Assorted, random excerpts from past journals #1
Some random excerpts I thought were/are interesting and stuck out to me (especially so without specific context per se), lifted from a couple of past journals:
Excuse my lack of ___ (something).
If you’re buying, I’m telling…unless, no one is asking.
Wherever we’ll go, I’ll remember as a beautiful secret. The moment was our mother.
A breath is like a cup of water; you know it exists, but every time you have one, it feels fresh.
Wednesday morning, I’m always on the run from something.
Thursday, on a lost day, when I used to be a memory of you.
Friday is an open sky—of air, like a circus of clouds.
When you were air, I felt your eyes in my payment…just like when, you sought the demonstration of a violet, in your conscience I was air, I was air.
“I once heard, that if you count the amount of toilet paper you’ve used in your life and added it up, it could be an accurate barometer to where you’re supposed to be in life.”
9 in the morning, blue light between the blinds, it’s raining, candlelight, listening to Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea and playing Final Fantasy XIII. I’m remembering lots of things.
…the clouds are magnanimous, separate from my hands, and so I ask, are you even there?
“I will be your fire, so you will be the stories uttered by children.”
Making love at sunrise, you were my lips…an ocean of time belongs to your eyes…grassy distance reminds me you exist, but I’m beautiful too…so, can I be your taboo?
“People may not have caused all their problems, but its best they try to solve them anyway.”
Dream, 12/26/2021: In a strange sort of dream. Cereal boxes on the floor, all over in an artistic ensemble. Some open, some not. Can’t remember the rest, but was it spooky!
…I can’t, I won’t, feel upset because this Saturday morning, oh on Saturday, please let’s become whatever, la-la-la…
“Everybody loves Shakespeare until you try writing like him.”
…when you changed in front of me, like a glistening river or pool in summer…can we try it like that? Or, my pencil skirt stitched into the cloudy nimby, you, well…try…the tall palmettos are indecent because we’re in love. Let’s be it, two oranges for a tourniquet.
“This is coming from a person who once said, ‘The people with the most appreciation for life are those closest to death’.”
…and on days like this, today the sky is a dream, overcast is a yawn, dawn a mist rising, lawn of fog. Everyday is a daydream.
Blanche: I don’t want realism. I want magic! …yes, yes, magic! I try to give that to people. I misrepresent things to them. I don’t tell the truth. I tell what ought to be truth. And if that is sinful, then let me be damned for it!
-Scene 9, pg. 117, A Streetcar Named Desire, Tennessee Williams
“Even if we’re to be forgotten in the same breath in that we’re remembered, this—these little eternities we’ve found for ourselves, they’ll go a lot further than either of us could by ourselves. Nobody needs to hear this gentle song between the trees, the rush of falling rain, the canter of autumn clouds to understand, know we existed…”
That life—what life? You are, were speaking when I interrupted you last time…WOW—doesn’t anybody ever listen anymore?
“You know, you got an answer for everything and everybody except for yourself.”
My feelings are sensations, not always truths; they will not kill me, but pass through.
…I am drowning in thin air and, there’s no reason for you to care?
…like a sunset you’re the beginning of the end, dawn in-reverse. The energy, the energy is a director, a loveless horizon awaiting forever. Abide by your arrow(s), I am innocent but not unweathered.
Something’s always calling my name, babe. Whether or not you always want to call or see it—she’s me, alive, just another piece of somebody who’s tripping in the rain, skipping about the sand, torn off a part of somebody else’s clothes; in-essence, I am always like that, in love with spiritual desire, I’m on fire; because youth is my mirror, and my body is like a beach…one in the morning, the sea breeze, a part of us in you when you held us together…and so on, and on we went, in a way, so perpendicular, so in-secret, to how it was when you took us over by the fork in the road, and so, on your merry way, taking those dispossessions and keepsakes along how that went someway, the West, California mornings and coastline autumns, how the farmland stretches became a song to your flippant hair when it sung two past October, the sing and sarong you whispered, oh rustic and bucolic, the turn of events I saw you on it, we’re so much in a spark of desire. I want that gas station attendant who witnessed us by the rocky shores of cold, white sand, the sand that spread its arms out like an albatross as we left, who made a name and fortune by inspiring in me the name of Jesus but we left it on the side of the road, on the run, from something…I want him to give me a picture of us that should have been taken.
© 2024, A. M. D’Angelo
