Saturday, March 31, 2007


The heart bleeds to write letters, but I can't find the words to tell them all I want them to hear.
And I listen to REM in the office and rue all the pretty snippets of things that wrote themselves out so obligingly in the head on my way here this morning.
Why must all my best writing come only when I can't write?
A letter surfaces. Let's see how this turns out.

Wednesday, March 28, 2007

big mouth

across the universe.
oh, dear.
and what happens now?

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

shooting stars

wish wish you were wish you were wish you wish wishing wish i wish i wish i wish you were wish you were i wish you were i wish you were i wish you wish you wish you wish you i wish you i wish you wish you were wish you i wish you i'm wishing wish i i wish you were here.

Monday, March 26, 2007


And it has been a year.
Oh, has it? Really, my dear?

Is it mandatory to take stock when one has been writing for a significant amount of time, I wonder. Well, it hardly matters because I take stock as a matter of course every second Tuesday anyhow.
Of course it ain't Tuesday, but what matter?
What did I do, this one year? Got mail. Wrote mail. Met people. If I were to enumerate all the things I did that were significant at all, it would take too long, and bore me to tears partway, and really, that's not allowed.

I wrote, this year.
157 posts over at some yells.
89 poems over at yellow.
15 excursions into fiction, or something like it, over at not.

176 moans here, at blue.

And I broke barriers and fought prejudices and opened up one big part of me, just because no one will come in if you aren't open. And I wove around myself delightful fantasies that will never come true because I'm too timid to try, and I wrote around people the most splendid of characters, and through it all, I believed.
More fool I.
But a lovable fool, in the end; and if you love yourself there's nothing more you need, right?

Hmm. We'll see about that.
time to untangle the tee.

Sunday, March 25, 2007

telling too much

Because of course I lied. I do that, sometimes, to make things easier on a person. It's lying for a good cause, I say, but then they're all from the same mixed bag of deceit, so what odds? It's funny how hard it is to put into words exactly what you feel, because what if you say too much, or too less, or, God forbid, the entirely wrong thing? One wishes not to drive away good company, but then one does it in spite of oneself. One is me, in case you were wondering.
And it's odd what you can do with letters that you can't when faced with a real person. Perhaps it is that letters are easier than live conversation, because you can hide behind a flow of words that twist and turn to suit your whims. We did have nice conversations, though, didn't we?

And it's odd that we have never spoken, isn't it? And a minute on a phone, or an hour of introductions - they don't count, really. Those are just excuses for occupying the same space. And it's funny because of all the people I ever found, you were the one most easy to write to. You were the one made me most prolific; the one to whom I wrote the most, the one about whom I wrote the most. Perhaps it's just as well. Perhaps I don't need to talk to you. Perhaps I won't sit across from you in a coffee house, or walk with you all around town, or sit with you on terraces in the middle of the night. Perhaps we'll never talk. It's okay, really, because I have other people to do those things with, don't I? But I still regret the dancing.
And papa Santa.

But of course there's no reason for writing beyond the writing itself. Like an over whelming urge to reach out and touch someone who, for a long time, occupied space in your head. There's no sense to anything at all anyway. And being myself never got me anything or anywhere, even. As long as I'm writing I can impress them, but then I talk, and it's as though all the things I need to believe about myself I don't; and all the things I do believe in are all the wrong things; and in the end I'm just not what they were looking for. How do you sell yourself with only the truth?
It doesn't work that way, does it?

Perhaps it's just perversion, the need to write to people, at people. Perhaps it's cruel to send people disconnected snatches of thought and call them letters, but what's the point of sticking to a structure when all you get in return are the same old sentences from everyone anyway? What's the idea with a set of instructions that tell someone exactly how they have to react? So this morning I wrote to four people and told them nothing, narrated no incident, revealed no theory. I said no hellos and I asked no questions and I sent no signals.
And this is where I find my fun.

It's odd what gets people. And what gets at people. I glad one of the four read this. It makes the gesture that much more worthwhile.
Was it really that hard to understand?

Friday, March 23, 2007

somebody's broken heart

Don't I get points for trying?

It is strange how any upheaval in the life of T sends her scurrying towards keyboard and computer screen. the sister asked me yesterday what I'd do if I lost it, all the writing. I...didn't know what to say. This is really all I am, this outpouring of nonsense. Why do I write, really? It isn't as though people want to read it, is it? No, but I do. Sometimes I write just so I can hear what I'm thinking.
Disappointment. I'm getting used to handling it with calm and poise. Stoic. Only I'm not, not really, I just try very very hard. And it all used to come around to am I really good at anything, really? but now it's different, now it's i know i'm bloody good, so what in the hell am i doing wrong?
Perhaps it is being myself that I should avoid. Give people what they want to hear. Or maybe again, that's what I do, only always at the wrong times...Maybe I tell people what they want to hear when I shouldn't and I'm myself when I shouldn't be, or. heh. Maybe I'm just not what people are looking for.

It's easy to say there's something out there better, easy to shrug off the little failures, easy to pretend that you don't care. What's hard is believing it. Believing that you are all you want to be. Am I? Intelligent? Kind? Thoughtful? Talented? Better?
Why do I care? Why do I? What does it matter where you study, or where you work, or where you live? Why does it matter what you're doing? Why do you compare? Why not be content with whatever you do, regardless of what others are doing?

Because it isn't good enough.
I want some direction, please.

Monday, March 19, 2007

some life lessons in perspective

There are times when it is very hard to pretend I'm the better person. Or good, even. Anything worthwhile.
It is hard to always be happy for others' successes. It is hard to go out each morning into the same dull world and try and tell yourself that it is a new adventure.
It is hard to be stuck in a head that goes nowhere.
(i'll do just what i want, so fuck you)
So hard to pretend I have all I need to be happy.

Oh, the shame.

Sunday, March 18, 2007


gmeh. i've started again.
somebody needs to be slapped.
hissspit. mrawr. aargh.

Saturday, March 17, 2007

letters imaginary

my darling
how long has it been? i can't tell - it seems as though i found ways to get along without you too long ago. i thought of you yesterday, could you tell? it was unexpected, like ghosts and blasts from pasts forgotten and people leaping out of corners screaming boo. i'm sorry i never said a proper goodbye. it just seemed time to let go, and i never stopped to think about it. yesterday, i thought it had seemed the time because of all the substitutes i found (like cheap margarine, baby, nothing compares to you) but today something happened to turn that thought on its head and out the window. will she always follow me, that awkward fat bespectacled unlikable clumsy girl? will she always stand like a silent spectre, ready always to leap out and say, remember! remember all you were and weren't, remember remember remember remember. i didn't realize that the only laughs that really hurt are the ones unexpected. i didn't realize i'd learnt it already. how can anyone learn so many lessons and never know all she knows? i cannot remember, for example, where you came from. not to begin with, anyhow. nor why. i still miss you, sometimes, on the lonelier days, when the current conversationalist is absconding somewhere. we didn't talk much, though, anyway. if ever i find someone with whom i could sit for as long in companionable silences like the ones we shared, i'd count myself lucky. this letter don't make sense. the one i wrote first made me cry. it said things like fat and ugly and stupid.
above all stupid. stupid and stupid and stupid, and the things people say, even when they care.
i'm a clown, dear d, did you know? a clown, yes, i have that big red rubber nose, so you'll laugh at that and miss the real joke. and that joke is me. who knew?
i wish you were here. oh, i do. i wish you here.
might as well wish you were real, while i'm at it.

say, come swimming. it's been a while.

Thursday, March 15, 2007


How sad that I always look for the ulterior motives now.
I always suspected that reasons were two-fold, and now I've stopped hoping for things being as they seem.
Where are the people to restore my faith in people?

Why did he say hello, out of the blue like that? Or was it all he said, and have I been entirely wrong? Am I being paranoid, and insecure, and stupid? Or were my instincts right to warn me away from selfish boys? Will it be abysmally stupid to hope for comfort again?
And, most importantly, how much does he know?

bongo drums to the head

How depressing to figure out, in such a short period of time, all the things that really make me miserable. My greatest fears. The banes of existence. The things that keep me awake at night and crying into my pillow.
My greatest fear is that I'm boring, I told him (was it something I said?). It is, too. To bore someone is such a crime, isn't it? To waste their time, that they have so little of! And then there is the fear that I am ordinary. Not that I will be, that I already am. How painful it is to be ordinary. To think that there a million, billion people exactly like you, with no claim to genius, or uniqueness or anything remotely memorable or special in any way...oh, how it stings to realize you are ordinary. What are you doing with your life? What's the point, really?
Where's the purpose.


Meanwhile, what is this little gnaw? I don't want it to be a gnaw. I have had more than enough of these, surely? And letter readers are hard to find.
It isn't good to be so particularly miserable so early in the morning. I wonder how I always manage it.
How often have I said that?

Friday, March 9, 2007

why did i?

if i could name the feeling i would.