another few quotes to remember...

From Gregory Maguire's book Wicked (The Life & Times of the Wicked Witch of the West):

"Elphaba the girl does not know how to see her father as a broken man. All she knows is that he passes his brokenness on to her. Daily his habits of loathing and self-loathing cripple her. Daily she loves him back because she knows no other way.

I see myself there: the girl witness, wide-eyed as Dorothy. Staring at a world too horrible to comprehend, believing - by dint of ignorance and innocence - that beneath this unbreakable contract of guilt and blame there is always an older contract that may bind and release in a more salutary way. A more ancient precedent of ransom, that we may not always be tormented by our shame. Neither Dorothy nor young Elphaba can speak of this, but the belief of it is in both our faces..."


Response to Elphaba's question, "Why is my life so plagued?":

"You are neither this nor that - or shall I say both this and that? Both of Oz and of the other world. Your old Frex was always wrong; you were never a punishment for his crimes. You are a half-breed, you are a new breed, you are a grafted limb, you are a dangerous anomaly. Always you were drawn to the composite creatures, the broken and reassembled, for that is what you are."

Happy Holidays all!

I will be visiting my parents and have no access to the internet or livejournal for the next week, but I wanted to wish everyone a lovely vacation from work/school/normally scheduled life and happy celebration of the holidays.

Much love to you all. Hope to see most of you at the Inferno on New Year's Eve, or around town, or in dreams...


Quotation to remember:

The citizens whose lives are split between business & private life, their private life between ostentation & intimacy, their intimacy between the sullen community of marriage & the bitter solace of being entirely alone, at odds with themselves & with everyone, are virtually already Nazis, who are at once enthusiastic & fed up, or the city dwellers of today, who can imagine friendship only as "social contact" between

the inwardly unconnected.

(Horkheimer & Adorno)


pressed up against the glass

of a lit window.
it's cold outside. my breath,
a laced cloud, clings to the air,
then disperses. snowfell shimmers,
footcrumbled to my silent form
with hands shoved into pockets
& eyes watering with the chill,
the light in your room.

your lips move, i trace their unknown syllables
with my gaze. your lips curve into a slow smile,
it's mesmerizing really. if i could speak
i would call you out into the white
the shadows & streetlight pools,
into the starscattered sky, take your hand
til our fingers entwined froze together.

but your laughter is warm & bright. and i never knew
how to shine in a crowded room. i never owned
new furniture, the slender stem of a wine glass
poised in my hand or casual conversations .
.. but the edges of the night, the still & endless ache
of snowhorizon & cold , oh the everything -
this belongs to me . so you turn to the window
almost like you heard a whisper, a flutter
of wings . it was just the wind my dear,

a kiss of ice on the glass, my goodbye.

year in review

a few people have done this so far and it's kind of interesting... i took the first 'phrase' of each month's first diary entry because some were poems and a single line would have made no sense at all.

for a faery the winter is like
a clear brilliant crisp
column of white light
a glow

i am tired of failure.

your look, that tenderness
or the way you hold my hand
clenched in your fingers on the

"Tu veux un monde ... c'est pourquoi tu as tout et tu n'as rien."
(Translation: "You want a world... that's why you have everything and nothing.")

our lives are a balancing act between reality and fantasy, between physical sensation and artistic interpretation, between the weakness of our bodies and the strength of our minds, between mundane details and divine symbolism.

she picks up the pen.

i sometimes feel i am
a child
wandering down the sidewalk
holding god's hand

i did not want to watch this dream die

i created corridors in the palace of my mind to give myself the illusion of space and breathing room.


a pile of yellow leaves clustered in the gutter reads like patterns that make no sense i'm thinking of pelasge and he says 'all we can't explain we attribute to the divine life is like a dream that explains nothing and leaves us empty' it's all death or maybe insanity i can't tell

borrowed pockets of time.

seven songs - tagged by happygophucky

This changes constantly 'cause it totally depends on what cds i popped in most recently... and it's all about lyrics... so i'm going to quote seven lines for you from my seven favorite songs instead.

1. "you were the story i tried to tell / you were the savior that tripped and fell / beautiful dancing infidel / who will guard the door when i am sleeping?"

2. "it was you, breathless and tall / i could feel my eyes turning into dust / like two strangers turning into dust"

3. "there's beauty in the breakdown"

4. "i watched you die, i heard you cry every night in your sleep / i was so young, you should have known better than to lean on me / you never thought of anyone else, you just saw your pain / and now i cry in the middle of the night for the same damn thing"

5. "i'm haunted by the lies that i have loved & actions i have hated / i'm haunted by the promises i've made & others i have broken / i'm haunted by the lies that wove the web inside my haunted head"

6. "eyes wide open to the great train robbery of my soul / impending blindess of the kind that's beyond my control / eyes wide open to the secret forest behind these tear-filled trees / heart-rending blindness won't testify that i'm on my knees / maybe i'm a little young to care, maybe i'm a little old to cry, i don't know / maybe i'm a little weak to dance, maybe i'm a little strong to die, i don't know"

7. "i know silence better than anyone"

k, i will tag tspeeddemonx, sassilicious, avdi, splendorbug and slippystagger

"I thought of the bones: I could hear them singing. They needed me to write their song."

imagine that:

the monster lived inside your head. feasted on the words that floated from the lips of lovers, sucked them dry like burbling fruits & presented you with the dry husks, with empty space & bits of discarded peel.

imagine that:

you waited all your life for someone to step inside your mind & gather you up & take you away.

imagine that:

what hurts you is also what makes you safe.

imagine that
you were the only one
who could touch
the monster
as he slumbered
you with your knife
of light & poetry
& steps taken
down winter sidewalks
trudging forward
in the cold:
you cut him slightly
call it grief
memories of a little girl
in the dark,
not just dark but EMPTY,
and you are the only warrior here
you with your fear & your tantrums & your tears
slaying a dragon
with papercuts
with love when it hurts
and it hurts.

it shouldn't be so hard to say
i love you
to myself
but then it is.

and one day the monster whispers
but he does not steal;
he stays in a vaulted room
does not wander freely
one day things change.
i believe this.
and one day spring comes
and dead girls live and speak.
i believe this too.

i live
day to day
quietly, painfully
until the time comes
when i am called upon
to sing.


borrowed pockets of time.

i wander curious pathways of cement & iron railings under scattered light, hazy globes of mystic orange or shimmered white, the dark winds whispering secret syllables around me.

windows looking in to empty classrooms, the hush of tiled floor & the tired curve of plastic chairs, vacant.

i love to glimpse the strange life of busy rooms after nightfall... i think they weave together the colors & textures & unspoken thoughts into dreams... like a work of art, an unending poem in a language of silences & people who move like shadows through the daytime sunlit hours...

how does the entity that is a room percieve us? what collection of energies and impressions are gathered in that space? i am sure that everything has a secret soul.

i am standing outside in the cold shedding tears, crystalline, a long smooth column of wonder expressed. i feel god in the silent spaces of a room viewed through a window. i see god in the billowy illumination of a cobwebbed corner. i know god as this moment, the fragile body i wear, the song in my bones.

i pray for the strength to speak. i want everyone to know her name.

(no subject)

that's it. i honestly do not fucking care anymore. this is my entire life, i hate myself, i hate everything about my existence, and i hope to god that i die in my sleep so i don't have to spend another second in my own presence.

i am a failure at everything and i refuse to try anymore. i have no reason to continue living.

If anyone's interested...

I am making a writing-experiment right now, a re-examination of my memories which are after all the basis on which a human being creates a narrative of her own life.

I made a special blog for this poetry which is really the written exploration of my own life, all true stories (well, as true as any fiction ever is...)

Some of if has turned out well, or is at the least interesting... so if you're interested at all in reading it (and also if you'd like to comment or give me feedback), it's available at white_alchemist.