Misc. from 2003

Misc from the original "love letters" blog: drinking peppermint tea. its late on in the evening . trying to maintain the brief tranquility of the house by typing softly and turning off all the lights. the freeway roars in its expansiveness from across the street. the only clock in this room is 45 minutes fast. i've been living 45 steps ahead of the game all day, meaningless time travel. i am trying to relearn old concepts of communication. a language that exists without failed niceties, intoxicated lapses in judgment, meaningless laughter. i ash into a half full forgotten beer can and remind myself, once more once more, to quit smoking and wonder what my life will be like now that i've forsaken the bar. earlier, my roommate bought me a gatorade and we went walking as he tried to give me dating advice. "see tori, its all about uncomplicated enticement. unnecessary touching. casual,suggestive smiles. Putting the feeling out there and letting them come to you". but my patience for such things is thin. i often wish i could just skip the prelude and simply tumble into rhythm, passion, devotion, comfort. make the big jump from alone to involved in one fell swoop, rather than tight-rope walking my way from one emotional platform to the other. instant steadiness. arms i recognize with my eyes blurred, half awake and dream heavy. my roommate reminded me that if sex was what i was after, i could be having it ten times a day if i just put forth the effort. "People hook up all the time at bars, parties, whatever". oh but demanding me, i want that taste of fire to be constant and consistent, and i have my gaze locked like steel to one object on the horizon. i've lived the night to night life of ambiguity for over the last year. what i want now is foreign and awkward- someone to come home to. or i at least want the wanting of it. the writing of this makes me feel beyond the pale, depressing and emo. but i suppose its a common liberation-transferring my secret self onto this page, exposing my tender underbelly to all the electronic transmissions and eyes no longer my own.

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and these days, its hard to fall asleep, find myself bright and alone, 3 am rolls by the house feels like mine again, nothing moves, the air chills, its just a different version of the day, stillness encases your motion and you can finally hear the rain- it sounds like fingers drawing pictures, wet, on the window.

i find myself waiting for a knock at the door. someone to walk in, familiar and sure, sit down next to me, as if they have before, a stranger who knows the linear inequalities of my face, traces the invisible bruise of muscle and tendon stretched taunt below my skin, my hands shaking and terse. my name is a pattern on their lips, well worn, wishful, welcome, no longer discordant, they keep it close, next to their own. a symbolic symphony.

i no longer wish to bear the shame of creation, so selfish of me to keep three wombs warm, my heart my mind my body all breed life. i give birth to a thousand children, only to watch them die, encased in ink, upon this page. its all a variation on the ongoing theme- immortality, to breathe on in the world, to forgo extinction...

show to me whom it is you love and i will braid their passion into a rope, equal to the length of all you are.

"when you walk without a hand to hold, without someone to laugh with, it is a different sort of walk"
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me: yeah. i'm not about frontin'. i'm in touch with my inner "easy"
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and in other news...there is no other news. i just keep typing in order to fill the void that comes when its 5:40 am and i have no idea why i am still awake. awake and not caught up in the act of coitus, that is. being conscious for coitus would be entirely void less, i am 76% sure.
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in other news..
dear diary,
i cant find a middle ground.
i'm sleepy and its bath time.
love,
tori
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didnt things used to make sense?
it seems now,
hours just make days.
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i dressed up in my new clothes, fancy skirt and classy see-through top, to clean my room tonite at 1 am.
i smoked cigarettes and drank pink champagne as i scrubbed the bathtub and did my dishes.
then i typed for an hour and did my best Bukowski impression for frank (the rabbit).
this is really, REALLY, the life i lead.

i wrote porno while on break at work.
tomorrow, i am going to buy clothing that i will only wear for sexual mayhem and deviance.
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ah me, ah me.
the house is falling down around me. but as a new wall crumbles, another wall is being built back up. sadly, i just cannot take it anymore. really. dan and i have talked about getting our own place, because we are old farty farts who used to be punk rawk and cool, and now we like things clean and we grumble often about how "these kids just dont know anything".
but i have dreams of a really small apartment that i live in alone, and its a shit hole, and its me and franklin the rabbit and a new cat and the computer and lots of books. and the fridge only has condiments in it, and only like 10 people know where i live, and when they come over, they bring sex and cookies and we drink black label and smoke cigarettes while leaning precariously out the window and singing stupid songs about giving the cat a bath, and what the world would be like if it was all chocolate and sausages like in the movies.
and those frightening dreams are like little broken off pieces of heaven to my desolate, starving for love, soul.
so.

ah me, ah me.

i'm going to go smoke cigarettes in the bathtub, because it makes me feel like i'm in a french film. really. i have these little monologues i do. with accents and dramatic pauses and everything. its great.