Saturday, June 12, 2010

You can plumb the depths on voice alone

What's your starting point again? You won't always be this happy. You can't get it so light, so full of tastes you forgot and foul with sugar and temptation. I can't get the good words out or the good deeds done.

I thought I wanted to see this life in chart and graph, tear it up looking for all the laziest inefficiencies. What couldn't I do getting up early enough? Now I wonder what bedevils the greatest, whether they own up to their worst, and who knows about it anyway. The grim and the successful, great editors, are you who want to be? and what's stopping you?

In here somewhere, after a hundred thousand hours of kilobit sound, I want to know if I get to start again. I'm in the mirror every time, gaping at the distortion, then biting in and going to lie down. Stop believing!, or start, or give up entirely. Who can I ask? What makes more happen every day, or must I keep making lists, switching through papers and pens, trying to put novelty in the check marks of self-responsibility? There's no end to the possibilities, and the less it feels like more.

Trying to make every day the last I'm dying, or just — to throw open my old cabinets, slip into all my collage supplies and cut on the edges and plan with my fingers and unscrew the glue and fuck the carpet! Presto, I'm making again, but I'm just tired thinking about it without someone saying, God, how I'd like to see what you used to be able to do. Je m'accuse, the conceited pest, and no one who doesn't already know ever tells me the truth.

Sometimes the image comes in so clear to me, and I can write it out or see it in color, one second only. Sometimes it's right on in a film, and the dream lasts until I have to do laundry, bleach out on the Internet, my hours bleeding through my fingers, washing and washing and washing my hands. I go back to take notes on the costumes, trying on everything in my hopeless search for a palette to stick to, but it's just loose knits, sensitive lighting, and the face of an ingénue I'll never be.

In the future I'd like to dress in the comforts of my academic discipline, to tour a facility I will devote myself within; to own a leather-trim weekender, to pack light; to write always like I can sometimes.


  1. you are so beyond pretentious


  2. ^anonymous is so beyond a dick