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farmfish
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jamie has these fucking eyes i could never give a name to. there is just no color like them. want to say they're green but that's just not it. they're amazing and they lock me up in this intensity i can never turn from. i see them when i close my eyes when i'm away from her. when we kiss, she has this way of staring deep into me as if she's asking, "do you really know what we are about to do?" like this kiss is a priviledge and coming from her it is.
if all i did was kiss her, that would be enough. it's like anarbaric energy racing through my body, some force from who the fuck knows where?
he turns to her, sees she's asleep, god, she's gorgeous. there is nothing like having a girl put their trust in you. when they willingly desire to be with you. it's the fucking best.
(kind of cool writing from 35,ooo feet. anybody ever blathe in a jumbojetairliner before? raise your hand.)
guess what? i'm flyin' back to the states. that's right. me stay in oxford's been severed due to the poor health of me da'... the bloody bastard, no, the righteous man had a stroke and needs me help. it's me mum that needs it more than anythin' she's used ta travelin' the woild, ya know, goin' hither but now she's waylaid by this mess, this shakespearean tragedy, and needs her baby to take her to the city, give her air to breathe.
do you love your parents? you fucking better. maybe you're young now. but someday soon, they'll need you. you!
coz, see, you'll have a sis or bro out of the country, or across the world, who will convienently call and write from vegas or san fran and ask how things are goin' while you'll have to up and pack and go back. you will because your conscience won't let you rest. you have this ever present daemon with you, what is it? a dog? a white dog? that's what came to me once as i sat by the stream and turned to see a bright light at the top of hollyendontool. a call. a loving illicit of the situation. 15 years old. a da' with a manic depression. anxiety, suicide attempts.
i'm spillin' it, blatherskites.
but it's cool.
got nuthin' else to do. we all need to get it out.
anywho, i'm on my way back to pennsylvania, pray for me lads and laddies. what can i do for him?
touch? massage is always good. that's what i used to do before i left robin hill. went over 2x a week and sat at his feet, took em in my hand and pressed, tried to get the negative spirits out, did his hands, his back, his head, like he used to do me when i was little. he'd come home late at night, beer and smoke on his breath, the fucking garage door echoing in my head. he'd sit beside the bed, talk my stuffed animals, i'd punch this toy rabbit in the face over and over, was it him? did i pretend it was him? coz. you see he beat me mum, he did. i would run out into the hallway, light blindin' me eyes and there'd he be, slammin' her against the walls. i'd jump on his back, scream in his ear, and stop 'em. hmmm. i can't believe i'm sayin' all dis. well......
blather. how real is it? i'm curious to see who will respond to this? who will actually read it all the way through? i mean, who does read them, the long ones?
do we actually realise what we have in this purple world? we have to get together. flesh on flesh. my friend, kevin did it. met continuous light in ohio, out of the rain. he said it was so cool. she was sweet he said. like a celebrity. but he said it was too quick, said he wants to meet unhinged.
who would be willing to organize a meeting? somewhere? anyone? are there any former highschool class presidents out there who know how to do that kind of thing?
(the flight attendant just came by and asked me what kind of laptop i have.she also asked what music i was listening to...sigur ros. sting.
hey, go see amelie. read the golden compass, the subtle knife, and the amber spyglass, and if you do, you'll be my best friend. i promise.
i think jamie is waking up.
"hey schweetie, got anything to say to the indigo world?" (let's wait.ok, she's ready, these are her fingertips)
"hullo. go to england. it's like, totally unfuckingbelievable!"
should of seen her eyes when she was writin' that....she was all, "no, i don't want to," all tired and shit.
jamie's so very cool. she's from ketchum, idaho. i met her at sun valley. she taught me how to snowboard. we went into the woods on the badger pass and smoked together, some gnarly kick-ass thai stick. fuck. she started telling me how she travels between worlds and i'm like, "um, do you know how long i have been waiting for someone to tell me that, and she's like, "i have the locales all named and mapped, you should see my map of the world," and i'm all "ok."
so we go back to her chalet, and she gets out all thee journals, and papers, and maps, and names, and ....i'm dying.
fuck.
bring me a princess, a queen. here she is.
so we spend a fucking week together. never leave the place. we just melt into each other. become one in the clearest definition of the word. she's like, "let me finish this season and i'm with you, wherever you're going," and i'm sayin i will never leave you. like a moment on a rock, kevin(blueberries) told me about. he just looked at katilyn and he knew, he saw into the future, everyfuckingthing. a life, a place, children, all of it.
hmmmmm. so much of what i write is fiction, but this is all fucking real.
airplanes, i guess.
jamie's back asleep. we're touching down in newyork in about a half hour. is this the first blathe ever done on a plane, i wonder?
we're going to spend the night in the east village. soHo. got friends who run, hepatica, a performance arts theatre. friday night, jamie and me are scheduled to do, "le etolie." sumpthin that fyn wrote.
it's about the donkey-headed man. you can find it by clickin' on his name and searchin' to the very beginning of his presence on blather. we loved the story, got costumes and all. i'm the man and jamie is the bird. it's sweet.
fyn gula is awesome, doncha think?
he was born in the ukraine. gypsy blood. i know nicole thinks this is shit, but she just has to agree to meet kevin or me this spring or summer and we'll get it all worked out. maybe by then, even sabbie can meet us. nicole, i know i haven't e-mailed you yet, but if you are reading this, let me know. kevin said your voice was sweet.
hmmm.
are any of you afraid to fly? don't be. the check in is a little too much, they had jamie's shirt all the way u past her bra and she was all, "what the fuck?" but once that was over, she was cool.
bye.
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020110
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Grievance
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farmfish.
i'm so full of words, i'm silent. that unescapable emotion that tears so hard you look at the world around you and you can't do anything but take it in, because your already breathing so fucking hard from the long run, and it just seems more peaceful when your quiet. even with the world shouting cacaphony around you, you can hear the living things breathing, and the silence replaced by wind.
I read it all, and i was so entangled in it, my own legs curling over themselves because they didn't want to be alone, they can't take the seperation anymore of walking, they always have to touch in a lasting way.
your pensylvania robin hill is so delighting in company and expierance, it makes me feel so dead and alone. i feel dead often, but hardly ever alone.
i can't stop listening to "never is a promise" and other fiona apple esque songs, even though i've never really liked her too much before.
Because i'm dead so often, i'm relating a love of change, of adaptation become stagnant that needs held in reverance once more.
those tears were so arrogant once.
we should all meet sometime, i would love that dearly. fyn gula is so good, kevin is so good, farmfish is so good. the world is good when you look through eyes like that. I have heavens graces occasionally, but it always ends up only feeling like i borrowed them, and then there's this guilt, that maybe it shouldn't be so borrowed, or, why did it ever come in the first place?
my past is dark, but it's not a nightmare. it was more like a horrifying daydream. it came up with so many emotions i didn't even know i had, and i just kept feeding them, propelling them, wondering if there really was any light at the end of this crag we call a tunnel.
we all set up these channels of faith in ourselves, so we don't crumble ourselves and end up heating our own misfortunes.
i tried to email you on our fantasy story to do together, but it was returned as an address no longer existing.
excite is acting up again. i even lost that beautiful mail you forwarded me.
my inbox is empty as well. i've sent almost forty mails, and recieved 11(on my new emote account). i guess that doesn't matter much, i was always patient. maybe that actually killed me.
God, writing hasn't felt this good in a long time. maybe that's why i can't stop. i don't even care if it's tripe that i type, not now anyway. too many filters seperate you from the truth. don't do that to yourself.
God, this metamorphosis is going to feel good. i wonder, what will tomorrow's adaptation bring?
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grace to everyone.,:
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020112
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