..............................

it is difficult to believe that one cares so much. In the office when one is impersonal, he looks so looming. One longs and longs, the very sight is a pleasure. Yet feel scared to love. One feels marked to be cold, detached, heartless. Compelled to fit the pattern someone else has decided to cast you in. and yet there was love, the heart overflows, his for me. The softness is unwarranted. And then, there is work. Once you begin, the heart lifts up by the prospect of hard work. Out of this darkness that infests the mind, it is a shining hope. I had thought of giving up, on me. I shall not stop working. It is what will keep me going. No relationship is worth the people it costs to live it. I can sit here and say that. When I return home, it is like a dark compulsion to give in to what will cause you pain. Hope that things shall turn out right. Yet it is not that. I do not feel incomplete at all. Just hurt to bits that he could think that of me, decided to typecast me as such. Stamped and typecast and pinned upon the wall, like a fly to others' whims. From here, there can be no solace. I write this while wanting more from him, demanding that he put things to rights. Who knows what will happen? We are best left as islands on a floating, passing sea.
Is this like her, when he knew that it would not work? Waif again? Does anyone know how to bring me in?
Nothing matters at the end of the day, nothing does.

hazy shades of winter

This for only me. This was what Simon and Garfunkel said:
mailprintvotesmallerlarger

Time, time, time, see whats become of me
While I looked around
For my possibilities
I was so hard to please
But look around, leaves are brown
And the sky is a hazy shade of winter

Hear the salvation army band
Down by the riverside, its bound to be a better ride
Than what youve got planned
Carry your cup in your hand
And look around, leaves are brown now
And the sky is a hazy shade of winter

Hang on to your hopes, my friend
Thats an easy thing to say, but if your hopes should pass away
Simply pretend
That you can build them again
Look around, the grass is high
The fields are ripe, its the springtime of my life

Ahhh, seasons change with the scenery
Weaving time in a tapestry
Wont you stop and remember me
At any convenient time
Funny how my memory slips while looking over manuscripts
Of unpublished rhyme
Drinking my vodka and lime

But look around, leaves are brown now
And the sky is a hazy shade of winter

Look around, leaves are brown
Theres a patch of snow on the ground...



And I am back to music. I lost sight, didn’t quite remember what I wanted. Music wets my arid insides, and am listening with deepest feeling to S&G

“And a rock feels no pain
And an island never cries”
Yet that’s not quite what I feel. I feel delirious, to come back to me, to feel no vagueness, to feel the music seeping closely into my pores. I badly need time for myself, not amours, or work. My books, my music, a room. Is what I shall wait a little longer to have. There’s Mrs Robinson playin’ now, and it’s ooooo! so sexy. And I love the curly letters I type, and to know that this trash doesn’t mean much. Nothing does, peut-etre pas meme lui, when it’s me that’s gonna live. I shall not hurt more than my head can hold. Et ce qui m’a touché, c’est qu’il m’a dit la meme chose. J’aime son silence, pas d’absence des mots- il parle assez, la silence de l’esprit, qu’il ne permettra personne a casser, pas qu’il a travaille pour achever cet etat au jourd’hui. Je l’aime beaucoup, tu sais, c’est tellement evident, meme a moi. Ca m’assure, que je peux aimer un homme comme ca, it also makes me delirious a me trouver comme ca.
And now it’s Scarborough Fair, and it melts completely, like fresh caramel. That’s so perfect. Like Seal’s A Kiss from A Rose. “She was once a true love of mine.” Quite quite wonderful. I love you quite, dear God that this is there, now, a ce moment-la. And then there’ll be New Year, and they shall all dance, and I shall be happy. “Remember me, to

You fill me, you make me overflow. And I badly want my Chatwin now, I want lots and lots of comfort. I want just what I want to read. And ruddy convocations shall be done and over with. And I shall get my holiday, and do exactly “Ask me and I will play, all the love I have inside.” What I want. And I shall take my trip. Oh dear God, I shall barf my mind, one can’t live like this. One can’t love like this, one step forward and two back. There is no place for compartments, quiet, holding back, fear even. I want me. I want me I want me I want me I want me. Tepid useless bogus insanity, mossy depression of an organized mind. I shall get a life. Whatever comes my way. And don’t come to my blog, ever. Anyone. Thank you. S&G quite wonderful, quite quite. J’aime tout les deux. Absolument.

Back home. Alone and bossless. I was sitting in the car with the window wound down, and it got colder and colder and by the time it was V.I.P Road, I couldn't breathe. Bring down this lonely fetish for punctuation to the guy, I feel overwrought tonite. My hair was flying wildly, and I don't know what I was trying to do, to bring myself to tears or just spite myself with the cold. Both, I think. And tomorrow you go back and there is a mess again. I hate it, I so hate it, so everyone can tell her when she gets back, they just can't manage without you. The editorial quality gets worse by the day, there's less of matter, it's sketchier, scrappier. What are we sending off to the schools? What do they think when they see this supplement of a paper which is otherwise quite fine. I hate the infamy, ignominy of it: not merely the shame, the guilt that arises from it, I suppose. And these two guys, so frightfully competent, and R.da so kind. I feel very lonely amidst all of this, not to be so competent and fast myself. It's not to mope, je ki holo, so you do a cry. It's something that shouldn't be. And then to return, with the next day not planned at all, and alone. What am I to do?
And then, we recede into silence. And I don't mind. Somewhere, la visage est la, toujours, il me semble, et meme maintenant c'est un confort que j'eatait dans la meme voiture que lui. Que'est-ce qu'il pense? Hier, nous parlions jusqu'a 4 heures au matin. Et je l'aime. Je ne veux pas partir, je veux rester au tour de lui, avec lui. dans sa visage, il y a de la silence, et je l'aime. J'aime tous que je decouvre, comment, donc qu'est-ce qu'on fait. Et donc, est-ce que c'est lui? Je t'aime, tu me manque. It's a cliche, and at the level which it is, I refuse it. Il me manque ou je le veux. Et demain, ca sera un autre jour, tout sers nouveaux. Pas des memoires, pas des rancunes, les nouveaux peurs. C'est de la profession...........

theoutsider

c'est encore comme toujours. a la fin, on pense que c'est mieux si on reste seul. Il n'y aura pas de la peine. que'est-ce qui c'est passe aujourd'hui dans le voiture, tout le part? que'est-ce qui c'est passe? je comprend pas, mais c'est le sens familiale- de desespoir, de la peur, que je cree un interet detache dans les gens qui j'aime- de la curiosite pour cette chose-ci. je sais pas. je veux que tout va bien encore, comment je sais pas, c'est toi qui va faire ca, mon dieu. i feel prickly, insensate. j'ai perdu la capabilite, capacite de communiquer.
ne viens pas ici, toi. get lost.

What have they done with you, kid? Is nothing inviolate?
This I shan't forgive.

And what shall I do? And when shall I begin?
I was rather overwrought today, what with not meeting and wanting very much to meet. Yet, there's also this. I am forgetting to have a life of my own. There's work. There's also this thought that runs through my head ever so often. Well, that's not exactly the reason. It's rather that I have lost the rhythm quite.

Apart from it all. I feel a little scared by my own franticness, by the extent to which I end up investing in an affection. I have very little idea of how he feels, whether he loses sleep over the lack of words, over the daily forgetting, the reforging of connection over mail, over the emptiness otherwise. It is true , you know, to a certain extent that I am lonelier now than before, when I was reading. I feel very bereft now, but I can't seem to come to books. A paranoia, or laziness, fear. Animal reassurance, again and again, that things will be alright. Of a smiling face, of beauty- of finding the eyes as beautiful over and over again. Of even happiness, of a permeating sense of calm that does't threaten to go away. It's frightening that I keep hoping for all of this of a person. That I have dreamt and wanted it already, that I might have to turn back and walk alone again. My desperation, kindness, and more kindness, as Forster put it with such love

the perpetual etranger

Fantastic! I can post after ages! Cookie not disabled anymore!! I feel like Bridget, Calvin!

Well, my life. My head feels wrecked. The animal comfort, only of physical proximity, the closeness of a body next to you. I came back alone today. Good in a way. Was blabbering and in rather a black mood. I sent a lot of Eliot, mijeke ujar kore deoa to put out all you feel for someone you don't even know. There is so much and I feel overwrought. Yet I am already confined to myself. Unable to think beyond immediate reference to myself. My this nature despairs me. I hate to find myself self-centred so repeatedly. A little succour. A touch. Things working out. What that means I dunno, whatever is right, wherever, and yet you fashion your own rights. Miss my own self control. Tonight, I am copletely disoriented