RainyCoast

fffffffffffffff**k, i'm sorry, that sucks! i'm so scared of this happening, or ulnar nerve injury when you hit your elbow. the extent of the damage from sometimes one single move, terrifying. do you expect to have reasonable mobility post-rehab?

i tried to read eli wiesel's Night. i can't even get past the foreword without bawling my eyes out. forget that. it went back to the library.

can't stop listening to the soft parade. in all these years i was never once tired of it. i will hum the bass line to the grave and scream an everything must be this way from the urn.

watching hank marvin play is like watching revenge of the nerds on stage. hell yeah, marvin!

I love a firmness in you that disdains the trivial and regains the difficult. You become part then of the firmness of night, the granite holding up walls. -robert bly

How lightly we learn to hold hope, as if it were an animal that could turn around and bite your hand. And still we carry it the way a mother would, carefully, from one day to the next. -Danusha Laméris

The dark soft languages are being silenced: Mothertongue Mothertongue Mothertongue falling one by one back into the moon. Language of marshes, language of the roots of rushes tangled together in the ooze, marrow cells twinning themselves inside the warm core of the bone: pathways of hidden light in the body fade and wink out. The sibilants and gutturals, the cave language, the half-light forming at the back of the throat, the mouths damp velvet moulding the lost syllable for “I” that did not mean separate, all are becoming sounds no longer heard because no longer spoken, and everything that could once be said in them has ceased to exist. Margaret Atwood, from “Marsh Languages,” Morning in the Burned House (Houghton Mifflin, 1995)

The moon isn’t looking for solutions. She’s grown accustomed to partialities, that accretion of absence, her black scarves plucked from the top hat one by one Then a miraculous cumulus, removeless completion. Stoic mathematician, efficient wizard, reveal your secrets. A lover is going, some lover is always going. Such curious quadratics that will not leave me whole. Karen Volkman, “Equations,” Paris Review (vol. 35, no. 128, Fall 1993)

The sound of pines in the wind. And to think you’re the only person on earth isn’t hard, at the end of the long journey nowhere. Yet in the end I have come to love this room and be the one looking out on snowfields, blank scores of wire fence in the deepening snow, the wind through them a passage of remembered music, bare unbeckoning branches with never a ghost of a deciduous rustling, the stilled river with the sheet over its face— Franz Wright, from “Going North in Winter,” Earlier Poems (Alfred A. Knopf, 2007)

“If you aren’t paranoid before you arrive in this city, give it a few weeks and you will soon notice it creeping in, dripping into your subconscious like a leaky tap. The trick is not to give a flying what anyone thinks about you, and if you are in the right frame of mind this can be an easy trick to perform but if not you’ll soon notice that for a city full of people who do a great Stevie Wonder impersonation when it comes to the homeless and beggars and casual violence towards others, wearing the wrong kind of shoes or a cheap suit brings out a sneering, hateful attitude that can have weaker minded individuals locked in their houses for weeks before harassing their doctors for prescriptions of Prozac and Beta blockers just to make it out the front door.” - Garry Crystal, Leaving London

Evening Comes Like a Delusion… Evening comes like a delusion With dimly lit lamps of amber, And just enough shadow, For Any ghosts you want to step out of. The day is over, right or wrong. Nothing more is to be asked of you. But to dream; The expectations That things will be better tomorrow. Only to wake to the bleak, Bleary-eyed, onslaught of morning. And its demand upon you To walk, from dawn to dusk, In lockstep with the ecliptic of the Sun. 12.6.07 John Tansey

yes, hot bath, good idea. ginger tea too. it switched so fast, we had a pretty mild winter so far. ugh.

it's so cold i'm blasting the heat and studying in my parka and still cold what the heck i'm actually shivering

Many people think they are thinking when they are merely rearranging their prejudices. — William James

My Sadness is Deeper than Yours My sadness is deeper than yours. My interior life is richer than yours. I am more interesting than you. I don’t care about anybody else’s problems. They are not as serious as mine. Nobody knows the weight I carry, the trouble I’ve seen. There are worlds in my head that nobody has access to: fortunately for them, fortunately for me. I have seen things that you will never see, and I have feelings that you are incapable of feeling, that you would never allow yourself to feel, because you lack the capacity and the curiosity. Once you felt the hint of such a feeling, you would stamp it out. I am a martyr to futility and I don’t expect to be shut down by a pretender. Mothballs are an aphrodisiac to me, beauty depresses me. You could never hope to fathom the depth of my feelings, deeper than death. I look down upon you all from my lofty height of lowliness. The fullness of your satisfaction lacks the cadaverous purity of my pain. Don’t talk to me about failure. You don’t know the meaning of the word. When it comes to failure, you’re strictly an amateur. Bush league stuff. I’m ten times the failure you’ll ever be. I have more to complain about than you, and regrets: more than a few, too many to mention. I am a fully-qualified failure, I have proven it over and over again. My credentials are impeccable, my resume flawless. I have worked hard to put myself in a position of unassailable wretchedness, and I demand to be respected for it. I expect to be rewarded for a struggle that produced nothing. I want the neglect, the lack of acknowledgment. And I want the bitterness that comes with it too. -John Tottenham

O mighty dark existential void! I beseech your chilling non-existence! Please devour me whole!

everything. the moodswing started in the wee hours last night and i'm still on the low end of it today. and kind of angry...for whatever reason. just fed up. fed up with last year, fed up of the new one before it even started. i was happy to work nightshift tonight as i don't feel like celebrating this time around. now i'm annoyed i'm working and not sleeping through it at home. i can't do right by myself it seems and just want to be annoying. can't even blame it on the hormones. seeing bestie first thing in the morning though. that always helps.

well mum i blew it

tell them i said thank you for Meri.

i want to listen to mr bungle...but i can't stand patton. do you see my problem. creepy lil jim carrey of the music realm.

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watching The Postman. Meh. I missed a bit early on and now i don't know what they did to the donkey. at this point, i'm only watching to see if kevin gets his donkey back.

oldie goldies: 1984 and Scary movie (the part where the marley smokes Shorty)

he broke out in lesions now. maybe i should stop trying to prevent it. i get him. he wants back to his mother. when one is disillusioned about the world..and himself...where else would he want to go. i would go in a heartbeat if you called. i am just standing in his way. aren't i. wth do i think i am.