À bout de souffle

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"We're not computers, Sebastian. We're physical."

Good Lord. I love Bladerunner. The first time I watched it I felt like a new myth had been created...

...I also felt momentarily homicidal towards Edward Olmos because I think I would have made a great Gaff -- adjust my birth date a couple of decades, a sex-change, acting school, all minor details when one considers that I, I could have GONE ON THE RECORD saying that most glorious line, "It's too bad she won't live. But then again who does?!"

Geez. Unjust, completely UNfair.

I think I've finally decided what to get for my tattoo. *beam* I THINK ("decided" yeah, sure...) I want to get Roy Batty's serial number on my (slightly inner) upper arm. Uncontrollable snorting laughter ensues.

Alright, intrepid biatches - if you haven't seen Bladerunner just bear with me. Roy Batty is my beeessttt friiieennddd!! *_*

No, but seriously. I love his character. The childish love, the hardness. The strength and vision of his mind...I even love his hate.
And if there was a film or book I could - at nineteen - reference it would be Bladerunner. It appeals to the punk-girl in me. Looking something like this *_*
are we?
On another topic, Amy Lockaby is like a scolded angel or something. Dead serious. She's fantastic.

an explination

i will be trying to blog here...as much as possible. the only "real" reason is because amy is still doing it...and i want to be on her "buddies" list again. ;)

on to other things.

a friend wrote to tell me that she noticed that I was hiding, and that she wanted to let me know she was thinking of me. I thought I would just write back and say 'thank you', but as it often happens when i get letters or lines beneath my fingertips, the truth comes out. The following is the main body of the reply i sent her. i thought it might be smart to share this with anyone who cares about me. thank you.

"no amount of pretending otherwise in public and to family and friends is going to take away the fact that my friend is dead, and freshly, and i have to deal with that as the public - and my family and friends - see fit. that is harder and hurts more than anyone (except maybe andrew) knows. because he was/is on the other side of the world, i am not allowed the same grief, it seems [another friend] said something to me on friday night that really, finally drove that point home. i carry it as best i know how and find that my love and compassion for the rest of the world has dimmed as a result. i try even harder, in an attempt to morally contradict my selfish anger, to be good and polite and helpful and understanding, and turn a little more into steel every day.
i still cry for Hans every day. there is a hole in the world where he was. i don't know how else to put it, but i miss him more than i've ever missed any living friend (sounds awful, right? but it's true...) even just dealing with the grief of that realization is a plateful... but that is life isn't it? all of that is/was to be expected, and i know i'll cope with it just like i have with everything else. the hard part is trying to pretend like things are still the same with the people around me, or that things even ok in any way. trying to pretend like i'm fine because it very much seems that this is what people expect of me. trying to gracefully understand and deal with people's insensitivity about it, trying to remember every *!$%&* day why i do that, knowing for sure, underneath it all that it's not really worth it - but it's my job. my heart has changed like metal in fire, and not for the good. i understand my own wickedness now better than i ever thought i could. i can only hope that i am looking at it from the opposite side of the mirror. i suppose only time will tell."
...

lots of scary things swimming under the surface. i tend to forget how phosphorescent my anger can burn. i do my best to contain the fire, but that's bad in a way too. i have been actively working on taking a more 'zen' perspective, and trying hard to be more kind and accepting, though i definitely feel less so. it seems like the only practical defense.
as for the scary swimmers, thank god i can deal with them here. i can be honest with SOMEone... anyone who cares to listen, in fact. what a blessing. and even if no one is listening, it still makes me feel like i've tried to do something to help myself, even if it's just put a message in a bottle and cast it out on the scary water.
i guess i need to remember that there are good things about phosphorous. it burns even in water, and it puts off a hell of a light.

no matter what you start with, it ends up being so much less

despite the smiley, sparkly happy-cheeky trying to be good me, i can never forget the razors' edge, the hanging thread – the huddled masses struggling to be quiet inside me.

sitting outside on my porch for a few minutes, a bright sunny spring day that almost seems unreal. i've been poring through my entire photo collection, culling, organizing and throwing away multiple kitchen garbage bags full of envelopes, photos, negatives and the past is on me like a rabid monkey right now.

the exterior world looks like an old photograph of another place, and only the blackbirds bitching in the tops of the trees remind me that this is in fact my reality. part of me feels good, seeing old beloved faces again, but there are photos of Diane, very sick... there are pictures of Gabe, and friends who i barely even remember... there are pictures of me that i barely even remember, and not because i was inebriated, but because i wasn't actually there. a part of me was, my face, my hands, my body, some section of my brain; but my soul, my whole self was in deep hiding, for many years of my life. bits of me took turns pretending to be all of me, all the time, and i'm not sure that a million photographs and two lifetimes worth of work could put me back together again, much less all the kings' horses and men...

one of the replicant** traits that hit home with me especially was the collecting of their precious photos. those photographs, worth risking their lives for, made their nonexistent pasts real. obviously, if there are pictures of something, it happened, yes? and i bet everyone has experienced the feeling of seeing a photo and realizing that you had forgotten that moment completely – but the photo brings instant recall, even down to smells and sounds...

a lot of my past is that way, more of a story to me than a memory. so much that surrounds each moment remembered – and each photo – is a morass of misery, selfishness, fear and true insanity. this multiplicity, this memory distance, this is the face of that illness. the good side is that seeing these pictures reminds me of how far i've pulled and dragged myself (not to mention how far i've been pulled, dragged and toted by others...) but that's also the bad side too. every to has a from, and despite even the most galactic distance of some memories, they never completely disappear.

i think that one of the ways we manage is by making the past into a story, one in which we are ultimately the heroes, and then living a life on our own as adults that is like a story too. A grand adventure story, with lots of exciting, interesting and odd characters and strange but compelling plot twists and turns. A story in which we ultimately prove that we are the heroes.

i know i must seem to think that i am the center of the universe... actually, i suppose that is true, i do. but i only believe that i am the center of mine. i assume and hope that each person is the center of their own universe, and that they feel the same way. i know that i am only the star of the hannah show, and i bring everything i can to that 'show'. i also assume that i am a player or extra in everyone else's plot, and that i have a duty to do my best in their script. i am certainly delighted with the characters that people my own, heroes, villains, extras, all. it may be wrong to think of life this way, but for the life of me, i can't think why. i never, ever forget the blackbirds, the poor people of myanmar and the gulf coast and next door. it is those things that remind me most of my duty, of the part i play in my own life and the lives of others. it is because of the razor's edge and the hanging thread that i must sparkle, and the show must go on.

thank you all for the great scripts and roles. (the soundtrack is awesome, too :)

** "I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die."

I love..........

lamps shaped like vegetables.

and fruit.

Happy Birthday Richard Harris

In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.
The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream,
and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the
street corner
the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the
stars.

Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
In a graveyard far off there is a corpse
who has moaned for three years
because of a dry countryside on his knee;
and that boy they buried this morning cried so much
it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.

Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful!
We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth
or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead
dahlias.
But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams do not exist;
flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths
in a thicket of new veins,
and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever
and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders.

One day
the horses will live in the saloons
and the enraged ants
will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the
eyes of cows.

Another day
we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead
and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats
we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.
Careful! Be careful! Be careful!
The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm,
and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention
of the bridge,
or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe,
we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes
are waiting,
where the bear's teeth are waiting,
where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting,
and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.

Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is sleeping.
If someone does close his eyes,
a whip, boys, a whip!
Let there be a landscape of open eyes
and bitter wounds on fire.
No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one.
I have said it before.

No one is sleeping.
But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the
night,
open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight
the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theaters.

-Lorca

I never knew you from the sun

Surprising that it should still surprise, this sudden onrush of tenderness. A disruption in the usually integrated functions of consciousness, memory, identity, or perception of the environment. All dissociative disorders are defined as causing significant interference with the patient's general functioning, including social relationships and employment. I say that dissociation is a psychological defense mechanism in which specific, anxiety-provoking thoughts, emotions, or physical sensations are separated from the rest of the psyche. We all do it. Every person I have ever known has shattered my perception(or knowledge) of them once I see them again. The face in the hotel mirror seems blurred some mornings, as if by too many such casual looks.

I beg you . . . To have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search in vain for the answers, which cannot be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, live your way into the answer.

Henry Darger is the current love of my life.

One of the reasons I enjoyed I Heart Huckabees is because it is an existential comedy, which makes me feel like less of a nerd for writing this. I suppose that what I want to say is: I've figured out that nothing is easy. Not even happiness.

* Thanks are due to Kimya.

a timid light

http://www.thepleased.com/

a supreme arbiter

I analyze perpetually to a disturbingly and (sometimes) annoyingly intense level. "Well, that part is me" "No, I'm sure you're wrong, what you think is you is really me" "I claim that bit - it must be me" "But you're right there!" and so on. The fact that I adore symbolism heightens these processes. "Maybe red symbolizes the fear of displacement" "White could mean you must live without the lesser puzzles to be untroubled" Recently I have been re-reading Sophie's World and decided that "Hannah shall not live by one philosophical book alone", so I went to the library and checked out a hazardous over-load of everyone from Thales to Hare and back again. I love Philosophy to an extent that I can truthfully say it is like food to me. Engrossingly nourishing. I feel I need to expose myself to all philosophers in order to have a stable opinion on Philosophy itself. Cheers to deontological constraints.