hapticbackup: (knows itself)
i hope you do not mind if i plan to get thoroughly drunk on friday night and tell you all my secrets, though i have none because right now i am more alive than ever, with an abundance of manias pushing the bone hype of each day further and further up the peak of lovingness. then, every evening, a loose-backed giant slumber flop falls and regenerates in leafy pools, lying still, with lightning afterimage inside his dark shut eyes.

last night the moon unveiled like a slow breast while you whistled at bats.  rainbeats played the lake and we heard them before drops licked our untoweled skins.  
hapticbackup: (knows itself)
 photo 2014-08-10130628.jpg

"And so the great moon said, you should not distress, because everything is happening the way it should, and not the way it should not."
hapticbackup: (knows itself)
Hello [username]!

I really [emotion] your profile. You seem like a [generic adjective], [slightly misspelled adjective], and [hopeful projection] guy. I bet you [premature judgment], but that's [disingenuous comparison]. A little about me: I'm really into [physical activity] but also enjoy [cerebral activity]. [Modest self-congratulatory comment] :)

Your [misapplied generalization] seems interesting. I'm [attempt to conceal character flaw]. That's why I [unintentionally apparent character flaw]. But, hey, [plagiarism].

I think it would be cool if we [verb]. If this sounds like a [guarded emotion] idea to you too, drop me a line.

Hope your [noun]'s going well [falsely cheerful punctuation]



Jun. 22nd, 2014 08:39 pm
hapticbackup: (knows itself)
a satellite careering through they sky
this color....
this summer night....
it's your path, your heart
that gives me this western feeling
hapticbackup: (knows itself)
Three non-identical Japanese triplets are so drunk it's even hard for me to see them clearly. Overcome by having to stand in place and pinch the air, the oldest one cries tears of dots. The dots are spheres. The spheres are scrolls! The scroll is a map showing where, in an alternate universe very similar to ours, the largest diamond ever is hidden in one of two suns. Meanwhile, the youngest sister is attacked by a flock of clocks while sleeping off her hangover in a yellow calculator. She stands bereft, but sexually available, in front of a fake window until the third triplet comes to tell her that their other sister found the sun diamond scroll in her tear-dot-sphere. A montage begins, interspersing shots of the three sisters walking under arches with coquettish views of them wearing incredibly geometrical patterns. It's pretty hot, so they fan themselves in rhythm. They stand in place while the walls move around them, like a fever dream or the spins. After fingering a pathway, they fall off a cliff, which looks a lot like trying to ward off bees, if the bees were clouds. Thankfully, their umbrellas land them in a city where they see a huge diamond that is currently performing on stage. However, this diamond smells really bad, so instead they have their legs grow torsos, then their torsos grow legs. Then one sister gives another a blood transfusion, which she in turn gives to the third sister, but the second time it's just love, not blood. This also makes the trio very warm, so there's some more fanning, along with a sign mime about a rabbit that's in love with a fish. They stand in place again while the walls move around them, like learning the truth of a long-held secret. At this point, one can't help but feel the momentum of the adventure begin to flag, though the return of the patterned clothing does lift the sisters' spirits enough to sustain them on a walk through a forest of progressively larger dildo bedposts. In the largest dildo bedpost, there's a door, behind which is the diamond! The map was wrong! The girls quickly split the diamond into three--there's plenty to go around--then are not crushed by a giant falling cheese grater by virtue of standing in exactly the right place, like Aladdin when the tower rolls over him and he stands in the window opening.


Jan. 10th, 2014 08:08 pm
hapticbackup: (knows itself)
Beloved, we are always in the wrong,
Handling so clumsily our stupid lives,
Suffering too little or too long,
Too careful even in our selfish loves:
The decorative manias we obey
Die in grimaces round us every day,
Yet through their tohu-bohu comes a voice
Which utters an absurd command--Rejoice.
hapticbackup: (knows itself)
We're in his bed, sailing across a companionable silence.
He says: "What year is it?"
"It's the year one," I say back.
"Do we have the wheel yet? Has it been invented?"
"We have everything we need."
"What about telescopes?"
"We can see the stars with our eyes."

Then we touched each of our fingertips to their match on the other's hand one by one in the air above us.

First Date

Dec. 15th, 2010 05:20 am
hapticbackup: (knows itself)
I dreamed that Bill and I went to Hawaii to do a project and stayed in a one-room visitor's center on the edge of a dump. He wouldn't let me go off on my own. Then we came back to Seattle and sang Fernando on a futon while Louisa watched us and wouldn't join in. When finally she did, I was suddenly shocked awake, like a bell being rung. It was 5 AM.
hapticbackup: (knows itself)
I was essentially cockblocked by my mom this weekend. First, I went to a soccer tournament at which, I am realizing in retrospect with the aid of facebook photos, my hair looked like a clown wig. In a crowded, sweltering bar the night before I received two separate compliments on my hair, which perhaps went to my head.

There is a scene in Gosford Park in which homely Mabel confronts her husband over the affair he is having--she finds a check he extorted out of his rich lover because he has squandered her family fortune--and they have a vicious fight. At the end, just as he is leaving, he snaps at the maid who has seen all this, as she was in the room to help Mabel dress for dinner, "Do try to make her look presentable." Mabel flinches and weeps as he slams the door, but with some solace from the maid, and realizing that she cannot miss dinner without everyone realizing something is wrong, eventually says bravely but sadly, "I suppose there's no harm in trying." There is a complex of emotions contained in her delivery of that sentence. She tells her lifetime of resignation to the disappointing fact of her appearance against the arbitrary rubrics of beauty, the finality of her suppression of her true emotions to satisfy her misguided determination to always present her best face, and her willingness to subjugate herself to the social system that tortures her because she is so far into it that the way out seems nothing less than a terrifying betrayal of her entire morality. This is not how I feel about my hair, but it is what I think about when I am standing in front of the mirror hoping that it has finally become the magic sex mop--telling elegant drape--rich tabard--pixie riot I want and not the hairy rebellious toadstool of the five minutes before I must leave to meet my friends.

The day after I went to the bar, I played soccer all day and then went to a barbecue. My hair did this too, with intentionally minimal intervention on my part. At the barbecue, I met a cusp Aquarian who threw grapes that I caught in my mouth. The tranquil hedgehog on top of his head amused the dyspeptic starfish on mine--we went to meet friends of mine in Wallingford, then we had nowhere else to go. I thought about how it is to have something with valuable benefits that mean nothing to you for years, like, say, a room of one's own, and then when you need it, you find yourself at the exact center of the only two months of living with your mom you will experience for the rest of your life. At one point while he was in the bathroom, I received a not entirely facetious suggestion to take him to a nearby park. Eventually we left to check the schedule for his bus, found we had 20 minutes to wait. We went to the park.

Once there, we swung, and as our momentum gradually drew us out of sync, he periodically paused to realign our arcs. He told me the names of trees. When I remembered to, I looked him in the eye--it is allowed. We saw poorly remembered parts of constellations, and he missed the next two buses.
hapticbackup: (knows itself)
Dear everyone, we have swine flu. I coughed into an urn and got swine flu. Your airplane slept in your bed and gave you swine flu. Our sirens are useless against it. It was packaged into all the peanut butter. Heads rolled over that. Swine flu filled a city built on top of a lake which was itself already on top of a mountain, so in dedication to our old charade, all the soccer teams continued to play each other in empty stadiums. What?--excuse me, the FBI is at the door. I don't go out any more because of swine flu. Instead I watch TV with my mom, and we bought an air purifier.

If we're still around in a while when it is finally the future and telepathic aliens come to earth, we will greet them only to eventually see them leave, frustrated by their own inability to understand the concept of names, and the human compulsion to name everything. Neither will they understand gossip, the youngest of the contagions. Swine flu might greet them too--they will perhaps understand its purpose better. I wonder if they will like music, and how they will dance. I dance like a stork's mating ritual every time I hear the song Bird Flu. It is only a happy accident that bird is in the title, and that my dance moves are avian. Happcident. Accipy. I just started a company: Accipee. I can see it all now. It's the new Depends. "So you shant your pants any longer." The tagline sounds kind of British, but I guess there are as many old limey poopers as of any other creed. I just hope I'll live long enough to relish my success because this is that fabled day, mortgaged against so much consequence--everything has reversed itself. The bank is excusing your debt, sharecropper. Water fountains pour gin. This is that day; the fire froze, the sphinx blinked, the swine flu.
hapticbackup: (knows itself)
Jennifer White: 6' 2" lesbian family friend who claims to have once driven through the end of a rainbow on the freeway.

minor obsession with names:
Fairuza Balk
Chauncey Billups
Benazir Bhutto (!!!)
Sta-Puft marshmallow man

so many hangnails

abiding discomfort towards small children, particularly those who sing or dance.

"My Life Would Suck Without You." a song.

"My life would suck without you." what I tell my boyfriend, Food, every time we hang out.


A list of some sad things:
-walking through the house, turning off lights. CAN ALSO BE LOVING, PARENTAL

-my dad went to wal-mart at christmas and bought some gummy bears. my mom found them in the closet yesterday; she thinks he was ashamed to give them to us because they were from wal-mart. SHAME AND FATHERS: SAD

-flirting on the internet

-being too apathetic and impatient to make the effort to do something interesting SAD: BECAUSE SOME PEOPLE, FOR WHATEVER REASON, NEVER SEEM TO HAVE THIS PROBLEM. AND ALSO BECAUSE IT IS A SELF-IMPOSED PROBLEM.


-situations where someone is out of their depth and is too intimidated to say so


an excellent vocabulary

three dead pets and one living one


Apr. 8th, 2009 11:11 pm
hapticbackup: (it is probably not)
I have all these context based jokes that I have no outlet for because I've got nothing going on. Like, for example, the phrase "Jesus, take the wheel." I hesitate to bring it up because, even now, I see the immense potential that could be released with a timely, pithy application of this phrase. But, having nothing to apply it to, it will, as do most things, recede into the old soil at the back of my head. If it is lost there, I will not mind. Amidst the piles of nothing, the brain often thinks to itself that all you have, from day to day, are the things you do and dreams. Sometimes you are not sure which is which. You can't remember where you put it. The alarm is constantly going off, and it might be a bird. You vomit in the street and later, at the lake house, find some on your pants.

I worry that one particular love, met or unmet, can permanently alter the course of your personality. There's no going back over a life. If you--and by you I mean I, as usual--age without it, then you necessarily become a person who has done so. You did not meet him in the smoothness of your youth, and then you can't. You are constantly missing the possibility of shared time. However, what little of myself I have given to those I have met has accomplished little. The strange litany of men I know has not convinced me of very much, either positive or negative. One, a fish-shaped man, confused and mute. Another whose love proved ultimately weaker than his pride. Earlier, a man-shaped fish, who deserved and understood me as much as a single fish does the entirety of the ocean. There was the adolescent lion I intentionally misunderstood until he moved away, and also the more fully-grown animal, lambent in his drunkeness, who I still occasionally run into at night, in the city. And the rest, or maybe there's only one other--there's so much about this short range, heart-based sorcery that I let escape me.

Anyway, I try to be solicitous in my relationships, continue to live this life about I forget what it's about. When I am not occupied having lengthy conversations with myself at work, Bill keeps me sane through the sheer force of his presence. He is the sort of man that, when his family bought a set of cookies each decorated with a different member the Obama family, was given the one with the presidential dog. At lunch, he wondered aloud what it said about him that he got that one. I replied that it means he has the best sense of humor. He said he tries to. How much is it possible to try to have something, rather than just to be the instrument of the expression of your fevers? Bill lacks pretense on every level; what he is and what he tries to be are the same thing. However, he rarely calls anything in the shop by its right name. Instead, there is an untrackable list of diminuitives and nicknames for the things we use every day; they are blankies, not blankets. There is the flatbar which, for no discernible reason, is named Wang Chung; the ratchet called Big Head Todd. I can no more explain the impulse behind this habit than I can explain my own fascination with reversing the order of words in short phrases. What thinks you make that? This is so heavy fucking.

When I am not at work, I feel like the sun itself, if the sun produced sound instead of light. Sometimes those that you know will leave you, they will go farther away. They will remind you of the unbridgeable distance, and you will not always know why.

730 am

Feb. 19th, 2009 04:30 pm
hapticbackup: (Default)
"I got a text from my dad at midnight that said '220 lbs!' and then I dreamed that I strangled a tiger."

"It's too early for this."

"All you had to do was hear about it. I had to live it."

God said

Jan. 4th, 2008 12:01 am
hapticbackup: (knows itself)
I had this beautiful moment at the Whole Foods on Denny two days ago. Bill and I delivered many cabinets in the rain and both wanted soup. He bought a thin orange soup. The thickest soup they had appeared to be black bean, so, the consistency of soups being very important to me, I got that one. Didn't disappoint. In the checkout line I noticed, then watched steadily the bagger working at the next line until he suddenly jerked his head up as though at a command and looked straight into my face. I have grown up enough to know that there were two black threads then spoolled out between us, one going each way. Some people you're roped to, to others there's never more than a filament. There's no way to tell which until it has happened. We finished buying our soup from "Leek" who turned out to be the much less vegetable "Lee K" and went to the cafe to eat. We finished and left the store. I trailed behind just keeping my eyes open. Turning my head. Don't dismiss it! It did happen. I had only to look for a few seconds as we passed the checkout lines; the black thread was taut, and I found myself walking the circumference of a large circle, looking through the crowd over my left shoulder, with him walking opposite me on the same circumference, looking over his left shoulder, with all the milling people between. How casual. It did happen. I should stop throwing my heart like an ax.

Lately, my auxiliary attention is occupied by an advertisement. I found it on the computer. In it, a young man is standing in front of an opera house at twilight. Here it is. There goes the ax again. Let's turn upon him the critical eye. He doesn't really seem to know the picture is being taken, or else he has managed the rare and beautiful unselfconsciousness that can make photographs so fascinating. Look at his centurion hair. It is unstylish but not unbecoming. There is a small sideburn creeping in front of his right ear. The shirt is too big--but not really. It fits at the shoulders but bags at the waist, which is not helped by his slight hunch. It seems not to be the hunch of a tall person, but rather one of emotional fatigue. He has been winnowing the pith for a long time now. His stance is only a peel, it can hardly hide anything anymore. And yet--the sideburn, his cheekbones--I still want to give myself over to his reckless derision. We'd sleep on the ground until the satellites all fell. I would warm his thin wrists on my neck. This will satisfy me; it must. I don't think this man will give me anything else, since he has long ago become resigned to the knowledge that, whatever he is looking for, it is probably not in the air above his head and to the left.
hapticbackup: (Default)
I can't decide what to do so I'm drinking chocolate milk. I went to a pretty glacial concert on....Thursday! It felt at first like we weren't going to get in because who knows what those college kids we bought our tickets from over the phone have been smoking, and we got there late (on purpose), and how easy is it to enter ice? Not very. It worked out. Man, it was great. It was a feminist concert. Person, it was great! Something similar to this happened at the concert, actually. The opening act was Scream Club, the #1 lesbian feminist rap funk dance duo group. Grandmothers of the movement. I bought their t-shirt after the concert. It is glamorous and too small. Every member of the audience had experimental hair.

The main act was Mirah.

She's in our collective Top 10. She's the #1 herself. According to what happens when I type "mirah" in the URL bar of Firefox, Mirah has a big homo heart, is modest and deliberate, prefers privacy to invasion and reconciliation to war. Her middle name means good day or holy day in Hebrew. I read somewhere and can't stop remembering that she is "a terrific songwriter when she bothers to finish her songs." I don't care to meet the person, poisonous and frustrated, who said this. But it is true that most of Mirah's songs are very short. 2 minutes, plus or minus.

It was a good concert. Her songs are full of small ironies. Of this I am unsure, not really knowing what I mean by it. I wasn't left wanting. I woke up a couple times. It's possible that I never would have been able to see Mirah in concert, since she has been on hiatus for the last recent while. Instead I saw her concert for $7 on Thursday, and it was terrific. It was just such a glacier, flattening, holding, tinting, teething, falling over.
hapticbackup: (Default)
What did I do today. I walked around in a blanket until my friends left the house, and then I found the focus of being alone: which is the lack of worrying that you are not pleasing your company, you can do anything then so you might as well do something. So I took a nice shower in our hot bathroom and went out to get my hair cut. I looked at mountains. You know what mountains, so tall, so far. They are at least on the other side of the ocean, if not probably the exact opposite spine of the earth, and hundreds of miles tall so that y' can't help but to see them, any way you look, anywhere you are on any hill. Even able to see both sides at once, look east look west, like a magic ball thrown all the way around the earth to hit you in the back of the head. Each patch of white and black on these mountains is as big as a moon, they are that far away. I got my hair cut, I dyed it. Well I didn't do that yet, you know. I am not using question marks because I spit at the boringness of rhetorical questions. My position is, if you ask a question you better have your answer right made up behind it, or else don't bother. Unless we're mutually unsure, like people before big mountains. What do you say. Nothing compares 2 U, mountains.
hapticbackup: (Default)
My brother (affecting a Cockney accent that he really can't sustain, intermittently lapsing into the hybrid Australian-Chinese-German-Partial Stroke voice that is his all-purpose accent): Do you 'ave enny space on yer ipod?
Me: Yes, why?
Bro: Oi thot Oi cuud put some pictsuhs on it.
Me: Pictures of wot?
Bro: Pictsuhs of me! Pull moy fingeh. (He just saw Children of Men)
Me: Ha ha! No.
Bro: No reerry. Wot, you don't wont pictsuhs of me?
Me: Hahaha
Bro: Iss coo. Oi unnerstans. People always sez: woy you makin' tha face? And oi sez, why YOU makin at face? Errybody make a face, it’s not an option!


Moving onnnn, thinking about "pain comes from desire." If there is one thing on this earth that I hate, it is onions. Hate em. If there is another thing, I can't think of it right now. I strongly dislike dogmas. Yes, including dogmatic hatred. In any case, I agree that pain comes from desire. I will concede that. But that's no reason not to have it anyway.

I listened to those two CDs you gave me so much that I lost them. Isn't this true, that we only lose the things we use the most. Things we don't use can't be lost because we don't need them. I never lose anything. Even when I do, I don't. I am this good at overcoming desire. There are only things near to me, and things not. Everything not annihilated is somewhere, regardless of my feelings on the subject. My handwriting is gorgeous, arabic, right now. [.....] And loss... What about things far away? I don't know what I would call what happens to those. Attrition, maybe, but not loss. I am thinking, of course, of old friends.
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