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Jul. 21st, 2009 | 08:17 pm

I feel like sobbing uncontrollable but I do not think I have enough stamina to keep it going for more than three minutes. This is most likely one of those times where I should not sew my fingers together since it is one of those unfavourable rather than merely curious circumstances. I want to get intoxicated and near me is a bottle full enough to knock me out completely if I down it like a shot. The only thing that seems to be holding me back is the fact that I have to get an 8am train and require concentration for my three hours of class in the morning. What ever will I do with myself? Such a small thing can trigger an explosion of anxiety that stuns me every time it occurs; when will I learn to adjust?

Things are shifting, people are moving about, time is not the same; it is making my stability crumble like a stale cookie. Anxiety is not letting me go tonight. I will not sleep with contentedness any more. Calling myself a cunt does not seem to help me yet I still manage to believe it. Swirling mass of negativity is breaking me down again. My only hope it to wake up and down another pill and try and start over again.

Fuck everything.

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regrets, m'dear.

Jun. 15th, 2009 | 05:58 pm
location: narnia
mood: cheerfulcheerful
music: deftones - be quiet and drive (far away)

It is right now that I wish that I had done an arts course; the kind with paints, sculpture, folios and people with incredibly awe-inspiring pants. Perhaps if I had chosen that path then I would now be covered in paint splotches and paper cuts from snuggling my works in bed; the position of an arty student somehow implies in my mind that I would obtain instantaneous permission to get a medusa piercing with accompanying cheek piercings. Why must I consider future career options when I want steel driven into my facial tissue? I must find some sort of arty outlet that I not completely self-driven (not that drawing for myself isn’t rewarding… well, alright, I am down-right lying to your monitor’s face as well as perhaps yours if you are reading this). Considering that this semester I have perhaps the tiniest set of contact hours for university ever in the existence of Monash I must use the time constructively. I believe that I have played the role of a lazy (literary) arts student for a commendable period but now it is time to transform into one of those feisty students that I spy in libraries. Now searching for miniature art courses or classes – anything!

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in beauty

May. 26th, 2009 | 04:47 am

14. In the cellar.
by ~LittleSilverBones on deviantART

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zu mich von mir

May. 25th, 2009 | 08:26 pm

You're a stupid fuck and I hate you.

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if you drink much from a bottle marked 'poison'

May. 17th, 2009 | 02:19 pm

it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later.

There is no time for organised words as each thought feels as separate as the next. I have other more important words to write but they have been shoved aside for the moment, this fuzziness that has smothered my mind has not settled in time for due dates. Oh dear, the hassle it will cause (I do not know whether the prospect of staying at uni longer is an enjoyable concept or not).

I do not feel like I am switched on completely; visualise a light switch that is balanced in between its two functions. The joy is there, a buzz in the recesses of my mind that seems to indirectly have control over the patterns of my thought. Inconspicuous this buzz is but I know that it is doing something back there; visualise the man behind the frightening machine in the Wizard of Oz, he is pressing all of the buttons. Frustration builds ups fast, rampant when at the surface but it simmers if I control it. I am a fucking pot of emotion and I don't know quite how to use it.

The well of feeling inside my chest is throbbing, not only with the beat of a heart but of anticipation. I am half way towards experiencing either a normal range of emotion or the range of an off the charts patient.  There is peace within me but it is not mine and my body is in the mood for sabotage.  The anticipation is not of pleasure but the kind an animal might experience when hunting, seeing a blur dart in front of them, a prey is close by.

These ovals of white frighten me.

I don’t know what to do know with these limbs that hang on so expectantly. I am on the edge with people, wondering whether this will end or will it keep going. I always expect people to leave, always will. My chest aches ever so constantly. Every day now feels like I have put a book down a page before the climax; only predictions and anxiety guide me through it without answers to my questions.

Will this help to fix me? Or will I morph into another with the same bitterness as before? I don’t believe in anything, it is safer to do so sometimes. Disappointment shoots through me like a transcendent arrow and poisons my blood. I will grow weaker in time if I stay myself. The only chance I have is to change.




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Now shall I give you a thimble?

Feb. 24th, 2009 | 09:51 pm
location: in beddie
mood: bouncythinking

I am going to fall asleep tonight looking at a photo of a heart and my name on a man’s hip.  I seem to fall for my Dylan every day. I appreciate him more than he will ever know. I really do.

I want toastie. And tea. And a kiss.
And a thimble on my bed side table.

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I want to be a tea party

Feb. 21st, 2009 | 06:15 pm
location: on porch
mood: busy
music: Patrick Wolf’s album The Magic Position.

Cups of coffees and mountains of hastily buttered toast have done little to help me differentiate the days and weeks that have devoured by my hectic schedule. Handling sweaty change and counting singular lollies before shoving them into paper bags has made me brain dead to the point where my night time musings are backed with the echoes of whining children ordering dirty sweets with their ice cream smeared gorge-holes. The portions of time where I am free to mosey about my empty house with headphones and just undies are worth more than sauce consumption.

Recently I have been observing, as I usually would, to what extent I am known. I find myself to be a cloud of fog and uncertainty in some eyes and should not be surprised by it in the slightest; the rendering of my personality would explain it thoroughly. I find myself in situations where it is me absorbing my company without offering much in response due to either the company is too preoccupied or it isn’t an appropriate time to to express elements of myself. I should not feel terrible about it as it is a part of who I am to tend to others before I tend to myself but at times it is surprising to know that people I hold close do not know various things that I would consider palpable.

Thus now I will begin to take down parts of myself, note the traits that I consider elements of Cinnie however trivial they may seem but I feel obligated to put myself on the table. This entry will be updated regularly with dot-points on myself. I feel like such an egotist despite knowing my intent contradicts the state of mind.

I secretly love walnuts. And Philadelphia cheese icing.

I am constantly threatened by losing people to others that is can induce physical illness; my insides want to die and I feel it too often.

I wanted to be a fashion designer as well as an archaeologist when I was younger. Now I wish I knew what a metaphor was when I was young; the constant fight between something of beauty and something of curiosity and knowledge.  There was also a time where I thought shopping was also a career option. I am incredibly thankful that I was told otherwise.

I like my coffee so strong that I can’t even enjoy it properly because it’s so hard to drink.

When I was younger, a peculiar woman dressed in a semi-transparent polka dot blouse drew a picture of a woman in beautiful wedding gown for me. She was an Italian friend of my aunt’s. From the vague memory (could be affected by the fabrication of my own mind) she wore this pale brown blouse with wild dark brown curls, I remember dark lipstick and at the time she was very tall to me but there was once a time where I was very, very small. From then I wanted to be a designer; I have scraps which used to be large binders full of dresses I drew, most of them puffy like a French pastry and a tight bodice inspired by my early exposure to Sleeping Beauty.

I would collect human bones if it was legal. I am fascinated with skeletal frame work; I consider it one of the most beautiful things within this world. I imagine the bones of people I know quite frequently; curious as to how they differ in shape and how their bones might feel underneath my fingers. I sound like a killer but I am just too fascinated by our insides.

I don’t take pleasure in trusting people although perhaps I should. I fear the disappointment and deceit people are capable of and I believe everyone has the ability to break me; whether directly or indirectly, they will wound me. Best to be safe or not?

I will admit to having driven a vehicle under the legal age with no supervision... It is only recently that I have recalled this youthful blunder; you musn't tell my mother (it was her car).

I grew up with the idea that a woman did not have to get married nor did I adore the notion romance in a conventional sense. The couples that defined my youth did not create the distinctive connection between love and marriage that perhaps most little girls grow to understand; I was not able to comprehend why people would make such a fuss over such an occasion. To this day I still only see it as a way to get pretty and for people to invite their own audience to soak in their financial efforts. Oh it does sound bitter, doesn't it? The chip that controls my understanding of weddings doesn't exist; maybe the experimenter who created me left it out purposefully. I believe in expressing love, in being in love for I am within the very realms of it now but I will never understand why such an event is so weighted!
Although I understand the dress part; mine must be black...


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The children of an idle brain

Feb. 21st, 2009 | 05:30 pm
location: on porch
mood: coldcold

I will not announce that I have single-handed come to a valid conclusion about what the definitive purpose of life is but for some time I have known that there is little beyond self-created goals and ambitious attempts to pass the time. There are early morning hours filled with the ever startling realisation— which I should not be a stranger to but continually feel confronted by—that life holds little unless we control it and give it worth. To live appreciating and documenting seems like the only option on can do to pass this lifetime, creating a body of differentiated thoughts and behavioural patterns that compliment and contradict accordingly. To pause, the stop the whirling thoughts in one’s mind and replace it with only the audible sound of one’s surroundings is the beginning perhaps to understanding the weight of existence. Moments of complete cessation of thought and physical movement is to find oneself existing on the basis of merely physically existing; the buzzing diversion of intent removed can be replaced with the foundation of our being, stripped mental framework one could define it. Our ability to think, our ability to rationalise, our ability to substantiate our human relationships are only what we divert ourselves with, a series of mechanically linked occurrences to keep from stopping and starting every time the clarity is found.

To keep from seeing the bigger picture is to focus on the small details, the favourable ones tend to distract more successfully. I live within the scheme of seeing things only in their smaller value; amounting to the bigger scope allows one to roam too erratically to be constant, to be stable. I do not wish to denounce the bigger scope in any way, only wishing to point out that it may only create more issues than it is worth. To extend on this briefly, I believe that scopes are dictated by the need on an individual, whether it be the need for a sort of stability or the need to create complication in order to create constant and ever vigilant clarity. The essence of drama may well be to produce more distractions, those of which obscured what is already obscured. 

I participate in the ongoing cycle of a distractive lifestyle; I will not claim to be of complete and utter awareness every breathing moment. To confirm, to distract is not to be frowned upon when time is every changing in its momentum. But to delve into the bigger picture every once in a while, while disconcerting I feel it is necessary for the continuance of a developing a person’s understanding of worth. I do wonder what it would feel like from another’s perspective, to only see the bigger perspective and on occasion find themselves amongst the smaller details. I wonder relentlessly


My thoughts are not educated; these are what are produced in an occasionally idle mind.


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Reading Material #1

Feb. 21st, 2009 | 01:55 pm
location: in beddie
mood: cheerfulfragile
music: The Robot Ate Me - Our Bones Were Chalk

Written by Henry Wren

If I sense that they're going to fuck back there (after twenty-six years in the business I can usually tell at the beginning of the evening, sometimes long before either of them have any intuitions of intimacy) I'll drive them to Iwo Jima out in Virginia.

Not only is Iwo Jima beautiful at night, all lit up, but it's a good long drive away, it allows ample time for him to move to her side of the seat, to kiss her on the cheek, for her to kiss him back, for him to kiss her neck, for her to crane it, to intimate a moan, for him to touch her breasts, to mess her hours of hair, to begin to undo the preparation like winding a clock hand backward, for her to fumble with his cummerbund, for him to begin work at what is always an inconvenient dress, to look for quick ways in, of which there are never any, for her to help him help her out of the dress — the dark window between the driver and passenger compartments of the car is usually raised for all of this, but not always — for her to lick her palm before taking his cock, for him to move his hand down from her breasts, down to her belly, down to her pussy, which is usually wet, and sometimes leaves a water-soluble mark I have to take care of in the morning, for him to insert a finger or two in her pussy, two or three knuckles deep, for her to moan, for him to think about baseball, or his mother, or anything to distract the seven seconds of come knocking on the door of his existence, for her to lean over and wrap her lips around him, to take off her class ring and use her hand under her mouth, like she was trying to swallow a microphone, for him to pull back her hair to watch her suck him off, for her to sit up, to remove her panties from over her high heels, which she usually won't take off, I don't know why, for her either to spread her legs, bend her knees and pull him unto and into her, which is the most common way of accommodating to the backseat, or mount him, to use her hand to insert his cock into her from behind, to balance and torque herself with her hands against the defrost parallels of the back window, to push her chest into his face, for him to say, sometimes with a whisper into her ear, sometimes with a holler, I'm fucking you, I'm fucking you, I'm fucking you, I'm fucking you, because he's still in high school, still more aroused by the fact of his having sex than by the sex itself, for him to fuck her, to fuck her all the way to Iwo Jima, to roll down the window, which he thinks is something like a joke, and watch the city pass as they fuck, the city that I choose to give to them: the gay bars and rusting neon of Dupont Circle, the losing lottery tickets of Mount Pleasant, the fluted columns of the Tidal Basin, the baguettes and bag ladies of Georgetown, the numb yellow streetlights of the Whitehurst Freeway, the scenery that I choose for them as they fuck in my backseat.
     This has been my job for twenty-six years. I drive a limousine. During most of the week I drive rich people who are used to limousines. I drive them from here to there, am never late, and never talk unless I'm spoken to. Just before the summer, in mid and late May, early June, I drive high school kids to proms. These kids have never been in a limo before, and have saved up for months to pay for this one magical night. Some will actually call it that: the one magical night. Because of this, they very often have sex in my backseat.
     I may have to drive around Iwo Jima several times, waiting to be sure they're completely done, and more than done, that they're at peace, rested, happy. That's my job, if I had to state it in such a
way: to make people happy. I'll circle around while they finish up. I'll see our boys' faces, their right sides, from the back. I'll watch the names at the base circle by and blur. I'll try to count the soldiers in the statue, but it's almost impossible because of the way they're climbing all over each other. Every time you look at it you think you see another arm, or another boot. All of these must connect to another soldier, you think. (There are seven of them.) It doesn't bother me to drive as long as they need back there. I've driven around the memorial for hours waiting. Sometimes they'll finish only to start again. How do I know? After twenty-six years, you learn to know. I've memorized every fold in every shirt on the boys in the memorial. I know how the helmets fit on the heads. I know how the backpacks rest, and whose hand is where on the flag that they're so eager to stab into the island. Whose hand is on top.
     When they're done in the back, I always get them out of the car to see the memorial. They like it when I do this. It makes the night feel more magical, more unique, like everyone else is in a limo but only they get a tour from their driver. Usually she'll be wearing his jacket, smoking a cigarette, a complete mess as compared to how she looked at the beginning of the evening. He'll look better than he did when we picked her up, more relaxed, I guess, and will sometimes hand me a couple of bucks, although I don't know why. "This is my job," I tell him. Which is not to say that I give it back. "Iwo Jima," I say, pointing to the memorial in front of us. "One of the Volcanic Islands in the North Pacific, South of Japan. Site of the greatest battle in Marine history." They're holding hands, always, this is how it always is, they're holding hands, and his attention is elsewhere, maybe at other girls walking around, maybe off in space, maybe replaying the events of a few moments ago, but she's listening, so I talk to her.
     "I've never been to Japan," she says, "but I'd like to go."
     "Well it's amazing. It's an amazing place. My brother wrote me letters from there, every day."
     "Every day!"
     "Every day," I'll say, and sometimes I'll feel proud of that. "We returned the island to the Japs in '68, so I don't know about since, but it used to be just beautiful. That's what he told me."
     He'll kiss her. He'll put his hand on her butt, and she'll smile, as if for me. Am I happy for them? Of course I am. Who do I hate?
     "It's a really pretty monument," she'll say.
     And then we'll get to talking more. He isn't paying attention. He doesn't care. The farther away his mind goes — and he may even go for a walk on his own at this point — the closer we get. I've said everything I have to say for the evening, I don't want to say any more than I already have, so I let her talk. I let her tell me about how she's never been to Japan, but has been to Portugal, which is really pretty. She was there for a semester, because school was becoming too much. Home was. I let her tell me about how she doesn't usually smoke, she hardly ever smokes, she doesn't even know why she's smoking now. I let her tell me how she has a little brother with Down's
Syndrome, and he can really be embarrassing sometimes, I've never said this to anyone, I'm ashamed to say it out loud, but I've been drinking, you know, God, I hope it's okay that we had a couple of drinks in your car, but, well, it's just that I love him, but. You know. But. And then I let her tell me about her first boyfriend's car, and how the alignment was so bad, you're not going to believe this, but he actually had to hold the wheel upside down to go straight. I let her tell me about where she lost her virginity, it was so long ago, I can't believe how young I once was, I don't know why I'm telling you this, you probably think I'm some kind of weirdo. She flicks the ash, and I let her tell me about her father's girlfriend, and a food called pannini, they're just little sandwiches, and how given the choice she'll always use a pencil. I let her tell me about her brother's school, which is a special school in Virginia, and the music she likes to listen to, and how her room is decorated, and her friend Tracy's night in Atlantic City when she won four hundred dollars but had to give it back when they asked for some ID. I let her tell me about what college she wants to go to, and her mom's sleeping pills. And after everything she tells me is my implicit response: "It's okay." I don't say it, I don't say anything, but it's there, hovering like the dust between the spotlights and the statue. I let her tell me again that she doesn't usually smoke. "It's okay." I really want to learn to drive a motorcycle. Do you know how to drive a motorcycle? "It's okay." All the while, she doesn't even realize that we've been walking, that I've been leading her around the memorial, around our young boys blown up huge like heroes against the night. The breeze makes her shiver, and I let her tell me about how she's allergic to peanuts, how if one touches her lips, even touches them, she could die, and I lead her to my older brother's name: HENRY J. TILLMAN, JR.
     "This is my brother."
     "Right there."
     "He's —"
     "My brother."
     "I'm so —"
     I interrupt her with my nod. I don't ask her to touch the name. Wouldn't do that. I don't tell her about how he died, or what he was like, or any of that. Not even if she asks, which she almost never does.
     "That's him, anyway," I say.
     By now he's usually come back from wherever he went. Sometimes he's been with us all along, and only mentally absent. Sometimes he won't let go of her hand. I've seen guys go off and take a piss in the bushes. I know that sometimes you have to take a piss after fucking, but still. "We should get going," he'll say, and I'll lead them back to the car. I won't look at her in the mirror, even if the glass is down. When I drop them off, he usually gives me another tip, this time a bit bigger, maybe a twenty. "It's my job," I tell him.
     Then I drive home. The car stays with me. It's a leasing arrangement. I park it in a garage I rent from my neighbor two doors down. So no one will mess with it. I open my door, which involves four keys, and take off my jacket and pants. My apartment isn't fit for a king, but I'm not a king, so it works out fine. Two rooms. Kitchen. Bedroom. I make a good living. Since the car is with me, I can pretty much choose my own hours, which is good. I want to get up at noon. I get up at noon. I need
xsome extra cash. Not even need. Want. I get up at the crack of dawn, or before. I'll use the car like a cab. I've got a sign I put on top. The neighbors upstairs are usually fighting, even though it's already the morning of the next day. Why do they fight so much? I wish they wouldn't fight so much. Not for me. I can take it. But. I pour myself something strong and carry it with me to my bedroom. I go to the TV, pull the video from my bag, and put it in. I sit there on my bed, in the half darkness of the approaching morning, and I watch it all again on the screen. I watch him kiss her. I watch her kiss him back. There's a little static, but it's all pretty clear. I can see almost everything. I watch him kiss her neck, watch her crane it and intimate a moan. I'm in the television's glow. I watch him touch her breasts, her fumble with his cummerbund, him begin work at what is always an inconvenient dress. I can see out of the rear window the receding rotunda of the Capitol, and the blurred image of someone crossing the street behind us. The person is looking at the car, which means maybe he can see. Who is that? What can he see? I watch her lick her palm, and I don't know why, but that part always makes me so sad. I rewind and watch it again. I watch it again. I watch it dozens, maybe hundreds, of times. She licks her palm before taking his cock. Stop. Rewind. She licks her palm. Stop. Rewind. She licks her palm. Stop. Rewind. She licks her palm. Stop. Usually that's as far as I'll watch. Sometimes I'll make it to the end. Then I take out the video, label it with date and names, and put it on the shelf with the others, none of which I ever watch after the night itself. Jenny Barnes and Mark Fisher — Friday, May 14, 1999. Beth Baxter and David Jordan — Saturday, May 15, 1999. Mary Robinson and Casey Proctor — Tuesday, May 18, 1999. Gloria Sanders and Patrick Williamson — Thursday, May 20, 1999. Leslie Modell and Ronald Brack — Friday, May 21, 1999. Chase Merrick and Glenn Cross — Saturday, May 22, 1999. I don't watch the videos to get off. I never touch myself, if that's what you're thinking. If that's what you're thinking then you haven't understood a thing.
     Iwo Jima isn't real. The island is real. The battle is real. The monument is real, too. But it's based on a staged photograph. Joe Rosenthal, the Associated Press photographer who shot it, was there when our boys captured the island. There really were those seven marines. They really did grab at the flagpole. But he couldn't snap the picture in time. So he restaged it. While the smoke still
hung behind the soldiers, while their foreheads were still pelleted with sweat, he arranged them for the picture. And who knows how similar it was to what actually happened. He swore it was the same. Exactly as it was, he said, right down to whose hands were where on the flagpole. The picture won Rosenthal the Pulitzer in 1945, and was the model for the memorial, as is how we have come to remember Iwo Jima. Our memories are bound to that image, which isn't even real.
     If I can go to bed at this point, I go to bed. Usually I can't. They're still fighting upstairs, I wish they would stop fighting already, and I'm just not feeling good enough to go to sleep. I'll make a bowl of tomato soup from the can. Maybe a grilled cheese. I'll drink another. Morning is coming. Should I start early? I'll start early. I've got a prom at night. Bethesda. Lynn Mitchell and Ross White. Everyone, except for my neighbors upstairs, is asleep, and I can imagine the first rays pushing over the seven marines at the memorial. I can see it. I know how the sun will reveal them, how it will make them silhouettes before illuminating them. It's cold there and it's cold here. I'll go back out to the car with a rag from the cupboard and clean the backseat. 


I feel it may be necessary to post articles (not necessarily my own) that I collect and read not only to present what I feel has notability but to document also what provokes me to read and to think.

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there must be a pattern, please.

Feb. 18th, 2009 | 01:59 pm
mood: discontentdiscontent

I know that there is a pattern but I know not how to depict it.
It exists.


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