December 2009
SOMEONE PLEASE TAKE ME TO SEE THIS!
I wish I could live in my boyfriend's bed because...
Truthfully, I really just feel like lying in bed, cuddled in my blankets.
I am so boring.
Why am I so paranoid?
Snowglobe
It’s a small world. And it’s ours. We are buried in the snow. We wait and smile and play until violent storms break apart our skies, force us into hiding. But there is nowhere to go. No place to hide. The trees have all frozen, petrified wood, needles razor sharp and deathly white. And when the last flake settles and the winds have slowed and the sky clears we come out of hiding. We...
But My Mind Was Drinking Moonlight And Thoughts of...
sipped on moonlight and snow flakes danced in my hair traced my collarbone and kissed each other feet buried frozen in the ice cotton shirt, bare feet, bare legs threw my arms out to catch the clouds silver blankets racing to the poles shielding a moon goddess from mortal view or just dust and condensation hair flying, skin crying from threatening frostbite but my mind was drinking moonlight...
"I think she knows what you did last summer."
HAHAHAHAHAHA THIS MOVIE SUCKS. LEIGHTON, BETTER CHOICES NEXT TIME.
Though you make a lot more money than I do, so………….
Dear Leighton Meester,
The Haunting of Sorority Row is really an awful movie. But you rule so much that it almost could cancel it out.
Love,
Erin
I just want to be left alone and I want people to shut up and stop making noise and I’m in a jdklasdjklasdjkla mood and it’s completely stupid and I don’t want to start crying but I might which would be even more stupid and blahhhhhhhhhht.
I'm using one of my bigbig canvases today.
=D
How Is It That the Snow
How is it that the snow amplifies the silence, slathers the black bark on limbs, heaps along the brush rows?
Some deer have stood on their hind legs to pull the berries down. Now they are ghosts along the path, snow flecked with red wine stains.
This silence in the timbers. A woodpecker on one of the trees taps out its story, stopping now and then in the lapse of one white moment into another.
...
SOMEONE TELL ME WHERE TO TAKE A GLASSBLOWING CLASS
THAT ISN’T IN BROOKLYN BECAUSE IT SURE SEEMS LIKE THAT’S THE ONLY PLACE I CAN GO.
CAUSE I DON’T WANT TO MAKE BEADS, THANKS.
Though I guess maybe I should start there before I progress onto actual, rad things.
Anyway, I really want to take a glassblowing class, and the place on Rookwood in the city is kinda meh with their classes, but they do have open torch nights, which...
A Glass of Water
triciazion:
Cats. Cats everywhere. Climbing on the furniture and mewing at my feet and brushing against my legs covering me in their long, silky hairs. Thanks, but no thanks. Didn’t I mention to her that I was allergic to cats? Too late now, since my tongue’s swelling, choking on the air because it’s saturated with cat hair. She’s got pictures of cats in sweaters on her walls like some sort of...
You stare at your hands. They shake. The fingers twitch. You clutch at your mug; you inherited it, chipped as it is, from your sister, who insisted that you take something of Mom’s before she threw it all out. You had way too much coffee, but you can’t stop yourself from pouring more. Black gold, you’ve heard it called. What used to be a euphemism for oil, now a title for the sludge you can’t brew...
I am fulfilled.
And it is beautiful.
:D
sexmusic:
catch and release // silversun...
I am playing around with second person narrative.
triciazion:
(via bigemptybluesky)
You realize second person narrative is a bizarre method of writing. You approach a door.You unlock this door with the key of imagination. Beyond it is another dimension - a dimension of sound, a dimension of sight, a dimension of mind. You’re moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas. You’ve just crossed over into the Twilight Zone.
...
I am playing around with second person narrative.
I am going to paint today. :D
musicforyourcoffee:
Billy Mack – Christmas is...
bitchville:
Snoop Dogg - Santa Claus Goes...
It’s like a slap in the goddamn face. Every time. It’s like the same hard flat sound, hand on cheek, skin on bone. Angry and red and distinctly your handprint. The prints match, you see. And whether you meant it or not, whether you knew it or not, I still have to answer the questions.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Sound familiar?
It's not pots de creme if you don't put it in the...
It’s just pudding.
So stop pretending like it’s the same thing, cause it so isn’t!
