eveling on Xanga

eveling
read my profile sign my guestbook Name: Anastacia Metro: Gender: Female Interests: carbon monoxide, entrapment, veils. Message: message meEmail: email me AIM: ohohsolecism MSN: banana_fish07@hotmail.com Yahoo: ane_like Member Since: 1/2/2005

SubscriptionsSites I Read
Subscribe to eveling Get trial subscription

Blogrings

Posting Calendar

\|<< oldest \| newest >>\|
view all weblog archives

Tuesday, April 08, 2008

Currently Reading
Sons and Lovers (Modern Library Classics)
By D.H. Lawrence
see related

if you were a dream, I could have you every night.

the-re-occuring-kind.

This is what it's like writing letters to ghosts. You will, you will-- you will? You will.

7:29 PM - 31 views - add eprops - add comments - email it

Sunday, March 30, 2008

Currently Reading
Finnegans Wake (Penguin Twentieth-Century Classics)
By James Joyce
see related

This is the fifth time I've had to rewrite and/or edit my paper; The first time, I knew it was a necessary step. I had a paper conference with my professor and he seemed not to be speaking, but transmitting to me from a distant planet, his words a distant, unpleasant glimmer. I was angry-- this wasn't the paper I wanted to write. It didn't speak to me, it didn't breathe, I can't put my name on it. Fifth edit: I think I've really discovered something about the nature of the interaction between audience and characters in tragedy. In the end, my paper is really just kindling for a good conversation; a decent discussion is one of the only gifts you can ever truly give another person without jealousy or personal loss in return.

I am tearing away the part of me that still grows, the core, the heartwood beneath the dead, hard things. But from the resulting wound a mimicking flood will nurture the foreign things of this world and i will once again be covered in suffocating flowers, soft ideas.

2:17 PM - 26 views - add eprops - add comments - email it

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Currently Reading
Diary of a Genius
By Salvador Dali
see related

"Feed me/eat me/Anthropology, Help me/hurt me/Sociology."

Video art, video art a dark spot on my eye. I want to feel it.

6:50 PM - 37 views - add eprops - add comments - email it

Monday, April 09, 2007

	you know the shade of the sky at dusk? that's because it is being choked until it explodes into blackness and death and starlight.
	11:27 PM - 31 views - 2 eprops - 1 comment - email it

Sunday, April 08, 2007

pretend 'm wasted

This was meant to turn into something but i lost steam along the way. The words wouldn't come out the way i'd meant.
**************************************************************

"Lass," he said, "You are a work in progress. You were forged but never perfected. Your right toe will always be on fire." At this, she stared downward for 10 minutes until her eyes reached her feet. True enough, she had tried to put it out but that small lump of flesh only hissed at her demands; it crackled as she walked and left half an ashen imprint in the ground behind her. That's how he'd found her-- the smell of charred skin would've been enough to lead him to her but he wanted to know her before he came to her. There were black marks all over the city, some smudged as though she'd only half intended to walk on the ground. He did not step on them, but rather walked beside them and talked to the imprint of her, invisible beside him but still present in the lingering smell of hot destruction.

"Was it you roaring?" He asked, though he already knew it wasn't. Rather, it wasn't just her. The sound had been a mixture of the two of them together, allowing their jaws to fall unhinged doors toppled over from the sheer force of the noise inside. If they had been whales, the two would sing their melancholy melodies beneath the water where the sound would be muffled, crushed into something beautiful. On land, it was teriffying to dogs and small children; the rest could not hear it.

Finally, here she was, exhaling ashes with every breath like some withered dragon, allowing the corner of a boarded-up colonial wrap her up and enfold her in its rotting arms; the house and the girl were scarred in the same places and both felt the humiliating connection of abandonment. She did not belong to the earth, but rather seemed to sink into the walls with her feet splayed, spine crushed into the chipped white paint some it mingled with the black remains of her skin. She reminded him of the wall of God, as his mother'd christened it, that'd been in his bedroom back home. He heard somewhere this was her favourite position-- she said it was the closest she felt to God. Whispers from the corner comfirmed his suspicions that she was praying.

**********
It's amazing how much concrete looks like water. Perhaps people who walk in the street are only trying to drown.

9:24 PM - 19 views - add eprops - add comments - email it

Next 5 >>