Tuesday, October 17, 2006

ballet of broken ankles

After reading my last entry again I realized that I wasn't completely honest in my writing. I left parts out so I'm going to revisit my story and re write a few things. In the mean time I'm going to leave you with a poem I wrote just before I left New York.
a ballet of broken ankles,and life is...

flickering lines across a movies screen,hollowed eyes,predestined emotion. and life flutters down,a feather caught in the mud,a smile given in passing.a blank stare received...

distance,choices plain and brown. predictable.music drones,full of regrets and hope.and life sticks uneasily,a wad of chewing gum in strands.a waters ring on the coffee table.never coming clean...

clawing in the corners. a scratching on the walls. the begin of restless nights.and life trickles down.across a windshield to the hood.mascara streaks in shapes unseen.stains on the pillows case...

a ballet of broken ankles.movements coy,eyes serene.and life chips and crumbles,a tiny flaw in the crystlas edge. a feeling deeply hidden.a well chosen word to soothe this soul...

heads shake,negate in unison.lips quiver,unbelief.and life turns it's back.presents a scene well suited.secure and well embraced.while underneath the sweep of cameo an image disintigrates...

and life...and life...adorns the street.a circle of silver wavering.i think my light has died.

sleep well and sweet dreams my dear ones.

searching for titles

I've been writing a story for about 3 years now. I began it shortly after I moved here. The story is somewhat sensitive. With out getting into anything overly personal, I'll give a short explanation on where the inspiration comes from.

First of all I was reading alot of Sylvia Plath then. Her novel The Bell Jar,biographies and much poetry. Also I was living with my second oldest sister who has for the last 5 or 6 years obsessed about her weight. Sometimes to a very unhealthy point. This story is about a girl who has dropped out of her second year of College. She lives in Los Angeles and is generaly un happy. She obsesses about her weight and wonders what her purpose in life may be. Basically she is very self centered as most of us are when we are young and trying to find ourselves. Hopefully by the end of the story the clouds with clear, we shall see.

It's hard to share this story for a couple of reasons. One, because I am very self concious about my writing. Two, because some of the content is taken from actuall situations involving my sister. And Three,because I worry how people will view me based on my form of writing. However if you can't be true and honest in your own form of passion(wether it be art,writing,photography,carpentry etc..) what can you be true with. So this is the begining of my story. Please let me know what you think. Good or bad.

Untitled(as of now)

She was not classical. That is, she did not by any means possess that classical sort of beauty. Her legs were too skinny. And more often than not, unshaven. One breast was probably larger than the other. But it was her face. It was her face that was startling.

Her eyes were like huge empty orbs. Full of voids. Full of questions. Her nose was small and elfish,her lips pouty. And her hair was like short aurburn feathers framing her odd face. But together. Her face. It was like one of those torn posters in a subway station. Or a fancy shoe in the mud puddle that is the homeless mans front yard. It was harshest reality. And that was the beauty. It was beauty in it's simplest,most complex form.
There was a great animal chasing me. Always one step behind. I could feel it's breath brushing the tiny hairs on my nape. Just as I would begin to gain a little ground I would trip and sharp pains would shoot through my abdomen. He pounced and just as he was about to puncture me with his claws...I woke up. Sweating. Shaking.

I looked over at the clock on my window sill. 4:32 am. I wrap the blanket around me and step out onto the balcony. In the distance I can hear car engines starting and see little pin pricks of light. The city waking to a new day. The birds twitter. And I feel still asleep. Dead to it all. Dead inside my own skin.
A job seemed an efficient way to fill in the useless time, while deciding wether to go back to school in the fall or use the money I'd saved and get my own place.

I began working at a coffee shop by the docks. Low life girls with short skirts and starving musicians constantly hovered beside the doors. Girls with short spiked hair and long platinum madonna styles. Boys with pierced noses and eyebrows. With guitars and harmonicas,skateboards...

I moved into a small apartment about 5 blocks from the cafe. I thought if I ever got up the nerve to ingest more than an apple a day it'd be burned off in the brisk 15 minute walk to and from work.

The apartment was called a Studio. One huge living room with space for a small table or a few floor pillows just below the picture window. A tiny,walk in kitchen. A bathroom just big enough to spin in a half circle with out your nose brushing the walls. And a bedroom the size of a shoebox. A shoe box. It was what I began calling the place.

It was littered with the small insignificant things I'd collected over the years. An ivory Buddah statue with large gold earrings,hand painted vases and old Iggy Pop albums. Crystals in the windows to catch and reflect the light into my eyes. And books. Books on the bed. Books proppng the door open. On the tables, stacked in corners on the floor. They were my children,my pets,my lifelines.

I thought I'd dig out an old 1950's silk dress I'd bought somewhere last summer but had been too round in the hips to wear. I'd layer on some dark make up and all my leather studded jewelery and go out for the night. In celebration of this new life.....

to be continued...