?

Log in

i want you lazy science's Journal [entries|friends|calendar]
i want you lazy science

[ website | music music music ]
[ userinfo | livejournal userinfo ]
[ calendar | livejournal calendar ]

[24 Oct 2012|11:20pm]
"Against the bedroom window is the Hudson river. It is shallow like a decal or a holiday transparency. I can't see past the glass, only in it. I see my arms and face, white from blue moonlight or blue from white moonlight. My arms look like dead arms, clipped to my shoulders by pins, dangling. I stare into indigo deadness as my image detaches from my silhouette, stepping away.

She touches her cheek. My arm remains hanging. She pivots, winding one-quarter around, though I am still. Her hands draw behind her back and rest airily on the rise beneath it, which is square, which is round, she is a girl. I know this girl, I think. She may be the one I'd once been. In my throat I taste the extract of her desire, in the slope of my waist to the billow of my hip I see the same petition for seduction. She is driven. I was driven.

I wish to speak, to say something. But things that are legible to the senses are often captive to language, such as the dizzying faraway feeling you get from the way daylight pools on the kitchen floor, mesmerizing you in the midst of sudden misfortune, making you think of the frailty of life--and the beauty. Or the shimmery persistence of a perfume that lingers in the air, filling you with longing when you pass through. Possibly it is the fragrance a teacher wore, or your mother. No words can describe what it means to lose someone you love, or tell you what it is to grieve.

And loneliness. I should say something of loneliness. The panic, the sweeping hysteria that comes not when you are without orders, but when you are without yourself, adrift. I should describe the filthy province of mind,the blighted district inside, the place so crowded you cannot raise the lids of your eyes. Your shoulders are drawn and your head has fallen and your chest is bruised by the constant assault of your heart. No air, no air, nothing but your own sticky breath, panting wet and sticky. I want to convey the burden of despair, the ruin of compromise. Be brave, I should say, the way brave used to be--desperate to live and to love. I want her to prepare for the curse of perseverance. She may not know about resiliancy. That she will last."

page 19, anthropology of an american girl

[27 Mar 2009|11:54pm]
[ mood | tired ]

I can hardly even post in here because everything seems trivial to share with Internet. Fuck Twitter.
antics

navigation
[ viewing | most recent entries ]