Shitty Indie Music

Was a search keyword used in finding my blog. This absolutely amuses me.

Because I may be an emo sack of shit, but I can still laugh at myself. Now, this post breaks formula from the tone of this journal. But I figured the fact that seeing those search words actually made me laugh out loud and clap my hands frantically warranted a shout-out.

Fucking Russians.

And on that note...



"Because every day, it's getting tougher to shoot straight."

Give my love to Finland?

If I ran away from home, it would be there.

Somewhere cold, but bright. With lilting accents and strong tall sinewy males, how could I resist? Ice blue eyes and long fingered hands, cold from outside but touching my face, slipping between the buttons of my blouse...

I want to gnash my teeth against a ribcage. But for the first time in a long time, not to rend. Softer emotions are filling me, plush and safe feeling. It's incredibly strange.

Maybe I'm just not as unhappy when it snows....I love my lungs burning. The crunching of my booted feet, the simple textures of winter fill me with crackling electricity. And longing.

Spinsterood and bitterness....and nonsensical requirements.

Is it wrong for me to pine for a home? Because I do. One with high windows, and natural light far from the city. And filled with the smells of a shirt that hasn't been washed. Or shaggy hair on a pillowcase, whiskey and saliva and warmth.

Moon's milk spills from my unquiet skull...

Maybe I listen to too much depressing Icelandic electronic music. Or too much Edward Ka Spel, with his charming psychedelic slight speech impediment. It moves me, flutters my insides.
But I need those fairy voices and glitch beats, those weaving hypnotic melodies with their cryptic lyrics that send bolts of lightning down my spine. It sounds to me like the inside of my slick skull cavity.
I need it to ground me, to keep myself from floating away.

Because every time I look at him, I have to fight to be good. To be right, and to be prudent. Because my marrow and my heart pulse pounding and his chemicals all pull me to him. And he is not mine, or for me.

But still my fingers clutch and grasp, and my heart bends almost to the point of breaking.

On your shore...

If wishes were fishes...I still wouldn't eat fish.

Before everything went to shit...

Mostly I wish well for you...

Except when I pray that your relationship crumbles. When I hope and squint and fantasize about how you would actually love me...

You would smell the place where my neck and shoulder meet, and I would shiver. You would trace a finger up the side of my arm, just enough to give me goosebumps...
And when you slept I could hear the cadence of your breathing pattern, and sigh and love you.

But what is love without sacrifice? Because if it exists I have not encountered it.

Worse, or better?

People grow together. Like twisting trees or python balls and no less complicated.
Now growing apart, that's what takes nerve.

I wish I could see and feel my head explode from the inside out. If I slam it against the ivy covered wall outside enough, maybe I will.

Of Culture Shock and Inadequacies.

I found the cracks so quickly.

How silly of me to think they were in the sidewalks, and not in my strained smile. A new city does not a new girl make. I thought I could wash it off of me, watch it pool and ring around the shower drain. Leave pieces of myself on the lovingly prepared clean sheets.

All I can do is shove and push, all claws and teeth and nails and passive aggressive tones. Inside my head my screams are deafening and pathetic. Love me, but don't touch me.

My heart is like one of those feral Eastern Block dog children.

Kissing Foreign Fishes...

A new city for my feet to find cracks in the sidewalk. In twenty-four hours I'll be hurtling through the air, speeding my way to San Francisco.

I feel predatory. Tightly wound. I need rough strong hands to hold me down, to tie me to this earth. And I wonder, do I have to return? Could I disappear in the masses, in a city where nobody knows my face?

All of that water will sing to me. Surrounded on all sides in a bay...It will be so hard for me not to throw myself off a ferry, or casually slip backwards into the water somewhere frothy and sharp.
I don't desire destruction, or pain. It's the water. It calls to me. If the moon was large and bloated I'd been done for. With the moon and the ocean singing to me, pulling at my bones and womb, it's an undeniable compulsion sometimes.

I used to jump off of these high high rocks as a teenager, all alone in the woods with the deep creek running a mile away, with it's waterfall and rounded smooth stones and strange red frogs. I would fling myself off, never being afraid once. Not even when I hit the ring of rocks below at times. I loved the cold. My lips would turn blue, and I would stretch out on the moss naked, and shiver. And no one ever asked about the bruises, since there were already ones fading from my father's hand.

Errant Amphibians, Mollusks, and Puppy Parts.

My heart cracks open every morning.
I don't know why, or how. But it does, wide and shiny like the inside of an eggshell. But it isn't fragile, my shiny eggshell heart.
It's banded with steel and stones and sharp things, bone fragments and razor-wire.

And now I've put it back together. Set the polished pieces in place, like a puzzle with a small missing piece. I'll walk in the sunshine today, and daydream of the ocean and the moon.

In which the biological imperative gives me the finger.

I want all of him.
I want to grind into him and be so deep that he presses into my ribcage.
Divine and dangerous lust. I wish I had no filters, no inhibitions. I want to smell of spit and sex and heat and salt. I want to taste it on my skin, and lathe it from his with my tongue.

But I hide behind lowered eyelids. I hope that the pulse pounding in my chest and throat is not visible. I glide when I walk, hoping the slickness in my sex isn't apparent.
I try to focus on the rippling waves of sun that prism off my windowsill, squinting my eyes and making motes of dust in the air glisten like tiny angels. And instead I will grind the heels of my hands into my eyes, and sigh softly.

If home is where the heart is then I do not have a pulse...

Just tap your feet along with your heartbeat, and don't say a word to anyone.

I wish I lived in Four BEE.

Beauty is currency. It spends just like cash. I remember it. I remember the sharp hardness of it, and how I wielded it like a weapon.

I hope this time to take care and control. Let me be soft and uncalculating, not sharp and hard and evil. Deep down in my marrow there is corruption.

Seeds of lust, unwanted and undulating are unfolding in my mouth. Swimming in the warm pool of my spit. I am going to burn these things away from me. Unwind and uncurl them from my mind, spinning skeins of grey matter.
Destruction tastes just as good to my mouth as lust does. I'm inhaling intentions like smoke, clicking them against my crooked teeth.

Macabre? A bit.

When I die, don't pump poison into me. Embalming is the most insulting thing that can be done to a human body.

Bathe me, wrap me in a linen shroud that smells like summer and leaves, and bury me at the base of an ash tree. Or throw me in the Pugent Sound and let the giant octopus eat me, all suckers and sharp beak.

Effluvia

I wish I could live underwater. I'd float on my back from the Columbia River to the Ocean. I would turn into a soggy mermaid and ride currents. I'll never lack for company, when I have the sighs of drowned sailors to fill my ears.

I wouldn't mind the cold. It would suffuse my being and turn me into something else, rewire the deep circuitry of my reptilian mind. Wash it away in the slamming of the waves against the rocks. I'll slam my body against the rocks and laugh. Peals of laughter would ring off of those sharp and slimy crags, and maybe I could be free, in my secret salty blue-green world.

Nothing could tie me down ever again.

I am not full of virtues and noble qualities...

I've cut so much out of my life. The last thing to go will be the state of duality I exist in. So many masks, donned and cast away. It's almost become mechanical.
But when I sing I feel so light. I will sing until my throat is crunchy from the inside-out and my body shakes violently.

Maybe singing is the only way I can keep my inner world creatures inside. I have to sing, lest they push themselves up and out of me, flowing like venom and roiling mercury.
How many times can I shut my eyes and mouth as tightly as I can to keep them in? Pushing up through my chest, and devouring my heart.

It will shed me like snakeskin if I don't find a way to channel it soon. I need an autoharp.

It still smoulders...

Do I have to be always safe? Must I always behave? Because if I didn't I'd smash myself out on your body.
Watch it boy, I can break you faster than I can break myself. Like sugar glass, and I'll do it casually. Because what is cruelty without lack of care?

My body shrinks, and with every inch your eyes roam my contours with more and more favor. My mind and ego swell with false validation, and contempt at your complete transparency. You would think I would feel flattered, but with every swell of your breast, every sharply inhaled breath, every sly touch I am insulted.... Even though all I want is to wrap myself in your clothing and sleep through your pheromones.


My eyes burned as brightly as before. My words burned as brightly as before. My passion burned as brightly as before. My looping cursive meant as much before, if not more.
But my body didn't swing in the curves you liked before, it didn't sing with easy acceptable rhythm. Did my hips sway too widely?

Fuck you.

Choose your hipbones, and those collarbones. They'll still sag and fade. I'll have my own soon anyway. A body is still a body, and will rot at the same rate as all the others.
I'll sharpen my brain. I'll cook miracles, and weave wonders with fingers.
And I'll still love you, after all this time. And it won't change anything. We're fiery wreckage, you and I. And that's how I want it.

Astarael - The Weeper.

My voice is gone still. It rasps and scratches and evaporates, and has for three months.

Not being able to sing makes me feel like I am in a cage.

A scrapbook of sorts.

My strange new little project. It's like an emo hope-chest almost. Why I put a painting of dead angel Nico in it I have no idea.

Also, I must be incredibly creepy.

Silently you'll go to the shadow of your soul...

With every moon it is as though you're getting closer to your soul.

-Nico