solstice

the sun is on top of me
and i have no words for it
















.




.

So, except for adding Tamara's 3 violin parts, and some re-track of my guitar plus Sarah adding hammer dulcimer to 'Delirium', the album is finished, and ready to mix.




here, distract me, k?

Meet some more of my mates:

Mariachi Inolvidable - how hardcore is a mariachi band on the scene? Don't answer, just enjoy
Will E. Lee - imagine Woody Guthrie living in Twin Peaks, with more beer
White Drugs - Husker Denton, with a healthy dose of a nail in a two-by-four
Little Jack Melody and His Young Turks - and this guy? Smooth as good scotch, and all of the cabaret flavour of the same
LIft To Experience- Its the end of the world and
TEXAS is the promised land! Imagine if Rush were good, and were from here. They've since broken up, and all the members have gone crazy, but the music is undeniable.


kinda deep on the dial with these, but hey...
more? tag is 'denton rock city'


somethin.





.

and it's nights like these that i realize that i dun need you
but i cannae escape that it's you that put me here











i drove almost an hour this morning, on the way home from no more beer and forgetting the fiddle ( but not the fiddler...), trying to find a corndog, listening to Will's plaintive songings and smoky guitars, swimming in the echoes from three awesome nights of music amongst my friends - old and new.


and i came home to two pennies on the floor.







.

texas is muggy, and cannae decide if she's overcast or not.

today i'm gonna listen to Lucero all day, and throw away some dishes.






'Wasted' - Lucero


tonight i'm gonna play some music. gonna try t'finish a song with this woman, too. a duet.


this is how i put off tomorrows as long as possible.

i wish i could stand on the piles of stuff i've wasted an' peer over the wall sometimes.

fucking hells and balefire.







why can i pour words and still be so small as to not catch that love doesnae have to be in one place? that there's enough of it?
mebbe i still need t'hear it





i need freed, somehow
while i can

and tonight, my flat was violated. broken into and rummaged a bit. Missing? two guitars, my booze, my swiss army knife, my leather jacket and some monies. nothing else as far as i know.


Fortunately there's good suspect, but still...





i am tired tired tired
of things things things

i wondered how i'd come to this day, how i'd handle, but then again
i asked for it
and i appreciate the veil.
how ironic on the day i tattoo myself, again.

"“Who knows how to make love stay?


Tell love you are going to the Junior's Deli on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn to pick up a cheesecake, and if love stays, it can have half. It will stay.

Tell love you want a momento of it and obtain a lock of its hair. Burn the hair in a dime-store incense burner with yin/yang symbols on three sides. Face southwest. Talk fast over the burning hair in a convincingly exotic language. Remove the ashes of the burnt hair and use them to paint a mustache on your face. Find love. Tell it you are someone new. It will stay.

Wake love up in the middle of the night. Tell it the world is on fire. Dash to the bedroom window and pee out of it. Casually return to bed and assure love that everything is going to be all right. Fall asleep. Love will be there in the morning." - Tom Robbins






right now, i have to have the veil, my eyes arenae strong enough for everything that pours into em these days.
including everything.

not nearly, no. i've fences to mend. apparently i'd bordered my kingdom in gates, connected to gates, anchored by gates.
that's no way to keep a place. that's no way to know where things are, with alla that openin and closing and waving about.
anyone wanders in and eats yer porrige, moves yer chairs, undoes yer beds.
i mean, but...

yeh cannae have the population of yer heartlands all roaming about willy-nilly. roaming is good, but things need a home to go find possibilities from, not the other way around.

maddening, i tell yeh.

ache, dammit.

and i woke up funny again today, like some of my insides had 'settled' somehow on my side. Strangest gorram feeling, yeah, but not the first time. it's the reason i went to the fucking doctor in the first place, back at the end of feb, after Lily visited the first time.

my father ( the doctor) says sounds like a kidney thing. feh, good morning, scott.

so, before work, online, fillin out forms, cursing the iTunes for having 31 gig of music, and at least 25 of it soundtrack to 2008.
that's a lot, yeah.
smilewincesmileglowwinceachesmilecrystaresmilelaughache


and
i will not know if i get aid til Wednesday, for the record.

i wish i were better at distraction, not just at this denial.

this is the only place i put it, and only because i need the record of it.
(sorry)


watch me stare thru clouds right at the stars...
watch me in SETI, prowling mountains so far away that they're barely ideas, see me smelling flowers blessed with petals in non-euclidean shapes and colours beyond the ken of my stupid eyes.

i am hiking the backs of waterfalls
i am swimming in cool morning birdsong

i am

losing something

my hands are too big








hi, i'd like to go back to Feb, please.


NOW.

and today i used the C word in conversation, about myself, and i realized it was the first time i'd actually had it in my mouth since this began.

and it felt like a marble. It sat in the side of my mouth, in that back part next to yr teeth & tongue where things taste sharp

and i thot instantly of a fucking yellow dandelion on some stormy hillside. it was the strangest damn thing.

stranger still is finding a pic like that later while getting some dinner at The Cupboard. i must have seenthe pic before, and had it filed away, but still

too much.


and i said the damn word because i wrote an angry, angry song
about the nature of erosion, and betrayal, and disevolution
about chocolate and bile, about shrivelled fingertips feigning touch
and the necessary caul of the heart when the weather shifts, then shifts again
then shifts again

and it poured out of me. i locked the door to the shop and put the sign up in order to finish this thing
and all i really wanted to say was 'serenity serenity serenity',
and drum up my mantra of 'Faith. Grace. Peace.'
but it wouldnae come until i vomited this thing into my guitar, then out to the world that deserved it
i just got 'betrayal betrayal betrayal' instead, but there was nothing to tag it to
not a person, which would seem like it
but it'snae like that. not at all.
nothing to do with all that, so dun go there.
i dun feel betrayed by where we are.


but i digress
and it'snae like i'm even feeling hate, or the like
i ache, and for a dozen reasons, and then a few more
but it's not the kind of thing that makes me black
i do not hate.
hating would invalidate everything i've laid down prior
and i mean everything i write here
and i do not hate.

i have more regret than resentment
more confusion than resentment
more

where is god?
where do i go from here, and more: where can i go?
feh. stupid fucking questions that everyone asks, right? why should i be different?
cos i want to be.

cos i want to finish where i've started. i want to stay in this light that i've worked so
so hard for
and if you've been here for any lenght of time, yeh know that this year, or since november/december has been nothing nothing nothing short of incredible in many ways
even beyond the obvious

i'm not fucking done, i mean.

and i may be blowing it all out of proportion, and look back in a week and give an embarassed laugh, but i'm not at next week right now
i'm at coughing and fretting and looking up and seeing
blank
i'm at waking up funny, and sleeping too deep
and looking up and seeing blank
and praying, and fighting for faith
and looking up and seeing
blank

i'm gonna go see my friend's bands: The Nouns Group, and Ghosthustler, and Eat Avery's Bones, over at Strawberry Fields. gonna drink a little Lambic, gonna hug some mates. gonna dance a little. gonna miss a little. and at least once prob gonna get all maudlin and sneak off to pray a minnit: put my palms together, elbows out, drop to a knee and ask: Grace. Faith. Peace. Serenity. Strength. Balance.

then i'll get up and get back to it.

gonna look up and still see blank, tho. i know this.
and i'll do it anyway, just like i get that twisty bit in me every time i come to my LJ, cos i never know what the words there will do in me, even my own. especially the rest.
every.
time.


"UTEOTW", i wear: until the end of the world, to remind me that i cannae give up
but i dunno if it's up to me





.

good morning, texas. Why are you so cold?


things i was called at the show last night:
1) hinterlander
2) a satyr
3) front man
4) brave


dunno quite how t'take any of it.
cept #4, which made me laugh out loud. i am not brave. i'm scared and disgustingly insecure, as i've discovered...


Grace.
Faith.
Peace.




in spite of a trip to the Abby, i shouldnae surfed the net before bed/after the bar, yeah:


i dreamt i thot i was in heaven, but i was just up a tree.

time t'swap the penny.







.

i keep having this image of fingers with needles sinking into my chest...
bizarre.

and i feel like i failed, somehow, again, in not going to my appointment
even tho i did go, and it just didnae happen

again at the starting gate.

it gets old, god. let me race, and see how i do, k?


still, theres that unrealistic, but perfectly valid tug in my noggin
like if i'd done this differently, or that differently, that i'd have all the numbers that the lab coat brigade would be happy with, and then they'd do their little needlewaltz and send me home to scab, slough, and heal.

or, in the same vein ( ha), that i'd not be typing lights and numbers into a machine in this evening. that i'd be making some dinner, or arguing over a movie rental, or driving to a place, or making love...
literally/figuratively. either. both.


and no, i'm not alone, i know this, i've hearts of a hundred different types on all sides
and i can fool myslef with the other ones out there as well

but i'm lonely, and therein lies the rub
because that, combined with this, and on the heels of that makes it doubly hard t'be around me, i'd conjure
... not that it's an easy thing to be my friend
( or so it's been said ::laughs::)

and i know you'll get tired of this channel. i've godstory ( 3!) on my desktop, and ritual 4,5 as well. i just don't have the voice to put it up in earnest right now. feels like compromise, somehow. like cheating.


but i dun have pity, per se, nor do i have anywhere t'put it.

i dunno what i have, here, except another long fucking weekend with mindfuls of needles, and pennies, and shadows, unsent letters, and (scratches), and

it seeps into my lyrics, too.



i wish i were the escapist type: to get roaring drunk, or go trip, or the like
but i'm not. i cannae be bothered with it, most times. i like to get a little buzz on sometimes, and maintain that state, but not go over
so sometimes i just cannae be bothered, yanno?



i'd like to go dance, tho. i think that'd feel good, yeah.

sometimes, i still just sway a little.
i put my face to the sky and let a smile up and out, but i always have to land.

til next time, anyway.



regardless of Monday, i'm getting new ink Monday night, in my gypsy way for trade, again.

"Grace. Peace. Faith." i think



the weekend's a long row to hoe tho. we'll see.

since i started this thing, i'll continue it, as it were.

i didnae go.

not b/c i'm too scared, not b/c i'm dragging it out, b/c of money, basically. i've no insurance, and i'd gone as far as i could go being 'billed'. there are resources for this kind of thing, they tell me, so that's my next thing to move to. Monday appointment with an aid office.
Monday.
and wow.

Yesterday i didnae have that i option in my head. i got up, went to the thing, and got a moneytalk, instead of a lifetalk
and it deflated me as well as any lung collapse would


i spent the day in despair, driving, working some, singingwritingcryingstaring
feeling sorry for myself like a dumbass
but i felt you ( all), and i thank you ( all)

then i came back to my lj, read a little
and wanted to throw things
to unlace some of this with rage, with abandon, with force
but i try to breathe instead, and keep it in perspective tho it's fucking hard

hard to hear songs moving away,
and hard to keep the ones i/we have in place

not in a cage, or even a niche, but in a moment
cos yeh cannae go back and paint over art, right?
painting a new thing is another matter, but there is no eraser for the soundtrack.

at darin's yesterday, there was some random woman's magazine with a pic of some kid on it who'd made a little sand-castle thing, but it was a cake, and ice cream cones for towers, and graham crackers for doors & bridges
...cos Darin has that life, and he's well amongst the richest men i know in that ( cos it'snae about the $$, but the <3 that makes yeh rich).
It's like some alt-universe version of my life, it seems. mebbe i'm living vicariously thru him sometimes. ironic.
ironic that this gypsy man would crave that, eh?

but the magazine, there on the kitchen counter, with family sounds in the next room and wife pictures on the counter above me
and i completly lost it. the wave of it that i'd never have that kid, or even that opportunity ( again) of a love as solid as the one where she's only as far away as your voice, or hand, somehow
that dark hit me full on like a baseball to the face.

that's the hardest part of this, all of this, the shadow, the shadow, the time and the road
that i worry i've gotten as good as i will
or that i've given too much of myself away that there's nae left for another to chancecherish
not that it's all moving to off
cos everyone is dying, every day. we all know that. i've never made it an excuse tho.


if it were/is some kind of end, i think i could deal with it better, not to be all glum and dramatic
but knowing something would be better than
ififififif
well, sometimes.
i'll admit that there are things i do not want to hear, but only because my context is not broad enough to put it where it should be, instead of letting my first emotion squarepeg it into my round hole heart...



and in waiting, how can i look back and justify tomorrow? who can read this fucking 8 years of scribble and verse and sit still innit long enough to stay.

and in not waiting, i make it all suspect as well.

everything i put here is earnest, tho. i'll stand by that, oh Host Of Hosts. i mean it all.
you cannae take that from me.




so i did not punch walls, i did not go back to October, or even November, or before even.
i drove, and i sat with some friends in blessed distraction, and i did
not
think of shadows, or shadow

well, not as much ::laughs::


i sat still in thanks for Cate, and Sharon, and Thee Eskimo, and even my father, who all beat this beastie and who are all as dear to me as bread
and i'll go on monday and make the lines and angles to give the fucking money that the healing machine has to have before they'll tell me i can stick around

and i'll try to breathe, and keep perspective
especially the perspective of love
tho that's the hardest part, really.

Hate is so much easier, so much faster to reward
but i don't have any hate
just ache.

this is me, ignoring tomorrow, and praying for it all at the same time.

it's storming in Jerusalem texas.
i'd pray storm in Babylon before wednesday next?


i've put thunder on the train, copper-railed on pennybacks freshly escap'd from fountains
rain like the drumsticks of mice, and the cool earth smells of dust kicked up by skyfingers
when your drapes move, it's me.

when your candle flickers, it's me.

when the moon takes the night off, napping behind the silverblack of rolling skyking chariots and stormhorse manes
holding the air in hugs of minutes on the way
damp on your freckles
( not wet. damp)


it's me.













"...write me a song," she said.

and i havenae stopped.



Starhead – waiting for the miracle

i painted her this song, and she painted the song





grace.
faith.
peace.






.

'inconclusive'

that's the word i've heard all day, and most of the week so far
and now that i think on it, it's been in the back of my head for quite a while

not just for this, but for lots
and as usual, i dun hear myself: either when i'm talkin to myself, or when others are not tellin me things.

my footprint is too big for the path i move on sometimes
and tho tthat sounds like a grand and terribly poetic thing to be
it's really not

and alla these words i have and smith mean fuck-all if i'm not sending em on the right sine

and it seems my natives have pounded my tympani outta whack ::laughs::




i
am scared, k?

and
i ache, k?

not just for this, and this not, but for my footprints
all week 's been a cascade of 'if', on so many fronts

and tho prayer finds it's way into my mouth often, it'snae sitting well. like a cookie that's almost stale, or ice cream that's been in the freezer just a little too long, and it's got some ice crystals seperated innit...
ironic that i pray every night. and i pray for you? all of you.



and
i am so torn between not wanting to be a cliche, a 'something that happened'
( whoa: there's a phrase i used for the Eskimo - the last girl to break me. "something that happened".
hn)

dammit dammit dammit
i hate this, that i'm
just fucking needing a little more than some words
just

lighthouse, mebbe?

i cannae keep doing this, i cannae keep up this intensity
it's eating me. how'm i gonna be worth a damn for the
next

( or is this how it takes care of my worryin about it: Kobayashi Maru the heart scenario, change the rules before the thing starts and dun tell the control..)
.


and i roll it around in my noggin, sometimes
wonder what it must be like to wake up on half a pillow, fall into the shower, the car, the office
each day some close to yesterday and tomorrow
eat sleep and eventually die like yer supposed to
and be content with that

no voices from beyond ( the grave), so to speak
no ghosts
cleaning off the regular dust every day instead of drama
ennui

the bullshit romanticism of having someone to grow old(er) with or even lay down to die beside when the year rolls in that one day?

just one fucking night's sleep and waking the same way would be nice


force without mass is the ultimate weapon.




so.


tomorrow i get treated to a "needle aspiration biopsy", or a "fine needle aspiration biopsy" whichever. probably cost the same. not that it matters. bills like this are just paper, and i'll go as far as i can before one of us figures it out ::laughs::
and at the glorious hour of 0830, too.
i'm not to eat the night before, or drink alcohol, or even take any aspirin.
which sucks, because we're practicin tonight, an di like to have a little sippy sippy of my Godiva liqueur while i'm songing ( cos i'm such a girl).
Still working on 'petal'. it's missing one little something, i think.
but i digress.

and tho it's 'day surgery', they tell me that about a third of the ffolk who get this little pokin will have a little collapse in the lung, and i may get to go the real hospital, or get a tube in my side. something.
and because i'm overweight, the odds are a little better than that. shouilda took the day off, yeah, but
i think being at home with the fuckign internet would be ungood, so i'll take the distraction of selling dreams & pictures to minded ffolk.

typing typing typing reading distracting by relating
and not just one needle, either. there will be 1-3 for 'placement', before any 'samples' are taken.

so it's like flechettes?
"FRONT TOWARDS ENEMY" just above my heart ::laughs::
( see that's what's written on the business end of a Claymore Mine, and... nm. google it.)

my papers say it's a 'very safe alternative to excisional surgery'

"inconclusive"

yeah. fuck you, how's that.

and today was long, and uncomfortable. madness in the AM, then work all day.

waaah. i know. whatever.
and i've no news, cept that the shadow was still there today, and i might get the big fucking needle thingy on Wednesday, or Thursday. They had given me 2 superdoses or something of antibiotics, t'see what it'd do to the shadow, if it were infection, or the like. all it did was make me poop. a lot.

i told em i just needed leeches & mead.

no go, tho.


good thing today:
starhead is on LastFM, if yeh have it, or if yeh feel the want t'DL a song or two.

http://www.last.fm/music/Starhead



i'm gonna take some pics t'morrow, and mebbe drag Ms Brittany to some lunch-type-thing. cos i hate a resturant alone, and she's good in my head, most times.
something.

practice t'morrow night, yeah.
gonna finish 'petal', and 'the ballad of some bourbon angel'


i got up early this AM more than i needed to to be at the DRMC Cancer Center, so i wove around both campus' lookin for a fountain to toss pennies in.

i woke to an imagin'd voice from a shadow on my pillow saying "Let's drive, baby. Let's go somewhere."

so i moved the mighty Saladin, showered and headed out in the hours that i was normally goin t'sleep in.
and i drove, with a little CD with a flower in it's jewel box, then Regina Spektor , then Joanna Newsom, then some U2 ( cos i hadnae listened t'them in a while...) then
well, then i'd nae found a fountain, so i went to my thingy.

there was a big ass fountain in front of the hospital-thingy, but it didnae feel right, somehow.

so all morning i held this stupid penny, rubbing it absently, with Beatles songs stuck in my head and random bits of Neruda in spanish that i was sure i was mangling, and Gibran, which stays in my head in the most personal cupboards there.
i've plenny of love, i can feel it. i dunno what the fuck is wrong with me that i feel the edges of it more than the palms sometimes.
and my hands smelled like copper, penny sweating in my pocketed hand
and i wanted to just toss it anywhere, like it'd catch a breeze and ride that random texas zephyr out across what's left of my praries to find a spot in the cold ocean of earth, gestating a wish until the magic of that sun stroked it to release it's blossom, like a shy dogwood in the first warm day of the year...

thinking that the sun wasnae even up where it would send it's mojo, if it had it t'send.
'Mojo Penny', i laughed, more than once. Sorry, Jeff.
He'd understand, i conjure. His heart's still here, even after alla that water.

water. hn.




so this was me, trying not to think of needle here, swab there, and having to pee & vomit constantly it seemed. drinkin something supposed t'be orange, but it tasted like it should have gravel at the bottom of it. scraping my cheeks, my tongue. giving me some lozenge that make me hafta spit like a fucking camel.
and how much breath can i hold? and measuring for smoke & particles in my lungs, and timing my blood flow beyond just my pulse. virry strange feelings. and on top of everything in the present, was that stupid buffet of possibilities being set for me.

strange sensations in that combination of bad TV and reality in tubes and bags and a flock of little pains

especially the headache on the sides of my head only, and/or the always pee feelin.
if i get the probe, they're gonna catheterize me, they say.
fuck that madness.
course the alternative is an actual hole, as in day surgery.



and the ammonia smellin salts once, cos i dun give blood so well. i tell em that, and they laugh, looking at my tats & holes.


"what's the key to?" i was asked about fiddy times.
"Everything. It's a skeleton key" i'd explain.
*blank*


and after, eating, i wasnae even so hongry, but i knew i needed the fuel, and Red Bull wasnae gonna cut it.

goin back on wednesday.

and this is screened, yeh better believe. but dun post with anything saccharine, k? i'm journalin, not fishing.

tomorrow i'm going to the Oncologist.
according to this flock of papers i got on Thursday ( great fucking birthday present, eh?), i'm having stuff, including computed tomography, sputum cytology, and hopefully not a fucking Bronchoscopy.
and theres a note of the possibility of what amounts to a huge fucking needle in my chest. It all goes on to say more pokey slicy stuff, in order of the stuff that gets done if the stuff before it on the list is inconclusive.

But, it also notes in one little line that shadows in x-rays may be nothing to worry about, basically.
However, i keep in mind that the GP i saw felt the need to refer me to the Oncologist, sequesterd in the very omnious-sounding cancer center.
crap.

and i dun post this, nor have i, for drama. i hate drama. i hate it when ffolks stub their toe and moan about it til someone asks 'waht's wrong?'. that ain't me. in spite of this firepit of a journal i indulge in sometimes, my private health stuff is just that.
tho i've mentioned to a few souls, in passing, i didne feel the need to toss it into the aether here.
but then again, i feel i owe it to this thing, this 8-year chronicle, to bring it here, at least for a moment.


plus.i'm hongry. i have t'keep my blood sugar even, and an empty stomach, cos i'm gonna get lit up with dye, too.

all of which is not only very annoying, but scary as well. i've shit do do. Bookstore to man, words to put here and here and here and here
hands to hold
skysailing and songsmithing



this
interloper
i do not want.
nor do i want the drama that occurs with htis.
i had similar once before, and i put it off, but

i have more love, now, i think. a reason to take a look. a responsibility to the peace i'm trying to cultivate within me.

tho i also think it'd be easier to just move along, to let it be in the most perverse sense of the phrase

and it'd be easy to

eh

"i'd give anything for true love" i used to pray. for years
and now, in these pondripples of twilight self-pity i think mebbe i have.



but i love
and i love so fucking hard
that i'd rather love
even like this
this sideways highlove so far over my head sometimes that it gives my poor heart vertigo

i'd rather be baffled in it
than have nothing

this hurts, but having nothing flies in the face of everything i feel for
and i've lost the desire to lie, even to myself it seems.


today was largely amazing. the show went well, a lot of friends came, and there were ffolks there that i didnae know who'd come to the show on the sounds from the myspace, and we were invited to play with The Baptist Generals ( a fucking Sub Pop band!!!), plus 2 other shows were booked: with Record Hop, with Pinebox Serenade.
( and i dun feel like linking: google em)

but i stood on the wood floor of Dan's with the hard vanilla and oak of bourbon on my mouth and

i sang to the sky, hoping she'd hear, somehow,

and my friends sat in rapt fascination that this beast could find hallelujah in his mouth and not spit it out like an errant bone.
and it was salve


and between songs i thot of endings, and frayed ends.
and between breaths i thot of the glory in making a sound that moves someone
not just a song: but in tiny words

and between words i thot of how this happened:
"build me a boat" she said, and i'm making a navy.

and between glances i caught understanding
and i felt doubly warm, from the setting Texas sun, and the souls around me

and i want to stay in it, i want to feel it again
i want my lips to feel song and lips and song and lips and song and lips again
and my fingertips to graze sharp edges of leaves and books and soft edges of the side of a breast
the line of a jaw
hipbones under edges of skirttops
buttons on my fingers like wrestling ladybugs
hair thru my fingers like creekwater, cool and melodic in it's elementalism
and the reward of
even
half
a breath on my arm
neck
lips



i've only found love,and the ability of it
i'm not fucking done yet.


you can't take the sky from me,
please?

like jay said: "...travelling without moving."
but i dun think he had quite these last 2 moons in mind.


i need my mind to catch up with the rest of my world, somehow.
and this is more than changes, hearts, hands, geography, emotional weather reports

monday. gimme two more days and i'll make some sense, k?

alla you, you've been patient, and mebbe curious, and i dun write this LJ to an audience, but

remind me, by being here. you're all my friends as much as any.
remind me:

"This is how it works: You're young until you're not, You love until you don't, You try until you can't, You laugh until you cry, You cry until you laugh, And everyone must breathe until their dying breath.
No, this is how it works: You peer inside yourself You take the things you like and try to love the things you took, And then you take that love you made and stick it into some, someone else's heart, Pumping someone else's blood. And walking arm in arm, You hope it don't get harmed, But even if it does you'll just do it all again..."
- Regina Spektor




::breathe::


just breathe.

just woke up in a cough to post this, which i never do.
quickpost dreams that is. i cough a bit, if yeh know me i do.

dreamt that god was here again, like she'd never left ( tho it's been months since i'd written about her, there's one in the que that i've neglected since the beginning of March).

Tonight s he looked like Minnie Driver, with the big curls in her summerdark hair. pale full lips. hips. b-cups.
i remember thinkin that i wanted t'tie her hair back, t'see her face more, but i was too sleepy, that i'd wait til she came closer, to bed.
She was wearing a Journey t-shirt with some black tape over the logo, a big brownish long summer skirt, knee-high black hose and black shitkickers. Her iPhone was matte black, and she was smoking a cigarette made of tea.
dun ask how i knew it was tea, i just did.


in the dream, she woke me up with her rummaging thru my things. She was hiding my backpacks and duffle bags in her own luggage.
She'd brought me new bags: red canvas, stiff with newness. chrome tag'd, piped in dark yellorange & black. sounds off, but looked nice.
almost extreme, but nice.
i remember thinkin they'd match my shoes w/the flames on em...

there were words, but i should probably try to smith it into a thing that'd make sense t'read, instead of just say. for me as well.

Easter Island, cinnamon bark, young fruit trees, a pet tumbleweed, aboriginies tattoo'd with an Ace, tiny horses, black tea gum, sashemi, teeth, oakmoss and lace. and songs from bands i barely know, since i couldnae find the ones i did.

tomorrow i'll sort it, i conjure.
not right now.

time ::laughs::
what the fuck.

friday night, it's cold in texas
i am unwrapping my guitar
creating the white noise of elses to drown out that other
music

my words paint my heart to sleep
to dream of the softest colours imaginable
lips softer than blankets
and fingertips on mine
(lips) ( arms) ( hands) (breath)

yesterday i got lost in green eyes
today i followed them
tomorrow they'll meet me in the mirror


moebius strip?
( i only get one tomorrow)

so much to do, so little

just wanna breathe, just wanna do the show on sunday
just wanna
hold hands


just wanna see the sky a little differently
without the ache
the yesterday
( or that tomorrow over there)



something.
something.
something?

i fucking hate drama, especially mine.







i'm tired of being tested.



cannae i just be?


"La fille danse
Quand elle joue avec moi
Et je pense que je l'aime des fois
Le silence, n'est pas dis-donc
Quand on est ensemble
Mettre les mots
Sur la petite dodo"
- Damien Rice

"the professor and la fille danse" - Damien Rice


and thanks, Brittany, for showing me that song...)