amanda

ceilingsxcrack @ 2006-03-13T03:24:00

2006-03-13T08:24:34Z

iguessi'mhorribleforyou
iguessit'swhatthepeopledo
iheardyou'removingoutofhere
youknowi'mgettingout.

Well, hello there.
Can I tell you a secret?
Oh. You knew all along. Right.

It took me a really long time to realize that Mary I'm Ready and Conclusion were the same song. They both gave me goosebumps. They both still do.

I know I said I was okay, but what do you really think about me? You can't leave me alone to think about this kind of thing.
I'm not the same person I was when I was sixteen or seventeen or even eighteen. You don't even know who I've become. And you probably don't even care.

'My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.
'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
'I never know what you are thinking. Think.'

I wrote a poem about you once but it doesn't matter anymore, because I lost you a long time ago, you sold your soul and you're not coming back.

But it doesn't matter, I'm out. I've been out. I'm so two years ago.

You've been over me since who knows when.

And should I even care? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I am left ripping out pages from history books,
pasting my life between the lines of men one cannot hope
To emulate--but there is no other way.

My life is one big allusion.
My life is one big inside joke
With myself and myself alone.

I'm burn out by Twenty, heavy breaths and shaking hands,
I shouldn't be having panic attacks about where I fit in to the world
and why I don't
and the only person I can talk about it with
is the only person I do fit with.

This is not meant to be taken artfully.
This is my attempt to come to terms with my life.
This is my attempt to get everything out of my head,
to get it out through my blood and blones and skin
and in to tiny particles of light I can't touch.

I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

WHOLOVESYOUNOW?

Spring Break...
Last year, I crashed my car.
This year, one can only imagine what's going to go down in the next few days...

Tonight we write down to clear our minds
You'll find in time you'll begin to rely on
exactly what you left behind...
Truly sorry, that is life.

ceilingsxcrack @ 2005-03-24T02:36:00

2005-03-24T07:49:39Z

i already believe that
computer screens
have ruined my sight.

i can see it most
in the darkroom
in dark rooms
with the light in certain places
calling upon certain shadows
to come out to play

ones photographers would blame
for ruining a photograph.

it's like how a
awkwardly structured sentence
can ruin an entire
poem.

but i've got plenty
of those.
sometimes it feels like everything that comes from my fingers
through the sticky keys
is just an image of an awkward
rabbit or perhaps
a kitten
(something beautiful)
standing on its hind legs
somewhat tilted
sniffing, searching
for the source of its
bad lighting,
shining straight into
each of its ugly corners
(ruined).

it's true,
i'm not an artist,
i'm an elitist without a job
i'm making this up as i go on.
or rather, stringing together words
in new places.
they must get bored,
sitting in the same sentence
structures
for so long.
q and u must hate each other by now.
i know i'd be fed up with
the vowel sound's constant
electrical
pulsing.
and who likes an ugly letter, anyway?

ceilingsxcrack @ 2005-01-19T03:58:00

2005-01-19T09:29:52Z

On babynamer.com, the reviewers said the name Amanda is most likely the name of a driven person. It also says that a "Mandy" is a tablet of Mandrax, a British trademark name for a sleeping aid. ALB are the code letters for the airport in Albany. I share my middle name with a Russian sniper who killed 309 enemy soldiers during WWII. I was named after a Barry Manilow song. I hate my name. But I always talk about my name. All I ever do is talk about my name and my first love. Wait, wait. Let me try something different.

---

In third grade, no one has to worry about a) getting pregnant or b) smoking pot. In third grade, all you have to worry about are timestables and...fuck, I don't even remember anymore. All I remember was the first time I saw you, sitting on that cold basement floor, when both of our classes convened to watch some crappy kids movie. You were wearing an All That shirt and I thought you were the coolest kid I'd ever seen.

My first crush was named Ian. Ian with a Polish last name I could probably spell only if I tried hard enough. He was the height of grungy Catholic school fashion. The next year, fourth grade, we were in the same class. He also sat in front of me. Fourth grade was a weird time, a lot of my memories from grammar school happened in that room, but I don't remember what the number was at all. It was the first on the top level, the side facing Princeton Rd. The sun was always really bright in that room. I remember in fourth grade my best friend and I weren't in the same class so I spent the first day of school crying. I remember we had an incubator and raised ducks, one of which was named Joy. I remember the SQR system and how they were so easy but I loved doing them. I love doing worksheets.

In college we don't have ducks and we don't have worksheets. I had no best friend anywhere. I was too nervous to cry, though.

I liked Ian because no matter what, he made me laugh. He was a total slacker, even for a fourth grader. I wanted to be friends with him forever. Needless to say, forever only lasted until sixth grade because he moved to Colonia. He gave me his address before he left. I never wrote him.

Sometimes I wonder what's happened between now and then, I mean, a lot changes between sixth grade and college. Eveything changes. We probably wouldn't even recognize each other now. I'd like to know what happened to him though. He's not on facebook, I looked. But for all I know, he might not even be in college. He might not have made it. He might not be alive.

I guess I'm just kind of overwhelmed. I've been out of high school for barely six months and everything's exploding. People who never talked to me want to be my friend. People I haven't seen in three years want to date me. People I spent most of my time with hate me. I keep wondering who else is going to start talking to me again (or stop for that matter..). Will that ex boyfriend of two years ago ever call me and force me to apologize for ripping his heart out of his chest? Will the girl who got kicked out of my grammar school come back to haunt me? Will Ian suddenly remember me and look me up on myspace to profess his love to me?

College was supposed to be a time to get away from people, start over. But they just keep coming back. All the people you'd never expect to speak to again all suddenly remember what they missed about you and all the people you'd want to make amends with don't care. That's how life works, though, I guess.

I just wish that the people who wanted me weren't losers who live in their parents attic surrounded by filth and smoke. Why can't I attract an intelligent, decent, musical, attractive, hip boy?

But in short, Ian probably forgot about me long before I ever had cause to remember him. He probably smokes pot, too.

ceilingsxcrack @ 2004-12-20T02:23:00

2004-12-20T07:24:23Z

Is it a matter of not being passionate or is it a matter of not having a christmas tree, a plaid couch, or you?

a session in fragments.

2004-11-25T05:21:32Z

[[tonightyourghostwillaskmyghost..
where is the love?]]

to write is to be troubled
or passionate or
something other than this.
(i'm sick, you're tired, let's dance.)

to ask to be troubled
in a time of great peace
is to ask a fish to
leave its bowl and move in to your
bedroom, flapping on your
carpet.

to ask to be passionate
is more of asking, "where has
my passion gone?"
(where is love now...)

but to ask to be something other
than what i am
and how i exist in these
moments..
is simply asking
to feel vividly
and that's all
i can ask for.

-

the most amazing ideas in my life have stemmed from three things:
literature, language, and mathematics.

--

we're passing slow, we're passing slow

---

I want to know your plans.
I want to know your favorite words,
the songs that give you chills.
I want to know what novels
changed your life, what poems
make you want to fall in love.
With me, there are so many
words that have brought me
to this point. thousands of
other people's words
that have filled me up;
created me.
and i want you to know...

----

French love letters
are usually addressed
to a cabbage.
Mais je ne suis pas française
Ni un petit chou.

My love letters are addressed
to the leaves and the breeze,
to a fresh cup of coffee
with a caramel swirl,
[and that's cara-mel, none
of that carmel shit]
to closing my eyes and seeing
nothing
but a group of actors,
putting on a play
in theatre language I don't understand.
My love letters are either stale,
addressed to those who will never care.
Or pointless,
addressed to those who'll never know.
Sometimes, I send them out to the chill that covers me
when I hear We Looked Like Giants
and the feelings I so crave
to feel
again.

But mostly, they're just
addressed to the people
(or things)
who'll never
read them.

-----

there are no
scan-tron machines
in BC.

here, there are only
that guys.
the scarves, the sweatshirts
in shades of gray, green, and blue
like a meadow before a storm.

to elitist fucks
,much like myself,
to be that guy
is asking to be
made fun of

mais ici,
to be cet homme is
as natural
as the falling leaves.

i guess i'll admit it.
the second i leave
i douse myself in the colors of stormy meadows
screaming along with the violent winds
and praising the
pouring rain.

------

ceilingsxcrack @ 2004-10-02T02:28:00

2004-10-02T07:14:38Z

1:15 began with a phone ring
i heard and i stirred but I wasn't hurt
tonight's lines are yours to keep
go back to sleep

and that's wonderful
when your world at it's worst seems bearable
and it's not so terrible to stay
terrible to say
why won't you change
and walk into the rain
where we love to splash and play
it will be here forever
while everyone's so convinced
they know everything is true
all I believe in is you

it was a wonderful puddle that I played in
and I was so young when it hit me
in no one you can believe

but that's terrible
when these evil white lies make hysterical
habit forming beautiful
I miss my friends
they live next door
but insincerity is so hard to ignore

it was a wonderful puddle that we played in
and at two and a half we hit back

isn't that wonderful
that as they gather round our grave
to splash and play they'll say
why'd you have to change

and walk into the same
where the dirty rain drains
you're gone in the morning
while everyone is so convinced
they know everything is true
all i believe in is you.

Braid has taken over KOLS's spot in my top three. Sucks to be Ben Barnett.

Two things.

The first is short and simple: Autumn and September are my favorite season and month respectively. But something is missing.
Tonight, I saw a bonfire and a rally at a school. And I felt so weird. I felt like I missed out on late summers and early falls at schools with boys in letter jackets and loud Taking Back Sunday songs on the radio and coming home to a well lit room with a tree in the backyard and curling up on a couch under a blanket with a book and doing math homework and going to carnivals and all sorts of stuff that doesn't happen in a dorm. I think I just made it up though, the version in my head never really happened. Oh well. Nothing is ever as good as what you make it up to be.

The seond thing is stupid, and I wrote about it for fifteen minutes and started crying so I just deleted it all and realized I'm stupid.
Basically, I just want to say I miss spending all my time with Allyson, Marissa, Carteret, and Mike+Matt. Please don't hate me. I still love you guys a lot. I'm sorry that I'm not home all the time. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Just please, don't hate me.

ceilingsxcrack @ 2004-09-12T04:23:00

2004-09-12T08:24:12Z

mostly i sleep it off
it's easier in the morning
to shrug off the evening's
drunken pathetic pleas
'cause the night's tragic rambling
is the next day's apologies
so if you can sit tight
'till the sun hits the blinds
we can settle everything,
oh no.
turning on a dime
i just can't trust my instincts
one day my heart beats with passion
the next it waxes back
if i seem a little callused
i assure you it's just a scratch
so if you can hold on
'till the mood swings are gone
then we might just have a chance,
oh no.

baby, i quit
i just can't fake it anymore

i'm an indulgent selfish, abusive
disfunctional fuck-up
i needed to be rescued
i'm stranded on myself
and i can't escape from this island i made
i'm afraid i never will,
oh no

i had bukowski on the mind.

2004-08-26T06:26:10Z

why can't titles burst out too?

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything
don't do it.

i remember writing letters to Chinaski.
"Dearest Mssr. Chinaski,"
they all began,
"is the sun shining
through the broken hotel window this
morning?"

i never expected an answer.
i know
it never was.

Chinaski had this way of listening
without really hearing;
there's always so much one
can do from
the ground.

that was okay, because
i had this way of
understanding without really
understanding.
the logistics would trouble you.

i don't remember the first letter,
i mailed it too long ago
to remember it's grave contents
but i know that it was written on
green stationary
because i hated the color green
and i hated what i wrote.

let's not talk about it.

for a second bout
i decided to mail him 51 or more facts about mlle. amanda.

he learned that i couldn't ride a bike, i couldn't
swim, i'd never fucked, i'd been in love
once and i hated
bar soap.

with my next letter,
i sent him a story.
it was on purple parchment,
that beautiful, thick paper
where you can almost feel the tree pulp.
i scented it with an orange peel
[it was a time where that's
all i ate]

it was about the ultimate failure.
it was about love.
it was about betrayal.
it was about fake names and fake identities and accents.
it was about paris.
it was about kittens and fucking away the day.
it was about the songs i just couldn't get out of my head.
it was about repetition.
it was about how nothing i ever believed in
was real.

the thing about Chinaski was that
he'd listen to anything;
my hopes, my dreams,
my hatred were all
viable discussions.

he'd experienced them all, i guess.
i felt he was the
perfect ear.

the only problem was
he never wrote back.

i guess that's why
writing letters to dead people
isn't for everyone.

ceilingsxcrack @ 2004-08-19T17:23:00

2004-08-19T21:23:24Z

The forum is always right, fuck you.

ceilingsxcrack @ 2004-08-01T23:05:00

2004-08-02T03:05:19Z

three hundred fifty-one springfield avenue

There's something about driving behind a Toyota Corolla that just strikes fear into my heart. Sand or white especially, partially because I cannot tell the difference. Seeing the word "Corolla" in all its brilliance, shining off the rear of the vehicle makes my muscles tense and my breath quicken. I tend to grasp the steering wheel a little tighter, shift around in my seat a bit. But that's not the point.

The point is that I have a tendency to see someone, anywhere. I work in a supermarket. Everyone goes to the supermarket. I hate working on register four simply because I cannot look ahead and see who is going to what lane, searching for a familiar face and a welcoming smile. On that register, I simply look ahead to two U-Scan machines and listen to the crappy satellite radio echoing through the endless aisles of neatly stacked boxes, cans and the like. People rushing. People with solitary roses, gum, and condoms. Couples who forgot their french baguette for their dinner. Old people who don't know the meaning of ten items or less. Okay, just people in general who don't know the meaning of ten items or less. I probably meet at least two people a day who drive a Corolla. I don't know that about them though. They don't know I drive a Malibu. They don't know I'm afraid of Corollas because they are never the driver that I am afraid of seeing behind that wheel, one car ahead.

Corollas remind me of an Easter break in which I'd never felt more alive. Sometimes, to feel alive, you have to lie a lot. I don't remember lieing that week to anyone but myself. I remember going back to school and thinking about how great of a lie I'd lived.

But then again, I was not the only liar. I guess in addition to lieing yourself, a lot of people also have to lie to you. I guess that's why I'm afraid of cars I'll never be a passenger in again, cars where lives played out. It's like the streets of Elmora, those streets we used to walk during one sultry summer. It comes with a fear of making new memories that will replace old ones. Fear of reliving what you don't want to remember.

Another thing that I'm afraid of is that awkward silence, the awkward small talk that comes along with crashing into people in a social setting. You know the kind I mean. The "hi, how's life?"s and the "so, what have you been doing?"s. All the stupid questions you ask to pretend you care about someone. And maybe you still do. And maybe that's why it's so awkward. How do you let someone know that after all was said and done, there's still something inside that cares about them? How do you get that out between long overdue explanations of events that happened months previous: births, deaths, accomplishments, weddings... I can't believe what that's going to be like, soon I will be having these awkward conversations with long lost friends at weddings. Maybe one of them will be getting married. Maybe they will be driving a Toyota Corolla on their honeymoon, the only rental car available, the cheapest rental car available, something. I probably won't know. They probably won't know about my fear. Things will be better that way.

There was never an awkward silence on those days. I forgot all about them. It was like everything between us was one giant lie and one giant fantasy. It's like in books where the ocean is supposed to represent life and a sunset is supposed to represent death. A Toyota Corolla represents everything that was and everything that wasn't. It represents nothing and everything all at once. And when I see one driving one car ahead of me... when I see nothing and everything splashing before my eyes... I can't help but feel anything but fear.

ceilingsxcrack @ 2004-07-27T19:34:00

2004-07-27T23:34:55Z

Hello. This is growing up.

In nineteen ninety-five, I don't remember what I was doing. I don't remember who I was thinking about. I don't remember who I hated or what I ate for dinner on August twenty-third. I don't think I'm alone.

I remember falling in love to Ozma.
I remember falling out of love to Ozma.
I remember...

Maybe I'll do this later.

musings of a trip to the gallery

2004-06-29T06:33:59Z

one day i hope this is part of a book
with one of those covers
those colorful covers
splashes of pink and orange and red
on white or perhaps light gray
with words that are almost as beautiful as art.

that's the one thing that i'm jealous of:
art.
words cannot compare to its
majesty
its colors and textures
and simple brilliance
of pen on paper
perfect lines, perfect scribbles,
soft pencil strokes on parchment
hung up in a room for all to see.

i cannot hang up my poetry.
i cannot hang up the words
that bounce around in my head
waiting to turn into
tiny bits of data
particles floating
strung together by
streams of light
and consciousness.

i tried to paint pictures with words
adjectives as colors, punctuation as frames.
but it's just not the same
my words are ephemeral, hanging silently
in the air
you cant get those pictures back
you cant hang them up in galleries
and watch as people mill about
trying to make sense
out of what line
goes where
and why the
let
ters
are
spr
ead abou
t in such an
unorch
estrate
d fashion.
because words and paint are different
and it does not take one to
create the other.

you cannot create words while
idly sitting in class.
writing poetry in margins is for fools
stealing words from people they claim to adore

as one lacking in such
artistic greatness
i hope one day that my words will be covered in
colors
soaked in pigment
that cannot be erased
and i hope its all bound between that paper
the special paper that just screams out
read me. you won't regret this.

i judge books by their covers, you know.
it's a fault
of being a teenager.

plu codes and exit one thirty

2004-06-22T04:31:39Z

eighteen and lighting
candles in corners
for people who aren't
dead yet.

spending afternoons
in supermarkets
shopping for nothing
shopping for

filling carts,
filling minds
laughter. running through the aisles
soup and cake
mix.
boxes and jars
cans, cases
the world is ours at midnight
in the dairy case,
the boxes and boxes
of fruits, numbered
waiting to ripen.

the world doesn't stop here
saturday night, long drive ahead,
check in with the world to see if it's still living
fall into the halls of music,
where the world stops and the plastic squares,
the shining circles
become objects of desire
touching, grasping, caressing
each one, deciding
which one to take home tonight,
to sing to softly on the way home,
to rest with, to dance with,
which plastic case will be your next
hot date

eighteen and this is
the life.
working, greeting, smiles all around.
idle nights in silence
in music
on rugs with eyes shut,
eyes closed,
the world is yours

tuesday night, come home at ten
close your eyes and go back again
silent kisses for just one night.
the end of everything
the beginning of everything
the days you used to live

seventeen, waiting for the tides to turn
hot summer nights with a gray interior
spent wishing for something greater
wild rides and empty feelings
another night spent
in a lonely cafe where
the world was nothing but then, there,
and who you were with.
more alone
and more alive
than ever.

eighteen and the sun is shining in your face.
three months to finally live
three months to spend
a slave to the system
to long drives and quiet nights
to good friends and good soup
to long lost dreams, to long lost lovers
to wishing for someone to hold your hand for one
more
night

eighteen
and waiting
to feel your age
to feel your life
to understand
this
is it.

eighteen and
sitting with lit candles
burning out slowly
for those who
(and that which)
are only yet to come.

ceilingsxcrack @ 2004-06-16T01:29:00

2004-06-16T05:29:35Z

i want to go away and never come back home.

the poets are on your heels tonight.
waiting, watching.
they're painting your portrait in black ink
or maybe red or silver
they're scripting your words and carving your
torn blue jeans
out of the folds in
their gray matter

tonight, they will write
sing songs of loathing, of love

they are told to write what they know
but the best poets just lie.

they do not know you, but they are molding you
out of their adjectives and clauses
they are writing your life history
with shoddy sentence structure
and brok
en
sylla
bles

and that
my friends
is what
it's all
about

ceilingsxcrack @ 2004-06-03T15:02:00

2004-06-03T19:02:39Z

Brother
friend

it's not like I want this to end

sister
companion

it's not like I planned to abandon

I have been here before
your pages get flipped
I can tell by the weight in your face that you can't be trusted
I have been here before
there's nothing behind it

you can't tell us that we're all together like a sea of presidential timber
we are filed up one by one
I like you!
I like you!

We feel our heads collapsing until we find some kind of space
it comes on slow and then it takes over

let's be passionate, it's not like we'll get another chance to do this
don't be embarrassed
go over the top but come up from the bottom
let's be passionate, it's not like we'll get another chance to do this
don't be embarrassed

Your heart
your lips
the parts of your being that I miss
they have seasoned me over the last year
but haven't we been here before
we've got something against the words
when there's nothing behind it

I want to take these little minutes
try to find myself some space
I want to relive little minutes
to keep the dream awake
I want to relive little minutes
but they just keep stacking up on themselves
can't make it fit
when it looks like this
if it becomes a job.

let's be passionate.

ceilingsxcrack @ 2004-05-30T23:58:00

2004-05-31T03:58:22Z

if i told you the truth
you wouldn’t like what i said

ceilingsxcrack @ 2004-05-11T23:46:00

2004-05-12T03:46:10Z

i have no title for this one.

side a
weezer - butterfly
ozma - domino effect
the ataris - you need a hug
brand new - the shower scene
placebo - brick shithouse
mewithoutyou - bullet to binary
cursive - driftwood: a fairytale
q and not u - nine things everybody knows
jimmy eat world - cautioners

side b
sorry about dresden - fait la force
kind of like spitting - canaries
alkaline trio - radio
thursday - dying in new brunswick
reggie and the full effect - megan is my friend to the max
twothirtyeight - romancing the ghost
smoking popes - days just wave goodbye
the get up kids - forgive and forget

ceilingsxcrack @ 2004-05-11T22:44:00

2004-05-12T02:44:23Z

"Let's just drive real far away. No one will ever notice our disappearance. Bring all your cds and your coolest shirts and we'll go away forever. No one will miss us, no one will care. It'll be you and me and the music and the wind in our hair and the world below our feet. Let's just drive, just drive, just drive. You and I, You and Me."

ceilingsxcrack @ 2004-05-10T16:02:00

2004-05-10T20:01:59Z

I hate driving through the park in the spring.

Where were all the people during the winter?
I was there.

Go back home.

ceilingsxcrack @ 2004-05-10T00:16:00

2004-05-10T04:16:59Z

We need to talk.

ceilingsxcrack @ 2004-05-09T21:34:00

2004-05-10T01:34:30Z

I saw a boy today who broke my heart.

I'd never seen him before. He was silent as he walked in. He couldn't have been much older than I. We were probably around the same age. He handed me an envelope, written on it was "4 seeded rolls." He looked incredibly nervous and like he had just walked a very long way to get there. I put the rolls in a bag and he gave me a twenty. I gave him his eighteen dollars and eighty cents back. For a moment, he just looked at me, kind of scared. His fingers scraped my palm as I dropped the change into his hand. I told him to have a good day and he walked out. He walked with a limp, clutching on to his bags and other envelopes for other stores.

After he left, all I could think about was his situation. I wanted to know everything. I made up a story about how his mother is ill and he has to run her errands. I just wanted to know how he functioned in life. He was one of those kids who probably does not lead a normal life. And I wanted to know how he lived.

I don't know if that's selfish or not. I just wanted to know if he was okay. I wanted to watch out for him, make sure that he will be okay.

I guess it was just the look on his face that took me by suprise. I guess.

And I think that's why I love working with people. I love to watch them, to witness their mannerisms and their quirks. It is absolutely fascinating.

And I think that is why I miss my A+P job. I miss seeing all those people on a daily basis. I miss making small talk about pets or new foods. I miss coworkers, sitting in the break room and always having someone to talk to. I miss everything about it.

I hate missing it. I really, really do. It would be awful to go back, but...I hate to say it, but in a way it just feels right.

So it goes.

On another note, everything is still weird. Oh, and I'm seriously questioning my affiliation with straightedge. But if you want to know, you'll have to talk to me. Because some things aren't for the world to know.

I am sick of livejournals as an excuse to not talk to people. I will still use it as an excuse not to talk to people, however. Some people I just don't want to talk to. Livejournals work in that case.

But what can you do when everything you know, you don't? Yeah, well whatever.

I can't wait to go to college, I'm so fucking sick of this scene. I want to meet new people so much. I want someone new to share stories with, to share my life with.

I want a new boyfriend so I have someone to hang out with all the time. I want someone to be there for me whenever I need them. I want to be there for someone. I want to make out and hold hands and cuddle. I want to be someone's other half. I want to be needed. I'm so sick of being alone.

For those following the story of my life, I have made a tape but have not delivered it. I don't think I want to anymore. I think this will just be a major failure. I think I am going to abort mission. I think I'm going to stop thinking.

So it goes.

ceilingsxcrack @ 2004-05-08T15:45:00

2004-05-08T19:45:44Z

Hi.

I have to let you know that I've lied about everything I've ever said.

ceilingsxcrack @ 2004-05-06T23:27:00

2004-05-07T03:27:31Z

the "please love me" mix.

side a
ozma - korobeiniki
brand new - moshi moshi
something corporate - punk rock princess
the postal service - brandnewcolony
the get up kids - mass pike
the june spirit - ivy league
blink182 - going away to college
reggie and the full effect - mood4luv
alkaline trio - blue carolina
weezer - falling for you

side b
feeling left out - would you like something to drink?
minus the bear - absinthe party at the fly honey warehouse
interpol - obstacle2
braid - i'm glowing and you're the reason
piebald - location is everything
hellogoodbye - dear jaime....sincerely, me
kind of like spitting - maybe we should get married

ceilingsxcrack @ 2004-04-26T22:54:00

2004-04-27T02:54:46Z

Sink down real slow.

Wait for it.

...Breathe out.

T-3, almost 2.
I am a selfish bitch.

ceilingsxcrack @ 2004-04-22T23:46:00

2004-04-23T03:47:00Z

the love song of j. alfred prufrock t.s.eliot

S'io credesse chc mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa Gamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno viva alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, 'Do I dare?' and, 'Do I dare?'
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
(They will say: 'How his hair is growing thin!')
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
(They will say: 'But how his arms and legs are thin!')
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all--
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,
Stretched on on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in
upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: 'I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all'--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: 'That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.'

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail
along the floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a
screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
'That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.'

. . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old ...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.