![]() | You are viewing Log in Create a LiveJournal Account Learn more | Explore LJ: Life Entertainment Music Culture News & Politics Technology |
![]() | |
![]() | |
![]() | |
![]() | |
</a>\ </a> |
|
![]() | |
|
> broken eggs crooked back and all. > yes. and it left me in tears. > i have, apparently, a previously unnoticed arthritic neck which has too little of a curve, too much curve in my lower spine, resulting in a displaced right hip which causes acute pain and and and and. i wanted to cry. i felt like he told me i had cancer. |
|
![]() | |
|
a taste of a thousand men on my tongue, in my mouth still i am not fed laying in bed, staring at his body after a rouse of anything not love i reminded myself of the fleeting of moments remember. remember i was here new smells overwhelm and then strangers leave residue about thirty kinds. later i bury my face in the cigarette smoke settled skin cells unfamiliar products that i'll inhale away from last night's fabric. (hints of me in there too). i story that moment that was dog-eared recalling with my own hands what it felt like to be choked by a touch and whispered lust words that preceded the destination of folly my arrival provoked yours. |
|
![]() | |
|
and we made a mus icc video: |
|
![]() | |
|
so i made it available to buy paperback like and copyrighted it and everything here |
|
![]() | |||
|
so, i wrote a book or rather. i have a manuscript in pdf form. it's a book of poems and shorts titled "bruised hip hue" hoping to be born into the chapbook world. the sub headings are:
a stained body. letters and johns. a brief satiation. if you want a digital copy, i want you to have one.
|
|||
![]() | |
|
I have known love and love has won. I burned my fingers on the sun. I’ve been imprisoned on the moon. I have learned what truth denies. I drank the teardrops from her eyes. I surrendered much too soon. I never heard the warning voice. I never knew I had a choice. Though I never wanted to return. But I have sailed upon the boat That flew when there was room to float. And I drank out of the magic urn. And I have slept inside the shade encircled by the love we made. And I have kissed the face of dreams. And I have ridden on the glow that warms the sky with a rainbow. And I have waded in its golden streams. And I have danced between the stars with music sung by sweet guitars. I’ve done some things that can’t be done. And I have smiled inside the storm reaching higher to keep warm. I’ve known love and love has won. I burned my fingers on the sun. |
|
![]() | |
|
Directions from Nashville From Nashville, take Interstate 24 East toward Chattanooga to Exit 81A (Murfreesboro/Shelbyville exit). Turn right on Highway 231 and drive into Shelbyville. Once in Shelbyville, look for a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant on your left. Turn left at the second traffic light past the KFC. This will put you on Highway 82. Follow Highway 82 approximately 15 miles until it dead-ends into Highway 55. Turn right and go 1.5 miles into Lynchburg. |
|
![]() | |
|
i don't know how to do this. i just moved from a city where things happen so much faster. patience is something i am learning to cultivate. it's like the night of the storms: they don't teach tornados on the west coast. afraid, i have to guess. i beg toward nothing in particular: settle me. perhaps i ought to know. perhaps. i'm setting goals and stretching my daytime legs. i won't stand on anymore bar counters. less loose, fewer losses. your face, the way people smell and you adapt. i don't know anyone. a visit from a chicago lover looms. he makes speak in imitation after hearing his cantor; accent. all weekend ends seven days from now. accents like staccato cries in orgasms i don't understand. i really don't. i'm learning how to reachieve them in every city i visit. mostly polish men lately. a few hang up calls. where do you like to be? how do people look at you that aren't michelle? my favourite book is called "kafka was the rage" by anatole broyard. i have stopped buying copies for lovers. i don't even have one for myself anymore. my incisor broke. and ten minutes later i pissed off my dentist via text message. i ruined his weekend, he told me. his her didn't think she i was funny coy. time to get serious. when i'm back tomorrow. days become dedicated to search more than of for men and things to watch on cable television. i need shelby p. i need to learn the roads. to cultivate income. i think i can show more than english to people. i have a few publication options. need to make take slides. my mom turned sixty and cried when i walked into the room. i came from these people. parented by this land. i took in gin like water to relax. we don't have a rhythm. i worried i've failed prematurely. i guarantee i've been stellar. i'm trying to unlearn this new awkward. i know a lot of words saved best for use in not sentences but competitions. will: take this, perhaps: chance. i'll wait, michelle :: let's get a pinata and fill it with scrabble tiles and many mini bourbons. |
|
![]() | |
|
"yes. i need them very much. if you ever say them, i'll never let you take them back." i'm afraid of our sexual act time what space mal modifies total genital finality monument construction to moment act of loss unconditional expenditure sons of gods, sites for ceremonies fires brew out places never mentioned paralysis here count things we lost after our bodies met marry me with an octopus leg ring tornado warning howls can't tell worse sirens or news people injury banter this is the new(s) southern. ask if you can tell whether the noise stopped got used to it and now well. degradation destruction we must experience phone talk late learning sessions put stars next to the items i don't know or can't tell there're too many, a hundred constellate my list. blanket like human starch toweled taste the sweat we made we're dressed now instead i open the window it's over my bed i'm over my bed invite the storm, in. |
|
![]() | |
|
________________________________________ Flight: 1 Round-Trip Ticket All flight times are local to each city. ________________________________________ For your boarding pass, use reference code NBSDDG for online or airport checkin. Fri, Feb 8, 2008 Nashville, (BNA) to Seattle/Tacoma International Airport, (SEA) Flight: Northwest Airlines Flight 981 (on Airbus A319) Depart: 06:15 AM, Nashville, TN (BNA) Arrive: 11:35 AM, Seattle/Tacoma, WA (SEA) Class of service: Economy Total Travel Time: 7 hrs 20 mins ________________________________________ For your boarding pass, use reference code NBSDDG for online or airport checkin. Tue, Feb 12, 2008 Seattle/Tacoma International Airport, (SEA) to Nashville, (BNA) Flight: Northwest Airlines Flight 980 (on Airbus A319) Depart: 12:25 PM, Seattle/Tacoma, WA (SEA) Arrive: 06:34 PM, Memphis, TN (MEM) Class of service: Economy Requested Seats: 13E 1 Stop - change planes in Memphis, (MEM) Connection Time: Flight: Northwest Airlines Flight 1253 (on Airbus A319) Depart: 07:40 PM, Memphis, TN (MEM) Arrive: 08:33 PM, Nashville, TN (BNA) Class of service: Economy Requested Seats: 10E Total Travel Time: 6 hrs 8 mins ________________________________________ |
|
![]() | |
![]() | |
|
dallas dont goodbye is all easy okay dirty dozen expect hens laying in spring spoiled rotten intention i know better than to talk alphabet soup when she's here those jack ass days and sounds you make even angry words from me are love letters spelling i want you on weekends stick your silent time too fast (stuck too long) and i'm too young to know what birthdays mean i take good morning after shots mussed, i mused i keep checking the time an obsession of those with no where to be avoid capital letters (like cummings) rob me; i'm used to it fuck me steal me steal from me more words than you're worth i agree with him his assessment of her face fuck i call this working open call tab me bottles the biggest / simplest acknowledgment you could give me you wouldnt even have to say my name or look at me know i'm afraid and play my song try to think of poetry devices like counting bottles listing letters alliterating naming sounds write things in shapes your hair, same story don't say hi. don't leave my name. i'll manage my way in sweat me oh, then yes can't wake seems a disease these days the (every other) daily baptism of shower remind myself (to) count my feet, wonder could they hold me and us pounds of things i would have held never would have said. i'll turn forty in the sand. |
|
![]() | |
![]() | |
|
sunday is my birth day. road tripping it. |
|
![]() | |
|
i'm okay. actually, today i am good. i have been applying to nashville jobs. i sent a resume to this: http://nashville.craigslist.org/med/534 and have an interview on monday. they said they are in a hurry to hire, but were so impressed with my resume, they are willing to wait till i get back. they have called me twice. i like their southern accents. and on the getting back front! zephyr is driving me back on my birthday (sunday) or the day before. my mother is paying her to do it. all my paintings are in her car. cept for two really big ones which need to get broken down today. i am pleased. her roommate kae is also coming. they will love you! you will love them! i feel hopeful finally. i lost my wallet last night and found it today. the studio i share with max was broken into and shuffled about. good thing art has no street value. they (the evil doers) kicked in the front door and broke the garage door. but nothing was harmed. max and i just took swigs of our respectively hidden pocket boozes and kinda laughed it off. been in a slump here but now i see a way out of it and i can't wait to be back in nashv. miss you. lets share smiles soon. |
|
![]() | |
|
b to the e to the double ellingham. |
|
![]() | |
![]() | |
![]() | |
|
(while my friends are wearing parkas, i'm in short shorts. it's warm). i walked home from the car repair place today in the sun. when we hear the train go by, next door chicagoan eloise says, "train says so." 1707 litton is my house. my housah. recovering from many of my items being stolen out of my chicago apartment my last night there. enjoying the sun, the solitude. however, missing the action. |
|
![]() | |
|
Author: Masgrau-Peya, Elisenda Article Excerpt IN HIS INTRODUCTION TO THE LOCATION OF CULTURE, Homi Bhabha defines the "unhomed" as the condition of "extra-territorial and cross cultural initiations," one that is intrinsic to the colonial and the postcolonial world as well as to femininity (9). It is not a question of being "homeless," Bhabha makes clear, but a question of being outside of "home," of being forced to renegotiate one's place in the world. For Bhabha, "unhomeness" is most readily identified in the experience of migrants and postcolonial people, for whom geographic or cultural dislocation are defining traits either because they have been uprooted from former places of identification or because a familiar place has undergone radical change as a result of its colonial past or present. At the beginning of "The World and the Home," a related and in many ways complementary essay, Bhabha announces that "in the house of fiction you can hear, today, the deep stirrings of the unhomely" (445). The term "unhomely" comes from Freud's essay "The Uncanny," where he reflects upon the uneasy sense of the unfamiliar within the familiar, the unhomely within the home. In this essay, Freud pays attention to the way the word homely, meaning "belonging to the house, not strange, familiar, intimate" is also defined by what seems to be its apparent opposite "concealed, kept from sight, withheld from others." In this slippage between homely and unhomely, what is supposedly outside the home seems to be inhabiting it all along and reappears only with the return of the repressed. In his reading of Heidegger, Mark Wigley argues that the familiar, the homely, the house are produced precisely by masking the unfamiliar, so that the house always veils a fundamental unfamiliarity. For Heidegger, the uncanny is the sense of "'not being at home in the home,' an alienation from the house experienced within it" (qtd. in Wigley 110). Further, Heidegger argues that it is only by being positioned outside of home that the home and the structures on which it relies can be perceived; "home," he writes, "is precisely the place where the essence of home is most concealed" (qtd. in Wigley 114). Reading Bhabha's sentence with Heidegger and Wigley in mind would seem to suggest that the expression of this sense of "not being at home in the home" and, hence, the capacity to expose the structures on which home relies is a characteristic of the literature produced by unhomed people. In this article, I suggest a reading of Katherine Mansfield's "Prelude" and Barbara Hanrahan's The Scent of Eucalyptus as voicing what I have called a "poetics of the unhomed." I begin by drawing attention to the many coincidences between Mansfield's and Hanrahan's lives, with particular attention to their complex relationships to the places in which they lived. Then I examine the ways in which the house is portrayed in "Prelude" and The Scent of Eucalyptus and I suggest that Mansfield and Hanrahan problematize any automatic approach to them as "home." Barbara Hanrahan was an avid, interested reader of Mansfield's short stories and she repeatedly expressed the admiration she felt for her predecessor in interviews, letters and personal writings. She frequently mentioned Mansfield when questioned by interviewers about her literary preferences, (1) and in her diaries she repeatedly expressed a feeling of awe for Mansfield's literary achievements and recorded her constant readings and rereadings of Mansfield's work and of material on her life. (2) Indeed, Mansfield was a source of inspiration that she herself acknowledged when she stated that the character of Charlie in The Frangipani Gardens was based on Mansfield's Ole Underwood, and that the setting of The Peach Groves was based on Mansfield's New Zealand. Beyond these specific connections, there are general echoes of Mansfield in Hanrahan's interest in childhood, in her attention to detail, even in the disturbing subtexts of her writings. In reading Mansfield's literature and private writings, Hanrahan was always moved by a sense of community with her, and in her diaries she variously refers to her as a literary friend and a spiritual companion. Mansfield appears almost as a ghostly presence in Hanrahan's diaries, and the way in which Hanrahan writes about her suggests that she thought of her as being part, in some strange way, of her private circle of acquaintances. She speaks of Mansfield as being "more truly my friend[s] than anyone I know." She claims to belong in the same London scene that she did: "that properly bohemian cup-of-tea world," and she mourns her death as she mourns her grandmother's: "Oh darling Nan--you are here no more. I can't really believe it--Katherine Mansfield is gone, too. You are both so real. This past is more real than now" (Diaries 68). Hanrahan and Mansfield led, in many ways, strangely parallel lives. Both were brought up in a former colony of the South Pacific and sailed to the metropolis in the early years of their youth. Mansfield abandoned Wellington for London in early 1910 after having already completed three years of her schooling there, studying at Queen's College from 1903 to 1906. Hanrahan first went to London to study art, staying in Europe for eighteen months between 1963 and 1964. After a short interlude in Adelaide she returned to London in 1965 and lived between London and Adelaide for as long as her health allowed her to do so. Both women led somewhat nomadic lifestyles, Hanrahan traveling back and forth between London and Adelaide and Mansfield dividing her time between England and the continent, spending her summers with John Middleton Murry in England and her winters in warmer parts of Southern Europe because of her tuberculosis. She would spend the last years of her life literally roaming around Europe in search of a cure. Also, both women suffered long, terminal illnesses: Mansfield was diagnosed as tubercular in 1917 and Hanrahan was found to have a cancerous tumor in her spine in 1984, which caused her body to deteriorate and eventually left her paraplegic. In their lives away from home, neither Mansfield nor Hanrahan pursued a typical feminine life of domestic involvement... |
|
![]() | |
|
Your score was 20 out of 30. That is a very good score—you would have a good chance of passing the Mensa test. |
|
![]() | |
|
you were a stab in my side/ your little arm never/ i saw your toes/ we wouldn't have been happy/ together/ and i think it's good/ you never/ heard/ my apology./ you never/ i'm so sorry. |
|
![]() | |
|
this tegan and sara song. it makes me think of someone i oughtn't. I won't regret saying this This thing that I'm saying Is it better than keeping my mouth shut That goes without saying Call, break it off Call, break my own heart Maybe I would have been something you'd be good at Maybe you would have been something I'd be good at But now we'll never know I won't be sad But in case I go there Everyday, to make myself feel bad There's a chance that I'll start to wonder if this was the thing to do I won't be out long But I still think it better if You take your time coming over here I think that's for the best Call, break it off Call, break my own heart Maybe I would have been something you'd be good at Maybe you would have been something I'd be good at But now we'll never know I won't be sad But in case I go there Everyday, to make myself feel bad There's a chance that I'll start to wonder if this was the thing to do I'll start to wonder if this was the thing to do |
|
![]() | |
|
i nearly forgot. i met sara and the other michelle at the lakeview whole foods last weds before taking off to the karl blau mt eerie show. we went outside so sara could smoke and i could watch her and john smoke. they sat. i paced. we chittered. i saw an opportunity. i walked up to the wet cement. tape around it and saw horses keeping us out. "wet so late?" i went in. i made impressions of each of my cowboy boot soles. i knelt and wrote my name. M - I - C - H - E -L (at this point a man walked up to me and asked "why are you doing that?) L - E. I finished while he yelled at me before standing up to respond. I wanted to, and have never had the opportunity, I told him. BUT THIS IS PUBLIC PROPERTY!! EVERYONE PAYS FOR THIS!! DON'T YOU PAY TAXES!?! (sizes me up) OH NO YOU PROBABLY DON'T!! I told him it was not a bad thing, just a name in a sidewalk like all other sidewalks have. I was gentle with my responses to him, and smiled the whole time. (Sometimes laughing). PLEASE TELL ME WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS!!?? I asked him if he'd ever been young. OF COURSE I'VE BEEN YOUNG BUT... I SHOULD JUST CALL THE POLICE. I asked him if he wanted my name. He said yes, but didn't wait for it before continuing to yell, not calling the cops. HOW WOULD YOU FEEL IF I PAINTED OR DREW ALL OVER YOUR COAT!? THIS IS MY SIDEWALK! ITS EVERYONES SIDEWALK. I told him it was my sidewalk too, then. I added that the marks on the sidewalk don't hazard anyone (no one will trip) and I was not writing anything offensive. I told him I wouldn't mind if he did anything to my coat. It's just a thing. THEN YOU WONT MIND IF I TAKE IT. i emptied my pockets, took it off and handed it to him. I told him now he had something that belonged personally to me, and i had only knicked a public property, and that i was getting cold. I tried to make a point about public vs private / personal property. He was irate and just didn't understand. I asked if he wanted me to fix what i had done. he said YES. i wiped my name out a little bit. the mud was cold. he insisted the boot prints go too, and i told him i didn't think it mattered. he told me i was costing the city a ton of money. i told him the city probably wasn't going to do anything. he started jiving about something else that happened down the street. i told him if he really needed my coat, i wouldn't be that put out. yes i was cold but the coat was just a thing. don't you see? just like the sidewalk is just a thing? i don't think it is going to disrupt the quality of life around here because it is just a thing. aren't experiences more important to you? YES BUT THAT IS MY SIDEWALK, THE PEOPLE'S SIDEWALK... but we dont need it to live. sara walked up to us and told me it was time to go. she took my coat out of the guy's hand as he scoffed and continued his walking commute. i thanked him politely for the debate. he was wearing thick glasses and carrying a briefcase (i think). i would like to meet him again. |
|
![]() | |
|
but the amorous break also speaks of the danger of winning. the danger is when you create a world, designed as a whole and for a whole people, made up of two individuals. this world-of-two depends for its survival on a single other person. the world-of-two is immediately surrounded and threatened by death. death closes in around it tightly. love immortalizes me. only that which gives me life can take it away from me. that which gives, gives to enjoy, that which gives to enjoy, gives to fear its loss. give to lose. the gift and its opposite. it is on the basis of love that one recalls mortality. we are mortal only in that high region of love. in ordinary life we are immortal, we think about death, but it doesn't gnaw at us, it is down there, for later, it is weak, forgettable. but as soon as i love, death is there, it camps out right in the middle of my body, in daylight, getting mixed up with my food, dispatching from the far-off future its prophetic presence, taking the bread out of my mouth. it's because i love the beloved more than i love myself, you are dearer to me than i am to myself, you are not me, you don't obey me, i was sure that i was myself immortal, otherwise i couldn't live, i live only on that assurance, but what about you? i do not order your immortality. i can no longer live without you. that need overwhelms us. that's why anguish bursts forth: because the need pushes us toward the realization - no matter what, yes, i must die. |
|
![]() | |
|
Nov 3 2007 9:00P Lafayette Brewing Co. Lafayette, Indian Nov 15 2007 10:00P |
|
![]() | |
![]() | |
|
the floor that leads to my bed is covered with glass broken, i tread atop it practice for dancing with you. on feet and sometimes on edge, this works best when we are upright later dancing takes different shapes dancing, our way of walking like song is bastardized speech its all language language that leads us to bed. look at my hands on your chest say nothing tell me how each of my fingers are. these are your grandchildren my tools for record ask, simplify? we made it this far jumped over the dark, monsters could not catch our ankles we only bloodied the sheets till damp we didn't drown in our foot blood i hint: list the things we need only a typewriter a record player music, to make them both work. (and a space heater). recite: shelley. how i recall that note you vibrated better than the taste of you love sleeps dormant but movement this time never dances with the most sex in them look like fighting devil got his way if this was the dream i don't remember myself, exhaling a rope of human hair think: stevens. disinherit time devices unlearn, like the day you had a taste for tomatoes after years of repulsion. show me how in no device but writing i still want to bleed but i no longer want it to hurt |
|
![]() | |
|
alan jackson silverchair local h deftones violent femmes beck (seattle the night princess di died, royal albert hall in london 2003) bb king dr john double trouble junior brown (seattle, michigan) page and plant bob dylan joni mitchell van morrison ani difranco modest mouse neko case doobie brothers ccr willie nelson merle haggard ray price madison capt fathom karl blau kimya dawson the flaming lips (danced onstage with them in germany) tool u2 cake saul williams dolly parton porter wagoner marty stuart carrie akre goodness kill hannah alice in chains velvet revolver the pharmacy the catch air the trucks calvin johnson the microphones/mt eerie cat power (seattle, chicago) sonic youth (seattle, chicago) mastadon gza yoko ono clipse iron and wine stephen malkmus de la soul of montreal jamie lidell santana roger waters tortoise built to spill tricky pj harvey beth gibbons prince offspring radiohead far rad bone poney shooter jennings duda mana joanna newsom la scala |
|
![]() | |
|
i just finished reading all of lenny bruce is dead. little michelle left sticky notes with her favourite parts rewritten on them. i liked that. i put the book back on the shelf. |
|
![]() | |
|
kenny (my not-boyfriend) is opening for interpol / liars tonight. it is all sold out. but i will be seeing my friends the trucks tomorrow i am flying to new yorkkkkk |
|
![]() | |
|
"what is it about legs? or what is it about breasts? or the small of a back? what is it about anything? one day there will be no difference between anything. it'll all be the exact same thing. one day you'll look in the dictionary and there will be only one word and you'll just have to make do." page forty three. |
|
![]() | |
|
Oct 25, 2007 - Chicago, Illinois The Hideout, 1354 W. Wabansia - w/ Yr Heart Breaks |
|
![]() | |
|
i want this out in the world more. i got it onine while browsing so its already pretty public. but i put it up for you because i think y'all need to hear ike and tina turner's version of |
|
