cutting great neck

i woke up on my first morning in san diego--two and a half years after leaving it for a much colder place--and noticed the sky. window screen half-opened into a billowing gradient of blue: bright, unfiltered blue--what blue will look like in heaven, its shades streaming in and out of one another cool-like and hypnotic.

blue is an honest color--yet here it seems fake, like a red watermelon's crust, misleading in its simplicity, in its beauty.

the sun is just fading, and i'm outside and the cold feels surreal, my exposed fingers wrapped in cold with each and every letter key that they reach to press. the sun is just fading from behind silhouettes of black palm trees and tall bushes; the trunk of a date palm is reflected in the pool, draped in christmas lights.

chilly.



sometimes i think about san diego. i think about the fact that i despised it, that i felt alone and misunderstood and rejected much of the time--that every house and every storefront and every person was a facade, a false face, a blue sky above an ugly, dejected world: and i would think about san diego, and i'd ask myself if i really believed all of what i used to believe--maybe i had simply lied to myself about it, or maybe i actually misunderstood san diego instead of it misunderstanding me.

it is a tedious, sad little place--i can see that now, sleeping in a house that looks exactly like mine did, and only a few blocks away from that house. it was a cruel place. where unending, circuitous nothing happened; where the streets spread themselves even with a disgusting yearning for space--pavement, pavement, oh so much endless pavement, like spilled water that never stops expanding.

and now with my fingers bitten by cold and the sky burning in a purple, starless white-noise, i can safely say that san diego was what i've always suspected. i hated it then, and i hate it now; its flaws more than make up for its good attributes.

sometimes i'd sit there and think about moving. moving to san diego, from san diego--a place that defined my personality more than any other place i've ever called home. and i'd think about san diego, and what it did to me.

sometimes i'd sit there and brood. and i brood, and i brood--and i wonder where my friends have gone and where have they always been for me.

and when i come to a place like this, i realize that friendship is the most important thing in the world.

sometimes, i'd sit there, and ask myself if i've ever really experienced it.

http://ny2pa.tumblr.com/

a supplement to this blog?

funny how
this meant
so much
differently
to me
back then.



Re-blogged from
Saturday January 16 2009 early early in the morning



i miss you.



whoever you are, wherever you are.

i miss you.

i love you.

you are so important to me. i really meant to tell you this a long time ago.

but, i forgot.

and it's cold. and i can see lights outside. and i miss manhattan, and i miss you, and i am so full of missing everything.

i went to school today and had tears in my eyes because this guess speaker came to talk about children in cambodia and how he was building homes and talking about how he built schools and how important life is and he showed us a video of all these cambodian kids singing a song and i had tears in my eyes and i have them now. and my spanish teacher was sitting next to me.

and i felt how strong and important humanity is.

and now i feel like you're so important to me, and that i want to see you again.

i miss you.

i had so many ideas about what to write in this post.

but i forgot them all.

Like a sleek leech, unwanted and intolerable, you writhed into my veins.
But even after everything. Even after the endless suckling of blood, the infinite excavation into every artery and vein.
I can already say that leeches’ spit doesn’t really impress me.
Entered into the wrong vein—oh so, so wrong. Stupid leech. And such an angry, blood-filled vein, just ready to explode. And it’s such a pity—there is not nearly enough blood to leak on it.

she sat me down
in the living room
outside the light was blue
and it came
in small strokes, like wind
blowing over meadows.

the room fell in a cool hush,
after she told me
what she had called me in for:
then, i slumped in my seat
as if somebody died
(and inside, somebody did die)
and i nursed myself into an internal
tantrum, and i thought
no no no no no no no no
(please no)

and like a pistol’s trigger pulled
tears sprang and levitated there
in the clouds of my skull,
and the rhythm of my thoughts
fell away into a thumping
as incessant
as silence.

...tell me it
is not true.
please, tell me,
it cannot be true!

but like a nightmare
that you feel should not have been a nightmare,
one that only you
could so utterly fear,
her words compressed in my mind
and created a brain of its own.

thump, thump,
it said,
thump.
a voice that
apologized for its words,
but in vain

i gazed away,
towards
the street
(that street, home, it seems
as if you still belong to me,
as it always feels when we leave you)
so she would not see me cry.

walls i hoped i’d leave willingly one day
closed into us,
each white streak of paint
inching towards the pulling gravity
that spilled into the space between her words
and my unseen, unheard cries.

(thump, thump, thump,
each word filling itself full like
a decomposing garbage dump),
the trees
wavered in the winter waft,
their branches clambering and
quivering like a heart
that stopped living, but had not yet
passed on.

when i ran up the stairs
i wrote an essay
and a rant,
and a cry and a cry
and i wrote myself a cry,
a sob i had to compose
like a mind thinking itself dry, i did not stop
for anyone or anything
but only for my own mind
to fleetingly die

my window
turned up bare brown branches,
each twig finger kissing the glass pane
as if to comfort, or
to say goodbye.

i read anonymous comments.

it's the truth.



i yearn to know.

who cares. who cares or ever cared about what i feel. about these ramblings that don't matter, that float in & out of space like clouds, or like planes through clouds.




drop a line,
give a cue
who are you

you thought
there'd always be snow.

you'd always be
lonely,
and thinking.

you'd always
stay awake at night
listening
to the cicada scream.

you'd always write
when the house
was silent,
when the world still
filled with black smog,
silent.


you'd always be writing.
in that house, that
wooden house. "colonial"
they call it.
as if
we all need to remember
that they used to live in houses,
just like us.



there'd always be a coldness
when you "tiptoed" down the
stairs. in the cavity
of the living room

you felt the fireplace
blink. it permeated the air
and made you shiver. the floor
whispered cool prayers to your feet.

your music skirred
from your room,
a susurration of
night, of tonight,
of the long, yellow-highlighter
moon of memory.

outside the snow
shone against the bricks
like skin in a dark room.

and still you thought
it would never melt.

your whole life for some certain breed of people who will immerse you and love you and support you and cause such rage of emotions in you as to make you love pain. i search myself and everyday i think i may never find someone or some people with whom i can have a reciprocal intensity who i can support and be supported by.


maybe they don't exist?

and music.

write something that no one will read,
that no one will think was written. upset
that she’s leaving
and that we’re left to fend for ourselves,
claustrophobic
without patience
godless, yet fearful

these are the moments
that try souls, like a battered
body after a long hike,

with only oneself,
nobody you want around
and knowing that this
is what you’re gonna have to live with
for the rest of your life,
for the rest of these months
and weeks
and days and hours and minutes,

sometimes
overcome with emotion,
sometimes overcome
with loss, with the loss
of something physical, tangible
like the folds in a forgotten sofa,
the wrinkles of hands;
and something
mental,



because someone hates you, and they think
you don’t know.
overcome
i write something
so angsty i’d throw up reading it
only for the sake that perhaps
i’d gain some ill-gained sympathy
and that could help me
move on.

i’d never want someone
to ask me what happened

because sometimes
everything happened.

sometimes even the merest loud laugh
rattling from the kitchen
could set your soul off trying.