I started a new blog. Yep - that makes many too many. But it exists. And there will be things in it. I plan on putting nothing but original things there - drawings, paintings (eventually), sophomoric writings (definitely), and maybe some photography. Linkage to the right.
And, in reference to the title - no, I am not getting married. It just sounded interesting. To quote (a second-rate song-writer from the 80's named) Morrissey, "I will live my life as I will undoubtedly die..... Alone."
And it sort of fit - this is something old, the new thing is, well... something new. This blog has many things borrowed, and I am sort of blue.
kik.
-C.
Monday, December 08, 2008
Sunday, December 07, 2008
i woke up with this song in my head this morning.
She leaned against the brick facade, the black and green awning sheltering her from the weather. Her blood-red dress glowed like fire against the fading gray building, her auburn hair glowing in the fading lamp-light. She looked away, her eyes growing wet, not wanting hers to meet his, as he slowly made his way up to her.
He buried his hands deep in his pockets, walking with his head down, avoiding the puddles lining the street. His hair fell over his face, the cold rain blanketed his eyes, turning the night lights into diamonds.
The rain streamed down his cheeks; she couldn't tell if he had been crying, but assumed he had.
"Hey," she said, her voice cracking almost imperceptibly. He didn't respond, just stopped walking in front of her, head still down.
"Thanks for coming... I know you..." she just let the words trail off, not really sure what to say.
His coat flapped in the light breeze - she always hated that jacket on him, thought it made him look like a kid playing dress-up.
She started to speak, caught herself, and started again - "I'm - I'm so sorry... I didn't me-"
"I-" he cut her off, "I don't care."
Tears began to well in her eyes, and her lip trembled.
"I never meant for it to come to this," she said, barely more than a whisper, her words fading in and out with the breeze and rain.
"I'm glad," he said, looking up - his eyes finally meeting hers, each pair with an equal measure of sadness and longing. "I'm glad you don't love me."
He paused, looking away from her, seeing the blinking lights of the city, dancing and fading in and out of view in the heavy rain.
"After seeing what you like - what you run to - I think it says good things about me that I'm not in that group."
They stood in silence, the dark air clinging to them, enveloping them and driving them apart. Her head fell, her hair beautifully draping over her face, hiding her tears.
He had to force himself not to hold her, not to admit that he loved her, and always would.
The rain splashed around them, creating a sad melody in the lonely cityscape. Somewhere a siren blared to life and died away.
He took her hand gently, holding it in his, feeling the softness of her fingers, that touch, once comforting, now bitter and painful. He let her hand fall back to her side, started to speak, let the words die on his tongue before reviving them.
"You're the worst thing to ever happen to me," he said, his voice cold and firm, his eyes studying her body.
"I want us to stay friends..." she weakly replied.
"We were never friends."
"I-"
"You're a shallow, self-centered whore. You judge everyone else, pretending that you're pure. You tell everyone else what to do, as if you had any idea - any right."
"Why are you saying this? You don't -"
"I never really loved you."
The air hung dead between them. In the silence his words echoed, repeating themselves in their heads.
"You don't mean that..."
Tears were streaming down her face now, catching the blinking red glow from the traffic light at the corner, matching her tears to her dress to the blood now beating too rapidly through his heart and head.
"You mean nothing to me, absolutely nothing," he said, his voice calm even has his hand trembled in his pocket.
The rain hammered on the awning above them. The runoff came down in a solid sheet, a wall of water separating them from the world. In the water's reflection they were ghosts, shimmering and not really there.
"I'm glad you don't love me," he whispered. "I'd hate-
"I do, I -"
"-to be the type of-"
"-never meant to -"
"-person a whore-"
"hurt you, I love -"
"-like you would want-"
"-you..." She let her voice trail off, let it disappear into the cacophony of the rain, his cold voice, and the traffic rising up from the city.
"-to be with. I hate you, Savannah, and I never want to see you again."
He turned his back to her, not wanting to see a reaction, took a deep breath, and walked into the rain-soaked night. He let the rain pour over him, and the night shield him, so she could not see the shaking of his chest, and the tears now flowing freely from his brown eyes.
He walked amongst the shadows, the sky opening up its wet embrace, knowing he did not walk alone, but not wanting to heed that voice yet. There would be time for that later, he though, but for now - for now I want to feel this longing, and let it carry me away.
He buried his hands deep in his pockets, walking with his head down, avoiding the puddles lining the street. His hair fell over his face, the cold rain blanketed his eyes, turning the night lights into diamonds.
The rain streamed down his cheeks; she couldn't tell if he had been crying, but assumed he had.
"Hey," she said, her voice cracking almost imperceptibly. He didn't respond, just stopped walking in front of her, head still down.
"Thanks for coming... I know you..." she just let the words trail off, not really sure what to say.
His coat flapped in the light breeze - she always hated that jacket on him, thought it made him look like a kid playing dress-up.
She started to speak, caught herself, and started again - "I'm - I'm so sorry... I didn't me-"
"I-" he cut her off, "I don't care."
Tears began to well in her eyes, and her lip trembled.
"I never meant for it to come to this," she said, barely more than a whisper, her words fading in and out with the breeze and rain.
"I'm glad," he said, looking up - his eyes finally meeting hers, each pair with an equal measure of sadness and longing. "I'm glad you don't love me."
He paused, looking away from her, seeing the blinking lights of the city, dancing and fading in and out of view in the heavy rain.
"After seeing what you like - what you run to - I think it says good things about me that I'm not in that group."
They stood in silence, the dark air clinging to them, enveloping them and driving them apart. Her head fell, her hair beautifully draping over her face, hiding her tears.
He had to force himself not to hold her, not to admit that he loved her, and always would.
The rain splashed around them, creating a sad melody in the lonely cityscape. Somewhere a siren blared to life and died away.
He took her hand gently, holding it in his, feeling the softness of her fingers, that touch, once comforting, now bitter and painful. He let her hand fall back to her side, started to speak, let the words die on his tongue before reviving them.
"You're the worst thing to ever happen to me," he said, his voice cold and firm, his eyes studying her body.
"I want us to stay friends..." she weakly replied.
"We were never friends."
"I-"
"You're a shallow, self-centered whore. You judge everyone else, pretending that you're pure. You tell everyone else what to do, as if you had any idea - any right."
"Why are you saying this? You don't -"
"I never really loved you."
The air hung dead between them. In the silence his words echoed, repeating themselves in their heads.
"You don't mean that..."
Tears were streaming down her face now, catching the blinking red glow from the traffic light at the corner, matching her tears to her dress to the blood now beating too rapidly through his heart and head.
"You mean nothing to me, absolutely nothing," he said, his voice calm even has his hand trembled in his pocket.
The rain hammered on the awning above them. The runoff came down in a solid sheet, a wall of water separating them from the world. In the water's reflection they were ghosts, shimmering and not really there.
"I'm glad you don't love me," he whispered. "I'd hate-
"I do, I -"
"-to be the type of-"
"-never meant to -"
"-person a whore-"
"hurt you, I love -"
"-like you would want-"
"-you..." She let her voice trail off, let it disappear into the cacophony of the rain, his cold voice, and the traffic rising up from the city.
"-to be with. I hate you, Savannah, and I never want to see you again."
He turned his back to her, not wanting to see a reaction, took a deep breath, and walked into the rain-soaked night. He let the rain pour over him, and the night shield him, so she could not see the shaking of his chest, and the tears now flowing freely from his brown eyes.
He walked amongst the shadows, the sky opening up its wet embrace, knowing he did not walk alone, but not wanting to heed that voice yet. There would be time for that later, he though, but for now - for now I want to feel this longing, and let it carry me away.
Blocked
I find myself in a familiar place (again?!).
I can't seem to write - well, not anything of import. Unlike the senseless drivel seen here (why, you ask, do I write it and post it if I believe it to be drivel? The semi-public nature of this blog - like a dark corner of fenced off alley, it's only seen by people who have become horribly lost, or those blessed fools who seek out the cob-web encrusted caves, seeking the paintings of long-lost locals, trying to find some sign of life - forces me to take a much closer look at my writing, and critique it thusly.)
It's not that I don't have any ideas - I do, I do.
It's not that I don't think I can write - I humbly believe that I have a modicum of talent in that regard - I am no Faulkner, but I think I can out-do a Dan Brown... dot dot dot.
I think it's that I've lost my way. I used to write the stories I wanted to read, write songs I wanted to hear, and poems I wanted to feel. The outside world did not enter into it, and what I created was all the more beautiful for it. Now, I find myself trying to write with a purpose, and, much to my former English teachers' delight, a sense of my audience, such as they are.
So, the stories I have burning in my head - all a bit dark with a slight glimmer of hope - get stuffed away, while I try to write something for a someone that will get me somewhere. But it doesn't - it never does.
The artist - and I loathe to call myself that, having known some truly great ones - has only a duty to be true to himself. It's the world's job to try to make sense of creation - the creator just has to create.
And so that's what I'm going to try to do. Think of it as the Andy Kaufman (and, for that matter, the Charlie Kaufman as well) philosophy of writing.
Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.
I can't seem to write - well, not anything of import. Unlike the senseless drivel seen here (why, you ask, do I write it and post it if I believe it to be drivel? The semi-public nature of this blog - like a dark corner of fenced off alley, it's only seen by people who have become horribly lost, or those blessed fools who seek out the cob-web encrusted caves, seeking the paintings of long-lost locals, trying to find some sign of life - forces me to take a much closer look at my writing, and critique it thusly.)
It's not that I don't have any ideas - I do, I do.
It's not that I don't think I can write - I humbly believe that I have a modicum of talent in that regard - I am no Faulkner, but I think I can out-do a Dan Brown... dot dot dot.
I think it's that I've lost my way. I used to write the stories I wanted to read, write songs I wanted to hear, and poems I wanted to feel. The outside world did not enter into it, and what I created was all the more beautiful for it. Now, I find myself trying to write with a purpose, and, much to my former English teachers' delight, a sense of my audience, such as they are.
So, the stories I have burning in my head - all a bit dark with a slight glimmer of hope - get stuffed away, while I try to write something for a someone that will get me somewhere. But it doesn't - it never does.
The artist - and I loathe to call myself that, having known some truly great ones - has only a duty to be true to himself. It's the world's job to try to make sense of creation - the creator just has to create.
And so that's what I'm going to try to do. Think of it as the Andy Kaufman (and, for that matter, the Charlie Kaufman as well) philosophy of writing.
Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.
Saturday, December 06, 2008
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