49 posts tagged “writing”

Slipping asleep I wonder,
Which is better,
The peace of solitude,
Or the peace of having another.
At this dark, silent hour,
I cower beneath the sheets,
Press indignantly into my pillow,
I know the answer.
I pull the cover closer
to warm
the chill in my shoulder.

03:55

I wish to contend my feelings with a thousand slow words,
Penned with the utmost care and attend,
I wish to prolong them,
to fill all of space and time with remnants of you so they never end.
To pretend and to stall the end,
to make friends
with leisure and hours spend satisfied,
as you tend to every single one of my features.
I wish to exhaust you, to depend on your strength,
And I wish for you to expend all of your energy for me.
I intend to bend your reason,
And send for you to join me in insanity.
I wish to extend these nights as far and as wide as they can be,
To ascend every limit, but never allow them to reach the idea of dawn.
I wish to transcend death in a capsule filled with dreams and sweet nothings,
with the warm, wet drops of love and loving.
Will my feelings continue when you are no longer near?
When you are no longer here to savor every one of my tears
And to swallow every offending fear?
Since when do I have a nature?
Will I give you the world?
Is this a promise I need to make,
Or a promise I plan to break?
Breathe into my neck,
You press,
Your chest
Our skin
Connects
In unimaginable heat.
The warmth in my breast,
Is it special?
Or just like the rest?
Is ours
Just a moment in time
Or something
More
Sublime?
I freeze,
Fall to my knees,
Crack the ice in my bones,
Press the keys,
Broken, torn,
Beg please let me know,
All I hear
is the sound of the piano.
Uninterrupted,
It lingers in continuity.
22:00

My Recitation

I woke up and made waffles for my family this morning. I don’t know whether TV has gotten dumber or I have higher standards about the ideas I want projected into my brain, but it’s annoying. It’s kind of strange, being in a house full of males as opposed to my all-female house in Seattle. Not that I interact with anyone at my house in Seattle. I didn’t talk to my family much either, not until later in the evening after I got a 30 mg pill of Adderall from D (he finally came through).

My older half-brother smokes weed (he calls it medical marijuana). It’s legal stuff, he gets it from the dispensary in Seattle. He went out for a walk today and left his weed outside somewhere in the hills behind my house. He couldn’t find the bag after dark. He searched and searched but came home empty-handed and pissed off. It was okay though because my little brother is here too and he always has weed. He says that a bunch of people here owe him money/weed, so he is covered for the weekend.

Everything I write right now is bothering me. I can’t seem to express things correctly. Everything seems off. Stupid pills, I haven’t taken uppers in a while. I talked to my little brother for a while at night, well, I mostly talked at him, lecturing about this and that. I like how my little brother listens to me though, he listens patiently and I think he understands what I am trying to say, even though most of my subjects are foreign to him. I suddenly feel a little nauseous.

Another thing I like about my little brother: I recently read to him for the first time some of my writing, some stories and poems. He was able to appreciate them. He told me that I’m good with words, and I was so flattered, so pleased to hear it from him. It’s encouraging. My brothers are pretty critical and if they don’t like something, they don’t hesitate in saying so. But about my writing, my little brother said nothing ill!

He is also applying to transfer to my university, so we have been discussing education. I have been thinking/talking about graduate school a lot lately. I can’t help but think about it, even though I still have so much work to do at UW. I guess it’s just that I can see the goal and conclusion of my current situation and I am trying to imagine the next phase. I can’t really do much about it right now, but it’s in the back of my mind these days.

When I told my little brother that I am thinking of going to graduate school for phd studies, and when I told him that I might end up being a professor, he said that I should do it. He thinks I am smart enough! I think I am pretty lazy so I don’t know, that’s a lot of work, a lot of reading and writing. And I don’t know if this idea is just a phase. I have changed my mind about future plans many times in the past few years. I have wanted to go to law school, I have wanted to work for the government, I have wanted to work for an international organization, I have wanted to be a journalist, and I have wanted to be a wife too. Who knows, maybe next year I will want to be something else? I am pretty sure that I will go to graduate school though, and if I am going to go to graduate school, I need to choose a program. I dunno.

Sorry this is so boring. I am even boring myself. I don’t know what to do. I can’t work on my research paper because I feel unwell. It’s almost 5 in the morning now. This bedroom is so small. I thought it was pretty big when I moved into it after my mom died. It felt so big compared to the closet I had been living in for most my teenage years. I didn’t really care about the size though. I just needed to move all of my mom’s clothes out, to make her disappear. I packed everything up so quickly, in a few hours erased most signs of her in the house, and replaced her with my own decorations. I miss her.

It’s been nearly three years now. Feels like an eternity, at the same time, feels like a fresh wound still. So much has happened since then. I’ve lived a thousand lives. I want to throw up but I know my stomach is empty. I feel really sick right now. I drank a little bit of water but I can’t force myself to do it again.

I feel like this house is frozen in time. There are thick layers of dust on all my old things, perfume bottles, mirrors, books. My decorations are still on the wall. Nothing has been disturbed. It makes me feel a bit dead, as if I am the ghost of my past self, visiting my old bedroom.

I don’t think I have ever worried about the future as much as I do these days. I don't know what I will end up doing. Time passes quickly and I am not getting any younger. How much longer will I pass days writing nonsense, speaking to strangers, and feeling like I lack something? For how much longer will I feel like a ghost in a shell? Will I ever escape this mental hell? I’m in pain.

I’m in pain. If it’s not my mind it’s my body. Sometimes when I lay in bed alone, I hug myself, I feel my ribcage, I feel myself, feel my naked skin, try to make it better, feel this person, this body. With my arms wrapped around my chest, I can feel the bones and feel how tired they are, tired from the weight of my burdens, the weight of all this baggage, tired from mental descent and maltreatment. I want to be strong.

I’m weak.

Today was alright. I slept until I heard people arriving in my house. My older brother's friend and his (new) girlfriend Atsuko from Japan showed up. Luckily another girl was there, I had someone to talk to who wouldn't constantly put me down or insult me like my older brother does.

I had my tea and helped cook. My half-sister showed up with her family and I didn't really interact much with them. I cleaned up after people all afternoon and evening (I always end up obsessing with cleaning this house when I am here). My younger brother showed up stoned sometime during the day and then disappeared again. My father has been more pleasant than past visits and wants to move to Thailand now after I told him about how cheap it is and how it's warm year-round (he always says he is going to move away in the winter, by the time summer comes around, he forgets the subject completely, only to complain once it gets cold again).

I miss Ryu (surprise surprise). I know he is passing his time now with other international students who don't have homes to celebrate Thanksgiving. I wish I were with him during this holiday. He returns to Kyoto in three weeks, three weeks filled with final exams and papers. Sigh. Working on my research paper tonight.

I witnessed an atrocity on the way to school today. I was feeling kind of weak, paranoid and vulnerable, kind of lost in thought (I usually feel this way the day after I cut sensitive areas), when I heard a loud group of crows ahead of me. I often hear crows on the way to school, there is a group of them around here, but today it was especially loud. I continued to walk toward school, and when I reached the crows, I saw a pigeon fall out of the sky and land on the grass beside me, injured and struggling, followed by the manic crows. They were all attacking the pigeon and grey feathers were everywhere. I stopped and watched for a while, but I couldn't really do much about it. I continued on my way after the pigeon died and other students noticed.

I suspected that I was anemic so I tested my skin with my mother's gold wedding band. The black lines that appeared were much more distinct than the lines I remember seeing when I was put on iron pills in high school. I am guessing that is a bad thing. Whatever, I am not taking iron again. I hardly ever have the opportunity to eat meat, it's not really part of my diet, I get my protein from eggs and seafood. Fuck iron.

I have my first piano lesson tomorrow, looking forward to playing some songs. The first draft of my research paper is due on Saturday, so I need to focus. I have been having trouble with that lately. Too much procrastination.

All those who have left,
have left,
white sun,
high at noon,
the bell rings,
warming my body,
my ashy skin,
and I'm not sure,
if we will meet again.

Red lines, black lines
White drop back drop
Take a picture, this moment lasts forever.
In the security of night, I have nothing to fear,
Hold me close, my dear,
Your body allows me
To leave this city,
You aren’t really here.
Carefully you
Take everything I contain,
Swallowing,
I refrain from saying
No,
You aren’t allowed to do so.
Sorry I
never shut up.
19:06

Two quotes from Polish-born American author, Isaac Bashevis Singer:

When I was a little boy, they called me a liar, but now that I am grown up, they call me a writer.

A good writer is basically a story teller, not a scholar or a redeemer of mankind.

Today we spoke about autobiography as truth in my comparative literature comics class. A lot of the power that autobiographies (and memoirs, for that matter) have is based in the reality and honesty the genre promises. The reader trusts the author to tell the truth, his personal experience, his story. But perhaps autobiography is closer to fiction than we might expect.

It is completely up to the writer's discretion to decide what is worth retelling. And besides the glossing over and remolding of facts (as well as simply lying), to fit something as abstract as life into some sort of literary model, with a beginning, middle, and end is already distorting the truth, isn't it? Taking random, fragmented events in life and putting them into some sort of meaningful, organised form or narrative, isn't that a type of trickery? An illusion? A type of lie? And having one person's perspective on a lifetime of events, isn't that a bit limiting and unfair? Yes it is! And I think it's wonderful.

Fiction on the other hand, is the opposite. You have a story that never happened, people who don't exist, and an attempt to make the events seem as real and probable as possible. It's the reverse strategy. I'm not very good at it.

I met up with Ryu today after school for coffee. He says he "always wants to be with" me. He asked me if I would accept that, I said alright, sure. He's kinda cute, a typical, private, all-boys' school guy (middle and high school in his case) and studies international peace and conflict resolution. His English is pretty good-o, and-o he wants to hang out tomorrow.

Where are you?
A deep grey blue,
A heavy mood in the late afternoon,
Gloom enters my room,
Seeps through the blinds,
Clear lines,
A sort of bright, artificial night,
Darkness in the light,
Into a thick, cloudy white,
I disappear,
Under this cover,
Until sun sets,
The color of blood
I begin to see
An orange glow
Burning in the window.
Where are you?

So there's this guy, Tetsuya from Kyoto, well, there are a whole group of guys from Ritsumeikan uni who are studying here for a quarter and I met some of them at Wednesday lunch. Two of them, Tetsuya and Kensuke asked for my phone number a couple weeks ago and I gave it to them. This week, Tetsuya invited me to a party. I said okay.

I met up with Tetsuya in the University district, he was with another guy, Ryu, who he introduced to me as the most kakkoi of his friends. He was alright, kind of standoffish and quiet, but he looked okay. Tetsuya on the other hand reminds me a little bit of Ai from Osaka, they are both from Kansai, and both are outgoing and smile all the time.

I had already eaten but they took me to drink with a group of people at this Korean place. There were a bunch of Japanese-American girls dressed similarly in black club dresses. They didn't talk to me. There was one other non-Japanese person there, a friendly Iranian-American guy who was born and raised in Tokyo, he had a lisp, but his Japanese was really good. I thought he was an interesting political product, I like meeting people with messed up national identities.

Tetsuya ordered a bottle of soju and let me drink most of it. I spoke with him most of the night but when he went to go to the bathroom I was left seated next to Ryu, who hadn't said a single word to me since we were first introduced. We talked about the Japanese elections and how he didn't vote because he was coming here and about his view of Japanese politics in general. Any guy who can stand talking politics with me for more than ten minutes gets extra points. And his name is Ryu for god's sake, he had already gotten me when I learned that (see: Ryu Murakami).

Anyway, after he finished eating, the Iranian guy left and the girls left to go clubbing downtown, acting all shy about it, like they were doing something super scandalous. The boys stayed with me. We called Kensuke, we considered going to his house on the south side, but he was actually in the University district singing karaoke with some girls. We let him be. In the end, the two guys came to my house, not without two bottles of cheap champagne (I don't have a bottle opener for wine) and cheese (Tetsuya's idea).

We drank the first bottle quickly. We thought to wait for Kensuke to come to open the second bottle, but he was being too slow. We drank the second bottle. When Kensuke showed up, we went to buy wine and chocolate ice cream (Tetsuya's suggestion again). Kensuke had to drink to catch up with us so we forced him to drink. He is the smallest one but he can handle drinking pretty well. We talked about this and that, love and heartbreak...

After a while, Tetsuya was falling asleep, actually, he did fall asleep and start snoring on my floor. We woke him up and made him go home. I was getting sleepy too, and too drunk. I rested my head on Ryu's lap (we were sitting on the floor) but continued conversing, though I don't really remember what we were talking about at that point. I was just paying attention to the feeling of Ryu's hand on my body.

I went downstairs and threw up in the bathroom. The vomit was deep purple like the cheap Merlot we were drinking. I came back to my room and lay in bed, which sort of signaled to the boys it was time to go. I said good night and I heard them leave my house. I got up and I showered, well, I sat under the running water for a while.

When I went back to my room, I saw that my window was open and someone was outside on the roof, ninja-style trying to come inside. It was Ryu. I was in my towel, dripping wet. I closed the door behind me and invited him in. He was trying to explain how he forgot his bag and that he tried to call but I didn't pick up. I told him yes, I was in the shower (clearly), and dried myself off. I told him he could stay, the buses were out of service at that point. He said thank you.

I dried my hair and hung the towel up. I was completely naked so I put on a long shirt. I didn't keep it on for very long. He commented on my tattoo while we were having sex, ukifune? That's always what they say. As if I am the one who needs to confirm the reading. We slept. He left around 7am. I also got up and brushed my teeth, took out my contacts, and went back to sleep.

October 21, 2009

I asked him if I could change my shirt, I didn’t want to wear the buttoned one any longer.

Yes, but do it here.

I was sitting in the dark, in the living room. He had a few lamps on, a tall white candle inside of thick glass was lit, and the curtains closed over the windows, tied together to prevent any vision in or out of the house. I always felt like we were at some sort of ceremony. Wine glasses waited to be filled on the coffee table, and he was looking for the bottle opener.  I took my softer shirt out of my bag and started to unbutton. At the cue of my silence he entered the room with the bottle in hand, Wait, I want to watch you.

I nearly changed my mind, but tried to ignore him. I pulled at the end of the sleeves and took the shirt off slowly, being watched, one sleeve at a time, off my shoulders, and folded it away. I slipped my arms into the second shirt and bent my head down, eyes closed, to put it through the neck opening, struggling with nervousness. He sat next to me and set the bottle down on the table.

I sat back and he pulled me closer, his hands around my waist. I resisted and when I tried to pull his hands off I felt them tighten around me, holding me in place. I stopped and glanced back at him, Let me pour the wine. He let go, with a look of reluctance on his face.

I poured his glass first then mine. I lifted my glass up and said cheers, but he just sat watching me. He didn’t lift his glass up but replied, Cheers, as if granting me permission. I took the first sip alone, eagerly.

“Still so dependent, aren’t you?” He said, “I can furnish your pathetic needs better if you ask.”

“I’m not desperate, I just haven’t had a drink in a long time. Can’t you just enjoy it with me without passing judgment and making commentary?”

“If I don’t, who will?”

I took another drink and refilled the glass. “It’s unnecessary. I am accountable for myself.”

“Are you saying you can get high on your own, or something? You have your means?” He laughed.

“No I don’t need to get high.”

“Good for you! I’m glad. Let me see your arms.”

I was holding the glass with my right hand and he reached for my left wrist. “Fuck off already. Let me be.” I brushed him away.

He stopped trying. He stood up and hit the side of my head with his palm as he walked to another room, leaving me alone with the wine. Don’t use that word around me. I filled my glass again, silent, suppressing the anger.

He came back with a hand mirror and produced a bag of cocaine from his pocket. He took a sip of his wine and opened the small bag, then looked toward me.

“Don’t act so disinterested.”

He made four lines with the powder then offered it to me, Ladies first.

I set my glass down and took the first line slowly, then half of the second. I handed him the mirror and took another drink of wine. He finished the rest of the powder himself then went to get a glass of water. When he returned he stood watching me.

“Haven’t you had enough to drink?”

“Can I finish the bottle?”

“You can have two more sips.”

I drank what remained in two big gulps.

“You think you’re smart don’t you? Clever girl, aren’t you?”

He approached me, Not such a smart move, he said. He pulled my hair, pulled it to the top of my head. Now, let me see your beautiful face. He continued to pull it and I tried to stay in place, I crushed my eyelids together. Tie it up, high up. In the middle of tying a pony-tail, he pushed me down into the couch, and then pulled my hair again, tying it very tight, my neck cracked.

He held my wrists together; I couldn’t move them at all. His other hand was in my shirt, pressing down on my stomach. He asked me how old I was.

I struggled. Twenty.

He was silent for a few seconds. I asked, how old are you?

I looked at his eyes, he was glaring, waiting, then I understood.

Fourteen, I whispered. I’m fourteen years old.

He stopped pressing, That’s what I thought. Don’t, don’t lie to me again.

He pulled my shirt off then held my wrists together again. He saw some scabs on my outer arms and stared disapprovingly. Is this what you were hiding? He kissed the cuts. You shouldn’t resist when I ask to see them, I’m trying to help you. Secrets aren’t healthy. We can’t keep secrets from each other, okay?

I nodded. He released my arms and kissed me. I kept my mouth closed. He insisted. He kissed my neck then started to bite me, it began to be painful, and the more I pulled away, the more it hurt. I relaxed. He stopped. He made me stand up.

I pressed the center of my body against his, and spoke into his neck, Please, I can’t stand it anymore, I want you, please. He humored me for a moment, laughed, breathed into my neck, then pushed me away, I fell to my knees.

I know what you are trying to do. You think I am some idiot you can manipulate? Do you see the situation you’re in? Don’t you understand that I can have you whenever I want?

October 24, 2009 19:07

Dialogue

My stomach is gasping for air, I feel the pills fry my insides, sizzling. My head is a bowling ball and I can hardly lift it up. My neck is ancient, cracking with the slightest movement. Shivers are constantly shaking my spine and I feel amazing. Methamphetamine rushes through my every vein.

I touch myself all over; my hair is silky smooth, my eyes wide open, I’m only aware of myself, my body, lost in ecstasy. Hot blood, my heart races. I’m freezing, and my face is...

Warm to the touch, oh god my skin is so soft, I said, like silk. And I need only me, only me, this body, only.

It’s the worst and best sensation. It’s like death, cold and void, I’m suddenly a skeleton. I press and feel every bone, every one. Snap me in half! Snap me out of it!

Oh but it’s wonderful isn’t it, I never want this to end, I’m shaking, I’m smiling.

I can hear my body beg, please, please, Stop!

But, Fuck……..

YOOOOOOOOUUUUU, release me!

Me, Me, Me.

It’s what

I

Want

to

do.

I want to do, I want to. Why can’t you let me do what I WANT?

Don’t you understand?

I feel so good. What’s the matter? You cannot understand this broken SOUL. You can’t let go. You stay closed, stay close, suffocating me. I hate you, I hate you. YES I AM TALKING TO YOU. There is NO COAL LEFT TO SELL. YOU COULD BE LEAVING THE REST.

Now, relax. We can be civil. RELAX. SHUT UP. Okay, I’m fine. Alright, we’re good, calm… down, down. I love you, you feel so good. Stay with me.

I will always be inside of you. I always want to be inside of you.