i was recapping yesterday afternoon.

hung out with a.k. we watched a movie that i liked, had delicious sandwiches, wandered, talked, bought the best rainbow cookies, from yossi's, as the city grew dark. i found a pair of vintage earrings that i liked, in an antique/thrift shop. it felt exactly like it did when we were dating, comfortable, & lonely.

he hugged me earlier, and hugs are funny like that. sometimes you find that necessary feeling in a hug. and sometimes that feeling is one-sided. one person finds that feeling, and the other doesn't. and it was an okay hug, but i preferred an alair hug, or a tom hug, or a theo or claire hug, and then i started crying. i didn't realize i was upset.

i think the truth is, i was in love with sandwich and didn't even know it.
what's love got to do with it? we barely saw each other, but the emotion was there.
it scared me that i wanted to be with him, and i let myself shut it down, over and over.

what's so loveable about a girl who pushes people away?
i'm sad. it's my fault. well, his too. issues. we all have emotional anxiety/perfectionism.

i'm gonna blast some terrible pop-dance music (miley's we can't stop acapella) & bake brownies. then, work.
if this were a movie, we'd realize we were both screwed up and wrong about something, and go after each other in the same time-frame, and then date happily after confessing a lot of things. this is not a movie though.
i have to pee and shower and work my karaoke bar. if i thought he'd respond, i'd contact him, but he hadn't, the last few times. gotta face the music. all i want for christmas, well, in a love way, is that guy, but oh well. if he wanted to see me, he would've by now.

it's just emotion / ...taking me over / and i don't know the rest of the song.
i'm out of moving-on-techniques. i burned out all the effective ones, and i'm not looking to repeat detached ambiguous crap. just gotta wait this one out. it's time to start dating again.
maybe i'll fall in love with a stranger next week. who knows?

minor notes

i.
tuesday

was waiting for the light to change, five minutes to work, three black coffees to order, one with hazelnut, no room for milk, and standing behind the curb, a car speeds by too quickly, too close.

it hits me, a bump, a sudden swipe; it send me back a step, and the first thought, my god, my toes are alright; god my hands fucking hurt. and they are numb & in agonizing pain, all at the same time. hand bruises on the skin, the bone; my right hand is bleeding at the knuckles. the second thought, thank god no children were with me. it would've killed me if they got hurt. the third, wow, i've never been hit by a car before.

the people behind me said it was a police van in some chase; did you see the plate? but i am five minutes to work. i already have too much on my plate; i don't need more paperwork, with the film, and everything else i need to take care of. i have a film to make, and work, and projects.

the light changes. i cross; my hands are still in too much numbness & pain for me to determine if the bones are broken. the cashier stares at my bleeding hands. i order, nonchalant, "three black grandes, please, one with hazelnut, no room for milk, thank you." i go to work, and i worked.


ii.
wednesday

i am writing. bleeker on the platform, and it is my favorite notebook cradled in my arms, and my favorite fountain pen in my hand, when it slips from the cap, and down onto the tracks. and i see it, this beautiful gleaming silver instrument. and the train is pulling in.

i start walking to the transit booth; it is my train and i am late for my destination, but my beloved pen is on the tracks. the doors open, and i am almost at the station gate. the transit workers have a tool, a long rod that grabs dropped items, so that transit riders no longer take agency, to jump down to tracks, to save their objects.

elina saved her ring from the tracks, once. it fell, and she immediately jumped down to get it. we all helped her back up. i might've jumped onto the tracks, but i saw the train pulling in.

and reaching the gate, i see the train behind me, lingering for that last moment. and i turn around, and i get on, and i sit down. the doors close.

i pull out another pen from my bag, and i resume writing.

the fountain pen, was an expensive gift to myself. it was a memento. i wanted to remember the night i bought it, and the night i bought it, it was cold, and i was angry & bitter. but i don't remember the feeling. i think there was forgiveness. and there was always punishment.

there's nothing fair about love, but it wasn't about love. and then it was. and then it wasn't.

and i didn't want the pen anymore. it was dirty anyway. i would never love it the same. i don't think i really loved it anyway. i just loved that it was a shiny fountain pen.

i just loved the emotion that compelled me to buy it. it was recklessness & fury.

i missed him. i missed the feeling. it was a tired fantasy, and i wanted something else.
what is real anyway? when have i ever had anything real?

bodies and storylines. it was a good show, but it got sustained too long. nothing is real. strawberry fields forever. i'd like to punch him. i'd like to punch him and fuck him, and be like, fucker, i love you, you amused asshole, you purposefully unfeeling bastard. and he will be like, "i'm sorry. i don't know if i love you. i don't know if i love anyone." and i'll be like, "okay. goodbye." and he'll fuck me because the commitment issues we're playing on, are hot. and that'll be love & not love, right there. we never wanted to be together. i never wanted to be with him. i still don't want to be with him.

the pen is on the tracks, and i don't want it. it's just a pen. it's just a fallen, literary device.


iii.
thursday

i couldn't wake. evening fell, and i drifted in the city.
the market was open. things everywhere. a watch i wanted last year. painted copper. artisan work struck my fancy, but i saw it before. monocles on chains, & glass time spheres.
macarons & tacos. arancini under lamps. tastes & colors, but i have no hunger.

karaoke bars & comedy clubs; in, and out. it's song restlessness.
at a quarter past ten, i wander into a used bookstore. the literature sits on shelves, like discarded lovers. the poetry doesn't stand out. my heart is on hold. i am waiting for something to catch my eye, and i am looking. i look at every shelf. i find works i used to love, but i don't love them anymore.

i already have all the things i love.

i am just looking for one more. it is late, and i find it so hard to go home. i just want one thing i love, to go home with. eleven. nothing. i settle for cobain's journals, and a copy of death of a salesman. i'm not sure i'll read the former. i loved miller the summer i was fourteen.

i go home. the diary of cobain at twenty-one keeps me company on the train. he's funnier than that dark, pessimistic bastard who used blondie-bombshell. realism is ugly sometimes.
cobain loved love, though. sometimes realism is pure, heartfelt gorgeousness.


iv.
friday

work. movie. jared leto is amazing. sleep.


v.
saturday

snow flurries.
i fall in love in this kind of weather. wandered around in a skirt & my favorite grey t-shirt in the snow. in an uncharacteristic move, i describe the snow, as romantic. the woman replies, i'm not twenty-five, or thirty, or forty, or fifty. i'm sixty-four. when it snows, it's cold, and i slip.

one man kisses my hand as he signs his check. he's in drunk with me, asks for my number, asks if he'll ever see me again. and i reply, i'm always here. he says, i've watched you all night. you're an angel. i smile politely, & excuse myself.

one man punches another as i'm changing the song. a brawl breaks out. there was one woman, and many drunk men; helen, we'll call her. she likes the attention, secretly. they are all fighting. i hate brawls. they're knocking everything over. i am trying to push the duking men away from each other. one is pinned to the floor, the other to tables. they are lunging at each other. they are all hitting each other. we're kicking them out; we're calling for the cops. one guilty party runs. the other guilty crowd remains, & pretends to be innocent. we clean the mess, pour drinks. these people were all looking for a fight all night, and they found it.

i feed someone else's rabbits afterwards. the apartment is a mess. there is not love, but bowls of rotted food in the fridge, and a window-fan leaking the cold into the space. the toilet was left running. i fall asleep underneath my coat, on the couch, where i've slept before, when the space was less gruesome.

i have nightmares. i see things that mirror myself, but of different light, different allegiances. angeli, and not. it's only seven-thirty, and i've only been sleeping for a few minutes, but i can't bring myself to stay, so i go. i don't like bad vibes.

All those love letters.

I would practice writing them when I was young, to the favored soul of my affections.
Each carefully folded note, was art, an afternoon in dedication, to desire.

And on the page, I'd sweep ridiculous sentiments, in blue, the twilight winter sort, because black will not do. Words on the face, & on the threadbare spine. I'd illustrate, on the paper, with stars & other images.

Art, & art.

It was the romantic poet in me.
You could bottle those letters. Tie them in satin ribbon.
Hang them from ceilings, or throw them somewhere dark.

So much potent emotion; you could swim in the feelings, or float in these steady, moonlit oceans.

It was a romance. Belief was irrelevant; only the quality of the ink mattered. It was a token of my affections, truths polished into beautiful fiction.

It was a world, & I consolidated it for you. You dreamt it first.
It was the stuff that caught your fancy, favorite bits from strangers' lives, & film.

Everyone wants to fall in love. It's just the particulars that are different.

Your love was a world, a scape that was unbodied & incomplete.
Something left to be desired. It was the emotion that was lacking. You had the lines, & drafts in your mind. Maybe it was the sense of something, beyond you.

So I filled it. I spilled narrative into your hidden wishes. I took your truths, cast dramatic, flattering light; filled in the shadows, softly, but deftly, like any sincere artist, & made the universe gleam.

You had a base, a rough charcoal sketch on an art-store canvas. I chanced upon it. I said I loved it. I said I wanted to see it. And you loved the way I was excited about this work, this expression of this inner world of yours. You loved how serious I took your concept of romance & desire. It was validation, which you didn't need, but liked, loved. And you wanted more. So you started sketching, more carefully. I'd bring interesting pigment, the constructive support, and the praise, and you began coloring, and it was not fast enough for your liking, so I'd help shade in the empty spaces, using my fingers & brushes. You'd have trouble with sharp detailing in some areas, and I'd make it prettier.

I loved the process. You put yourself into it. You were making something beautiful. Most times, I just looked on, interluding with affection. It was your concept; I was just the appreciative freelance mercenary.

And then the work was finished.
And it was lovely, so I said so. And as it dried, I congratulated you, & curtsied.
I kissed you, and it was not the, "Yes, look at you, my love, my one-and-only champion, let's live in this world of desire.", but more of a "Well, that was fun, and look at those highlights, but I'm exhausted and still have so many things to do. Maybe next-time, and you're tired, too, aren't you?"


-----


Was it about desire? Sex, with a twist of intimacy? Love?
Do we need to run literary criticism on outdated, parallel narratives?

It was your fantasy.
What is mine? I don't have one.

I lived a few, a long time ago, when I was younger, & more restless, & less happy.

Now, I live in the real world.

Is realism is ugly? I don't think so.

I love the truth, darling. I love reality.

I love the concrete, & the rain, & wandering in the city in the dark. I live my romance. I'm in love with the evening, & the sweet warmth of the streetlights, and couples all about. I love my scarves, & the poetry. I love coffee, black, or tea, earl grey, in the tall cup, in my hand.

Why did I help you make your world then? / I felt like it. I wanted to. You wanted me to.
It's just not my world. It's not the image of my happiness. What is the image of my happiness then? Doesn't look like the one I helped you build. You've got a fantasy world you like to escape into, and I'm an escape-artist, in all senses. I craft fantasies. I just don't care to live in them.

I didn't lie to you.

It was just what we were doing. I didn't promise things I couldn't promise, and you can't promise that sort of thing anyway. I don't love the way you loved. I didn't want to stay. You'll find other characters. You'll be okay.

You were lonely, and maybe you thought I'd make it stop.

I'm not lonely. 
I'm in love. I've been in love.

When I meet him, I won't even know.

We will be madly in love with each other, and not even know. We won't recognize it. We might not even be together for very long. Our lives might not even fit, but right there, in that very moment of intersection, it will be love. Who I am, at that very moment, and who he is, at that very moment, those two souls as they exist, will have found home, will have found a oneness.

And I will think, that I will never fall in love again, because I'm already in love.

I can't lay in bed with you, nor any other, because my heart wants to be out in the streets.
He is out there. The air is cold, but lovely.  My coat hugs my body, but it's this love that keeps me warm.

My love, is the stars in winter, & dark, clear skies.

My love, is the snow on Friday evenings. My love, is slush, & boots, & the view of alleyways on fire-escapes. My love, is 3am, and we are so tired, & wired-tired. My love, is not daylight, but pillows pushed up by the windows, and a mixture of cold, & naked bodyheat. My love, is I-am-so-sick-and-the-dark-of-my-room-and-the-dim-light-of-my-computer-is-a-comfort. My love, is the echo of pop-dance songs, and some other soulful music, in the back of my head. My love is paint, and the Met on a Friday night alone, in the modern gallery. My love, loves me, and does not, all in the same way. My love, is an existential despair on Saturdays, and the solace of solo wanders in afternoon sunshine on Sundays, and is a work that is loved, and not loved, all at the same time. My love, is digital paperwork, which translates to striking visuals & heartfelt feelings, on white screens.

My love, is poems, and not-love-letters.


This is not a love letter. I am not writing my undying love. This is not an emotional fantasy, which love sometimes is. This is not airport goodbyes & a flood of tears.

I am not saying anything.

I'm leaving.
I'm walking out my door, and it is a Thursday evening in November, and I'm in love with nobody.

finished heart of the swarm; i ragged a little on the narrative, but the gameplay is beautiful, and y'know what, as predictable and slightly anti-climactic as the storyline is, it's got sense of realism.

it's a very artist's romance, but instead of the fantasy/archetype play of poet-hero & his unattainable, idealized muse; starcraft takes the fantasy muse, and plays her through her already known journey.

there's no sense of the journey, because we've all been waiting for this, for years. it's like dating a girl you've always liked a lot, all while knowing it's not going to work out. you want different things.

the fantasy that wings of liberty riffs on, is that jim raynor saves the girl, and they make love, travel space, maybe settle down, live happily ever after. it feels great.
it's not that complicated for jim. sarah the redheaded ghost does it for him, and he's a little lost, after all these battles.
odysseus is tired of fighting, and just wants to save his girl, & go home.
and he saves her. it's very hollywood. everyone loves a happy ending.

the post hollywood-esque story, is what heart of the swarm plays around with.

heart of the swarm is not the epic action/adventure, twists & turns of starcraft i, but rather more a elongated story around the self. 
it's just kerrigan coming to terms of who she is, post-queen-of-blades.
is it about redemption? no; starcraft doesn't bother with that cheesy, cheery garbage, which is kinda cool.
heart of the swarm is about agency, taking careful action, and personal choices. kerrigan follows her heart, in a legitimate, stoic way, and defines who she is, by her actions. she doesn't want to be the damsel, so she's not. maybe all the medics are damsels, saved by the firebats, and other sexy terran guys, but kerrigan is a thing of destiny, not because someone deems it so, (although a bunch of aliens do,) but because it's in her nature to fight, to take action, and to leave an imprint on the universe. she loves jim, but she chooses significance & impact. her life is not worthwhile if she's not doing more. heart of the swarm is philosophical. there is no wrong choice.
it's cute, in the context of older movies, because usually, the male protagonist completes the journey, & says goodbye, in a beautiful way to some girl, because there is more he has to do. and the girl just has to let him go, because she just a girl, and the man, is a manly man of greatness. they reverse the gender roles a little, but not in a campy way.

in the end scene, kerrigan and jim have a sort of closure. and then she's off. they don't really say goodbye. in another world, if they didn't have destinies in greatness, they'd breathe, stay together, and make love. ---they exist in an imperfect world though.

it's all about pursuing what's important. / i could talk about opinions on jim saving kerrigan at the end, but it's not about the gender norms, at the end of the day, and c'mon, they've been saving each other's asses for a while, because they give a shit about each other.

anyway, at the completion of this game, what did i love?
the game. i didn't know whether i was going to love it or not, but i do. it's a good game.
it's like a relationship that wasn't perfect, but there were good moments. there's such a sense of transition/imperfect resolution in this game, which i think, is a little bit of why it's hard to love it. it's like a song you're playing, but then it just sits unfinished. it's the vibe of still being written/composed.

heart of the swarm is build up.
i think legacy is going to be amazing.

the truth your ex needs to hear

I realized it when you were asleep. You would sleep. And in the early dark, I wanted to go home.

Or really, just go elsewhere, spend time with other people who got the sense of my soul better. We could talk about the technicalities of a body, but a body is just a body, and my body didn’t really want to be on your bed, nor mine, if it required being next to you.

I didn’t hate you. I just didn’t love you, and I’m not sure I liked you that much either. We were close by earlier circumstance and choice. I outgrew you. 

I didn’t believe in love, and I didn’t know how to tell you, that it didn’t exist, that our relationship, was built on romanticisms that I didn’t feel, but sometimes bought into, for the sake of sustaining the relationship, because, how could I not want a boy, who often did his best, to sustain a long-term thing with me?

But I didn’t want you. You didn’t know me that well. You only wanted what you wanted to see, and I wasn’t sure if I didn’t want it that badly. And then I wanted for it to end, this alright-on-paper companionship that didn’t make me happy. So it was over, and I’m not sorry.

I wanted something. I wanted someone to love. And I’m looking for him.

It’s like peering into all these windows, & apartments, and I’m wandering all around town, on my own little journey on cobblestones & pavement, and I’m looking for him. And he’s out there. And I’m already in love with him. I can’t love you, because I don’t. And I don’t want to “fall in love” with you. I want to find him.

And I’ll know. Maybe I’ve already found him, or maybe I haven’t, but I’ll know.

It’ll be in the way we kiss, and I’ll know. And it’ll be in the way I’ll want to hold his hand while we wander, even though I don’t like holding hands. And it’ll be in the way, that I think I’m incredibly lucky, to’ve found him. And when he sleeps, I’ll get sentimental & sweet on the greys on his temple. And we will bake cookies, watch movies just to have an excuse to be close together, and maybe other things. And I’ll want to grow old with him, because we’re already old together.

It’s about love. I don’t want to waste my time on anything else.

truth

friday afternoon, while it rained like music on my skylight, i thought it'd be sweet to swing by, as a surprise, early in the evening, drop a kiss, a champagne rose, a whimsical memento, a book you'd love, a heartfelt handwritten note on the back of a constellation map, with your pleiades highlighted.

i could talk about the stars & signs, but i'd rather bring you a bottle of your favorite wine, & go slow with it. i love that you have a favorite. i love that there's another soul who loves dry floral whites, who loves some of the lit that i love, who loves in the same strange fluctuating & true way that i love.

today, i am feeling femme & dreamy because safety does that for me. i love your eyes, the way you gaze, your companions, the way you're not so far away when i need you close. i love sprawling out in my bed, feeling the way i feel about you, knowing i could spend my entire life feeling this way.

except, no.

hey ya, is a song. i could be blissed out, or i can sit up from this cute excursion. not that love is bad; it's like a bag of kit kats in my latest favorite flavor. it rains, and i love the rain in my hair. i love the walks without my umbrella, as long as my socks stay dry. i love wandering in the fog. i love dancing in my soul as i move through the city which holds me up so wonderfully.

i've got a guitar, a pen, a stage, a stool. i've got my voice, which i prefer in the quieter decibels, because it carries true. i prefer my hair, tucked behind my ear, and falling constantly in my face. i prefer my framed lenses than my natural blur scape of the world, my blindness.

through the dark focus of a pinhole, everything is beautifully sharp & clear, and this love for the world is alive in me.

i started with a love letter to you, but it's not about you.