✁ (http://mustaphamond.bandcamp.com/track/blood-moon) ✂ Blood Moon by Mustapha Mond ✃
° . * Closer - The Tiny : ˜ http://youtu.be/4GbDa2UnAO4 ° . *
√ http://youtu.be/bTre20HWNsg ,
(She's A) Universal Emptiness - Swans
At eleven thirty on someone
else's couch he turns
to me and says: "You
are the most important thing in
my life right now" and I wouldn't be
angry for what he had done
; '˜ http://youtu.be/6efeMgZ1cGA ☆
A man on a streetcar once
said to all: "I met a girl named
Dream last night" and
another shuddered: "I have
been breathing too
"i love you,
i love your private hell" she
says to the girl with the bruise
on her arms.
so i sat and memorized
the shape of his hand and spied
on his skin.
* ~ ;
(I have been away! I'm back, I think!)
I've been up until 3am for the past few days, reading a few dozen academic articles on site-specific art and criteria to determine what defines it as site-specific and all I can really say is that I now :
- Really, really hate art institutions for limiting artistic potential, creating absolutely meaningless discourse and analysis.
- Really dislike my studies
- Therefore, see no real meaning in my current studies as an art and film historian
I don't know what to write, but I am so tired. My body, heart and head are all tired. I wonder how much I have to give, how much I am able or unable to. I wrote recently that I missed my frailties and I find them returned soon later, paired with bruised arms wrapped around and cold sweat.
(user page - photos)
In several ways, I miss the person I used to be, in all my old meekness and fragility. People now tell me I am brave and strong and independent and I try very hard to be all these things. Mostly, I am okay. But when I am not I feel the strangest emptiness. When I think about it, I was never really empty the way I can be now - I was always longing for something or someone. It wasn't as much emptiness as much as a lack, I suppose.
There are the marks of his nails on my skin, there is the train tickets he never paid for, there is the can of silver spray paint with which I wrote "WHERE DID ALL THE FLOWERS GO" on the community notice board.
It's fun to play pretend - it's cool to be bad.
The bathtub near-empty, scab-skin and saliva once submerged, a body kissing the filth with a black-hole mouth, and it came to the same.
They can't keep them clean, them angels and them crack pipes and them piss stains mistaken for halos. Look how them wings grow brittle, look how them robes are torn.
(☆ user page: link to a video of my friend and i spending a day in the cemetery - not the one i wrote of here. i seem to be spending a lot of time in places like those, i am in love with the calm. i am also in love with my cape which she is wearing.)
You are tired of your heart, explicitly unconscious and uncaring, and it makes the blood become easy, an ache swarming below skin. They look at those sweet white little scars that cradle ill-fated imaginings, they whisper from the hallway: "therapy treatments" or "too fucking fragile".
The morning were intimate and undamaged by dark; the day was an open sore, barely breathing; the evening was a day-dull star, blinking back; the night was the moon in a doe-eyed gaze. I thought, once, that every dawn brought with it a fresh hell, a new bruise or a new bone to find broken.
People tell me now that I am strong. I have never thought about myself in this way, always wanting to be too-small and always feeling too fragile. It used to rain inside me, once for always and sixty days.
Everything was cold and wet ; the orange and plum bleeding from the trees, ready to die for the season. I clutch my coffee, inhaling smoke and breathing cigarette ghosts - my body, this soul-house, howls for them like a baby, a moon-calf crying. It has cried often, for God or love but mostly for nothing, nothing, nothing.
Pretend I wrote a really well written story about how I was in the cemetery all night last Saturday and smoked cigarettes and drank beer sitting on tombstones, about how I was wrapped in a big blanket, how I rode a longboard without quite knowing how down a hill (in big goth platform shoes, too!), how I was huddled with a friend, pointed to the graves and mausoleums and said "some day this will all be yours".
i'm not sick anymore