They know that time does not exist, that it is a man made concept constructed to account for the way our bodies age. The decomposition of flesh is measured in abstract, meaningless units. As civilized beings, we’ve used these measurement for as long as we can remember. We built our very language around them; to perceive the world, and to acknowledge it, is to accept the concept of Time as a tangible and governing entity.
Through their pasts and their imagined futures, they’ve realized: Time’s function, when it comes down to it on this human level, is to destroy.

1.
She's cutting butter into flour for biscuits; she's making him breakfast. It's just 7 o'clock, the sun barely over the horizon on this mid-May Saturday morning. He'll sleep for another hour or two at least, reveling in the leisure afforded by the week-end, but she gets restless lying in bed. She hates watching the day disappear behind her, feels it necessary to get up and move with it. So, on this endless Saturday mornings, she finds herself here, in the kitchen making breakfast. She's got the bacon warming to room temperature on a plate by the stove; bread dough rising in a bowl on top of the fridge; bananas cut into medallions, ready to be added to the pancake batter; oranges halved and waiting to be squeezed into the pitcher in the draining rack next to the sink; eggs in the refrigerator door; milk in its gallon jug sitting on the counter, ready to be poured; last night's boiled potatoes, chopped and frying in the skillet.

She works deliberately, each stage of the meal coming together slowly under the weight of her careful hands. When he finally steps into the kitchen, running a lazy hand through his messy hair and giving her that look, she's just taking the last four pieces of bacon out of the pan and getting ready to crack the first egg, sunny-side up into the skillet. She takes a dinner plate from its place in the cupboard, piles it high with pancakes, hash browns, a buttered slice of warm homemade bread, bacon, a warm biscuit, flaky and light, and finally the egg, and sets it on the table next to his glass of orange juice. She sets another egg to frying in the pan, this one for herself, and sits next to him while it cooks. She watches him eat.

Generally speaking, their relationship is simple. Any of their friends would be able to tell you that they’ve been seeing each other for about 8 months now, but they refuse to acknowledge this. They spend time together, and they talk, and have sex. There have even been occasions on which they have cried on each other’s shoulder. They go out with friends, and they drink and dance and get rowdy. They are typical twenty-somethings. The important thing, for both of them (because both have been hurt in the past, by the way relationships grow and are shaped by the time put into them) is that there is no passing in the time they spend together. When they are together, time is stopped. The sun goes down and comes up, their hair continues to grow, their clocks still advance at the same tick-tick-tick pace; the world continues around them in the same way it always has and always will. But they do not accept any of this as Time. To them, time is not a governing entity. They do not let it tell them where they should be with respect to one another. Though they haven’t spoken about it, each of them understands that time between them will not pass. This allows them to be what they are, to eschew the confines of what an 8-month relationship would mean.

So there is that; spending time together without letting that time pass. But there is also a glimmer of something else. They don't live together, but when she sleeps over at his place, which is often, she makes him breakfast the next morning.

These breakfasts. It's when he walks into the kitchen and sees all the work she's put in for him and his stomach that he gets this feeling. It's as if she's teasing him, showing off this little, insignificant inkling of the passion she's got hidden away inside her. As if the breakfasts, if he looked hard enough, could tell him the story of their life together, were they to have one. In that moment he can imagine what it would be like to be with her permanently. What it would be like to live his whole life with her. To make her his wife. As he eats, time unfolds in front of him, and the course of their lives becomes tangible. They move in together, finish grad school. They are married, down south on his parents' land, in the same hay field as his grandparents. They buy an apartment together, start their own family; and their kids! Their kids are spectacular, and as they reach school age, they all move to a bigger place in a nicer neighborhood. And every morning they all sit down to breakfast together- that is how he'll measure the course of their lives, their breakfasts. As the months pass, he'll watch his family across the kitchen table as they blossom and bloom. His wife will become full to bursting with child (a son, a daughter, another daughter, another son), and slowly her hair will be streaked with salt-and-pepper; she'll cut it short and grow it long again; the lines on her face will deepen and the skin on the backs of her hands will begin to reveal the networks of blue veins beneath. His sons' bodies will begin to look like his own, lean and strong and sun-browned; their voices will become progressively deeper, their polite demands for more bacon or syrup sounding more and more each morning like the demands of men; and finally they will start shaving, and being absent for breakfast more and more often. And his daughters: he will watch their hair grow; he will watch as they start paying attention to their appearances; as they change their attitudes, and as they close themselves off and open themselves up; and he will watch in amazement and wonder as they being to resemble their mother, as they begin to learn from her how to make breakfast.

When he’s finished eating, he does the dishes. He cleans the kitchen while she gets dressed. As he’s putting the plates into the dishwasher, she comes over and pats him on the back. She means to say, I’ll see you around. As the door closes behind her, she’s suddenly transformed into the timeless version of herself, with whom he does not make plans. The future closes in on itself and ceases to exist; the tick-tick-tick of the clock on the wall carries on, as meaningless as it was the night before.

I said this to Nick already
and yes, before you ask, this is me talking (usually it isn't, truly, though I know you don't believe that)-
And I hate this kind of writing, as I've said here before (but I deleted that post, didn't I, because it was this kind of writing)
But the point is- I am so totally filled with this feeling--

It would be so easy for the feeling to be expressed as: Or, I'd hit myself in the face for all the stupid fucking things I've done.
Because I would. If I wasn't so lazy. Because I have done so much stupid shit, and I hate it, I hate remembering it; it feels like watching a video of myself doing something embarrassing, and not being able to laugh about it. And all that stupid shit, it's lead me here, and I'm not really sure if this is where I want to be. In fact, I know it isn't. And that's what I write about, here and everywhere else: about where I would be if I hadn't done all the stupid things I've done, and if I could just hit myself in the face; and about where I want to be, or where I wish I wanted to be, or where I think you are. That is what I write about. And I do it seriously. I take it seriously; and when I write, I am intentional. I know just exactly what I'm doing (which is part of what I mean when I say: I eat what I slaughter- but not at all the full extent of it).

Anyway that's not at all what I cam here to say.

What I came here to tell you is that I made a choice. I made this choice a couple of months ago, and I'm just now realising that it means more than I thought. It sounds stupid, it sounds like something a lost-in-the-clouds fuck-up would say to herself on her 15th birthday, but the choice was as follows: I feel like I have been presented with all the things in my life, spread out on a table for me to look at. And there were two feelings to be had about it. Either I hate it, and hate myself, and spend my time hitting myself in the face; or, I rejoice. So I chose rejoice. I chose.

At the time I first said that to myself, I thought it just meant, working harder to be happy. And that is part of it, a huge fucking chunk of it. But it's more, too. It's: living. Because I haven't been doing that. I haven;t been living- I've been sitting in my room looking at the internet. I've been tricking myself into thinking that I've been enjoying my time, but I haven't, I've just been bored. I now see that choosing rejoice means deciding to live, to really do it. To spend my time, not waste it. I want to spend every waking moment doing something, I never want to check my facebook or fucking hipinion ever again. I want to spend hours upon end at the library. I want to get my shit done, and then when I'm not working I want to be either taking pictures, or writing, or drawing, or having sex. I never want to be doing anything but using my energy in this passionate, intense way I just discovered. I want to go to bed feeling fucking exhausted every single night. I want to know, to really fucking know! that I haven't wasted a single fucking second. I want to expend myself, spread myself thin and spring back up on you, because I can, because I have chosen. Do you understand? You don't. I'm not being very good at explaining anything right now. I want to do drugs with you, and be fucking glad all the time. Okay? Don't answer that, I don't need you to. I'm just going to this; something in my fucking chemistry has changed, and I dont need you at all, I know now that I never have. I can get off on my own fucking excitement. I just want to do this right, because this is the only chance I'm going to get and I'm not going to fuck it up. Or rather, I'm not going to keep fucking it up. I'm going to fucking do this. I haven't really said anything that I want to say here, but I'm going to post it anyway, as a reminder to myself that I want to start living, even though I haven;t defined that the way I really want to, and as a reminder to you that I am fucking perfect, and that you're never going to meet anyone with like me ever again, and that I am fucking perfect. You don't get it, you never will, but the thing is: I'm more, and better, than anything or anyone else. I didn't know that, not really, until right now, this very second. Too bad I hadn;t fully decided not to be so lazy until just now. I was just being lazy before this, you know, sitting around, not moaning and groaning, not saying anything, not really caring if I came or not. But now I do care. I really fucking care. I'm done being so lazy; fuck that. Fuck that. I'm on fucking fire, I'm burning the fuck up.

"I don't know, I just feel like I live in an envelope."

I want to tell you a story.


Today we took pictures of my brain. I had to hold very still.
Three Teslas of magnetic energy.
You could think of it this way: all the blood in my body slightly pulled.
I want you to see the pictures we took- I want you to see the architecture of my thoughts, and to know what that means.

This time I'm not fucking around
I want to ask you: WHY CAN'T I BE YOUR FUCKING FRIEND.

Hi, I got a Flickr. Look at it!

If there's something there that you want me to take down, just say the word. They're images I captured, I like looking at them, and I want the people in my life to be able to see them whenever. Also, it feels like a more professional forum, so that I can put there the things I wouldn't necessarily put on Facebook. I've also been taking it pretty seriously- I've been really earnest in the "Profile" section, and all that information, which is not how I normally treat those features of sites like this.

Anyway, as I said, if you see yourself there, and feel uncomfortable about it, I apologize. Just let me know and I'll fix it. Not trying to step on anyone's toes- just trying to create yet another creative outlet for myself. Dunno why. I just seem to have this exhibisionist itch, and the internet is the easiest way to scratch it.

remember these things, liz
shake the disease
this is the house
enjoy the silence.

IN FACT: watch this.

in a perfect world, i spend my time this way.
with my hair done up just so.

(edit: in fact, if you can understand that, then you know everything about me, i think.)

The word: Pioneer

"That's the price we pay for standing upright, Dad. I'm sorry, but it's true."
She means so much by this.

"I am listening to your heartbeat across the ocean."

- N. Feder (2009; contemporary American Poet, b. 1988; pioneer in his field).

"He's doing the Unnecessarily Profound Thing," he sighs into the phone.

I laugh.


.

Or, I'd hit myself in the face for all the stupid fucking things I've done.





One time, I projectile vomited in the dining room of a fancy hotel. I was seven, and it felt like the end of the world.

I get that feeling often these days. Not the nausea, but the aftereffects. It's like my brain remembers the physiological and psychological effect those few minutes took, and replays them in acute detail every time I fuck up. The post-puke shakes. That feeling- like my insides have been ripped out and the empty cavity filled with greasy vinegar. The seeping guilt, the shame.

Some words bring it on; some kind of sick Pavlovian response I've trained myself into. Instead of salivating at the ring of a bell, some specific combinations of letters give me the feeling described above.

For example: "Ugh"; "Hey buddy!"; the term, "all the way" as a euphemism for sexual intercourse. Those are just three that I can remember off the top of my head.

Some images do it, too. But I try not think about those.

Sometimes when I stub my toe, or something like that, I just burst into tears. That never used to happen.

I can trace all of this back to one particular moment: June 16th, 2008, 3:45pm- I am about to open the passenger-side door of her car, and for whatever reason I incline my head a couple of degrees and notice the little round carton on her passenger-side seat, and the door handle gives me an electric shock. Let me explain.

My favourite flavour of ice cream is, always has been and always will be: Pear. I had it once, when I was eleven and in Greece with my dad (father-son-bonding trip, ill fated. Memorable quote of the two-week fiasco: "David," my father slamming his glass onto the table and standing up, "I'm sorry, but it's just not possible." This sentence ended a two-hour conversation we'd been having regarding whether or not he and I are biologically related.) Anyway, the pear icecream was, for sure the only good thing about that trip, and it was delicious, and it was like the world was saying to me, David! It's okay! There are some good things in this world, regardless of who your father may or may not be! Enjoy!

And what do I see in her car that June afternoon?
One pint of pear ice cream.
And what happens when I see it? I get an electric shock.

Actually that may not quite be the defining moment I like to think of it as.
The defining moment may have been when she told me she didn't want to see me again.
Fuck.

or, i'd hit myself in the face for all the stupid fucking things I've done.

to those of you who know where this is from, i apologise.
but truly- the realest shit ever to come off that fucking board:

it hasn't all been done before. you know how i know? think about what music was like before the Beatles, before Metallica, before Dr. Dre, before every pioneering band that did something that people didn't even know was possible. who knew back in rthe 60s how gigantic an impact a simple group of boys singing love songs would have on the world? as much as I discredit Metallica's ability, they still made a huge wave in heavy music and it's still being felt to this day. Dr. Dre took Star Child and made Let Me Ride, who else would have thought of that? have you thought about how sick that beat is? and the bassline? what if dre had never done it?

what if I PUSH MIRACLE WHIPS had never done it? yeah people will laugh if you say straight out that you're going to change the world, but fuck, what does any of that even matter? people who can't be bothered to try and do anything 'meaningful' want to say that 'meaningful' is something for dreamers who end up working minimum wage? and the former becomes what? nothing less than the meaningless trinket of a human they idealize the 'real man' to be, yet unsatisfied. well shit

all i know is i have a really strong feeling about something, i don't even know what. it's making my stomach hurt and i'm scared of it being too much. too much what? idk. maybe it's still just traces of praranoia, maybe i'm getting ready to explode. i realize i've never looked up what makes a star go supernova or black hole, maybe it has to do with pressure or something

but yeah i'm really glad i'm being made to prioritize my thinking and to rationalize all of it, though. i already got the whole 'feeling' thing down better than most, and i'm pretty confident about that. so much so that it causes me physical pain to think of loving someone at the very moment, when nobody is there and I'm still torn apart by whether or not it's in my best interest to have love interests, or if i should just die alone for the sake of art and all mankind. when i tell riff-raff that he's doing the 'unnecessarily profound' thing i grin really hard. IM GONNA BE THE FIRST NON-RUSSIAN COSMONAUT AND IM NEVER GOING TO DIE

and of course i keep thinking about Alice and when our paths will meet again, because they will. i feel strongly about that too, and i don't doubt it for a second. sometimes it's sad to think that nothing will ever happen there, other times it's melancholy but 'okay' to accept that maybe she's finally found someone, and it makes me gleeful to think that she just made another mistake and will realize it with time and also realize THAT I AM THE ONLY~~*~*~ AHAHAHAH. yeah i wish that relationship ill, as much as i want to be all ghandi about shit, i still can't help that. it'll be a while before i can, i never doubted that. keep on truckin. i had a dream about her 5-years-too-late clone and it was oneo f the most pleasant dreams i've ever had. i woke up feeling good as hell. all we did was talk

suddenly and without warning----

let's just say they couldn't fix the ribs she broke.
how did they break?

I've been thinking
And what I've been thinking is that, a) I have some things I need to write about, and b) Efraim Långstrump may be the root of my father-figure issues & what i desire in a sexual partner and/or long-term-mate
...he's a pirate, he's a cannibal king, he's strong as FUCK, he provides for his daughter in straight-up treasure (ie. gold!), and he's like, never around because he's off fucking sailing the seven seas. And Pippi? His daughter? The coolest bitch around.
I definitely have some things to write out.

prenez mon cœur, qu'il soit sauvé!

"...One autumn night, five years before, they had been walking down the street when the leaves were falling, and they came to a place where there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight. They stopped here and turned toward each other. Now it was a cool night with that mysterious excitement in it which comes at the two changes of the year. The quiet lights in the houses were humming out into the darkness and there was a stir and bustle among the stars. Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalk really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees-- he could climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder.

His heart beat faster as Daisy's white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips' touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete.

Through all he said, even through his appalling sentimentality, I was reminded of something-- an elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words, that I had heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man's, as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was uncommunicable forever. "
- F. S. Fitzgerald

i've got half a mind to start writing again.

this: http://forums.hipinion.com/viewtopic.php?t=244903&postdays=0&postorder=asc&start=0