love is kinda crazy with a spooky little girl like you

ladytron
You've got me girl on the run around run around
You've got me all around town
You've got me girl on the run around
And it's getting me down, getting me down

Lady if you want to find a lover
Then you look no further
For I'm gonna be your only

Searching at the start of the season
And my only reason
Is that I'll get to you
I'll find some way of connection
Hiding my intention
Then I'll move up close to you
I'll use you and I'll confuse you
And then I'll lose you
But still you won't suspect me
"venus in furs"



Hey little girl is your daddy home
Did he go away and leave you all alone
I got a bad desire
I'm on fire

Tell me now baby is he good to you
Can he do to you the things that I do
I can take you higher
...
Only you can cool my desire
springsteen


What's your name?
(What's your name?)
Who's your daddy?
(Who's your daddy? He rich?)
Is he rich like me?

Has he taken
(Has he taken)
Any time
(Any time to show)
To show you what you need to live?
zombies

"cinema de papa"
who ever said i needed your hand?
who ever said i was gonna be of use?
who ever said you know what it is that's
beating in my chest?
who ever said you got me all figured out?
who ever said i needed you trying to raise me up?
who ever said i needed you to teach me
a damn thing, loverboy.


: from my perpetual Punk Rock Professor, le Katherine. :

When she walks, the revolutions coming
In her hips, there's revolution
When she talks, I hear the revolution
In her kiss, I taste the revolution

Rebel Girl, Rebel Girl
Rebel Girl you are the queen of my world
Rebel Girl, Rebel Girl
I know I wanna take you home
I wanna try on your clothes


I won't play girl to your boy no more, sugaryes yeS yES YESSS Yes.

made wine from a lilac tree, put my heart in its recipe

The only way to really make it—anywhere—is to put every bit of your being into the thing that only you can provide. The only angle is the art that you choose, that only you can provide. And to do that, you have to be quiet for a long time and find out what you bring forth. You have to know what's in yourself—all your eccentricities, all your banalities, the full flavor of your woe and your joy. What does it look like? What does it feel like? What makes it different from everybody else's? It's totally subjective. You're just given the task of bringing it up.
Jeff Buckley


I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you,
And you must not be abased to the other.

Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not
even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue
to my bare-stript heart,
And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet.

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass
all the argument of the earth,
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women
my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love....
Dazzling and tremendous how quick the sun-rise would kill me,
If I could not now and always send sun-rise out of me.

We also ascend dazzling and tremendous as the sun,
We found our own O my soul in the calm and cool of the daybreak.

My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach,
With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes of worlds.

Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself,
It provokes me forever, it says sarcastically,
Walt you contain enough, why don't you let it out then?

Come now I will not be tantalized, you conceive too much of
articulation,
Do you not know O speech how the buds beneath you are folded?
Waiting in gloom, protected by frost,
The dirt receding before my prophetical screams,
I underlying causes to balance them at last,
My knowledge my live parts, it keeping tally with the meaning of all things,
Happiness, (which whoever hears me let him or her set out in search
of this day.)

My final merit I refuse you, I refuse putting from me what I really am,
Encompass worlds, but never try to encompass me,
I crowd your sleekest and best by simply looking toward you.

Writing and talk do not prove me,
I carry the plenum of proof and every thing else in my face,
With the hush of my lips I wholly confound the skeptic.
Walt Whitman



I think artmaking, is the pursuit of doubt. I know this because ever since I really flowed into the rabbit's nook-ish hole, I haven't been sure of a damn thing. Except of Love. And how much they and I exist for one another.

My music is like a lowdown dreamy bit of the psyche. It's part quagmire and part structure. The quagmire is important for things to grow in. Do you ever have one of those memories where you think you remember a taste or a feel of something, maybe an object, but the feeling is so bizarre and imperceptible that you just can't quite get a hold of it? It drives you crazy. That's my musical aesthetic, just this imperceptible fleeting memory.
Jeff



When I say "romantic," I mean a sensibility that sees everything, and has to express everything, and still doesn't know what the fuck it is, it hurts that bad. It just madly tries to speak whatever it feels, and that can mean vast things. That sort of mentality can turn a sun-kissed orange into a flaming meteorite, and make it sound like that in a song.
Jeff


http://www.wnyc.org/arts/articles/54050


I hate to feel the love between us die. But it's over.
Just hear this, and then I'll go....
"Last Goodbye"

and little man, little Lola....wants y o u

THE EUROPE OF THE WOMAN
Enormous room. Ophelia. Her heart is a clock.
OPHELIA [CHORUS/HAMLET]
I am Ophelia. She who the river could not hold. The woman on the gallows The woman
with the slashed arteries The woman with the overdose ON THE LIPS SNOW The
woman with the head in the gas-oven. Yesterday I stopped killing myself. I am alone
with my breasts my thighs my lap. I rip apart the instruments of my imprisonment the
Stool the Table the Bed. I destroy the battlefield that was my Home. I tear the doors off their hinges to let the wind and the cry of the World inside. I smash the Window. With my bleeding hands I tear the photographs of the men who I loved and who used me on the Bed on the Table on the Chair on the Floor. I set fire to my prison. I throw my clothes into the fire. I dig the clock which was my heart out of my breast. I go onto the street, clothed in my blood.
Heiner Mueller



Weird Beast (mad mad mad, you silly little girl)<<
Could I own a piece of you?
Just one to deny madness, delusion, hallucination—
So that some part can be mine
And I can still be haunted by you
(more strongly, maybe):
I want to linger on you
—what if you forget me?—
I would press my fragrance on your jutting collarbone
(for smoldering purposes)
So I could waft through your thought-dials
Could I stain your mind?
With something particularly winning
Cutting, so it scintillates
I might blur
To reflect what you’d need to see in me that’d make you like me
Best
It’s just a tired trance. A version.
And you don’t like her, anyway,
So what’s it gonna take? (“when will you finally understand?”)
Confused as to the reason for all the enthusiasm?
I’ve negotiated your frayed fringes, broken hinges
Before there could be Hesitation
Besides: I Love your Dark. I Love
your fear, your Weird, your limitation.
And I think I could make you safe to come alive.

Does it make you sad that I have written words for you that
You will never see?
I pity that there are pieces that you
miss, Every Time,
until it occurs to me: maybe the more simple answer is you’re just Unimpressed
In which case.
I think I’ll lie down for awhile to stop sleeping.
I fall and I fall and I fall and I don’t know where it leads
I wake up and don’t even know where to begin
They all look blank next to the one I clutch to for comparison
I could touch them and leave them with absolutely no reason, with perfect reasoning:
You bring me down.
But I wait for you
to hold my hand,
take a fucking stand,
graze my cheek again.
I will wear my heart on my sleeve, because I don’t know How Else.
And. (as if I needed further confirmation)
I must be crazy to be in love with you.
you, Oh. You.
it doesn’t change the truth at hand
Theansweris yesTheanswer is yesTheanswerhasalwaysbeen yes.



Oh dear. There she goes again!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CTKII4n3mX0
"Get a grip."


Did you know that Sartre, that great thinker, once referred to the "obscenity" of the "female sex is that of everything which ‘gapes open.’It is an appeal to being as all holes are.” Wow. The tight confines of enlightenment.


The Rabbit Catcher
It was a place of force—
The wind gagging my mouth with my own blown hair,
Tearing off my voice, and the sea
Blinding me with its lights, the lives of the dead
Unreeling in it, spreading like oil.

I tasted the malignity of the gorse,
Its black spikes,
The extreme unction of its yellow candle-flowers.
They had an efficiency, a great beauty,
And were extravagant, like torture.

There was only one place to get to.
Simmering, perfumed,
The paths narrowed into the hollow.
And the snares almost effaced themselves—
Zeros, shutting on nothing,

Set close, like birth pangs.
The absence of shrieks
Made a hole in the hot day, a vacancy.
The glassy light was a clear wall,
The thickets quiet.

I felt a still busyness, an intent.
I felt hands round a tea mug, dull, blunt,
Ringing the white china.
How they awaited him, those little deaths!
They waited like sweethearts. They excited him.

And we, too, had a relationship—
Tight wires between us,
Pegs too deep to uproot, and a mind like a ring
Sliding shut on some quick thing,
The constriction killing me also.
Sylvia

with cecilia, up in my bedroom

Ophelia
I
When the stars sleep in the calm black stream,
Like some great lily, pale Ophelia floats,
Slowly floats, wound in her veils like a dream.
--Half heard in the woods, halloos from distant throats.

A thousand years has sad Ophelia gone
Glimmering on the water, a phantom fair;
A thousand years her soft distracted song
Has waked the answering evening air.

The wind kisses her breasts and shakes
Her long veils lying softly on the stream;
The shivering willows weep upon her cheeks
Across her dreaming brows the rushes lean.

The wrinkled water lilies round her sigh;
And once she wakes a nest of sleeping things
And hears the tiny sound of frightened wings;
Mysterious music falls from the starry sky.
II
O pale Ophelia, beautiful as snow!
Yes, die, child, die, and drift away to sea!
For from the peaks of Norway cold winds blow
And whisper low of bitter liberty;

For a breath that moved your long heavy hair
Brought strange sounds to your wandering thoughts;
Your heart heard Nature singing everywhere,
In the sighs of trees and the whispering of night.

For the voice of seas, endless and immense,
Breaks your young breast, too human and too sweet;
For on an April morning a pale young prince,
Poor lunatic, sat wordless at your feet!

Sky! Love! Liberty! What a dream, poor young
Thing! You sank before him, snow before fire,
Your own great vision strangling your tongue,
Infinity flaring in your blue eye!
III
And the poet says that by starlight you came
To pick the flowers you loved so much, at night,
And he saw, wound in her veils like a dream,
Like some great lily, pale Ophelia float.
Rimbaud

I threw myself out of bed and ran away from the room that was growing around me like a web, seizing upon my imagination, gnawing around me like a web, seizing upon my imagination, gnawing into my memory so that I would forget in five minutes who I was and whom I loved.
Anais

Lady Lazarus
I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it-----

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?-------

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The Peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot ------
The big strip tease.
Gentleman , ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Come back in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart---
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair on my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
SYLVIA (o Sylvia)


‘God, it drives me mad to think what you would be like when everything falls away.…of falling…in darkness and knowing nothing.’
Henry Miller



Maybe I’ll Save You<<
Would you write me loveletters
From across great distances
On faded, crumbling paper of crushed lavender
Would you notice the weight of my smile
The melancholic shade of each eyelid
Would you hold out your hand
When I’ve fallen down when I’ve
Lost my way, my will—Would you know
When I’ve misplaced how to say I
Need you?
Would you take note of what I am, which
Is to say what I love, love?
Would you leave me lonely?
Would you let me fill you with my crackling
Fire
Would you trust me that I’d never burn you
On purpose?
Would you tell me I’m beautiful when I cry
Would you want me as the mother of your children?


One cannot escape from one’s own nature, although Henry said yesterday, ‘There are flaws in your goodness.’ Flaws. What a relief. Fissures. I may escape through them.
Anais


http://www.geographis.ch/~podouphis/Delaroche_martyre.jpg

and nobody knows but me

He That Loves A Rosy Cheek
He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires:
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind,
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combined,
Kindle never-dying fires:
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes.
Thomas Carew

His cheeks are perpetually rosy, suggestive, authentically or not, of modesty and sweetness.
If I kneel down to bring my ear close, I can hear it, it sounds literally pure, as if their lungs were filled with pristine weddinggown satin.
Julia Glass

‘When I write about you, I will have to write of you as an angel. I cannot put you on a bed.’
‘But I don’t behave like an angel. You know I don’t.’
‘I know, yes, I know. You’ve tired me out these past days. You’re a sensual angel, but you’re an angel just the same. Your sensuality doesn’t convince me.’
‘I’ll punish you for that,’ I said. ‘From now on I’ll behave like an angel.’
Anais

Pierre mumbled after a moment and, oddly enough, he blushed, which made him resemble a freshly fallen angel.
James Baldwin

Of course. Of course. You see it; you know.

What if I leave it for you to read (all in envelopes)....



for I carry away no secrets.
Anais

girl, you'll be a woman, soon

Oh, to sleep until I am whole again, to awaken free and light.
Anais


And so she exclaims: 'All my heart is singing with my longing for love.'
She is in love with love, but not as a mere adolescent,
not as a girl of seventeen, but as the embryonic artist that she is,
the one who will fecundate the world with her love,
the one who will cause suffering and strife because she loves too much...
Henry Miller


Quise cortar la flor
más tierna del rosal
pensando que de amor
no me podría pinchar
y mientras me pinchaba
me enseñó una cosa
...

1. a) of the color rose
b) having a pinkish usually healthy looking complexion: blooming
c) marked by blushes
2. characterized by or tending to promote optimism


y la deje caer
rompieron a sangrar
las llagas en mi piel
y con sus pétalos
me la curó mimosa
Mecano



if there are any heavens my mother will(all by herself)have
one. It will not be a pansy heaven nor
a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but
it will be a heaven of blackred roses

my father will be(deep like a rose
tall like a rose)

standing near my

(swaying over her
silent)
with eyes which are really petals and see

nothing with the face of a poet really which
is a flower and not a face with
hands
which whisper
This is my beloved my

(suddenly in sunlight

he will bow,

& the whole garden will bow)
ee cummings



I have been sweetly asleep for
a few centuries,and I am
erupting without warning.
Anais

please let me get what i want

Apparently, according to Grace Slick, makin it with The Lizard King was like

"making love to a floating art form with eyes"

which is, oh, peut-etre...the most cacophonously wondrous description you could

imagine resulting from that combustion. It's a wonder he even needed anyone to light his fire, strangeling.



I kiss his throat. When his throat shows in the open shirt I can't talk, desire moves me so. I whisper hoarsely in his ear 'I love you' three times in such a tone that he is frightened.
Anais

'You become a woman with me. I was almost terrified by it. You are not just thirty years old--you are a thousand years old'
Henry to Anais


par·ox·ysm
Etymology: Middle English paroxism, from Medieval Latin paroxysmus, from Greek paroxysmos, from paroxynein to stimulate, from para- + oxynein to provoke, from oxys sharp —oxygen
Date:
15th century
1 : a fit, attack, or sudden increase or recurrence of symptoms (as of a disease) :
2 : a sudden violent emotion or action : outburst
MerriamWebster


You are my center when I spin away, out of control.
Radiohead



HAVE ANOTHER CHERRY.
Jack Nicholson via Witches of Eastwick

come to my window

When I am laid
Am laid in earth
May my wrongs create
No trouble
No trouble
In thy breast.

Remember me!
But ah
forget my fate...
Remember me, Remember me
but ah
forget
my
fate.
Dido's Lament

Now, when we live with the same fervor, the same temperature, the same extravagance,
I am in bliss.
This is the life, the talk, these are the emotions which belong to me. I breathe freely now.
I am at home. I am myself.
Anais


Wake from your sleep,
the drying of your tears,
Today we escape, we escape.

Pack and get dressed
before your father hears us,
before all hell breaks loose.
Breathe, keep breathing, don't
lose your nerve.
Breathe, keep breathing,
I can't do this alone.
(Radiohead)

Is how one is loved always so important? Is it so imperative that one should be loved absolutely or greatly?
Anais

Obviously with love, absolutes are only hallucinations. But please, don't lose faith.
Who could stand dimness, placidity, in the one field where we should demand
reverence?
Why would you try to diminish the only living thing that is self-containing
in its luminescence?
Sometimes you have to hold your breath to make sure you won't
gasp?
Sometimes you bite your lip so you won't slip up, shriek?
Are you afraid of being enraptured with the resplendence of this moment?
Maybe some things are too good to be true--but maybe this is neither
good
nor what you've known as truth?

'And when you have waited-- has it made you sure?'
James Baldwin

and i try, o my God do i try, i try all the time

proud flesh
scarred flesh,
flesh healed from a wound,
said to grow back stronger--practically impervious to harm ...

there was a time I was already unharmable, but I wasn't as strong.


acceptance is a always a matter of choice, love always a matter of preference. If you wait until you meet absolute perfection before getting involved, you'll never love anyone and never do anything
...
obviously, compared to the concept, reality is always wrong; as soon as a concept is embodied, it becomes distorted
...
since they were strong enough to wrest me from death, perhaps they will know how to help me to live again. They will surely know.
Either one founders in apathy, or the earth becomes repeopled. I didn't founder.
Since my heart continues to beat, it will have to beat for something, for someone.
Since I'm not deaf, I'll once more hear people
calling to me.
de Beauvoir

I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am I am I am.
Plath



O. Hope.

i miss my beautiful friend

Yes, the thing that you prefer to all others,
you love,
and he was fonder of her than anything else in the world.
Simone de Beauvoir

It is terrifying for the turning of your world to depend upon someone else.
As far as I'm concerned, and the more closely entangled I become with the outside world,
loving someone else
is really the only enduring breath to live by--not that it is the only thing there is, but the
only real thing, despite its illusory skin.
It has been easy for you to call me naive; I do not deny cruelty and manipulation and sad separation between us--I do not deny how sad things are a lot of the time. It's that I want to hope.
And frankly, the only hope I still hold is tied up in love--tangled and diaphanous.

[[What is the thing you prefer to all else?]]


"Only that which is the other gives us fully unto ourselves."


There was no room in them for fear, for anguish; together, they were hoping.
de Beauvoir

and we laugh like soft, mad children

I was thinking that people have to believe you're crazy in order to take you seriously as an artist. If you're wandering the streets, talking in gibberish, nobody ever asks you to change anything about your art because there's no context for people to look at what you do.
Danger Mouse

DAMN, right?

and:
I guess I just look at talent as a very subjective thing. I mean, if you never tried playing an oboe, how do you know you're not the most talented oboe player ever? The point is that if you don't love it, then it doesn't matter. No matter how naturally gifted you are, it's your passion that's going to make you better and maybe touch some people.
There is no genius--there is only love.
(Danger)


Trust the fever.


But the dreamers of the day are dangerous people, for they dream with open eyes and make them come true.
TE Lawrence

Also slightly non sequitur:
To write a novel is to send a shy valentine to the world anonymously.
Jack Kerouac

And
"I wanna be contaminated by your light"--Katherine McBride (moi, aussi--AMEN)

well, i'm your Venus, i'm your Fire, at your desire

But Ruth replied:
Do not persuade me to leave you
or go back and not follow you.
For wherever you go, I will go,
and wherever you live, I will live;
Your people will be my people,
and your God will be my God.
Where you die, I will die,
and there I will be buried.
May the Lord do this to me,
and even more,
if anything but death
separates you and me.
The Big Book

We have both lost ourselves, but sometimes we reveal the most when we are least like ourselves. I am not trying to think anymore. I can't think when I am with you. You are like me, wishing for a perfect moment, but nothing too long imagined can be perfect in a wordly way. Neither one of us can say just the right thing. We are overwhelmed. Let us be overwhelmed. It is so lovely, so lovely.
Anais

Today I believe in the possibility of love. That is why I endeavor to trace its imperfections, its pervasions.
Frantz Fanon

Tell me a little story about what true love does mean.

if you can get it--let me show you how

"ballet of surreality and repetition"--ruminations

from "Fast Cars, Clean Bodies: Decolonization and the Reordering of French Culture ":
concept from Kristin Ross (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kristin_Ross): to target women (comercially speaking) is to hit at the core of civilization itself. hmmm.


from "le petit soldat":
"force is stronger than intelligence" I have a terrifying feeling that in many cases this might damn well be true.



in a scene from "The Battle of Algiers," women of Algeria are used as bomb placers by dressing like the mainstream and smoothly gliding past hardcore security. which only confirms my suspicions that sometimes
the least dangerous ones are really the most dangerous
it seems the ladies' delicate sensibilities combined with the guards' acute sensitivities result in
thunderous destruction. how wrong you can be.
during one scene a woman wearing intricate veils hides a gun and supplies an assasin with it at just the right time. why is it exactly that they didn't think she could very well
pull the trigger?


important notations:
"Let's try to be precise. The word 'torture' is not mentioned in our orders."
"We are soldiers. Our duty is to win."
"Human consideration only causes despair."
"Why are the Sartres always born on the other side?" (to news that Sartre was publishing against the war with Algeria)



I think we cannot let the indecipherable quality of our world alienate us from the humanity in each other. I think other people cannot be obstructions but we must be interested.

i know what i'm needin and i don't wanna waste more time

things missed about Manhattan:
stoops
smell of coffee
people not scrutinizing in the street
smiling at strangers (o relax not all the time)
unaffectedness
complex carbohydrates
people (mostly) picking up after themselves
collective comprehension of fast-walking
people not staring at one's face constantly
Freedom
gay men
sense of humor

strangers in the night

Of our elaborate plans, the end
Of everything that stands, the end
No safety or surprise, the end
I'll never look into your eyes...again
Can you picture what will be
So limitless and free
Desperately in need of some stranger's hand
In a desperate land
Lost in a Roman wilderness of pain
And all the children are insane
All the children are insane
Waiting for the summer rain, yeah



I don't want to fear you but there is so much to fear--can you really question my attempt at optimism?



Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow

Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
T.S. Eliot

she's long gone with her red shoes on gotta find another livin baby

r: Tell me a secret.
: How about you tell me one.
Wait, you're no fun, you can't:
you don't have any secrets.
r: Maybe that's my problem.


I don't think bloodreddark passion is separate from God. God gave us glorious bodies and all the kinds of things we can do with them and intensity and tremulousness and fragility and vulnerability and hunger and desire and hot breath and beating hearts and burning wills, humming molecules. And above all, passion.


I know Henry thinks I'm mad because I only want fever. I don't want objectivity. I don't want distance. I don't want to become detached.
Anais (take that, Impermeables)

besame en todos los lugares donde la luz no mira en las casas escondidas de mi cuerpo donde
viven los deseos que no han volado
como canciones desperdidas


Everything you know about me, I gave you.
Katherine McBride

but i'll repeat myself, at the risk of being crude

if you still want me, please forgive me, the crown of love has fallen from me
The Arcade Fire

Running Running as fast as we can
I really hope we make it/Do you think we'll make it?
Running Running keep holding my hand
So we don't get separated
No Doubt

if you won't write the story, I'll do it.

And this is why I am leaving
And this is why I cant see you no more
cause I dont want to be a bad woman and
I cant stand to see you to be a bad man

I will miss your heart so tender
I will love this love forever
Chan Marshall

maybe i'm a lonely man who's in the middle of something that he doesn't really understand

Sometimes all a woman's got is bein' a bitch.
Dolores Claiborne

Sometime's all a woman's got is her sense of humor.
Mama Quinn's version


the KM's contribution:
take it easy, baby, take it as it comes.
babyboy Jim


all I know is the keeper's the one to have a great big true
l a u g h with--
and it's not always true that the world laughs when you do, honey.
(but it is so that weepy ones are lonely)

la la la la la let's live for today

For Desire
Give me the strongest cheese, the one that stinks best;
and I want the good wine, the swirl in crystal
surrendering the bruised scent of blackberries,
or cherries, the rich spurt in the back
of the throat, the holding it there before swallowing.
Give me the love who yanks open the door
of his house and presses me to the wall
in the dim hallway, and keeps me there until I'm drenched
and shaking, whose kisses arrive by the boatload
and begin their delicious diaspora
through the cities and small towns of my body.
To hell with the saints, with martyrs
of my childhood meant to instruct me
in the power of endurance and faith,
to hell with the next world and its pallid angels
swooning and sighing like Victorian girls.
I want this world. I want to walk into
the ocean and feel it trying to drag me along
like I'm nothing but a broken bit of scratched glass,
and I want to resist it. I want to go
staggering and flailing my way
through the bars and back rooms,
through the gleaming hotels and weedy
lots of abandoned sunflowers and the parks
where dogs are left off their leashes
in spite of the signs, where they sniff each
other and roll together in the grass, I want to
lie down somewhere and suffer for love until
it nearly kills me, and then I want to get up again
and put on that little black dress and wait
for you, yes you, to come over here
and get down on your knees and tell me
just how fucking good I look
Kim Addonizio


reunite me with those who have a passion for passion.


‘As our bloods separate’

As our bloods separate the clock resumes,
I hear the wind again as our hearts quieten.
We were a ring: the clock ticked round us
For that time and the wind was deflected.

The clock pecks everything to the bone.
The wind enters through the broken eyes
Of houses and through their wide mouths
And scatters the ashes from the hearth.

Sleep. Do not let go my hand.
David Constantine


We were never meant to worry the way that people do
And I don't need to hurry as long as I'm with you
We'll take it nice and easy and use my simple plan
You'll be my lovin' woman, I'll be your lovin' man
We'll take the most from living, have pleasure while we can....
the grass roots (hippielove)

but before the night is through

"until you've crossed someone's lines, you ain't lived."

i guess i should've known from the way you parked your car sideways....

There was a little girl,
And she had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good
She was very, very good,
And when she was bad she was horrid.
One day she went upstairs,
When her parents, unawares,
In the kitchen were occupied with meals,
And she stood upon her head
In her little trundle-bed,
And then began hooraying with her heels.
Her mother heard the noise,
And she thought it was the boys
A-playing at a combat in the attic;
But when she climbed the stair,
And found Jemima there,
She took and she did spank her most emphatic.
H.W. Longfellow


So Im sitting at a bar in guadalajara
In walks a guy with a faraway look in his eyes...
He said: Ive got as powerful horse outside. Climb on the back, I'll
take you for a ride--I know a little place, we can get there for the break of day
I said: In These Shoes? No way, jose.
I said honey, lets stay right here

Then I met an englishman
O,
he said:
Wont you walk up and down my spine--It makes me feel strangely alive
I said: In These Shoes? I doubt you'd survive. I said
...honey, lets do it.
Kirsty Maccoll


…As though something that winds and chimes in a supernatural harmony is clicking and whirring inside of me…His Smell—oh, God, if I could I would wear your scent around my neck and carry it with me to take a piece of you wherever I go…whispered and delirious: Things I imagine while on my way to dreaming....

to take you in the sun - to promised lands - to show you everyone

…but what is proper to the visible is, we said, to be the surface of an inexhaustible depth: this is what makes it able to be open to visions other than our own. For the first time, the seeing that I am is for me really visible; for the first time I appear to myself completely turned inside out under my own eyes. Through the other body, I see that, in coupling with the flesh of the world, the body contributes more than it receives, adding to the world what that I see the treasure necessary for what the other body sees. For the first time, the body no longer couples itself up with the world, it clasps another body, applying itself to it, carefully with its whole extension, the body lost outside of the world and its goals, fascinated by the unique occupation of floating in Being with another life, of making itself the outside of its inside and the inside of its outside. And henceforth movement, touch, vision, applying themselves to the other and to themselves, return toward their source and in the patient and silent labor of desire, being the paradox of expression
Merleau-Ponty

Oh so don't pay no mind To my watering eye Must be something in the air
That I'm breathing Yes'n I try to ignore All this blood on the floor
It's just this heart on my sleeve that's a bleeding Oh mama don't walk away
You leave me here bereaving from the words so hard and plain
Saying the love that we had was just selfish and sad To see you now with him is just making me mad
Oh so kiss him again just to prove to me that you can and I will stand here and
burn in my skin
R. Lamontagne

you were the strange one<<
darkbeautiful creature
i sketch as I sleep
i was trying to unwrap you

i wanted to scream my fingers down your back,
((Gasp the touch no It’s Not Too Much))
tell you it’d be ok—

you don’t believe me.
Suck my blood
take me in
i’m falling into the
Curl of your lips’ softline
and it’s alright
that there’s no
other way i see no
other way

Crawltome followme
and I will keep your name
in a box in a
thudding cavern inside
inside my enclosed furled recess, where it’s safesafesafe

i will swim in your lifeline
((Do you hear my name in your blood?))

I will wait

wait with my eyes closed
i will feel along the wall
i’ll feel along the wall:

o sweet little darlin’

oh dreammaker, you heartbreaker

Holly Golightly: You know those days when you get the mean reds?
Paul Varjak: The mean reds, you mean like the blues?
Holly Golightly: No. The blues are because you're getting fat and maybe it's been raining too long, you're just sad that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?
Paul Varjak: Sure.
Holly Golightly : Well, when I get it the only thing that does any good is to jump in a cab and go to Tiffany's. Calms me down right away. The quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there. If I could find a real-life place that'd make me feel like Tiffany's, then - then I'd buy some furniture and give the cat a name!

thank God I found you.

said I don't wanna leave you lonely, you gotta make me change my mind

Ordinary life does not interest me. I seek only the high moments. I am in accord with the surrealists, searching for the marvelous.

When I look at the large green iron gate from my window it takes on the air of a prison gate. An unjust feeling, since I know I can leave the place whenever I want to, and since I know that human beings place upon an object, or a person, this responsibility of being the obstacle when the obstacle lies always within one's self.

You live in this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book, or you take a trip, or you talk with Richard, and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating...Some never awaken. They are like the people who go to sleep in the snow and never awaken. But I am no longer in danger because my home, my garden, my beautiful life do not lull me.

I enjoy the power of his writing, the ugly, destructive, fearless cathartic strength. This strange mixture of worship of life, enthusiasm, passionate interest in everything, energy, exuberance, laughter, and sudden destructive storms baffles me. Everything is blasted away: hypocrisy, fear, pettiness, falsity. It is an assertion of instinct....It is not madness. It is an effort to transcned the rigidities and the patterns made by the rational mind.

The extent of my innocence would be incredible to him.
Anais Nin


Loneliness is such a sad affair
And I can hardly wait
to be with you again
What to say
to make you come again,
Come back to me again
And play your sad guitar
L. Russel



What if I could never be what you thought?





Why should I care? But I do care. I care about everything.
(Anais)

does she like I do?

Oooh.
I like it when you're dead.
I like it when you kill me.


Modern Romance.

And if the snow buries my, my neighborhood

During the few days that Ingrid had lived with Rigaud in the Rue de Tilsitt it had been snowing in Paris, and they hadn't left the flat. Through the big windows in the salon they looked at the snow covering the Place and the avenues all around, and enveloping the city in a blanket of silence, softness and sleep.
...
I too would have liked to go away instead of going around in circles on the periphery of this town like someone who can no longer find any emergency exits. I so often have the same dream: I'm on the landing stage, waiting to take off, my water skis on my feet, I'm gripping the rope and waiting for the speedboat to move off and tow me over the water at top speed. But it doesn't move.
P. Modiano

They always ask if we're in the military;
we just get restless
we want for stimulation
we need a new start.

You climb out the chimney
and meet me in the middle,the middle of the town.
And since there's no one else around,we let our hair grow long
and forget all we used to know,
then our skin gets thicker
from living out in the snow.
Arcade Fire

I used to see a weeping willow, cryin' on his pillow

Me, I'm a part of your circle of friends
and we notice you don't come around
Me, I think it all depends on you
touching ground with us. But,

I quit. I give up. Nothing's good enough for

anybody else
it seems. And I quit. I give up. Nothing's good enough for anybody else it seems.
And being alone is the best way to be.
When I'm by myself it's the best way to be.
When I'm all alone it's the best way to be.
When I'm by myself nobody else can say...
Edie Brickell



I bet you could never tell
That I knew you didn't know me that well
It is my fault you see
You never learned that much from me
...
I bet your fortressed face
Belied your fort of lace
It is by the grace of me
You never learned what I could see
Fiona Apple

i do all my bad habits in private<<

prone to self destructive ten

dons- snap rip click-

like trying the same over & over though i

know it leads nowhere and it

doesn't matter atall if you find this

doubtful, I believe, which is

sufficient:

that much awareness drives a girl crazy.

less interested am I now in how many paintings I've

drained for you and

more shrieking-taloned-angry at how many

I have lost on myself.

I repeat: fuerzafuerzafuerza

but remain Skittered Scared Small, Sinking, Slowly

(i didn't want to be the perfect one but it was hard to stop trying, being that it was my very only and many times self-sung bedtime sonnet; my first word was "stuck" and it's time for the End of Indecision what a silly rhyme to go on continue keep repeating)

spend some time

not waitingwatching for me to fall

down, bump my head (and didn't get up in the

morning)

I at least know better now to have this

conversation with myself--not with you, you are

a ghost of even my most

savage dream and

yes,

I really do mean that.

you can't be trusted, you with your jilted

laugh that betrays your babyteeth:

I knew it.

just leave it all up to me

A little less conversation, a little more action please
All this aggravation aint satisfactioning me
A little more bite and a little less bark
A little less fight and a little more spark
Close your mouth and open up your heart and baby satisfy me
Satisfy me
.........
Come on baby Im tired of talking
Grab your coat and lets start walking
Come on, come onCome on, come onCome on, come on
Presley, baby

(you know what they say):
if you can't stand my fire, get outta my kitchen.

don't you remember you told me you loved me baby

"When I saw my wife again standing by the tracks as the train came in by the piled logs at the station, I wished I had died before I ever loved anyone but her.”
Hemingway

what
role
does
fate
p l a y
in
the way
your
life sways
or the way you
s w a y
it?

you know that i would be untrue, you know that i would be a liar

"I do not know; but I say that he who looks into my eyes for anything but
a perpetual question
will have to lose his sight,"
Frantz Fanon

"sweet"<<

once
you hung on my words
like i was lighting you from the inside,
infusing the--what?--of you that was cold.
you said "i wish you'd met me when i was better,"
("me, too," my body answered, "when i was warm.")
and so i held your little boy head,
wanting to nurse you back to your self,
thinking "how generous!"--of you, I meant--
but I was pretty lethargic myself, or at least
that's my excuse for not sensing
that with you there was always
something substantial
missing
and that it was wrong
that our moments of soft transcendence were
still not enough for you.
how could I have convinced myself that your
empty insinuations were
my responsibility
I may have been little-girl-frightened, but you--with all your
thoughtless lack of patience, with your"love"less Choice--are the one
mistaken.
(see, I've got this angry bit all played out)
until I Remember that once, one night when
I had no other place to spill my desperation
but to the sidewalk,
you listened to me. and Answered.

maybe the veracity of that one evening explains
why I go back to your image
and clutch at empty space, unable to ever
discern
what faint, indefinable part of me really loved
what ethereal, indecipherable part of you.
all (as usual) wasted contemplation:
Now
you are silent
when I speak to you.

and I hear that first night's confession: "sooner or later,
they find me disappointing"--
I told you before.
With me, you wouldn't have had to
worry.

mermaid in the bramble<<

I dreamt I could climb up your back
and sleep an entire year furrowed in your
branches,
toes in the warm blue-green,
arms thin baked loaves against the sand,
pursed rosebuds birthing regretlessness

swimming out the bedroom window once night falls
pregnant with overripe blueberries
and in that wind, not a single stir of restlessness;

it dies in the air between the sweet petal cups I trample
galloping over my sea of buttercup yellow
missioning my way to the woods: I feel bad—
I framed the forest for so many bad memories.

later I pay penance in a dress made of the fragile
life’s work of a spider’s brittle death
black soot under shell nails, digging with the
fever of long hidden paper Secret
I reach the bottom depth as something
patters, musically, where I remember they told me my heart
was, and
sure enough I come home run over rambles climb wooden porch
and find, fated friend:
whalebone wind chime having
given in to Lover,
(lovely Wind) and lying,
Broken.

and with its clunken shatter, now are free sleek sea creatures’ lost genealogies,
I hear their buried mournful wail diving through the
violet summerair
as I cry, returned and blissful, into my bedroom pillow/pretend I’ve done
no thing wrong.

salt water rushes slowly through my palms
as I sleep/in the night
and, woken, the soft morning light
bluely illuminates
the Ocean I’ve grown into—

with each tidal breath
it drowns all that I remember.

if you can forget, don't you worry bout me

let’s get lost


your voice – melting butter & honey on toast
Naked, warm as breakfast
your breasts the sea and your sweat as salty,
and as for the tang of that other taste!
whenever you look at me so young & soft, close up
or with eyes that know & mind ticking
I touch how it could be –
we blur
I come home in you
a book opens like a door at the top of the stairs
I hold you curled up like a cat
purring with warmth or woundedness
Or is it the other way round?

David Barnes (http://spokenwordparis.blogspot.com/)



and you should hear this read aloud

and her age stood still and she danced twice a night on Vaudeville

in French
the word for "smoke"
is feminine.

oh i love her for the first time in my life

((the latest from my Favorite))

[there is no title currently]
You’re good at names.
You call me things like eclipse
but I’ll accuse you of nothing. I’ll be
your hallucination. But

let me warn you:
I’ve got a pretty voice.

And since you’re always saying things
like the girl is innocent as a porcelain doll
at least snap me
like an eye to a rubber band. You’re

afraid. I’ve got
fingernails. And I can chew
the stems of roses like stained
cigarettes; count stories backwards
in my sleep.

I know. I’m a raindrop. A
sugar cube. And you’re always saying things

like want to dance? or
maybe smile? You think I’d shy from you
and the soft mouth of branches on the window.
Farryl Last

do you gaze at your doorstep and picture me there

yesterday
the backs of heads i saw,
i thought they were all yours.
every one.

also i walked fast
parallel to a boy i was sure was you.


i don't believe in ghosts! but i believe surely the ghost stories people tell.

if lovin' you is wrong, i don't wanna be right

Lumina Come and wrap around me
Lumina Take me through the snow

Eve took a train, eve took a train
Went to see her man
Melting inside, melting away
Like butter in the pan

Lumina Come and wrap around me
Lumina Take me through the snow

Eve took a fruit, eve picked a fruit
Juice ran down her chin
Babies will put things in their mouths
Never heard of sin

Lumina Open like the sea
Lumina Sing me in the dark

Eve had to ask, eve had to ask
What is wrong with this
Here is the place, now is the time
Let’s invent the kiss

Lumina Come and wrap around me
Lumina Come and wrap around me...
Joan Osborne

a kiss on the lips of an other

Curious how free a fellow or gal can feel to reveal (or at the very least allude to) the secret of the interior
when promised a closed door, or a mask and a dark room or the cover of night.
I recall finding

And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams-
(poe)

scrawled on the bathroom wall of a beloved haunt
and thinking, someone's walking around with that feeling and does
anybody know it.

never treats me sweet&gentle, the way he should...i got it bad, and that ain't good

When I'm good I'm very, very good, but when I'm bad, I'm better.
Mae West


When I'm good, I'm very, very good, but when I'm bad, I'm horrid.
(apparently) Gloria Sparrow

Sometimes its hard to be so good when the whole wide world is watching. Sometimes it's a pasttime you just can't stop playing out like a bigtime joke the world thinks it's got on you but you've really got on the world. Sometimes, you think, you're gonna take em by a big bad surprise when--bop!--they're not even payin attention don't even know it's comin'. Sometimes you think, whata buncha suckers to take a game laid down so easy-simple they don't even look for the trick, they all think they know what's what, who's who but they don't know a damn thing bout how the song really lays down darlin.

you gotta help me, baby, i can't do it all by myself

Compared with the reality which comes from being seen and heard, even the greatest forces of intimate life the passions of the heart, the thoughts of the mind, the delights of the senses lead to an uncertain, shadowy kind of existence unless and until they are transformed, deprivatized and deindividualized, as it were, into a shape of it them for public appearance. The most current of such transformations occurs in storytelling ...
Hannah Arendt, The Human Condition (1958: 50).
-->Jackson, Michael. Politics of Storytelling : Violence, Transgression and Intersubjectivity.

If any ambitious man have a fancy to revolutionize, at one effort, the universal world of human thought, human opinion, and human sentiment, the opportunity is his own—the road to immortal renown lies straight, open, and unencumbered before him. All that he has to do is to write and publish a very little book. Its title should be simple—a few plain words—"My Heart Laid Bare." But—this little book must be true to its title.-- Poe

just to reach you just to reach you just to reach you

"and every time I scratch my nails down someone's else's back
I hope you feel it--

Can you feel it?"







Fierce.

women seem wicked when you're unwanted, streets are uneven when you're down.

Last night i walked come from the cinematheque and in the middle of the street
there was a man on his knees, hands folded, head down, eyes closed.
I was stunned, so completely, and I walked by him.
I had nothing in me that knew what to do.
And my throat halted and tears came and I was suddenly flushed
cold
all down my arms all down my back.
And where did he go to sleep that night and does he always carry that same sign around
" j'ai faim " ?

And in my self righteous reaction did I feel as bereft as that man.

we're all a little mad, you know

the meaning of...

“‘Freedom’ cannot avoid combining, in a unity that has only its own generosity as an index, the values of impulse, chance, luck, the unforeseen, the decided, the game, the discovery, conclusion, dazzlement, syncope, courage, reflection, rupture, terror, suture, abandonment, hope, caprice, rigor, the arbitrary. Also: laughter, tears, scream, word, rapture, chill, shock, energy, sweetness….Freedom is also wild freedom, the freedom of indifference, the freedom of choice, availability, the free game, freedom of comportment, of air, of love, or of a free time where time begins again. It frees each of these possibilities, each of these notions of freedom, like so many freedoms of freedom—and it is freed from these. … In sum, these bursts are all the possible determinants of freedom to the extent that freedom expends itself in the withdrawal from every determination…there is no freedom without some drunkenness or dizziness, however slight.”
--Jean-Luc Nancy, Experience of Freedom

...
I read somewhere recently that freedom is (something akin to) “the absence of awareness of one’s physical body” which makes sense only in the ungraspable sense of an idea I comprehend but have not necessarily experienced.
In essence freedom, from this perspective, is a way of abandoning oneself—but only to oneself—not in the absorption of an other, not to another tense, not to imagining but to being in the truest sense because it is not conceived, it is not reflected upon, it exists: electric, ephemeral, explosive and transcendent.
And we can only know that this freedom even possesses the aforementioned characteristics because they are what we feebly associate with a kind of gap—a tremulous movement between that one can only ever look back on and never fully know— of which we have a kind of hallucinatory memory: it can never be recorded as it is happening or it wouldn’t actually be what we conceive it to be.
In this very elusiveness, therefore (because aren’t the most elusive things those which we cannot make manifest at our will simply by desiring them?), it becomes the prime commodity. Which is why you find the practice of emulating it: fumes inhaled, liquids imbibed, tricky sticky things injected and perpetually flowing through blood streams, and therein creating a contradictory and illusory “possession”—because in their physical reality and intentional onset, the objects’ ability to produce freedom from oneself is flawed: the release is internal, scientific, rooted in the physical. Dancing, sex, spiritual rapture, and even some kind of artificial flight, are madly-sought engagements since they are means to “lose oneself” momentarily—only to the pure exhilaration of being in and of oneself—as though one is able to cut ties to all physical manifestations of reality, and not only from the grounding earth, but from the containment of one’s mental landscape. Don’t we, ultimately, want to lose ourselves in order to unloose the finite constrictions of the mind and the things we think we know, that marry us to expectation? (Which, in being human, is inherently limited).
You might say, then, that where one expands the limits of one's being, therefore, one engages the possibility of merging oneself with the giant candle-light source of the divine infinite; by losing too much knowledge of ourselves we can therefore briefly, breathlessly, inundate and permeate ourselves with the flow of the world—and, because in that boundless moment we are lacking in awareness or intention, we are fully in it for that single instant.



So. I want to lose my mind to my body. And How. Forget that theory where’s that action.

La Vie, L'Amour

After the Movie
(Marie Howe)
My friend Michael and I are walking home arguing about the movie.
He says that he believes a person can love someone
and still be able to murder that person.

I say, No, that's not love. That's attachment.
Michael says, No, that's love. You can love someone, then come
to a day

when you're forced to think "it's him or me"
think "me" and kill him.

I say, Then it's not love anymore.
Michael says, It was love up to then though.

I say, Maybe we mean different things by the same word.
Michael says, Humans are complicated: love can exist
even in the murderous heart.

I say that what he might mean by love is desire.
Love is not a feeling, I say. And Michael says, Then what
is it?

We're walking along West 16th Street—a clear unclouded
night—and I hear my voice
repeating what I used to say to my husband: Love is action,
I used to say to him.

Simone Weil says that when you really love you are able to
look at someone you want to eat and not eat them.

Janis Joplin says, take another little piece of my heart now baby.

Meister Eckhardt says that as long as we love images we are
doomed to live in purgatory. Michael and I stand on the corner of 6th Avenue saying goodnight.

I can't drink enough of the tangerine spritzer I've just
bought—

again and again I bring the cold can to my mouth and suck
the stuff from the hole the flip top made.

What are you doing tomorrow? Michael says.
But what I think he's saying is "You are too strict. You
are a nun."

Then I think, Do I love Michael enough to allow him to think
these things of me even if he's not thinking them?

Above Manhattan, the moon wanes, and the sky turns clearer
and colder.
Although the days, after the solstice, have started to lengthen,

we both know the winter has only begun.



I think it's Levinas who talks about love as being this possessive grasping, this attempt at consumption of another person--another form of "being's move" to take in all that one does not comprehend of the Other and assimilate it--i.e. the other, unknown, perhaps unknowable person--into the self, as part of the self. Not the prettiest picture.
Is love ultimately selfish? I think most people probably imagine that one's best self exists in the state of loving another person (and experiencing reciprocation)--is this the projection that makes love so appealing?
Surely when we are loved--oh, when another person has chosen us, when we are worthy enough to be fully, unabashedly loved, then will we have somehow reached some new plane of existence? Some enlightenment? Will we then be content? Fulfilled? Happy?
How much should one person depend on another person as a resource of happiness? Is needing someone actually good for a person? Maybe it's a new kind--a different recess--of strength to surrender to the knowledge that we need, that we need to be loved, sometimes to be helped up when we fall, to be told that as we are, we are enough.
But if you cannot go to yourself to call forth this same exclamation to the universe, maybe that means something is missing.
Because it is awfully nonsensical, if you think about it, to think that people can complete one another successively--what with the constant collisions of desire and fracturing identity and (un)willingness to give of oneself.
To what extent can one ever truly give of oneself? (And still maintain one's self as separate from the thing loved?) I supposed we have to individually know whether or not we want to retain separateness in the midst of the absorption of love.

what is satisfaction? fulfillment? being in each moment?

Unsatisfied wishes are the driving power behind fantasies; every separate fantasy contains the fulfillment of a wish, and improves on unsatisfactory reality.
Freud ("The Relation of the Poet to Day-Dreaming)

Most of my life has been spent enriching as well as I could the long, long waiting for the great events which fill me now so deeply that I am overwhelmed. Now I understand the terrific restlessness, the tragic sense of failure, the deep discontent. I was waiting. This is the hour of expansion, of true living. All the rest was a preparation. Thirty years of anguished watchfulness. And now these are the days I lived for. And to be aware of this, so fully aware, this is what is almost humanly unbearable. Human beings cannot bear the knowledge of the future. To me, the knowledge of the present is just as dazzling. To be so acutely rich and to know it!"
Anais Nin ("Henry and June")

But this is literature--it isn't mine.

synonyms long, yearn, hanker, pine, hunger, thirst mean to have a strong desire for something. long implies a wishing with one's whole heart and often a striving to attain . yearn suggests an eager, restless, or painful longing . hanker suggests the uneasy promptings of unsatisfied appetite or desire . pine implies a languishing or a fruitless longing for what is impossible . hunger and thirst imply an insistent or impatient craving or a compelling need
MerriamWebster

the gypsies have left

"Christ you know the moon is full tonight
I’d like to run out wringing wet
and shake my hair loose under it
instead my nights stretch beneath this tent
balance balance got to keep
my wits and invent new tricks
to knock them dead
I am a tightrope walker
trapped in a carnival
they will never let me go. no.
I have a long-term bond. oh
balance balance I got to keep
and should you pass while I’m rehearsing
please don’t startle me
I’m not one to use a net
I might fall for you
I might give it all to you
and the crowds would bleed
I’ve been theirs for as long as I can remember
but Christ when the moon is full
I’d like to get the hell out of here
Step light like their angel
then shimmy like evil
And you sure look good to me
And you know I’m willing to come down for you…Save my circus soul"

P. S.

Patti used to release her poetry at St. Marks Church. When I went to one of the lastest nights of that same St. Marks Poetry Project, there was little else in the bare, bony church but a sense of chill. The few attendees were barely awake. Once upon a time things were exploding all over the place in that very area of the City--fragile capsules bursting just as they were unburied.

It seems New York's soul is asleep. Of her own volition--stubbornness or sleeping pills or maybe she drank herself to a mediocre-death.