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[Thursday
10:51pm November 26th] |
mostly friends only:
if you don't comment to let me know I will not add you. Stop being so god damn rude.
- - Maggie Taylor
We generally give to our ideas about the unknown the color of our notions about what we do know: If we call death a sleep it's because it has the appearance of sleep; if we call death a new life, it's because it seems different from life. We build our beliefs and hopes out of these small misunderstandings with reality and live off husks of bread we call cakes, the way poor children play at being happy.
But that's how all life is; at least that's how the particular way of life generally known as civilization is. Civilization consists in giving an inappropriate name to something and then dreaming what results from that. And in fact the false name and the true dream do create a new reality. The object really does become other, because we have made it so. We manufacture realities. We use the raw materials we always used but the form lent it by art effectively prevents it from remaining the same. A table made out of pinewood is a pinetree but it is also a table. We sit down at the table not at the pinetree.
- - Fernando Pessoa
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[Monday
5:56pm June 19th] |
I'm removing everyone from this journal in a few days because I'm never coming back here. If anyone wants to be kept on here (if you can't stand not to be able to read a particular entry (ugh. I hate myself for this. I know how it sounds)) drop a comment to this post (all comments are screened because I feel like enough of a self-aggrandising wanker as it is).
For the last time, I'm at ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) bonemuseum but I don't think there's anyone I expected to add me there who hasn't already.
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[Friday
9:40am June 9th] |
I was going to wait until the end of the month, but I couldn't sleep last night and decided to spend my valuable time making my new journal a habitable place.
bonemuseum
add me there, or don't.
There are a few people who I'm sorry, really have no say in the matter. You're coming and there's nothing you can do about it.
I'm not going to be updating this one again, so you can unfriend it or do whatever it is you do. And yeah, Crista, I'll unfriend you from this one and add you to the new one ;)
I'm not the same person I was when I started this journal and the big changes in my life deserve a new place where they can be complained about. I have had a lot of journals over the years, but that's the beauty of this site: you can just pick up and move when you need to.
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[Sunday
12:58pm June 4th] |
saying that the heart is like _______ is the greatest compliment of all, because a heart separated from the things it loves (even the shapeless, every day looking things, hearts like boiled beans, can be hopeful and uncompromising in how beautiful, how beatific, how everything) is not a heart,
the heart like a tambourine
the heart like a flat tire
the heart like rain in your shoes
the heart like an escaped balloon
the heart like a crime scene
the heart like a broken chord
the heart like a cage of lions
the heart like a hymn
the heart like a broken bottle to the back of the neck
the heart like a tense fist
the heart like the heart like the heart like the heart
the heart like turned out feet
the heart like pages sticking together
the heart like a hotel with pale pink walls
the heart like graffitti half washed away
the heart like the smell of spent matches and the memory of a small heat that couldn't even stick around long enough to burn your fingers
the heart like a run on sentence where the meaning gets lost by the need to have finally said all the words that pool under your skin after days of silence
the heart like a girl from utah who has a BIG SUN inside of her
the heart like a long pull on a cold beer
the heart like the long pull of a boat lost at sea and still tied to the shore
the heart like a hand folded over the other like lovers
the heart like loud music from small speakers
the heart like a prayer to the Lord God of please just be kind to me
the heart like symbals and symbols
*
the heart like an orange traffic light
the heart like the arch of a back
the heart like the silence in the two second time delay over international phone lines I miss you one mississippi, two mississippi yeah, I miss you too and the heart is the space in between, in that silence while the sentiment travels
*
like an artichoke! or a sunflower or a daisy or a caper or something.
or like old, red mahogany; a scoop of vanilla icecream.
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