I write
Install Theme

It has no warmth

you hold this machine like it’s a torch

like a trophy

like a boarding pass to another world.

 

it makes you think less

and sink into a slump.

it makes you forget the one

that sits beside you

looking at you

waiting for her turn

to be your torch

to lace our hands together

and compare our temperatures

and look.

 

you look away.

 

i want to look into you

but you look into glass

and your eyes turn into glass

and they are unfamiliar.


your machine takes you away from me.

I’m going to be more loose.

If I want to fall, I’ll let myself fall so hard I’ll taste blood in my mouth

and crack my wrists under my back

and fall in the most unbeautiful, messy way possible

so I can learn to rearrange myself

and try some new shapes out.

I’m not going to be clean and meticulous anymore.

That game is for chumps.

 

I used to spit up on the floor

and carve the puddle into something pretty,

something I can be proud to make.

 

I’m done with carving.

I want to throw up all over myself,

onto the floor,

and leave it there,

and walk away,

and be proud of that.

 

I want to know it’s there

in its most organic form,

erratic and complicated,

and be proud of that.

 

I want to spill myself out

and walk away

and not overthink it

because that fucks it up

and be proud of that.

 

I want to step around it

and fall through the dilapidated floorboards

and into a pile of asbestos-ridden,

termite-inhabited,

rotting and ruined rubbish

to remind myself that I’m not trying to impress anyone

with something clean and maintained.

 

A fuck-all stride and a thousand dried-out pens

paper that’s slightly damp, that won’t hold ink

a couple of radios on, tuned to different stations

a crying baby

with the radiator on too high

and I’m wearing a sweater.

 

Let me feel fucking uncomfortable

and not take my time with it anymore.

Daysleeper/Nightdreamer

I spend too much time doing the things I enjoy

and for that I am unhappy

so they say.

 

They tell me to use time more wisely.

To scrub more floors

To commute more often

To pay more rent

To take more Advil

To work longer

To miss out on family

To clean the dishes

To break more bones

To make more connections

To lease a car

To file taxes on time

To spill more coffee

To iron my shirt

To feel sweat on my brow

To take another call

To skip another meal

To catch another train on time

     or miss this one

To be a daysleeper

     and a nightdreamer

To replace the sun with an LCD screen

To be able to lock my own door

     sit on my own couch

     and eat my own leftovers

To go to my own bed

To wake up

To dress up

     and set myself to repeat.

To make Mom & Dad proud.

 

So then,

these are the requirements.

This is the measure of time

I am expected to squeeze and stretch

to limit virtue and cash in my basin of energy

and somehow still laugh about it.

Where do I pencil myself in?

Unwelcomed Retrograde pt. 2

I don’t feel the taste of salt on my lip.

Instead I am clean and polished

when I want to feel rough and covered

in dirt I have to shovel through

in order to birth something

that embraces the unfavorable.

I am flat against the wall

I am so still that sediment freely gliding in the air

traces my body and draws my outline on the cold rock

that joins itself at four points

to make a box

that I find myself spending too much time in

neglecting movement.

So then I am rough and covered.

But it is because of my idleness

I want to move, run

Catching dirt with my distance.

Unwelcomed Retrograde pt. 1

Unwelcomed retrograde

stifles progressive creation

and sucks me dry.

I am bone and paper.

I’ve lost my skin.

 

A tide of brackish water doubles up,

pushing towards the shore

filling the hole I claimed as habitat.

Where I disappeared.

All my baggage that lain on crushed salt and sand is gone.

 

I revisit my location

and do not recognize it.

I walk past, trying to find where it is

and where I am.

 

There is nothing worse than the derailment that can proceed a burst of inspiration. It is something close to dehumanization.

I can glide my fingers over letters and knit a moment into a block of words but at this time, I have lost it.

Inhuman fixture

It’s so simple

 

to listen to the words in your brain and do what is required to make those words permanent.

 

It should be so effortless, rewarding, and sublime.

 

If one sits too long in their chair, they become that chair. They won’t move. They’re just a fixture.

 

The time spent sitting will take twice as long when the subject yearns to become human again. After being still for so long, the simple act of moving fingers requires the energy to commit, the energy to evaluate, and the energy to keep consistent all while carrying the weight that composes the body. This momentum bleeds out when the subject is at rest because the energy is not being used. It will find a more reliable parent to host its power.

 

We are heavy

 

with thoughts and ‘what-ifs’ and personally-made imaginary movies that screen in our heads when we are sitting comfortably.

 

We watch movies when we are comfortable. We will watch the projected life we want to fulfill and do it for too long because naturally, the pain and discomfort of our personal criticism can be filtered, cut out, so that we feel confident and unafflicted. Disturbance is not welcomed as something to dwell in because it brings out insecurity, which erodes the shell of a self-constructed high social status and elicits paranoia.

 

I enjoy pain


but I can’t enjoy being discontent with the picture I see. Immediate displeasure causes me to think and challenge the events that caused the feeling. I can be upset that I spilled a mug of coffee on a table but that table could be the place I sit at for too long, watching the film I’ve made for myself: the projected, perfect, fluid life. The life I want to direct on a stage so I can explore and make it active, tangible, and genuine. Fleeting moments of pain are action. Fleeting moments of pleasure are action. I cannot physically live through the ideal projection in my head when I am sitting.

An Essay on Adventure

It is what we do with our time given that establishes the breadth of personal experience and observation. A week of repetition can feel like a fleeting second because it is void of depth and discovery. There is no viable material that can come from a length of empty activity that will elicit cultured development. It is a pile of finely cut dust that leaves a residue but is easily brushed off with time. You may disagree with me but hold on.

 

I spent years trying to shake off the accumulating pile from my head. Anything that has enough quantity to it will become too much to handle, even with something as weightless as specks of dust. After a while I lost the energy to pick my hand up. And I did not look like myself anymore. I felt heavy, dry, an empty husk. I could move the corners of my mouth to gesture but it was not genuine anymore.

 

When I lost vibrancy to my creative intuition, I realized that this idle state of being was a manifestation. Immediately, I uncloaked myself from the shell I hid in and drank the life I had fasted on. The relationships I had with friends solidified and new minds were sought after. I discovered the energy of people that were not in my life during my idle period and I felt rejuvenated.

 

During a time of self-reflection and discovery, things happen quickly when the subject wishes to pursue their objective quickly. I met wonderful friends who wanted to discover and play and drink the vitamin of life. I did not care to take my time. This was what I wanted.

 

Coincidentally, I met a partner who runs fast to a source of adventure, who reworks the way I laugh, who colors his eyes in the same shade as mine. I felt a line of resistance tug the momentum of my self-discovery. I wanted to examine every piece of his energy, the cadence of his voice, the way he emoted.

 

We began an exhilarating romantic relationship. The time since we committed to a partnership has been only for a few months on this day yet it has been gushing with dynamic experience and never-ending play. It is effortless. It is rejuvenating and compassionate. The time we mold as a union is respected and challenged. Through this mutual understanding, a rigid foundation is cementing itself through the weight of the days we spend together.


I do love you. My time with you so far has been illuminated and I look forward to the adventures we have ahead.

To richieblackshaw

brian-louis:

thepeoplesrecord:

Columbia student will carry her mattress until her rapist exits school
September 2, 2014

While most students at Columbia University will spend the first day of classes carrying backpacks and books, Emma Sulkowicz will start her semester on Tuesday with a far heavier burden. The senior plans on carrying an extra-long, twin-size mattress across the quad and through each New York City building – to every class, every day – until the man she says raped her moves off campus.

“I was raped in my own bed,” Sulkowicz told me the other day, as she was gearing up to head back to school in this, the year American colleges are finally, supposedly, ready to do something about sexual assault. “I could have taken my pillow, but I want people to see how it weighs down a person to be ignored by the school administration and harassed by police.”

Sulkowicz is one of three women who made complaints to Columbia against the same fellow senior, who was found “not responsible” in all three cases. She alsofiled a police report, but Sulkowicz was treated abysmally – by the cops, and by a Columbia disciplinary panel so uneducated about the scourge of campus violence that one panelist asked how it was possible to be anally raped without lubrication.

So Sulkowicz joined a federal complaint in April over Columbia’s mishandling of sexual misconduct cases, and she will will hoist that mattress on her shoulders as part savvy activism, part performance art. “The administration can end the piece, by expelling him,” she says, “or he can, by leaving campus.”

Read more

As painful as I know the constant reminder of attending school with her rapist must be, I’m glad she won’t be the only one forced to remember. I hope the rapist drops out immediately…or better yet, I hope he faces the justice he deserves. 

MOTHER FUCKING PERFORMANCE ART

my first piece was about my molestation, and my attacker was in the room. I FUCKING LOVE HOW POWERFUL ART CAN BE.