tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113815112009-12-10T10:33:44.332-05:00d.noreply@blogger.comBlogger500125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11381511.post-47970585791345451712009-12-10T10:32:00.002-05:002009-12-10T10:33:44.340-05:00

Pitched, but now the smooth smooth railing.There is nothing inside; I'm sorry.I reclaim what I own, and what is owed.

d.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11381511.post-82866302900915761902009-12-02T03:40:00.003-05:002009-12-02T03:49:00.731-05:00

I want very much to hurt myself, but I will not.I just need someone to read me a story so I can fall asleep. It's okay, though. I see the next day near.

d.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11381511.post-35834856025820098292009-12-01T02:55:00.001-05:002009-12-01T02:55:47.932-05:00

Welcome back, Diana.

d.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11381511.post-46699392141769658952009-12-01T02:39:00.004-05:002009-12-01T02:52:37.921-05:00

I am spontaneously lost and intact. I lose my way in sudden moments, and it is real, all of it is real. In my terror I search and claw for the hook back, but the line is dead, or absent, or on it's own. Is that how it was? And is?How did I not see this.I hate that I am lost, trodden, ragged and worn. Reaching, reaching, but the hand does not find mine. Does not whisper the way home. I am already

d.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11381511.post-1714067016794886352009-11-29T21:12:00.006-05:002009-11-29T21:38:50.170-05:00

It's getting better, I think. I hesitate to say it, for fear of jinxing myself. I earnestly want buoyancy. But I need to straddle the gap, I think. Above is a stupor. Had two Thanksgivings. I'm on a bus at a rest stop in Virginia right now, en route back home. That was the trouble, I think. This being home and there being home as well. Confused, I felt alienated from places of comfort. The

d.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11381511.post-79008623135069055002009-11-23T01:48:00.002-05:002009-11-23T02:01:24.758-05:00

It's been fairly bad. The nightmares, constant alienation and lack of motivation. Anger. Directionless. I feel like I have to lie to everyone. It makes me feel guilty and ungrateful when close friends try to cheer me up. I feel like I have to go along with it. That when they say something I normally would laugh at, I laugh. I'm playing at being myself, holding back this monster I'm reining in.

d.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11381511.post-36645511771642063952009-11-22T00:05:00.002-05:002009-11-22T00:21:39.192-05:00

It's back, as swiftly and sneakily as it left. If I had anything to muster, I'd be resentful.It's exhaustive.I went back to SF for the first time since I left last weekend, and I believe this is the sole root of this bout. I thought it would feel strange and awkward going back to a place of my past (however young or old), but instead, it slipped right back like a warmly worn pair of denim.The

d.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11381511.post-15239446009358468242009-11-12T23:45:00.002-05:002009-11-12T23:58:44.811-05:00

Yes, of course there are peaks and troughs. I do not regret any moment of my time now. Here.I don't know how the distance can be made bearable--but I can't not do it. There is no other thing which would be right.I've been very fascinated by wounds. It's appeared in my last two poems. I feel like I've lost my momentum, but maybe I've written a lot for the semester already. Time for massive

d.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11381511.post-82799328905261178362009-11-04T01:40:00.002-05:002009-11-04T01:51:13.167-05:00

I shake, and no hand stills the rudder.

d.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11381511.post-62592548205942509542009-10-28T00:58:00.004-04:002009-10-28T01:24:57.862-04:00

Just, that acute sensation of all things painfully, sharply, even the exciting bits. Life as gradations of pain and itch. Centrum of pain.It's like this most days--waking up, feeling empty, but knowing (not having to convince) that I am doing something that I cannot live without. Something irreversible. Yes, I know that. But I still wake up in the lowlit grey. Gravity thumps my feet every

d.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11381511.post-31966524414644453682009-10-26T01:41:00.002-04:002009-10-26T02:46:17.848-04:00

I have so many things I want to capture, but I end up jotting them somewhere else, and then spending late hours in the night building poems as empires. It's draining & exhausting, and I forget to purge my emotions here.Or by the time I get here, I'm too tired to remember, and later, when I somehow catch up with myself, the recent past seems too distant. Playing catch with a sieve, you see.I

d.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11381511.post-76103804249771934422009-10-24T23:14:00.003-04:002009-10-25T01:56:22.864-04:00

It's funny that when I look back at what I wrote two weeks ago (my poem assignment and previous entry, I can't remember what it felt like to feel that kind of slack-anguish.But it comes back, sanguine & quick.He was here for a fortunate few days last week. It already seems like years ago--it was better than a dream. I got to be on vacation, too. Took off work, skipped Sculpture class, slept in

d.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11381511.post-2641491199087998422009-10-12T23:11:00.003-04:002009-10-12T23:24:48.134-04:00

Today, walking from class to work, I was crisply aware of how brittle, how frail & tenuous I've been. I am.I'm so resentful of seeing lovers on the sidewalk. But I do not envy them or wish them ill. The pain which hits me like with a blunt punch stems from memory and routine.Isn't it, hasn't it been the same? I cannot answer; I do not trust myself right now.I've been reading Jesus' Son off/on

d.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11381511.post-10005058928158526602009-10-11T00:56:00.007-04:002009-10-12T16:27:58.156-04:00

Wretched is such a despicable, pitying word. I loathe it so much that to utter it is to have bile rise against my throat.I feel it coming back--that shroud, that fine netting. It's not as intense, but perhaps, even more alarming for me because now, even though I have not resigned myself to it--I do not want to have anyone help me. I'm being punished. Am I doing the punishing, or am I further

d.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11381511.post-19508934308249499972009-09-11T12:54:00.004-04:002009-10-10T16:08:16.293-04:00

I told Jason, I want to write about all these great moments that are happening, because I never want to forget them in trench times.So I went to the Charles Simic reading, and it was so packed! There were no chairs but I was lucky to find one--I couldn't see Simic at all, but I heard him quite well. It was okay. I was mostly astounded by how big the creative/poet community is in NY. I love

d.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11381511.post-70365849883852559862009-10-05T01:20:00.004-04:002009-10-05T01:43:15.663-04:00

I finally started swimming again. Yesterday and today. It has been so long that in the basement (4 floors underground at the Columbia gym) pool, I stopped being able to feel my arms while swimming.Of course I punished myself by doing it again today. And will try to go as much as possible this week. Today I felt stronger--a girl in the small locker room asked me if I used to swim on a team. "

d.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11381511.post-59768416444343521602009-10-02T03:13:00.002-04:002009-10-02T03:16:37.067-04:00

This whole time, he was the one. The one to make me smile again, or laugh.I can turn here, & find wholeness. I can sleep. Sweet god, I can sleep. Hurry.

d.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11381511.post-50402012690025555682009-10-02T02:05:00.001-04:002009-10-02T02:05:59.734-04:00

I'm scared; I don't feel you with me.

d.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11381511.post-38346627888439069982009-10-01T23:10:00.003-04:002009-10-02T02:03:03.137-04:00

Maybe selfishness moves like this: I am miserable, and I feel less miserable knowing that you're miserable (like me, with me?). That sounds terrible.But maybe I just put it in the wrong terms. Maybe it should go like this: difficulty is made more bearable knowing that one is not singular, that one has someone else to bear it with. To share it.Then it sounds like a generalized bullshit cliché.

d.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11381511.post-77626027694402515862009-09-30T22:51:00.005-04:002009-09-30T23:13:51.943-04:00

d.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11381511.post-67031467780150380822009-09-30T21:26:00.001-04:002009-09-30T22:34:58.144-04:00

So much has happened, not happened, and happened, and time has unfolded indifferently, poker faced.Mostly, I'm so bone-tired that I cannot even do my normal routine at home, let alone come to the internet. It's like what you said, anyway--everything that has happened could be contracted into a minute or two, no matter how big the emotional impact radius. It doesn't matter. We're forced to move

d.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11381511.post-56941385414920531902009-09-15T16:54:00.002-04:002009-09-15T16:55:13.297-04:00

But so much love, so much love.

d.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11381511.post-32847257427929329912009-09-12T23:23:00.005-04:002009-09-13T03:01:02.062-04:00

Right now, I'm a full-time student at Columbia, working at Jane, just got a job at Columbia, and an internship at Persea Books.This is insane. Essentially: 3 jobs + full-time Columbia.I tried to make it fit, fiddling with a schedule, and realized that I'll have to quit hostessing at Jane. For two reasons:I'll only be able to work Friday evenings and weekends, and I think the GM wants me to be

d.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11381511.post-12366538872626871772009-09-09T01:36:00.002-04:002009-09-09T10:52:17.404-04:00

EpithalamentOther weddings are so shrewd on the sofa, shortand baffled, bassett-legged. All thingsknuckled, I have no winter left, in my sore rememory,to melt down for drinking water. Shrunk down.Your wedding slides the way wiry dark hairs do, downa swimming pool drain. So I am drained.Sincerely. I wish you every chapped bird on thispilgrimage to hold your hem up from the dust.Dust is plural:

d.noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11381511.post-56192397202599236552009-09-09T10:37:00.004-04:002009-09-09T10:50:01.745-04:00

It's nice that no matter how late I go to bed (not that late, now that I have a legit life), I wake up naturally around 8:26ish. It feels good to have my time, that soft muted morning light, to have things to do.In my dream last night, I was hanging out with Genevieve and another man, and we were all good friends. It was fairly obvious that the man was interested in me--but he wasn't pushy,

d.noreply@blogger.com