HOLD ON TIGHT

HE SAID, MARIE, MARIE, HOLD ON TIGHT And when we were children, staying at the archduke's, My cousin's, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. ~ The Waste Land, "The Burial of The Dead", Eliot Friday, February 23, 2007 a general detachment, from love, from things. perhaps it comes from leaving singapore. when i think singapore, i think, the passion of people, emo spectacles, photographing fairies, sweltering humidity, storms, the smell of fermenting fruit in markets - pork lard, acrid fish, mangoes, flies, armpits - it stinks of death and sadness and incompletion, and life. the snow has come down, masking smells in new york. a part of me wants to stink, wants to smell like body odour, but the air is dry. so it is a different sort of incompletion, the incompletion of half-lives, half-perfected accents, a life half-buried in books, half-sleep (dear god, anything, but half-sleep), the half-memory of a vacuous half-kiss. my heart today, is half-empty, half-full, oh if it would threaten to spill. if i could be hysterical and longing, and exhausted from myself, then sleep, then wake. instead, half-melted snow. in the bed next to mine, two halves are resting beside each other, between their bodies is tension between two stanzas of a sonnet. and the little room is littered with hysterical clothes. and then, the general detachment. a general irritation at the way the sentences in my mind all end with irresolute commas posted by dawn # 8:44 AM Comments: Post a Comment << Home		[publishing] Publishers Weekly . Dystel & Goderich . New York Center for Independent Publishing . Association of American University Presses . Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators [people] clarisse . nurul . aunty zarina (ummi's bakery) . jeremy . pak . cyril . softblow . karen & kenny (booksactually) . eric . joel . [other loves] digitaljournalist . ballet dictionary . poetshouse . urbanwordnyc [me] dawn, singapore, new york city, ithaca. [yesterday] if the influence of the sunlight love and learning dear god.i beg you to help me sleep. flowers, and etc and the same black line that was drawn on you, was... a roomful of white gratefulness. Excuse me but can I be you for a whileMy dog won't... i carry myself in myself [archives] January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009

HE SAID, MARIE, MARIE, HOLD ON TIGHT

And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

~ The Waste Land, "The Burial of The Dead", Eliot

Friday, February 23, 2007

a general detachment, from love, from things. perhaps it comes from leaving singapore. when i think singapore, i think, the passion of people, emo spectacles, photographing fairies, sweltering humidity, storms, the smell of fermenting fruit in markets - pork lard, acrid fish, mangoes, flies, armpits - it stinks of death and sadness and incompletion, and life. the snow has come down, masking smells in new york. a part of me wants to stink, wants to smell like body odour, but the air is dry. so it is a different sort of incompletion, the incompletion of half-lives, half-perfected accents, a life half-buried in books, half-sleep (dear god, anything, but half-sleep), the half-memory of a vacuous half-kiss. my heart today, is half-empty, half-full, oh if it would threaten to spill. if i could be hysterical and longing, and exhausted from myself, then sleep, then wake. instead, half-melted snow. in the bed next to mine, two halves are resting beside each other, between their bodies is tension between two stanzas of a sonnet. and the little room is littered with hysterical clothes. and then, the general detachment. a general irritation at the way the sentences in my mind all end with irresolute commas

posted by dawn # 8:44 AM

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