a victoria p


26 September 2007

your forearm strangling my neck is no reason to forget why love probably does still exist, somewhere else.

(now let me up)

The sun rises in Brooklyn. I smell sweaty and stale and am scathed and smoked-drenched from today’s adventures. I visited blocks where shadows of years before danced along the sidewalks. I remembered what cars were parked where, what old store fronts there used to be; whose hand I had once held in that very place. I even remembered when you looked at me and told me i was beautiful with utmost sincerity, not after even looking, looking at me, but after something seemingly intelligent that i must have said, that escapes me now. I even remembered when you told me i could have anything i wanted in this city, if i worked really hard for it. and, not in the same way a god would dictate it, or a lesson would be learned over and over again by default, but in the way a kid from colorado would be naive but also convincing in his wits, none the less, would say it.

There are rug-burns on my chest and shins and one on my inner ankle I cannot explain. It feels as though I had been riding a horse all day but I’m not even certain what that feels like. I am listening to an old, long lost soundtrack, which automatically puts me on the rooftops of a Paris I have never visited. And I am caught in Greenpoint, looking back at a city that I will never fully understand, but love and loathe, in all its flaws.

Tonight I dropped my cell phone and somewhat recently purchased I-pod in a toilet of a place I am not even certain I wanted to be at, when I was there. The discrepancy of where I should have been arose just before, when I sat still on my couch, with what I imagine looked like bug-eyes.

It is six thirty in the morning. I have not slept a wink. I have meandered around the streets of Greenpoint for late-night sandwiches and ginger ale, barefoot in a sundress with no underwear, at that, and I kid you not. I have twisted and turned in a place that I thought I could sleep in. I have ended up alone, with an omnipotent sunrise, and am caught thinking of you.

Yann Tiersen is so precise in his piano playing. It’s almost sickening; in its lowest most, drawn out parts, it is absolutely hysterical. I have tried to recreate it, and I do not believe it is about being an expert pianist (although I am not, in the least) as much as is it about feeling the individual tear-soaked emotion that he may or may have when he plays, depending if he may or may not want to have it.

I smile before I go to bed, no matter how bad the day. I get dressed in the morning.

Because of you—how juvenile that is, in its purest form. Which reminds me why I love children and how I hope I never forget the time I was once one myself.

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My roommates are up, getting ready for work. My face is swollen from hysterics and the hour itself. Autumn has not been a good season for me, for a few years past, but I love and welcome it just the same.

I nearly feel the same way about you.

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