arachnequarius

outside my window, a world of white ... yup, it snowed! its brrrr cold, but it is very pretty. there is a lake type thing behind my apt which is surrounded by trees, and right now everything is white. lovely.

school stuff is taking shape, but more on that later. i am going to follow the verse trend and put something up. basically, first is a fragment thought from one of my class journal last semester. it is part of a response to an author, but its eerily predictive of finding you wonderful, beloved peeps. following that is an old poem of mine. all of this relates to my thesis work, but that explanation is long ... so i will put this up and just see what you think,

JOURNAL:
So, to earths rotation we are all in motion and that motion produces energy and heat which contributes to making the world spin. Most of us live in little spinning worlds and the earth may as well be just our microcosm. But we are all within and without each other, touching each other, intersecting in parts of our wholeness. The people I want to meet deliberately interrupt their superficial wholeness (broken skin/bodies/narratives) in order to achieve a deeper, less corporeal wholeness. These connections are in some ways unconscious to us, I believe, or else fewer people would feel alone. This is just the edge of an idea that I cant properly articulate at this point except to say that there are communities who dont know they are communities because their story is unfolding in solitude. I want to interrupt that quiet. That quiet unquiet.

JOURNAL:
BLACK, NOT BLANK. In a writing/death you still exists, albeit in the negative space that we, in our judeo-christian docility, so often oppose to white. There is a safety in this BLACK space that cannot exist in a blank place - it is a space of alterity of non/existence and knowingness and surviving. Similarly, in the trauma/death you go into a BLACK, not blank space within the you of you, and remain until you are ready to come out. In writing on that body you inscribe on the BLACK, not blank. Those marks, those pictures, that metal - these are an excess of surviving.

tattoos
markers of time

she flinches when she sees them
dont they hurt
how could you do it
marring flesh like a fiction
didnt it hurt

compared to what

her eyes stop short
its not her fault

i only feel the pain
that dulls memory
even when i get it
the pictures dont erase
invisible violence
crossing my face

the biting whine
of skin against steel
a burning blister
of acid against skin
the screaming whisper
of skin against skin

its all so relative

this time i paid for the pain
to hold me down
in colors i use
purple and yellow
black and blue
the colors of a symmetrical bruise

a permanent impression of who
i am
when
i choose

unseen scars pinned on me
during years of service
decorate memory
unruly
they hurt out of sequence
tripped over like triggers

shot through the surface
this skin flinch carries me
like transcendent beauty
nailed by the electric pulse of ink
in lightening that only drives the hypocrite to madness
while setting the whore free

friction cools the blood
hot with furious years
of serving as muse
to an evil that designs without beauty
those masters
without art

**credit to decerteau for introducing me to the black, not blank concept.

heavy, babies. off until later. beyond love to you all.