Saturday, January 03, 2009






















O, I SPY WITH MY FACEBOOK EYE -

Right, right, time to get a grip.

Hey how about some Egon Schiele? There's a delicacy behind the rawness and brutality that seems relevant my life-mood in general. Life-mood? You know, that constant nugget of ache or feeling or tone of pensiveness that accompanies you in your chest when you're doing nothing, something or anything in particular.



































































What about a poem?

The mint bed is in
bloom: lavender haze
day. The grass is
more than green and
throws up sharp and
cutting lights to
slice through the
plane tree leaves. And
on the cloudless blue
I scribble your name.
Sunday; James Schuyler


It (the poem, not the naked lady) reminds me a lot of gorgeous sunlit days in campus when I troop out from the computer labs and have a jaunt up the hill for food! and snacks! and sometimes, thoughts of you! Who? No, no one in particular.









Oh let's be honest now, how about this one?

I want you to feel
the unbearable lack of me.
I want your skin
to yearn for the soft lure of mine;
I want those hints of red
on your canvas
to deepen in passion for me:
carmine, burgundy.
I want you to keep stubbing your toe
on the memory of me;
I want your head to be dizzy
and your stomach in a spin;
I want you to hear my voice
in your ear, to trouch your face
imagining it is my hand.
I want your body to shiver and quiver
at the mere idea of mine.
I want you to feel as though
life after me is dull, and pointless,
and very, very aggravating;
that with me you were lifted
on a current you waited all your life to find,
as though you were wading
through a soggy swill of inanity and ugliness
every minute we are apart.
I want you to drive yourself crazy
with the fantasy of me,
and how we will meet again, against all odds,
and there will be tears and flowers,
and the vast relief of not I,
but us.
I am haunting your dreams,
conducting these fevers
from a distance,
a distance that leaves me weeping,
and storming,
and bereft.
Yearn On; Katie Donovan


Not all the lines apply, but enough do.

I'm feeling erratic, only because I came to a very wrong revelation on the first day of the year. Talk about taking several steps back, and not even a step back into 2008! At least last year, I didn't have this unfortunate edge of self-awareness. It all makes sense now, although it scarcely leaves me in a better situation. Fact is, I - 

Yes.












Bits from a graphic novella. Country singers write wailing love songs, I give boys their own graphic novella man. No, I don't know how to end it yet.

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