More Misc. snippets. Mainly 2005

"Those spontaneously contagious moments of mutual enraptured discovery"

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"Sometimes beautiful things can choke me. Its a catch in the throat, and I have to close my eyes against it. Every small thing I've tried to create has failed, because I want to be creating worlds. Then I remember- the small things are worlds unto themselves. And that we are creating worlds, we are creating worlds, we are, we are, we are.."
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excerpt from the david & hennesy short story

"and I said, without looking into your eyes, without watching you laugh without sex or sentimentality, I said "I love you". And I've said it before, and yes, I've said it before and meant it. But last night.. love had never.. tasted? that way before. The shape of the words felt different- singular- in my mouth. Like I'd lost a tooth, or my tongue, or a lot of blood. Dizzy feeling. I felt my eyes saying it, felt my eyes popping with the heft of saying it. I felt my fingers tracing it into your flesh. I felt it in my joints, in the way my hips moved as I leaned against the stove- I felt it in every pore of my skin. And it was the first time every iota of my body worked in tandem towards an object outside of my skin. You were the external I truly craved to have internalized."

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"I miss those versions of us we can't speak aloud about"

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"I crave the vulnerability brought by (carried on the back of) fearlessness"

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"I have separated the world into two truths. One seen, one imagined. In both truths, we are still great people. The only difference is acknowledgment. In one world, it floats"

misc snippets: 1999-present

"We will teach and comfort and kill and love one another for the next million lifetimes, deal? Deal. Always."


"i like my brand of sadness, it will never ruin the world"

"We made hearts with our hands, with our flesh, with our fingers. AND WE ARE FINDING THINGS OUT.

Look for the strivers.

Our whole lives have been spent in searching. In silliness, in sullen days, in studious contemplation of things overlooked or, more often, best left forgotten. BUT WE ARE FINDING THINGS OUT. On the bus, on our skin, in the bath, in the bar, on the street, in the cracks, in the places in between."

more zach-era compositions and fragments

"We are failed people Zachary, and there is nothing noble or disgusting in that. There are no pretty people in this world, just beautiful and disastrous actions and hearts. We are pumping acid through our veins and designing love. And we are making mistakes."
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"I think about the lies we told, and the truths buried beneath them. I think about flesh, and about coldness, and about the fine threads and seams on a mattress. I think about romance, and friendship, and the quiet love that lies in between the two. I think about the dirt, and your bones, and if i would recognize your face if half gone to the woods. I’d like to think it was green there, and so dense that you felt safely smothered. I’d like to think too, sometimes, that it was barren, snow filled, and so chilling that your visible breath on the air truly felt like it was your soul escaping, and that it was something you could catch, and that it was something you could lose. Other times I like to think of myself, driving up a dirt road, towards a far away vision of you, dust clouded, looking up from some work...and, as you move to stand, the sunlight shifts around you, and becomes like a beacon, and blinds me"

recovered floppy disc: 2003? I think this was after the fateful Canada trip.

(only partial text taken from remaining document, entitled "we scream echoes"


"And I meant to sit down tonight and
write you something perfect
to leave a piece of me behind-
more a present than
a plea, more a blessing than
a curse, but I am
forever at odds with my
better nature and
you,
you speak to that side of me I
clamor to keep quiet.

So instead
I’ll just come into your life
and ruin it completely, drive you
all the way crazy, not
leave you half mad, push you
over the edge, not
talk you down from it- was there ever any other
option (there was never another option) was there ever a
better gift,
than the best of me,
dredged up,
from the bottom?"

recovered floppy disc: 2000? Makes me think it was from the Cherry St Place

"Eulogy for Him


And who knows
If things were supposed to be like this
I’ve left million times
And I’ve never found a thing

You can spend your whole life searching for something,
And never find it, never find a glimpse of it.

I think there must be purity in that.

(and maybe it was meant to explode)

things just aren’t meant to exist in the space between lies and memories….
Ears open and close, sympathetic, always so eager to feel…but who knows if they are really there anyways….

And who knows? Maybe things were supposed to end like this. Jangle jangle jangle.
Lets call it the human condition and move on alone.
Maybe sanctified and with dignity.

Or not."

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.

The Day After..turning 23

from the original "love letters" blog:

so yeah. the day after.
the day after...

-turning 23. a heavy number. lots of signifigance. i'm sure.
-getting so drunk that when i finally made it to the bar, i was only allowed to drink sprite.
-locking all our friends out of the house, getting dressed up, and booty dancing alone with tanya to outkast for 45 minutes in the living room, while everyone partied next door. the highlight of the evening.
-having an emotional breakdown, which forced tanya to spend over an hour watching me cry hysterically.
-walking in on rick and kristen's mutual emotional breakdown, which just reset my breakdown, but luckily for all, mine was louder, so they ditched their arguing to comfort me with a big group hug and pillow fight punching battle.
-no sex.
-a promised pancake breakfast that i ended up sleeping through (will, you rock)
- multiple awesome songs left on my awnsering machine from awesome friends (picture blake singing along to the little mermaid soundtrack and a strange happy birthday composition from will, ryann and jonah)
-unexpected visits from albin (from the bay area) and david (recently exiled to wyoming)and a surprise call from my old friend kim.
-a coconut birthday cake, 2 bottles of strawberry pink champagne, and a huge package of those exploding confetti deals from my mama.
-many varied realizations, some of which are
- my friends are awesome, imperfect, and for some reason,
insist on loving me till their amazing hearts burst
- i miss everyone so much, even thou i am a total recluse.
- i am making some bad life choices
- yet not everything is hopeless
- my mom knows me way better than i ever could imagine
- crying in bars is just as depressing as it is in the
movies.
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today, i slept, watched bad movies, drank too much soda, and spent quality time with dan doing our nails as we watched pirates of the caribeen. then my uterus decided to dance its little dance of pain and nausea over my already racked with aches body. yippee. another "get-out-of-baby-free" card! i love my version of monopoly.

ah. the day after.
happy new years. and happy fucking birthday, 2004.

From January, 2004 (4 years ago?)

from the original "love letters" blog:

the cold cuts with precision as i
walk the same streets you prowl, night riding hard on my back, i let
the blocks meld together into complete cohesion.
look- i am not stumbling your city unawares- this is
my testament, i have found what calls you out -look- i have made it my own.
see how my hands are raw and shaking? skin scraped along the ruined remnants of your art, your
heart is jumbled, compressed tight between the breaks in the concrete
this is me, romanticizing your hardened exterior -look-
i too can speak the restless language of the transitional urban
ebb and flow, the dialect of these streets, it is now
a native tongue. look- i have discovered your world,
memorized and mimed its customs until my movements mocked with the
eloquent grace of "practice", until my flesh was scarred enough to "blend".
look into these eyes- if you could read the fluxuations, the differing degrees of dilation, what stories would these pupils tell? that i am here, now. that you are caught, paused, between these thighs, and that i can
hold tight enough to break you, i can
hold tight enough to let you go (as if you were never here) is the distance supposed to dare me? do you think you are a place i have never traveled to before? that these are plains i've never traversed?
look- my footsteps here are permanent, pounded into pavement, etched into stone with the weight of repetition, of redemption, of wrong doings -look-
it is a heavy heart that could carve such paths as these.

so how do i say this? send out transmissions to cover the sky?
scrawl it onto city walls? shout in tongues at faces turned away?
secrete coded messages out of sweat drenched skin?
and even then,
would my essence be strong enough to speak? to say
that all i ever needed was that tiny pause, somewhere between
in and ex hale
that i never intended to be something worth running from
that i feel the beat and pulse of these nights you claim
that i know what it is to stalk words across still landscapes
that i never expected love to be anything more than 4 letters, haphazardly linked together, in order to define a lack
that i am here, now, called out by the same
rhythm of passion, the same delusion and definition of self,
that calls you away.

look- cant you see those shadows, thrown up against the bricks,
those figures moving, silent and steady, illuminated through a haze
of smog and expectation?
they are walking away from the critical point of a chance convergence.
did you ever expect them to accomplish anything more than
good bye?

i did.
perhaps that was the simplest
mistake to make.

From February, 2004

from the original "love letters" blog:

my weekend is full of tense situations. every event i need to attend will be populated with my paramours, past and present, only no one knows who the others are. i will be standing in the middle of a swaying party, drinking too much, able to turn in a tight circle and know the width of every penis in the near vicinity. is that shameful? because i dont feel ashamed. just tired of peopleness, of conflicting emotions, slightly hostile, needing to break something. these are the days when i start fights for less than nothing, for the time it takes, for the sheer distraction. if i was anywhere near intelligent, i would hie myself off to an undisclosed location and keep my mouth under close surveillance. more likely, i will get more than slightly intoxicated, tell the world to fuck off, wax poetical about exploding to cover the sky, and walk home alone through the bad part of town, risking it, risking it, risking it.

From March, 2005

from the original "love letters" blog:

d) does anyone else think of people as landscapes? Or perhaps more appropriately, as land masses? I saw an old picture of an ex the other day, and I realized that all the language running through my brain was the language of map-makers and geologists. Like they were a physical place I had traveled to, rather than someone I had known. I was intrigued and then instantly impressed. Because I am a bastard who will treat you like a continent.