Saturday, May 30, 2009

5 mikrokosmos

1. (didactic)

welcome to the now.
it's a little aggressive,
you might feel bumped.
pace can be altered,
but someone else controls the knob.
sit back, but don't relax,
best to stay tense.
clench your teeth.

[removed by author, two days after writing, because it was rubbish]

____3. (nocturne)
perfectly gradated shadows are rare
a slowly dissolving gravity
i grasp at tonight's knees,
this dark curtain's all that's left of my saturday,
slowly edging into someotherness.

what fear.
hug me once?, let's fall together.

____4. (dreamscape - Tuesday)
the blue bag from all my travels is missing again.

i sleep in a studio with two beds on opposite sides.
i alone. but in the other two ladies kiss and wear matching red lingerie.
they stop and look at me. then continue. i feel rejected.

my hair is mangled and i have black eyes. i notice this eventually.

i walk around a city that looks like London. Vienna. Prague.
the light is milk. seashell. sunken angel.

in a large home i look for my bag. refuse to play a grand piano in the auditorium:
and walk again. ___wake again and watch women kissing.
everyday i stop by the airport and ask to go home.
they ask me: where? but i cannot answer them.

oh my god.
it's 2007(08).
i awake covered in sweat and in a mood i won't recover from for days.

time is a number that can only increase.
space on the other hand...
can go either way.
fall by the waist / grow tumorous.
you can win or lose.
most often without knowing which.
good luck.

Friday, May 29, 2009

a few days in the life of Q.

note: i have exceeded my internet usage for the month. so... no photos for a few days, they take too long to upload.

____there is a cost to love John, absence. and distance.

i awoke. read Gol's email on my iphone. nodded a little. then felt a strange urge to play the third Gymnopedie. must be that same urge for consistency. something that wallows in its sameness sameness. something that is (and can be counted on to remain).

wednesday driving home, it's been a too-long too-difficult day.
(____- what, i can't hear you, dude, your phone never has reception
____- i said: what do we call these... episodes?
____- your mom calls them 'waves',
____- that's different, i'm talking about the...
____- yeah like the thunderstorm in your head thing right?
____- got it!
____- what?
____- the event is henceforth to be proclaimed a 'Short-Circuit'.
____- perfect. i love it.
____- ok cool i gotta get off the phone i'm driving
____- holla
____- outtie bro. ____)
three cars ahead, the lane to my right, is an old station wagon. sunset's just complete and the yellow streetlights seem brighter and more yellow and disturb my vision a little. i'm stopped at a traffic light i see something moving around. the silhouette of a small hand. it's a child, with a mop-full of hair. he's holding a small pink balloon that bops around. another item left at the beach when the families have gone home. bopping and being dragged out into an invincible darkness. i focus, on the balloon in pink glittery letters: It's a GIRL!!! oh wonderful i think. how wonderful indeed. i think of the new little princess. and of myself. and of Val(USA). and i think:

dear princess. welcome. You, me, and Val (USA), we declare our candidacy for being alive.


she resembles a cherub. with red hair that looks like some strange mineral mined out of a desert. full lips. mischeivous eyes. she's four years old and has too much energy for me. i'm already exhausted. i take her out to the back of our land, that over looks a man-made McLake. i can't lie, it's nearly sunset and beautiful. i'm calmer today. thursday has been better. playing with children always makes things much better. fishies! she says with a yelp. oh yes. there are little fish and they jump out the water from time to time. you look for a little while you'll see a couple. she stumbles around, looking at things that are interesting to her, and yelps and claps her hands and says fishies! i sit and stare at the shapes in the water. the threads of colours being born in the lake, and living their short life, and dying again to make the way for the darker hues.


there's a drunk girl with my arm around her. she's short so she's nestled in my chest. she's done laughing and telling me about her 31st birthday, and how wonderful it is. a second girl comes up, (i was dancing with her before). - you found my friend. - right on time it looks like. (the birthday girl giggles and smiles and with the smile still on her face, her red eyes kind of shut. she'll be back again in a second). - well. - well. I LOVE YOU! birthday girl screams it. puts her arms out and pulls other girl into our hug. now we're huddled like a little team. the two starbucks baristas and the regular customer. who found each other in a random club on a thursday. and had a little chat, and an intimate hug.
- i should get her home.
- yes.
- eventually.
- so, i'm currently in close physical proximity, and in a rather intimate pose with two very attractive women, so don't worry about me. you just cuddle in there, and take your time.
[she laughs]
- you're awesome. ... i got nothing else to say. you're just awesome. awesome.
(her repitions belie the notion of her as the 'responsible, sober friend').
- give me a goodnight kiss and go.
the first swoop crash lands. my glasses are in the way. she giggles as i try and release a hand without dropping birthday girl to take my glasses off. now then, round two. this time __oh wow __she has fuller lips than i noted, but with my eyes closed it's obvious. i had expected a terrible, beer tasting kiss. it's not. she kisses like me. too soft. like snow landing. most people find it a little boring. i like it. i like to save the rampage for later, but i like things to start like tinsel. like venetian lace. just little bites. mini-kisses. like the fingertips of two-icebergs finding each other. things always grow best from a slow first kiss.

bye then.


a pair of shoes sits on my 60's leather office chair. two shoes small enough to fit a four year old. in my car there's an obnoxious looking doll. saturday is all sun. i read a little. the Gymnopedie has long since ended. i make my bed. i surprise myself as i do it. i almost never make my bed - but when my bed is made (in advance of going to sleep at night), it feels like a wonderful ritual to get into bed. like something special. some rite. and it makes it a little easier too.

we who are scared to sleep salute you.
we who are worried of morning light salute you.

i have an afternoon movie and a late-session lined up. my phone has new names to call. there are things to read. jogs to be had. floors to be vacuumed. (just remember Orestes. run. runrunrun, and don't stop. if ever it gets quiet, that's when you worry. you just run like mad until you fall and in that case you won't care anymore)

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

prayer / Die mit Tränen säen, werden mit Freuden ernten

____Caught a light sneeze
____Dreamed a little dream

________Tori Amos

untitled, JordiGual

i say this because i refuse to give up on the night. i say this because whenever i meet someone new i take their hand and put it on my chest and say to them: feel that?, it really is my heart! i say this because sometimes having nothing is enough. because i stare at campfires long after everyone else has gone to sleep. i say this because i can't help but believe in magic. because i love the smell of women's hair. i say this because my chest is tight and i have trouble breathing. because last night's dream was a medley of all my worst moments. i say this because Ashley exists. because i can say anything at all to Mona. because i am more than the hair i am losing. because my soul is not confined to my chest.brain.fingertip - because my soul is everywherething i wish i was. i say this because i have heard Brahms' requiem. i say this because i have been here before (i have time travelled). because of winter. i say this because i'm not done kissing breasts. because i'm not done crashing cars. because i'm not tired of being sick. because i'm still scared of heights. because i'm not invincible. because my memories can go screw themselves. i say this because i haven't met you yet, and named our children. i say this because i stretch. i say this because i've another dance in me. because i have to put together mom's TV stand. because i have more keys to lose. because this is not a game to win and lose.

i say this because i'm scared.don't wanna be done.

____we try again. (again) (again) (again) (again) (again) (again) (again) (again) (again) (again) (again) (again) (again) (again) (again) (again) (again) (again) _ (again) _(again) _(again)_ (again) _(again) _(again) _(again) _(again)_ (again) _(again)__ (again) ___(again)____ (again) _______(again)

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

happy piece

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings.

____Julius Caesar, Shakespeare

actually i took this one.

i am resolved to it. (i think). i do not like the idea of it. never have. pills to persuade your thoughts to be less hostile to you... but perhaps it will be best. anyway. i have the appointment tomorrow. but given that the last few days have been pretty rough, i've decided to do something different tonight. let's concentrate on all those wonderful(est) moments. the stories i will pile into the pockets of my soul's trousers as they drag me kicking and screaming off the planet.

why were you home without me? i don't remember that part. the way it plays back in my head, i open the front door. first thing i see is you, reclined on the black sofa. the sofa mom and dad moved over from America, it was too big for that room, but it's all we had. you were lying down wearing an orange sweater. you had on glasses but you didn't wear glasses. you were reading but you never really read. i have no idea how that moment came to exist. i just stood by the door staring at you. you looked up, smiled. took the glasses off, and laughed. i smiled. Q, remember this, you may never see a woman look soo beautiful ever again.

the corners are 135 degrees. that's 90 and 45 added together. wood comes in planks. the down-saw can be set to the necessary angle. things are measured. they do not move when you turn your back. solutions are lasting. my hands are rough, they are strong. my quadriceps have never been soo strong. with a builder's pencil i mark the line. walk to the saw, put on my goggles. the blades spin, a noise is heard, sawdust, and now i'm holding two pieces of wood. i walk back into the room. 135 degrees. that's 90 and 45, same as before. the sliding door is open. the sky is a touch darker. a gust of wind comes in to greet me. i fit the plank into the right spot, almost. mallet. two hits. perfect. pieces that slot together. we can hide the whole floor this way. when we are done it will be soo beautiful. it will be soo new. when you turn your back, things stay the same. my hands can do this. i am something useful. i can make things. i wish it were all soo well defined.

my phone beeps. i'm on the train. it's 6am, my class isn't till 8, but it takes that long to get there. everything is precarious right now. everything is deteriorating- and it's going to explode i just don't know it at this stage. i'm half asleep. haven't touched my homework. i rummage in my backpack, and check the message: for your information, i look especially cute today. marry me soon ok? love. i almost laugh out loud. they say love is a game of inches: how'd we all get soo far from home?

my eyes are red. the whole flight i've done nothing but pray, cry, and write. my fingers are trembling, but you can't tell that because i'm holding my bag soo tight. i haven't shaved and my feel skins plastic. i don't dare touch my face. i see you waiting and walk over. slowly. honestly, i have no idea what i'm going to say to you. and your wife's there besides you, great, what do i say now? what does one say? i walk slower, take deep breaths. i'm certain if i just concentrate on breathing the rest will just pass me by. i'm two meters away, he walks straight up to me (like the first time we met when we were 11), same gait. this time he puts his hand on my shoulder (last time he held his hand out for me to shake). "Q, before you say anything, i just want to tell you: it's ok. it's going to be ok. you're going to stay with us as long as you need, we'll help you with everything, ok? __it's good to see you."

(god i love you eman).

Monday, May 25, 2009

very short stories

this is not the sound of a new man or crispy realization

it's the sound of the unlocking and the lift away

your love will be

safe with me

____re: stacks, Bon Iver

eaten alive, Federico Erra

____1. contingency plan
no one knew where he came from. he never said. he had a trailer, payed by the month. worked at the gas station, smiled, knew all the locals, never minded what hours he was given. at the weekend he'd go to the bar like everybody else. they say for the first few years wouldn't drink anything but soda water. people got a bit suspicious of him, till finally one day, for no reason at all, started on the dark rum. grew steadily sleepy, and eventually stumbled home. he came to like it. he read all the time. sometimes wrote in little black notebooks he kept. never spoke of the past, would just smile at you with his lips (and frown with his eyes) and say ohh man, who knows when questioned. his trailer was full of them, books and notebooks. during the spring and autumn he'd make a little camp-fire and sit outside the trailer staring at it. said he liked the patterns smoke made as it flew away. ash-fairies - that was his phrase, he had a way with words. made him sound like he was from another planet. somewhere too far away.

(a) probably best to start by forgiving your parents. ex-es. if you can manage abstract concepts, then forgive god. circumstance. (b) drink more water. (c) running three times a week for at least 20 minutes will increase your chances of a long and healthy life- cut it out immediately. (d) do not look both ways when you cross the street, stare straight ahead and smile. (e) in addition to judaeo-christian faiths, practice at least one eastern oddity. we recommend shintoism. (f) take longer showers. (g) resist the urge to write letters. memorials. autobiographies. best to let actions speak. (h) sleep outside once a week, preferable bivouac on grass, good to let the body become comfortable with the sensations. (i) sleep an extra minute everyday. speak one less word. (j) shake hands earnestly, you never know which will be the last. (k) focus. focus. focus. (l) finds homes for your pets, sooner you do this, easier it will be. (m) shantih. shantih. shantih.

i don't have the energy for you right now. you know i mean it with love.

____4. anthropomorphia
she rests her head on her arm. her arm on the table. she has brown hair, like the silk of a tree-trunk. she's bent like a wilted flower; a delicate insect. her mother sees me looking at her daughter and gives me a stern look. no no no maam, i assure you, i have a different sort of eyes than you are accustomed to. who knows if she believes me. her daughter reeks of magic. in seattle i lost a postcard one day walking home. i left it under a tree i think. she is that tree. she absorbed my postcard, and the love in the ink awoke her. she's found me. my dear, my dear, my dear, is that you?

____5. your love will be safe with me
it's a hard thing to say. can't be easy. some promises are damned-hard to make. too hard maybe. love is not a world i am comfortable with right now. come back later. bring me a smile i can do something with. we'll talk then. here's a hug for your time [___].

____6. the wave
can it be turned off? no. not once you know it's coming. so you just sail through? something like that yes. does it hurt? no. not in a... normal sense. so... what's it like then? like being lost. your stomach churns. you forget to breathe for hours. your chest tightens and your hands fidget alot. your brain whirrs. sometimes you feel pulsating. it's best to adopt the fetal position and wait it out. how will you know when it's coming? you can hear it. like the argive ships coming across the aegean. what? the eumenides my dear, the furies do not need to stop to rest. what are you talking about? orestes. run orestes, run.

Sunday, May 24, 2009

silence: a jeremiad.

untitled, .littlegirlblue

but the quiet is another thing altogether. i cannot bear that moment. i sit a moment with the stereo still on. look outside. dark grass is an inimitable color. it has been raining. the air will be fresh. take consolation in that i tell myself. finally, i turn the key in the ignition counter-clockwise, click, and silence. there's no point making excess noise i get out, it's the wrong kind of noise. it's a... the sound after the end credits. the nothing. i stand on the street, my feet in a thin layer of post-rain wetness. steps. keys in locks. the house sleeping, it won't face me as i walk in. my room is just a big shadow. i always turn the dimmers down low before i turn the light on, the last thing i want is some bright surprise. you scare away the shadows too soon you piss them off. they just sit and wait, when they come back they're meaner and spiteful as all hell. so i'm carefull with them, don't scare them all away with too sudden a move. when i step into the room i make sure my footsteps are smooth and gentle. i'm scared of my own damn wood floors. the dimmers are set the light comes on gently. just a glow. the shadows recoil but i can still see them huddling together under my coffee table, behind the books on my shelf, on the far side of my bed that's reserved for inexplicable loneliness (i won't go near there it's my bed i still only sleep on one side). i undress. slowly. all i can hear is myself. steps. clothes. the wardrobe sliding on its rails it makes me sick in my stomach i don't know why. for no reason at all, in my underwear i pull out the piano stool (clenching my teeth and making a perturbed look ahead of time i hate the noise of the stool when i move it). i sit and it creaks. ruffle of papers.

Erik Satie, Gymnopedie #3.
you don't have a moment like that, something soo extraordinarily out of this world that when played angels feel their feet sink deeper into a cloud and they're pulled down momentarily because even they can't escape the gravity of such beauty. nothing like that. predictable. it meanders. just steps lightly (1, 2, 3; 1, 2, 3) from chord to chord. but my hands love it. my hands look back at me in the backseat shutup stop being such a kill joy, we're enjoying ourselves here i nod, yesyesyes, no problem. maybe carpenters understand. bassoonists. professional hand-holders. it is a sort of dance. the hands prefer certain motions. certain positions. there's a moment where the right holds a D-natural and the left plays a chord around it (my hands feel soo close, soo intimate when i play that part). yesyesyes they say. just kinda strolls along. kicking a rock here and there. a steady rainfall, stands for nothing. finally it ends. a lower chord than one would intuitively expect. i push my hands into the keys a little too hard, i like it, it turns it into a 'moment' (i hear the piano exhale a little uah). it's one of those moments... you've been talking all night, finally somebody summons the courage to lean in for a kiss, something like that, one of those moments. you can walk away and say, yesyes, something did actually happen, i felt something in my chest, i am (despite contrary evidence) alive. i stop.

quiet again. relentless god-damned silence. how will i escape you? i stand. dress. lime-green Calvin Klein pyjama bottoms with a sweater my friend gave me in Madison.
"keep it."
"what?, why?"
"i want you to have it."
"dude, i'm a guy, i'm not your girlfriend."
"no-homo, i promise... i just... i don't know why, i want you to have it."
"will it make you feel better?"
" ... yeah; i can't explain it ok?, "
"all good bro. no worries."
i've been wearing it ever since.

in the back of my mind i hear all the blahblahblahs. my own. i've been sidestepped out of one conversation. another group stands silently. a guy has his back to me. i'm uncomfortable a moment. then a latino girl looks up at me. i'm two feet away from her. she looks at me. i look back, nothing comes to mind. "you know, this is that moment where if no one says anything it gets really uncomfortable." (she smiles)
"what should i be saying?"
"don't say anything about the weather."
"what about your sweater?" (my sweater says 'I [adidas symbol] Adelaide')
"i'm repping my home-town. kinda." (and we're off).

half a dozen conversations later: a drunk girl with freckles and gorgeous blue eyes i can't stop looking into sits on a chair opposite me. i like her fingers. her fingernails. they're small. childish. she reminds me of child. i watch her hands move around as she gestures. she's drunk so i don't care what she thinks of me staring at her eyes and hands. the blue of her eyes is a little too dark, it makes no sense. i don't understand. in my head i keep thinking: faded orthodox church roofs. salts in test-tubes in chemistry labratories. the dark clouds approaching. i am unsatisfied. what color is it really? i get up to leave. i'm hesitant, i know if i leave there will be a silence waiting for me at home. it's an ocean. soo large. sometimes i sit at the beach, and i hear nothing. i don't notice any sound at all. just weight. the weight of the stars. the weight of the future. the agoraphobic tremors the ocean induces. is there a name for fear of infinity? for fear of eternity? for fear of asymptotes? endless lines that never reach anywhere. for fear of everything that lies beyond my nonsense blahblahblah and my stumbly uncertain hands gesturing wildly and my eyes hoping to see you look past the act.

"well, next time."
"next time in France."
"in 2 days i return home."
"oh my, well then. safe travels, it's been fun."
she gives me a suspicious look. i've only spoken to her twice. (by now i've left the girl with the freckles and the Sinatra eyes. i've shook some hands, and had a laugh with the boys, and left my pint-glass full of water by the sink).
"it's been fun?"
she doesn't trust me. she looks at me intently, like she's waiting for me to turn into a dragon or something.
"we've only spoken twice, but i have enjoyed both tremendously. and i genuinely wish you a safe trip home, and i hope that these few months will be beautiful memories for you always."
she's taken aback. she had expected something more sleek. more... charming than honest. she smiles, she's happy with my response. she puts her arms out wide for a hug. i step in hesitantly, but who'm i kidding i haven't been hugged in three days and i'm dying for it. i hold her tight and notice she won't let go either. i have taken to squeezing women in tight, right into my torso. trying to merge into them. finally we let go.
"i needed that. thankyou."
(there's someone standing besides us. Ms. If No One Says Anything it Gets Really Uncomfortable. she says:
"why did you need that?"
"my sister lives in America. i don't have a girlfriend. i'm lacking in the affection department."
"you don't have friends?"
"yes, i do. but i've been studying this weekend. haven't really seen anyone."
(she shuts up. my hugging-partner smiles again, poor baby, come here (she's read me perfectly, knows just the right tone. i melt. completely melt). i get another hug.
it echoes in my body and rings in my ears as i step into the car.
it echoes in my body and rings in my ears as i step out onto the wet street out the front of my house.

here it meets head on the dead-silence. limp surfaces. inanimate books. flaccid, cold pillows. the moment is a car accident. it physically hurts. i know my bed is waiting for me. an unwanted date. sharing the night with a corpse. cold, motionless creature in my room. two rival armies, the front lines collide. the rest is the massacre. when i finish writing this, a second after the last word, it's waiting for me. (and the shadows too, they sharpen their teeth with it

god help me here i go.

Saturday, May 23, 2009

very short stories

__(though love be a day
__and life be nothing,it shall not stop kissing).

____ee cummings

untitled, shesaskeleton

____1. the perspective problem
stop sign. the car slows. then starts again. her voice carries on without interruption. "and the point is, when people say it's not the world, it's not... like life or anything, they say it's a matter of how you look at it ya know?, it's the way you view things, your lens or whatever, and the issue is your 'state', how you view things that " and it is night and it is dark. the trees are barely visible, just massive shadows merging into the nightsky. "so maybe it's just me, i mean, people suggest it is me, the way i look at things- maybe everything is actually just fine, and it's just a matter of... of... faulty vision ya know?" SLAM on the breaks - the car screeches forward we're both launched into the grip of our seatbelts and you hear fffff*ccccckkkkk twice simultaneously. the red Audi drives away oblivious. "what the f*ck was that?"
"it's just your perspective Monz. that was not a red Audi that almost killed us. it was a lollipop. it was travelling at fast speeds. that over there is not a stop sign. it's a buttermilk pancake. it's just your vision that's faulty."
a mad delerium of laughter ensues.

____2. dinner conversation
- how's your salad?
- fine.
- did you turn the light in your room off?
- yes.
- you should also close the blinds.
- ...
- seriously, when it gets dark close the blinds.
- ...
- seriously
- what the hell!, fine, jeez.
- people can see into your room.
- so?
- so! so? uhm, when i took the trash out you were coming out the shower!
- so?
- SO, i saw your penis. also, why did you check your email nude?, that's ridiculous.
- [eruption of laughter]
- how's that funny?
- [chuckling]
- how's your salmon?
- it's awesome. seriously, do you know how good it is?
- how good?
- it's soo good i'm having trouble deciding whether i should eat it or f*ck it.
[her hand raises up. but then she stops to think... finally decides it is in fact a compliment. her face relaxes. she strikes me anyway]
- OH! what the hell!
- ... you still said the f-word at the dinner table.

____3. Ashtree
you're easy to remember. tru dat. i'd like to say i tell the time by you, but it's hard to read the watchface. mostly i like to carry you around on my wrist. get on it. and sometimes i think to myself Q & A with Q & A and giggle- it would make a great television show. or quirky thing to write on a wedding invite that's what she said. and you have ridiculous toe-nail polish. and wide shoulders, with little tiny freckles. it's not red, there's no red. (there is). and once we sat in the Starbucks at Pontius & Sepulveda for a couple hours with me talking non-stop about mostly homicidal ideations and how much i hated the notion of family and you just nodded. and you were off on a mountain somewhere when i finally left (August 10th), and something about that seems all wrong. ______(much love)

____4. a recital in the afternoon
i am playing something. softly. she creeps into my room and crawls into my bed, besides the piano. i don't stop, i just turn my head to look at her. she places index finger on her lips to indicate she'll be silent. i don't mind. i finish the song. papers are ruffled as i pick the next song. play again- softer than i need to. it just seems appropriate. then another. another. another. finally i notice she still has her hands covering her lips and her cheeks are wet with tears. ? i ask. she nods in response. (it means everything). i can't bear to look at her any longer so i go to select another song. what do you remember? she loves this question. she knows i remember everything. from that time. you know i haven't heard you play since Plympton. she's right. that's when i left home. after that her, i, and a piano were never in the same place. that's like... 7 years. she nods, yeah. what do you remember? the green swing outside. Tameeka would sit on it when she smoked. in the rain. anytime. i'd sit with her. drink tea. this same piano was in the lounge room. you would shout at me from the kitchen. Sahar would shake her head that's not music go-doos in response to Webern. Tameeka would sit on the only other furniture in that room, pretend to read, but really just look at me. once we came home no one was around we somehow stumbled and fell onto the carpet in the middle of the room. it was dark. what do you remember?
what do you remember?
oh. this and that. [she nods. she knows what that means: everything]

____5. nocturne
tomorrow: we try again.

Friday, May 22, 2009

portrait. Saturday 11:48am.

____from this
____life & (ah

________TV On the Radio

Leighton Meester and Penn Badgley, Teen Vogue 2007 courtesy suicide blonde

out of the blue you can swoon. for me, my shoulders spread, my back bends, my neck leans in, every muscle contracts. my hands grow hungry, insatiably hungry. my voice grows shaky, i speak in whispers. i breathe erratically.

the rain comes out of nowhere. i'm staring out the window looking at the lake. the texture of the water is changing. it's advancing soo fast. like an eclipse. i want to close the windows, but i can't stop looking. i hear it now. the din of it approaching. the enemy army or the liberators- who ever knows?

the tea sits and nurtures a colony of bacteria no doubt. the books lie limp and frayed at the edges. pens. glasses cases. pens. oh. this is life.

somewhere another planet burgeons.
if it has tulips i will be happy. all i ask for out of life are tulips, and women's lips that feel like tulip petals.

the air in this room is stale. hasn't really moved. it has a beginner-level shadow from the blinds being drawn (too much light will disturb the vampires. the goblins. the creepers and latenight leftover have nowhere.elsetogo dreamscapes- they wait for night to come again to grab the next ride home. (go soundly my dears, we who are lost and wander solute you.

____- how are you?
____- we who wander solute you.
____- what?
____- nothing.
____- that sounded cool though- what did you mean?
____- nothing [everything], i was just playing around [i told you everything, and now i know you will never know me]

i don't know why, but it keeps turning in my head, like an ostinato rythm:

________It takes a village to read a poem.

________The patter of the petunias in the marmalade.

________Everybody's got to be somewhere.

________Save the last chance for me.

________Charles Bernstein from Sign Under Test

the rain stops. it seems too quiet. saturday has barely nudged itself past midday. how i loathe these motionless days. i have soo much i need to read. soo much to find. (there's a lighthouse somewhere... ) the smell of coffee, the the quiet men who sit at midday to drink and read and stare away. the force of the future, with its heaviness. the force of the women who love us, and the women who hate us, and the siblings who miss us and those rarest friends that because of whatever miracle actually understand us.

somebody: spraypaint a piano keyboard a strange colour and send me a picture of it.

Q, go study. you know you need to. this yo ticket outada hood yo. dis yo means to a better life, you wanna live an' die by these streets dawg? pull it together man!

the streets i know are lined by houses. by neat fences. by trimmed grass. the ashphalt grows dark when it rains, and dry and brittle as bone in the summer. the cars that tread are olive-green BMWs and sleek silver Mercedes. yesterday i was running and i saw a lost yellow lambourghini. an alien from another world. i stared it was soo out of place.

(the sun is out there somewhere.
the clouds come and go, kicking some wind as they pass.
it's all wet now.

____everyone's got to be somewhere.

____save the last chance for me.

thoughts (fragments)

____If you can't see the stars
____You've probably gone too far

________Stork & Owl, TV On the Radio

untitled, kristina s. b.

in the other cars people talk. laugh. __there must still be things left to be said. (who would have thought).

it starts to rain again- an hour before midnight. __i am relieved, it is too quiet when i sleep alone. (i have developed a paranoid delusion that my five pillows hate me, that one head is simply not enough to satisfy soo many perfectly adequate pillows). sshhh. calm baby, slow down. slow down.

"what's the feeling like?, is it like being trapped, i felt like that today, and thought of you."
"something like that."
"how like that, tell me about it."
"i don't feel like talking."
"you never feel like talking."
"yes, like being trapped. but not life, life is fine, i don't have a problem with life. __it's... me. i feel trapped as myself."
"who else could you be?"
"i think the options should be endless."

Erik Satie, Gymnopedie #1.
the thing is, it starts with this moment of exquisite beauty, then loses itself. almost immediately, it's gone. you sit and listen, and think: 'did that really happen, did i just hear that?' and it wanders around. feeling it's way from key to key. looking; maybe for the rest of that moment, maybe for something equivalent to continue with. and then, again, (like having a troubled relationship but these infrequent moments, sparse kisses, or eye-stares that shine through all... that, and remind you what it once was- what it still might be underneath). again the episode in b minor. your heart clenches an extra touch too tight when it contracts. and then it's as lost as ever. can't even find the right place to end. when it ends, you think: 'nonono. poor dear. soo much potential, never knew how to drive it home'.

(i'm soo worried sometimes).

i am regaining my powers. i'm not sure what that means yet. i'm not sure at all. but... i sense within me an old brazenness returning. last night she kissed me on the cheek. "that was nice, again." (she obliges). "still nice, again please." (she laughs, obliges). "make a lonely man happy, once more" (she does, but i turn my head __we're lost in midair __land almost lip to lip, she holds it, i hold it, she's kissing more cheek than lip, i'm kissing just the side of her mouth. __she leans back with a mischeivous smile. "oh you're teasing. nice." she smiles, takes a step backwards away from me. i'm still holding her hand. i kiss it and say "very well, i release you- for now." she continues to stare at me as she takes steps backwards away.

__- play something. please?
__- yesyes.
__- please it's been ages since you played for me.
__- i've been working on some new pieces for you actually.
__- honestly, for me?
__- honestly, yes. [i'm not lying, i did learn them for her]
__- well you haven't wanted to hangout in soo long.
__- you never answer your phone.
__- i'm soo sorry, i just... i'm one of those people who doesn't pay any attention to their phone.
__- it's ok. i like playing for you. you enjoy it more than most people, and that means i enjoy playing for you more than most people.
__- can i come over sometime?
__- of course, you are always welcome.

everyone is trying to analyze me. too many questions. it's been ceaseless for a few days. but i am evolving. remembering how to dodge. how to nurture my dichotomoies. how to avoid demonstrating how irational a person i really am. mostly, i am learning how to laugh, how to joke and be light and contain all the myselfness to just a look in my eye. i've confined it all there. there are two black holes in my pupils, other than that you'd never guess what goes on inside me. you'd never see any of it, you'd just think i was charming, and a little crazy, and sometimes distant because there are other, better planets i'd rather be on. __(and that's true).

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

thoughts (fragments)

it rains and everything is blue. i wake up early to take note of the fact, open my blinds partially, look out the window, and return to bed. now my room is blue too. if you listen hard enough you might hear something. i never do, but you might. (and possibility is nine-tenths of the game).


i fumble a bit to close the back of my car holding an umbrella in one hand, a yellow notepad in the other, my gym bag swaying around like a pendulum. when i turn she's walking behind me. orange light rain-proof jacket with most of her head hidden away so she looks like a species of penguin. black tights. "you don't like the rain as much as i do."
"how do you know?"
"because i like it alot" (what i really want to say is: 'you look adorable with your head hidden away like a penguin')
"i like it alot too."
"why are you walking away, come share my umbrella and we can determine who really likes the rain better." (she smiles. it's genuine)
"i need to walk this way."
"i just stepped in a big puddle and my shoes are all wet."
"do you blame me?"
"are you the rainman?"
"no. but i distracted you." (by now we've been walking apart and we're almost shouting to one another)
"in another life you would have shared my umbrella and it would have ended happily ever after."
(she's under the cover of a building, i'm still standing in my puddle. umbrella moving erratically because of the wind, gym bag being unimpressed with my shoulder).
(she smiles, somewhat sadly, and we walk away).

(possibility is nine-tenths of everything)


maybe more, maybe less. life, this thing that happens to/for/despite/in spite of/because of/ us. i wonder if i ever really interact with it. is it just a thing, a reel that flows around me, a river i am immersed in. and the shadows of moments, the lips of women, orange sweaters, the 345 bus, the year 2007, these things just pass around me. and i, stupidly with my arms opened wide, try to hold on to it (and fail always fail).

notapoem / solo conversation (for mona)

____next time.

it's just the wind. night walking around. kicking rocks.
when did you last eat a blueberry?, me neither. been too long,
in too many ways- been too long.

yes yes. the piano. it fills the whole room with noise,
i can block out just about everything if i play loud enough.
__(but fingers can lie too.
__and they crawl back outta their hiding places when i close the lid, )

all the time. all the time. anyone that will indulge a moment i hug.
i hold them too tight, try to absorb them. don't stop till i can feel
their heartbeat inside me
__(but heartbeats can lie too)
and a moment later i'm back to listening to my own little earthquakes.

midnight goodbyes and midmorning omelets, very interesting. how stark these shadows:
distance can grow. is itself a thing.
memory is the farthest distance, did you know? memory is a distance you cannot recover.
immeasurable. irreconcilable.
the very edge of the sky. the border of heaven. maybe there somewhere.

yes yes, i did sleep the whole way there. what a riot. speeding tickets and all.
how fast we ran to get to the end,
__(but airline tickets can lie too:

______i'm sure it didn't say one-way.)


(much love)

Saturday, May 16, 2009


untitled, pinkyhonor

i think it was exams that did it. Adelaide maybe perpetuated it. being idle exacerbated it. a loss of... equanimity. complete loss. i'm moody. hesitant. suddenly quiet and vague.

and i've been doing everything right. going out. driving long distances for no reason. surrounding myself with people. (i just can't really look at them). i'd rather sit silently and stare off away into space.

also i can't really write now.
try again later.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

sedated fear and self-loathing

i have soo much to say. on the plane my head was kinda rampaging. i couldn't stop fidgeting and i read about 89 pages of Civilization and Its Discontents before i realised i wasn't reading, i was just pivoting my head on my neck and moving it side to side, scanning shapes with my eyes while my thoughts lingered elsewhere. elseeverywhere.

i'll race you. i just had 0.5mg of alprazolam. i did this so that my head would just _s t o p_ and i might find a moment of silence. it's been a loud week. too many walks, coffees, eyes scanning books i didn't really read.

(Dear Ashley,
when i was 14-15-16 Freud fascinated me. all those ids and egos and fetishes and repressed carnality. i think at 14-15-16 anyone that was willing to talk about bestiality was pretty cool in my book. i re-read him. at 26. a collection of essays i had read as a teenager, and the aforementioned polemic. he's soo verbose, did you ever notice that? all i could think as i read (or scanned) was T.S. Eliot (i think it was) calling him the 'Austrian witchdoctor'. i love that phrase. i still like the ids and egos. i like the diversions we find for happiness. i dislike the theories on sexuality. perhaps it's that during the intervening decade my own sexuality has woken up. has walked around the block a little, and has its own opinion of things. maybe. anyway: you're right.)

i'm still here. maybe i should have taken the full pill. the half is calming me. which allows me to continue writing. which allows me to continue thinking. which is the opposite of what i was going for here.


__ __Q: dad, are you bipolar?
___Dad: what? no. not that i know of [chuckles]
__ __Q: is there any incidence of psychiatric illness in our family that i should be aware of?
___Dad: what! no.
__ __Q: _mm hmm.
___Dad: is there a problem?
__ __Q: yes.
___Dad: and that problem is?
__ __Q: my head._ basically.
___Dad: which part?
__ __Q: oh... all of it.
___Dad: you're young.
__ __Q: it's been a decade!
___Dad: being young lasts a long time.
__ __Q: not that long.
___Dad: your head is fine there's nothing wrong with your head. __you have a restless soul.

(oh here it is, my eyes are a little heavier. time is slowing. yesyesyes)

i've been thinking about it, but not like this: restless soul. i keep seeing it like this:

____restless soul
____restless soul

just playing with the intonation like that. even the phrase is restless (restless restless).

i yawn alot. have problems getting a full breath of air. sigh occasionally. if you've read Medical Examinations by Talley & O'Connor you know these are not symptoms of fatigue or respiratory illness. it's usually anxiety related. it's been an anxious week. Adelaide is always like that. Adelaide has a far too heavy shadow. Sleeping there is like sleeping besides a heavy ghost- who wants to lie atop you for her goodnight snuggle. it's the most pleasant city on earth. four delicate seasons. a city constructed with perfect geometry, rectangular and regular, surrounded by parklands. just grass and trees. to get into the city from any side you have to drive through parks. certain parts have netball courts. cricket fields. other parts have children's amusements. the part i walk through is grass. trees. nothing else. then i get to O'Connel St. Walk past a pub i don't remember the name of that i made out with a girl in once. (i only went there that once. she invited me. her friends were boring. i was bored. we kissed a little and then i left. it seemed natural at the time). Then Wallis Cinemas North Adelaide. where with Vanessa we saw Kill Bill 2 at midnight Thursday morning just randomly because we felt like it. Where I saw Star Wars Episode 1 with dad and Sahar and someone else i can't for the life of me remember. this is what it means to be in Adelaide. to be knee deep inside yourself. every restaurant is a story. every cinema a memory. the streets. the... faces. on my third day i walk down Rundle Mall and see a blonde girl. her nose is distinct. her very wide blue eyes. her hair is darker now. it used to be a little luminescent, it's not anymore. she's all in all far less attractive then when i knew her. or rather didn't. she was a year below me in high-school, but made out with the boys a year above me. since i didn't really understand what all that was about till my second year of university, she was just Alice as far as i was concerned. which i knew only because people spoke to.about.with her. a few moments i stare at her, and she stares back. finally, click. oh yes. and we both smile. nothing said. just keep walking. that is Adelaide. silent memories. a jumble worth of a lifetime just stitched together. a chance to hate soo much all over again. a chance to reminisce and ponder and relive and reconsider and...

anytime i say: i need some time to myself / i need some time to think / i just need to be left alone a little while / i'm going to take a long walk and sort my thoughts out, you slap me. this is my enemy. thoughts are my enemy. i have a problem in that my particular enemy lives right upstairs. occasionally floods my life with a most particular discontent. a most savage self-hatred.

and so i sit on the plane and take turns siging, yawning, and gasping to get a full breath of air. my knee gyrates nonstop for the entire flight. my eyes scan side-to-side, the woman besides me looks at me sternly. my eyes are red, i'm unshaven. another of those punks on speed! but then she looks me up and down a little. i'm wearing a fitted v-neck sweater (dark brown) with a plaid button-up underneath and she can see the collar. i have a thin leather watch, very clean khaki jeans, yes they are tight, but still, and of course those glasses... seems too clean-cut for speed. must be coke, another of those coked up yuppies! i look back at her and smile, hoping to assuage her hostility, but to no avail. she meets my gaze dead-on, then shakes her head a little and mumbles to herself.

in my head i repeat four conversations. i visualize conversation i never had that i should have. i dream my way out of one small town, through most of the world, and crash land back into another, (flip page), i fantasize about kissing about 4 separate girls, close my eyes and visualize the notes you have to press on the piano to play the opening of Bach's c#-minor fugue, (flip page), dream my out of present small town and try and find a path back into the world, hate myself for everything, (flip page), love life, love myself, no- hate myself again for nothing, for everything, for not saying something, Shanghai maybe? that's possible, NY seems soo far, soo difficult to manage (flip page) love my mom, Bach wrote one fugue in d#-minor, which doesn't really exist- in modern nomenclature it's e-flat-minor but my score is in the archaic notation and i like it better that way, hate my entire family for everything, miss my sister inconsolably (flip page), on the last night he pulls up to my house to drop me off after coffee. he has some insane car that makes a terrible racket that literally arouses me

___me: no dude, i'm going crazy, seriously
_ _him: is something happening?
___me: no no no, in my head as always, but... it's.... bursting, i'm bursting out through my skin.
_ _him: you really wanna go there?
___me: how can i want that?, i've been there before... i know it already... and yet
_ _him: [looks at me sadly. two addicts who don't understand]
___me: it's a feeling at least, a feeling, something that isn't numb, pain is a feeling.
_ _him: hey man, i know. i got a bottle of vodka in my bottom drawer, don't tell anybody, but honestly, i can't... i can't... just to take the edge off.
___me: there's no reason to be here. i should know better. and i'm always back here.
_ _him: dude...
___me: f*ck.
_ _him: wanna come back to mine?, share the bottle?
___me: ha. i don't steal grandma's milk money yo. i rob banks.
_ _him: nevermind, i wouldn't do that to you.
___me: i just gotta sort it out in my head, once and for all. _who _am_ i. (and then committ to it) you know what's crazy?
_ _him: mm?
___me: you and i have never really lived in the same city you know that?
_ _him: yeah.
___me: god would never let that happen. he wouldn't. i'm everything you ever needed: an audience. a disciple. a wingman. and you're everything i ever needed: motivation. an ideal. someone to imitate and learn from. someone else to be. we'd ruin everything if left together.
_ __ __ __ __ _[i get out the car]
_ _him: Q,
___me: yeah?
_ _him: you already know what you're going to do, i can see it.
___me: yeah i just think about it till i go mad first.
_ _him: everyone has a process... but save yourself the madness. do what you're gonna do.

last week my mother saw a dream. something about me swimming in a river that was growing narrower and narrower. she woke me in the morning, everything alright? how's school everything ok? yes yes yes. all's fine mom.

(it's not a river though.
it's a noose.


man beat pill.

Sunday, May 3, 2009

the midnight leprosy experiment

The embrace between faraway, freeway, and very near is air, breath, oil, here.
Mouth and food.Going somewhere you don't want to be. How does the will work. I don't want to be where I'm going!
Peripatetic effusions.

____from Catholic, Fanny Howe

Diane Kruger & Quentin Tarantino - The Call Back - NY Times by Jean-Baptiste Mondino, May 3rd 2009

peripatetic effusions. yes. exactly. exactly. that's why we have poetry i guess. a year ago i lay on the carpet in Santa Monica and stared at the ceiling. by my legs was a brown weekend bag full of mostly tshirts that accompanied me for a year. a small (and ever increasing) stack of books by the patch of carpet i called my bed. i read that phrase and thought to myself yes. yes, exactly.

and today, in a few hours, i'll fly to Adelaide. supposedly my hometown. only, for some strange reason, since i spoke to Ashley the other day, i've had the phrase peripatetic effusions in mind. an inconsolable homesickness. the friends of my youth have slowly all egressed, by geographical migration, by that slow uneventful drifting that happens between people, by time and by circumstance. the bookshops of my youth are now hair salons. the store i spent every afterschool in, trying out different pianos and making a huge racket in, now only sells guitars. DJ equipment. this saddens me most, i don't know why.

so what's home? Los Angeles? Haifa? Gold Coast? peripatetic effusions. i have left a relic of myself everywhere, and find that i am counterintuitively more encumbered.


sex and love are two things i'm going to have to sort out soon. in my head. in my body. i don't even know where their origins are. attraction is an algorithm, i unfortunately know that much. a sequence. protocol. i don't know.

Dear Future Wife,

hi. i hope by the time i meet you i've got it right. by it i really mean me. the whole concept of me. the whole anthropomorphic notion of me. you will, of course, come along and change alot of it- and that's fine. your loveliness calls for the painting of old walls, and the addition of vases of flowers in rooms of old habits. feel free. i chose you because i like your influence. you make air lighter. you are a magician. gravity is less burdensome with you around. and you at least, are nice enough to play with my hair when i lean back onto your knees as we sit on sand and stare at nothing. but i hope i have most of it in place. i'm trying. i swear i am. the idea that happiness is a practise... i am really trying.

there's been a side-effect though. i am unable to endure anything in my life that displeases me. everything must be fixed. every problem has a source in my behaviours or thoughts. there are antedotes to everything. i'm going to tweak and nudge and calibrate and restructure and redesign and relearn and reformulate and construct until i am a utopian me.

i can't believe i'm talking to you right now. this is silly. i feel silly. in all honesty, with passing weeks, i feel your existence less and less.



it occurs to me life is not a thing you 'win' at.
since i don't know what the alternative is...


maybe home is a person. not a place. maybe home is a food. maybe home is laying in laps with your hair played with. maybe home is the smell of a tshirt. maybe home is the feel of a steering wheel. maybe home is a framed photo. maybe home is the sound of someone's voice. maybe home is the ocean. maybe home is the path in Hallett Cove lined with daffodils, where i rode my bike. maybe home is the past. maybe home is the myth of ourselves we've outgrown but can't leave behind.


i think we should make love. all of us. right now. it's an important exorcism. it will bring the rain. it will quench thirsts. it will release anger. it will dissolve cares. we should kiss and hold hands and laugh while we do it too. we should talk and whisper things in each others' ears

____(something i remember, we were talking and she said
____oh you think you're a poet?
____and you can make anything sound beautiful?
____i make things sound as they are.
____what are my eyes?
____you are a bad poet if you can't describe-
____burnt honey. ethiopian gold in a dark cave. the savannah at sundown.
____[they kiss]

was that home?


we who are lost and wander solute you. we who are blind. we who don't know love from affection. we who hate empty beds and hate beds with just ourselves in them (i have five pillows and only one head it seems excessive). we who miss people who haven't met, and meet people we've missed our whole lives solute you. we who can't hug for fear of the electric shock. we who are anomalies. we who are quirky, and larger-than-life, and smaller-than-life, and defeated-by-life, and unconcerned-with-life, we who are stuck in fossilized memories, we who dream our way out of these small towns, we who kick the rocks of our home towns, we who reek of our drowned towns, we who seek starrier skies, we who like to hold kisses too long and hugs forever, we who fail because we cannot pronounce win, we who seek, we who sought, we who fell flayed and frazzled into thursday nights and Monday 3:32 am's, we solute you.


i have not touched women's ankles today. i have not held their feet and elbows in my hand. i have not stared at anyone's eyes. i have not heard Bach. i have not dreamt a dream of Shostakovich. i have not learned about Pericles. i have not looked at an ocean and thought wow. i have failed at being human today. i have failed.


this morning i awoke with too many thoughts. no no no. not one of these, i hate these. immediately i found some odd jobs to do around the house. little renovation projects. if one is concerned with right-angles, with applying silicon to sealing edges, to cutting lengths of PVC to fit, to digging holes and obliterating weeds, one will not be concerned with such thoughts.

too many hours later... the pupil of night has me stuck dead in the water. i can't let the beast go. f*ck i hate these days.

Friday, May 1, 2009


__Thy firmnes drawes my circle just,
____And makes me end, where I begunne.

______John Donne

i have a body on my mind. fire too. i have half a cold so half my face is occupied with that. women's feet. the sound of the beach. cars passing. i can't even focus when i drive. my vision seems to constantly blur so i see orbs of light. yellow. red. flickers. headlights. streams of colour. nighttime driving is turning into a Kandinsky. an impromptu. slender waists. fingertips. i like kissing hands. the sound of cars disturbs me a little. i am never quite comfortable with it. i need to sleep. several days worth. i need a haircut. to shave. to not move. to contract back into my own skin- i'm delocalised right now. simultaneously at 3Beans Coffee, reading in the dim streetlight, standing at the beach under the heavy blacksheeted ghost of night, in my car driving from nowhere to nowhere, sitting on my couch staring at computer screens trying to type something, i'm alleverywhere. everyone i know is with me right now.


it's May 1st. i think DM Stith's Heavy Ghost is undoubtedly going to win my album of the year. nothing can come close. the piano bass octaves of the Pity Dance- i wail and stumble around my room like a too-thin rake of a man dreaming narcotic dreams and thrusting his hips towards his miserable finitude that led him there in the first place.


and ankles. and tensed abdomens reacting to my lips and uneven exhalations. and winter edging its way into my life. and jackets which feel soo heavy and uncertain on my body. tea, which after three sips nags the back of my throat. somewhere mountains exist. somewhere there is greener grass. somewhere there is a less lonely world that makes less lonely sense. of course there is. (and firm hands around thighs, and long necks with hair alleverywhere in the way) also carousels. things that go round and round. satellites. tides. pocket-watches. menstrural cycles. prophetic cycles ending in apocolypse.


i need some respite from motion. _ _ _ _ _ where is your lap for me to sleep in? if nothing else you held still. played with my hair. didn't complain. let me disappear a little while. (and some distance from sound. space must be soo silent).


and faces pulling back away from you- the wetness of your last kiss highlighted in the lamplight of its chin. the origin of centripetal motion is always lips pulled back away. and grass that's sharp and scratches at your elbows that prop you up as you try to read. and moons tipped sideways like a half-full bowl of milk. a semicircular piano key. those aged pianos that sit in aged homes. my first piano had a vine growing besides it. i would blur my eyes and think of it as a still-alive tree. growing. my playing would feed it. i loved to see it grow. the scale of C major worth a millimeter or so. the F major episode of Fur Elise worth a whole inch. climbing plant, grow up this trunk. meet my fingers. i hoped one day to finish the Greatest Show on Earth - the last song in the book - and feel the cold damp touch of a green fingertip meet mine. (even then i went nuts if no one held my hand for too long). and the bony protuberances of wrists. and elbows. and clavicles. and the sound of ice in half-full glasses of soda water. and loud obnoxious music that you'd like to pretend isn't happening by covering your mouth with someone else's. (and breasts under three layers of clothes).


i will be in Adelaide soon. where things always stand soo firm. soo still. nothing changes. i will drink coffee at Cibo. tea at the T-Bar. i will call people who will be busy, or who will not pick up. others will. and i will see them and the cranberry juice with lime in my hand after three sips will dry-out my mouth, which will scratch and slow my speech.


there is nothing to say. and cars that are too warmed by the sun all day. that heavy, saliva feel of the air in sun-warmed cars. and the blur of lights as i drive home too late in the evenings. the mixed messages of my smiles. belly buttons my fingers recede into. black nail-polished toes in my hands. knees in my hands. thighs in my hands. moths tapping against windows always get my attention. that music that makes you want to run head-first into a wall. i signal. the CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK with the matching light in my dashboard. hands around necks. fingers in mouths. those massive huge breaths we exhale all over each other- such beautiful air- to know it's come from some darkest spot inside of you. i arrive home. they've left the lights on for me. the car stands still. the music stops. it is too still. too silent. i cannot handle such insignificance.

please rescue me from myself.