August 27, 2013

Exemption From Meaning

Again. In dreams [les rêves] - even then it is unrelenting, because I had thought you knew the lines I was reading; and again today. It is disheartening to see what you once thought were 'inexplicables' now so reduced in self-loathe, lost in translation from nerve endings to manufactured speech, so unnecessary, so limberly portrayed, so... trivial

(Last night, speaking to someone my mother thinks can help (with what?) -)

On distance: ever present, ever engaging but lately reacting to my exponential panic and most of all, the abject condition of the fear. A childish game not even worth mentioning, courage recedes and here is the question: what am I, who am I to own good fortunes as a passing stranger as you make your way through Syracuse or trailing death in Pompeii? 

August 1, 2013

Verité (Finale)

The conversations we have in my dreams, they feel like a benediction. You are the phantom torso that I grow to love, and part of the insufferable silence that vindicates an anguished romance that once was/could be and (feels like what) will be: the power in my hands that comes from your small infinitesimal glances, through imaginary corridors filled with whispers and oh, the torment of my soul - perhaps my mishaps mistook me as more than a mistress of my misfortunes, and yet

here we hardly see through one another, how do I begin to describe something from some inane corner of a scarce and weary mind, and perhaps not even real? It is easy to recite the great works and be foolishly romanticized, but a deafening thud is forthcoming should I know that you are indifferent, and is that not what I fear? That you should not care about my adoration, albeit childish, is like drowning in the dark depths of the Black Sea and for that, all my wounds shall never heal. And in being faint-hearted and weak, are my vainglory attempts at belying dignity and pride- I shall only hope you will not see a sham in my fortitude. Sometimes I implore in telepathic apathy that you will one day understand what I cannot even begin to tell you, shamelessly and recklessly- and for that I am often dismayed, although not entirely unpredictable. Once, we spoke in the codes of dream; it is a shame that life does not imitate wonders. A counterfeit assumes your identity but I understand the truth, I screamed over insanity and realize that this is not you, but the truth is never where I want it to be.

June 6, 2013


I wanted to wear my rosary beads the first time I slept with you but I didn't have mine with me. Luckily your dusty bible on the bedside table made up for it. What is it about defiance of all that is holy that begets human desire but pre-empts emotions? The sheer brilliance of our plan is made up of shams, something which Maureen warned me about. There is no upside or downside. I feel - I feel - that it was an act of spite, all the dead weight in the air and thinking about the bodies that were slain in the same spot before me. I do not pronounce it as acts of cruelty, merely acts of cowardice. One feels small in the eye of grander catastrophes, my woes are but the scratch of a world that is unfolding from your (un)doing and unbeknownst to even the smallest of your mind. Who cares about your achievements (I assure you I did not) when your purposes did not impress, only unabashed at best

Several questions worth examining include:

Are names important?
Are bodies burnt by the sun, cracked from winds of the Mediterranean still worth exploring?
Is there decorum in our minds?

Your sins are as great if not greater than mine, at least my sighs were negligible acts of repentance / do not lie to me or I will fuck you up, the end of the era is near and for all the grand illusions you plan to conspire I wish you none the best

perhaps your only action is to perjure yourself for a Greater Cause

February 2, 2013

I Find It Hard to Say Goodbye

in mississippi we were god-fearing people, when your father died you brought me to his grave that read : "forgetful not forgotten" i laughed inappropriately in the wake of His Greatness. I left you since - you dead-eyed child, o lover of my soul, far too kind and gentle

time! is! immortalized! you tell me, I do not believe such lies in face of The Great Truth and important words will be not forgotten so easily, look at me look at what you've destroyed in me? then tell me about time and your bullshit. When you reach the gates of Heaven you will learn the lessons I have taught you

The Rapture

is here. your dying words are: "my hands are bound I cannot save you...... please save yourself" I licked your salty tears off your face so I have not lost you entirely, before I cease to exist choose I expected too much from someone who sacrificed too little. i am thus a matyr of my pride, we can only exist at one point infinitely:

"time is running out my wonderful"

(our father in Heaven)

"kneel before the light and the Glory"

(hallowed be Thy name)

"do not leave me please"

(Your Kingdom come)

"choose wisely"

(your will be done)


(deliver us from evil)



"or future"


December 30, 2012

The Unbecoming

Traditions are hard to break, but I grow older and words get harder. Nonetheless this is a feeble attempt:  (do not forget that I am selfish and I am a liar)


January is the Unbecoming, the more I know the more distance I feel - 


What is relief but unexpected joys, cold winds/late night that I have learnt to forget. There was snow and a couple, and there was me. I saw you a week after, it was very comforting (that's all I can say that you understand). Good news abound, I am glad. 


Many small and painful wonders, although I wish it wouldn't stop. Forgetting then remembering is both a blessing and a curse, and then it starts: the Absence. 


Illness, fun, sun / summer, someone getting on a plane back from a faraway land and I no longer know. Art, lots and lots of art. 


joie de vivre 


What is it that you seek that I seemingly have? 


I cradled your dead body in arms in a pool of sticky blood in the dead winter. I almost started crying. You weren't really dead, except that you were as good as dead. The glaciers stood still as heroic witnesses as I valiantly slayed your betrayal, I silenced the hollow gaps that ached of nostalgia and I savor the glory from this act of cowardice (but the only one that I know) 


(what now) I wish: I was special, and that I stopped the car with the brakes and screamed at you for hiding, for being so elusive even as years past, when I first not-met you. For courage and your ignorance, so I can leave and if at once your life crystallizes into regret I will be heartless and fearless so that the last name you think of is mine and the only that you remember 

November 28, 2012

The Makings of an Empire

Fall 196x

I believe in retribution; I believe in retributing and retributed. Henry is the devil and I am his temptress though I did not set out to be so. I unleash the sufferings of all my wretched emotions, only to confront one truth: time is made up of memories waiting to be forgotten, Anneliese is a name tucked behind an ear, quickly brushed away by amorous strides. I cry but my name is now Victoria [vic-toh-ree-ah, the choir boys sing in unison beneath the hammerbeam roof] and Henry no longer needs me.

Time is made up of memories waiting to be forgotten
Time is made up of memories waiting to be forgotten
Time is made up of memories waiting to be forgotten

October 28, 2012

Scientific Expeditions (pt 1) and A Journal Entry Untitled

Specimen 1:

Dislikes glutinous rice.

Specimen 2:

Enjoys cold pizza, right out of greasy box.

Specimen 3:

Ex-smoker. Tastes like youth when kissed.


Winter 19xx

Everything unwinds, I am the madwoman Henry sees in his nightmares. I scream and terrorise my neighbours, I broke the teacups and I am mad. Sundays are the worst: I feel the uncontrollable need to be near Henry, with him like a petulant child who won't shut up. My toes cringe from shame and I cannot help but feel exhausted, exhausted to see what power Henry wills over me and my fight against his. I win his respect but he ridicules me, taunts me with his presence and when he leaves I feel defeated with an absence that leaves a gaping hole, not knowing what madness is like. Loving Henry is tedious and enriching, so much hate and so much passion- Janice tells me it's a privilege. But is it a privilege in loving in between silences that tortures me at leisure?

Perhaps I seek too much, but there is need to hear Henry tell me: Anne, you have a most beautiful mind! then I am satisfied, pleased that he sees me the way I want to. Tomorrow I will see him, face him, but I must not mention my terrible need for him when he leaves. He will interpret this as desperation. No woman should be such, unless -- (torn, illegible writing)