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42hourtransit

so here i go

Feb. 3rd, 2011 | 05:22 pm
listening to: All my Modest Mouse ever, straight through

i'm in an english class again, which means i'm being forced to come up with content. inevitably i want to put it on livejournal. so uh, here's that official warning. only a few days into the semester and everything.

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42hourtransit

full-circle february

Jan. 27th, 2011 | 12:28 pm
listening to: Tundra/Desert - Modest Mouse

Writing Prompt 2

As you think, you are a diver. Your only ritual amidst tumult and chaos, you are shadowed form, scouring the depths. Black pearls surface between crooks and kinks in a spaghetti sea; and oil-slicked expanse unfold above your head as you swim deeper.
We are in the living room but I know you're long gone. Your eyes glaze only imperceptibly but I catch the slight drawl hanging off your words like bastardized serifs, tipping ships of letters toward their abysmal fate. Each word you utter sets sail on the blackened playground under which your mind's eye scavenges-- a black sea, covered now by a blanket of empty colloquialisms, with no gap left in between to come up for air.
The longer you speak, the further your crooked tongue pushes you under the tide and towards your core, but everything is order there, and benevolent in its banality. Each pasta loop determined by a set algorithm, and the bubbles of tar rising in logical succession.
You never wondered how you could be so comfortable in your own mind, but after your daily swim, I could ask you questions for the remainder of the day about how you managed to hold your breath for so long. Your answers were always delivered calmly, but so cryptic that I eventually gave up.
There is nothing in the world that you could offer me to get me yo give up this daily ritual of ours. In order to find solace in my own chaos, I had to come to terms with your blinding precision. My own searches turned up no results, save for rusting diving gear and mottled ground.

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42hourtransit

hello livejournal

Jun. 26th, 2010 | 12:51 pm
listening to: Modest Mouse - Mice Eat Cheese | Powered by Last.fm



i've been gone so long

i ran out of pointless things to say.Collapse )

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42hourtransit

writing prompt 6

Apr. 22nd, 2010 | 08:32 am
listening to: Red Sparowes - Mechanical Sounds Cascaded Through the City Walls and Everyone Reveled in Their Ignor

He wants to escape. He lowers his bare feet to cold metal. He sees his cold breath coagulating, hanging stagnant over white knuckles and the dashboard ahead, as his toes curl around the pedal like fingers to a throat in some endearing chokehold.
"Welcome ghosts," he exhales, simultaneously creating and addressing them. "Let's go for a ride somewhere."
He wants to escape. He wants fields like pages of an oversized novel; blades of grass like Helvetica beneath clammed skin; the kind of place that is a time and the kind of time that is a place, where you sink down into letters and mechanics until you're swallowed whole by both everything and nothing at all.
He feels his pulse quicken, the kind of acceleration that kills an engine faster than a gas leak overnight. He wanted to set fire to the old house. He wanted to set fire to the books and fields. Now, now he wants the world inside his stomach, and to set fire to himself. He settles for an internal combustion reaction. The car lurches forward in an impossible race to keep time with the marching soldiers in his heart. We call this a closed system. We call this us versus them. He wants to escape something. He is something, nothing, and everything in motion, a vigorous heartbeat, a thundering engine. He is a projectile with an unidentified trajectory. We call this escaping.

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42hourtransit

writing prompt 12

Mar. 22nd, 2010 | 08:14 am
listening to: Pinback - Anti-Hu

Sun and wind and sand, and I want to go home. I think back to the morning, when the sun had been softer to the touch, the light and the sheets framing your face, and the way your limbs had tangled. Woken at four am by god knows what and across the room you lay entangled in the ghosts of dreams and memories. I sang to myself under my breath, evoking spirits of the 1960s as I pulled on an old t-shirt, letting myself out of the room as quietly as possible. You lay on the far side of the room. The light had only begun to trace you.
I made the coffee and poured it into the yellow mugs you had told me were your favorite. We had planned to drink so much coffee together, weeks before everything had burnt away and fallen to shit. Before those bridges were destroyed, I had been so taken by your charm and precision, the poetry dormant within your soul. You've always had that bold serenity. It never went unnoticed and I thought you should know.
I brought the yellow mugs back upstairs to where the dust particles were universes within themselves, floating, unaware, in the cosmos, the space between us. I set your mug on the table beside you, though you had yet to wake. Sun and no wind, no sand.
Dear god, you radiated. I sat and drank. Warmness within. Comfort. Your colors, illuminated, the sheets hugged the mathematics of your very being. The room was a universe comprised of tiny floating galaxies. Tiny giants made of tinier giants.
And you were there, the space between us unconscionable.
The morning minutes are an eternity when the sun is still soft to the touch. How could you have slept through the beauty? Though the beauty was you, as if the world radiated out from your very bones, projected onto me, and all from you. More coffee. Your eyes flutter.
We were awake, sitting in silence. I knew then you'd been awake the whole time. I knew then it would never last. This morning light would grow to die.
Where I am, there is sun and there is wind and there is sand. I want to go home.

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42hourtransit

writing prompt 10

Mar. 4th, 2010 | 08:15 am
listening to: Polvo - Action vs. Vibe

A bad haircut walks into a bar.
He's accompanied by a small face with unsettlingly wide-set eyes. The chapped lips a few inches below the bad haircut ask for a drink. The bartender a few feet away from the bad haircut looks straight into the wide-set eyes and tells them to get out. The bad haircut has been sitting on a nudist. This is not a joke. The bad haircut goes home. He takes the man with him.
The bartender, with hardly a haircut at all, goes home too, but home is different for him. Home is different for the nudist. Home is home is home is not but we all go, go home.
An unfounded fear settles in the heart of man -- he is born, he dies, and it's all Choose-Your-Own-Adventure here, il a peur, tout la vie, tout le monde, on a peur. Fear cuts his hair, fear undresses him, fear closes his eyes and sends him out the door and pulls him along, he says "what have I got to lose?" because time is a plate full of spaghetti. He's already clumsy and reeking by the time his bad haircut reaches the bartender's no-haircut. He's been miserable and clumsy and reeking all night and the night before that. An unfounded fear won't let him sleep and a bad haircut keeps him awake, and he is miserable, naked and reeking, but there is no shame; ho looks at the noodles dripping from the clock and asks what he has left to lose and he says big fat nothing at all.
The bartender goes home but home is not home, and he is not miserable but he is trying.

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42hourtransit

poor little rich boy

Mar. 3rd, 2010 | 03:11 pm
listening to: Neon Bible still

40 minute album
11 minute appointment
walked for an hour
salinger keeps leaving me hanging.
i need more finality than forms and regulations.

today i felt something less than human, quieting my jangling keys as i walked past the bike co-op.
i'm trying to measure things in days and months but replaying the scene doesn't recreate the emotion. fuck you fuck me.

http://www.formspring.me/fireatlions

post if you've got one, let's stalk each other~

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42hourtransit

les betises

Mar. 2nd, 2010 | 08:12 pm
listening to: Neon Bible - Arcade Fire

i want someone to speak disjointed, nonsensical french with me. could i make a classified ad like that?
"female seeking likeminded linguistics-oriented human bean to learn through terribly embarrassing mistakes (the safe way) please call xxx-xxxx"
would you answer something like that?
also
i would like to have coffee with rachel,
and i would like to be loved.
i would like to camp out in a foreign state again, but this time i want to wake up next to you.
i don't want to hold back tears in traffic anymore, any time that song comes on. i don't really want to be stuck in traffic anymore.
i want more scars. i wish i'd made more mistakes back before i met fear because fear is a terrible friend to keep in your company.

english class is not killing me and i may even be enjoying it. people tell me my memories are fake though.
sorry i'm five years late for everything, honestly.

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42hourtransit

writing prompt 9

Feb. 26th, 2010 | 08:24 am
listening to: Television - Friction

She carries a knife in her left breast pocket. She carries a knife in the heel of her shoe. She carries knives in her heart and in her mind, and if you come too close she's going to cut you to shreds.
She carries old photographs that you'll never see and she'll never look at. They give her comfort with simply their frames and contours. She carries the images because the friends are too far gone.
She carries cinema and symphony, love and anger, dysphony. She carries all these things for me, but she's got a knife for me, too.
She's got city lights with burnt out bulbs all strung around her ankle. 'She's got rings on her fingers and rings on her toes, and music will follow wherever she goes.'
Look out because she carries you. You're treading on a hundred knives, and they're keeping you safe, whether you know it or not.
She's covered in cloth and hiding. She's sharp and dangerous, and she remembers you. She carries photographs, but she's got a lighter stashed away because she knows how things get. She knows how easily these bridges burn. She's hiding and ready to burst into flames, because she remembers you.

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42hourtransit

writing prompt 2

Jan. 27th, 2010 | 08:49 am
listening to: Pinback - Boo | Powered by Last.fm

My father is a broken-down man who was born on February seventh. From that point until this point, his soul was worn down to dirt and gravel; humble, modest, accomplished, destroyed nearly to irreparability. Lines carve deep his features from a life of too many cigarettes and the pain of maturity brought on prematurely. The dirt soul is packed, crumbles, must be handled so delicately, though the skin outside is so calloused and rough. The body is weary, for the burden of every memory within the dirt soul. Years are worth double within that cage, causing exhaust tenfold for each cherished history.
I see my father at the kitchen sink, on the picnic table with a grin, in the river and on the shore; he is immortalized in photographs as a man I'll never know and my mother never cared to. He was, I am told, a fierce personality and a beautiful concept. He was not the boy to bring home to mother, or to start a family with, but I like to think that's why she did it. In my own mind I'll always believe that they were each enamored with the foreign nature of the other's past, but no garden should grow from the soil of such an attachment. There was puppylove; adoration and fascination. There were children. My father was a broken-down man by the time he hit puberty. In an act of defiance, he took on Atlas in a fight to the death and was spared out of pity. The bones, fragile, but the ego impressively more so. A broken back and a dirt soul, but my father is the broken man that I know and have come to love.

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