8 posts from 2008

wasting away in corporate America

current thoughts abbreviated:


- It's a wonder that I don't have AIDS.
- In a perfect situation, you could fall in love with anyone.


He's right, I do make lists. I'm so terribly irritated with the premise of anyone being right about me that I typed "I don't" and had to correct it.  

I'm not as self-loathing as I insist. 

2 comments

On the likelihood of "growing up to be a writer" or A Human Barely Being :

The entirety of my life, I have always fantasized about being a writer. I imagined it to be some sort of magical life akin to what most probably compared to dreaming of becoming movie stars. I glamorized it. The first time I can remember wanting to be a writer, I was nine years old and receiving my first journal; this was my astronaut. Of all the things I dreamed myself becoming, writing always seemed the most attainable, the most realistic. 


As of today, I can barely imagine myself becoming anything and I begin to wonder if anyone my age might experience the same tragedy. To be 23 and nearly jobless was not where I saw myself being 6 years ago.

Maybe my aspirations were unlikely. Maybe the sociological demand is that one be perfect and brilliant. Somehow I feel nearly obligated to be breathing. 

[...]

1 comment

it had something to do with laughing...

{...}

1 comment

just write...

Perhaps I used to write of maybes in far away places of distant thought patterns. But that was before I found myself embittered of the tiny nuances that spring out at you on a casual Sunday as the light is passing in through the dark curtains of a morning slept in too late. Perhaps I used to have a grasp on the things that oozed life, but I have lost the ability to make a distinction. Everything I experience tastes like cardboard.
Post a comment

Letters to Sanity (2)--296.80

I'm sick.
dorothy p says baby,
this is not the way.

Oh no, loveofmine,
we are far from the stomping grounds we so dreamed about
and we are left walking on the eggshells of
diseased backdated delusions of dreams.

i had hoped i could hear your voice before
none of this made sense anymore.

I miss your face.
see me soon.

please.

1 comment

Letters to Sanity--296.80

Sometimes at night I dream about apple juice. Bath tubs full of it.
Its sweet, supple taste lingers on my lips when rousing to wake. My
days are versatile. Each day is a new mundane. I count to 5000 every
day and at that point they let me go home. My job is very important to
the continued wealth of corporate America. I manage my own
deparrtment. Its a 3x3 cube. They don't put my name on it. I imagine
that suggests that they believe I'll be improving my condition some
time soon. Why waste raw materials on a fall out?
I believe in reincarnation. I believe I will reincarnate as something foul.
I have been spending full days only socializing with other people who
play the same online RPG as I do. Otherwise I would be lying in my bed
staring at the ceiling. My body is starving; my mind is starving. I am
nonfunctioning today.
I should take showers outside in the rain. I want my clean white 500
count sheets and sleep for 64 days. But no more than that because I
don't need anymore than that. I'm thinking about spending the week at
the hospital. I don't like not being paid though. My doctor keeps
telling me I need to go to the hospital.
I have the oncall doctor on speed dial. They think I'm crazy, but I'm
not. I am not.
I am, however, having apple juice for lunch.
If I have to take anymore medication today, I have to call someone to
drive me home. I'm so proud of the woman I have become.

1 comment

Innovation in Sociology

Cynicism is the driving theory in the study of now.

Hypothesis of happiness is experimented on with little conclusive
scientific evidence
that it does
indeed
exist.
Dreamless sleep ensures thick sanity 
as declared by
institutions that note that there is no known cure available--
just remedy and relief from symptoms 
that once generated from unrelated incidents,
asymptomatic symptoms of self.
One day, everyone will be in the ground.
In each others' arms, weighted and useless utilitarian sleep will come in hard, serrated waves
and there will never be a reason to rouse.

Dreams will be in technicolor 
and they will fill pages with with imitations of life
learned, strictly, by observation,
and, sometimes,
that is the best route--too often travelled.

The obvious will be stated 
and released from shell. 
Predecessors will be ready to suck the marrow from our bones 
and
share this bed 
until uselessness is evident--
discarded at the point of origination; it blooms.

Post a comment

what it means to forget you-recounting the tragedy of you and I

I remember you. Behind the steam of simmering pots and pans, there was a smile. A joint pressed between your lips, your feet danced to the music you intended to spread onto me in rich thick strokes. In rueful obliteration I lie on the couch eyeing your careful movements; between the dinner mist and the drug haze I knew today would be the day I would seduce you.


One thought after another-clearly just a muse for me-I wrote you on my sheets and then into my sheets. You hardly resisted. Well aware of the threat, we allowed the tryst to continue. We snaked around our own beds and whispered even completely alone. Some things break on impact; you were one of them. 

Some days I would lie in wait for weeks. The sun turned over on itself and I exhaled rich, thick smoke. I dreamed you lying on your back in blissful resolution excusing the woman that kept your dick warm from the bed you refused to share. She, unknowingly, fell victim same as the rest, but with little resistance. 


2 comments