the ability to call you and gain the love and compassion of your saying 'hi amor, how are you?'

c.

Dear j,

I can only imagine what my parents are going through. My heartache is secondary. Whereas we had 4 years together, they had 40. Anyways, I woke up the other day, while staying at my sister's and sleeping on an air mattress in her living room, to remember staying at your place and you getting ready for work: between 5:45 and 7:00 in the morning. Trying to get back to sleep I closed my eyes and pictured me, similarly half-asleep, turning in your bed, responding to the small, almost insignificant, noise of you putting on panties, pressing your pants, and climbing back into bed for a second or two before you had to go. There, on your body or on the clothes you had just put on, were the nicest scents your body could ever publicly communicate. At that point in the day, just out the shower, lotioned, perfume just applied, I might have taken it all in with a yawn or with a turn to your or my side of the bed. However disinterested I may have seemed, from the nose's point of view I was immersed in your being beside me.

gato fayo

Dear j.

Tomorrow i'm going to a wedding, Shaun's, while right now I've just been reading openletters about love and memory from openletters.net. Lately, some 2 months after leaving you, I continue to think about you alot. This thinking, along with the dreams it breeds, has assumed the role which throwing stones at your window once held.

You were in a few dreams this week. I even think we had some great times in one of them, but I forget. I forget dreams like I forgot to do things for you, neglecting to exhibit proof that you were special to me, that you were mine in the confusing way that people think they can own the feeling of loving someone. I thought this often, that I possessed you. And what really hurts is that I was always aware, as you suspected, that I hadn't even let myself go your way.

I remember trying to lead conversations. I remember talking excitedly about movies. Post-structuralizing Mulholland Drive as if I hadn't just read some chapters for a paper the night before but rather led seminars on rhizomatics at the local community college. This and that and the body, the double, the other, the Other, schizophrenia, capitalism; all those words, and then as I finished there was me and you rolling around the loveseat, our faces so close together that we really were the blurs we were to each other emotionally and spiritually.

I remember hating when I didn't know the answer to a question you posed, having no sense of the humour, the folly, the freedom of not knowing. As if I was dealing with this inability to enter into a not-knowing that derived from you knowing I loved you. And so I rarely showed it to you. I kept journals declaring it, analyzing it, intellectualizing how you may or may not be the one, the 'it,' that Dylan refers to when he sings "I threw it all away."

To end this, I kind of hate living these days; but I love it all the same. I swallow pride like its a Centrum one-a-day and i'm iron defecient. I hope you're in good health.

C.

warm and sunny days

Perhaps someday I'll write the history of a relationship. Perhaps a history of these moments spent thinking about the relationship is sufficient; i'm almost certain that i have nothing more to work with. Perhaps the moment in that song which provoked me to begin writing this is what i should grapple with. Just how did the changes in a song i've never listened to before give me such an acute sense of the past? And why is it that this does almost nothing in the way of achieving a remembering with purpose? I have demons: truths found in watching a stubborn cat push things off countertops so that he'll get his way.

misery and company

This is to be a post about drunken conversations, of which I've had a few.
Generally they happen so fast as to warrant very little attention on the part of the participants. One on one this can be frustrating, becmong a game of trying to appear concerned and sensitive as opposed to selfish and inebriated. Symptoms: finishing each other's sentences like giddy academics, cutting through topics in the manner of a tv news update, and unlikely lapses for the recuperation of the tongue and the brain. I am concerned with how these talking matches might be having their toll on my sober talk. In truth drunk talk is the logical answer, perhaps even the model for straight talk.

faith is a fact

I do drugs. I drink. I created this blog to get things off my chest at random, though lately there is no more at random. I have grown tired of myself so I am posting again. Thank you blogger.

Morgane

Tell me about France.