late night monday, arteries ruptured by the verve's reverb violins strung and copper hung by wired lunar orbits of voices viciously spun in the shallow skies above oceania sung, i went in for the kill on my any day funeral bouquet of prescription pills to keep dimly hued my will to live, and kept writing and writing in an astral projection of cruel mania in my blemished evermore crawl in prayer enough of my body will be left to forgive.
" i went to see a screening of jared leto's masterpiece sci-fi film "mr. nobody" before being lectured by a stalker of some creepy sort the very next day that i'm sure is still sulking on this very page i wish they would fuck off forever. the irony is not lost, is it?... fuck. anyway. despite all my--- (promised to be pissed off so much lol. cause i so called it to be, what do you want? i want change iha. wretzky. bass. drums. evrerythng. you know what i wanted. james laurence. everythng n-party as far as late2011. when know i know this kid. let me know this kid. bill he but bill he means nothing h menas everything he'll teenage james. set to drain. secret destroyers. he'll out to to the flames. to me. for a piece. fuck the noise."
there's my soul being bared and it means absolutely nothing and everything while smashing pumpkins records were probably being spun on spotify as the purer parts of my being possessed my body i thought i saw walk away... i just thought it may be worth throwing on here to illustrate a little of what i'm working with as far as ruining my own everyday living by a higher autoerotic asphyxiation of my brain matter, merrily skulking the strangulation point between life and come sweet death♪ and being the very best artist i could hypnotize myself to be. wringing my flesh and fluid. modest little me and it still means so little and so much more.
weirdness put aside, i've been wistful for my latchkey kid days when i briefly lived in this house as a kid in seventh grade, more often than not in trouble by my stricter mom when she would arrive home before i would, as i would squeeze all the time i could from the arcade across the street from the school. there used to be a little TV against this corner wall, N64, PSX, sega saturn, music CDs, sheet music, video game jewel cases, import discs specially put aside, anime VHS tapes stacks on stacks on black, and here i am again til here knows when in a life i seemingly circle. sometimes i can't get over life but it isn't all bad. i just think it's funny that i'm sucked cyclical in existential crises over thought knots and hide the breaths taken from my body from everyone and everything else as if i need to get away with living long enough to show i'm worth it. i've never been. i've never felt like i am, at least. that's another story but i'm always telling it in one way or another in allegory purgatory. here. hell. welcome to mima's room.
i put up an instagram account by accident as angela told me she was pressing pause on facebook but active everywhere else, we exchanged our everything information, and there i am since i finally cared to get a new and decent LG mobile. next thing i know, i'm posting morning time photos of sleepy momo as i slurp my decaf coffee and pup's day out @ santa clara valley medical center flaunting (ha) another patient bracelet. they have me roam around the building floors from here to there to back again for all sorts of tests, a lot of waiting, but it all gets done within a single day at least. refilled my hydroxyzine script for the next three months. all that's left is to play the waiting game for a letter of referral and approval for a new neurologist as my new (and third) PCP and get in on another year's EEG, CT/MRI, and draw an x-ray dream of my fluorescent anti-strobe temporal lobe. anyway, yeah. i have an insta account now. selfies not included. it's up to others to photograph me. steal my soul. take me. capture me. keep me. share me. reject me. x'd like manson.
it feels like LA, it feels like the bay, but mostly it feels like any lonely day. southern california kid caught fluttering where the sea salts sputter as they spray, once upon an adventure for love and oxygen i'll stay, and i'll learn the will to shatter the chrysalis casket and finally fly away. it feels like chicago, it feels paris, it feels the way they used to say, but mostly it feels like i'll never know another way. it feels like the palisades, it feels like union city, it feels like pleasanton, it feels like her, it's one san francisco skyline blur, then it's a feminine new york purr, sleepily sung by ayu as if my boyish throat was hung in hard liquor, no way to say whisperer, but mostly it feels like my repertoire.
there's my artistic contribution of the night as my other laptop isn't being fixed but being replaced entirely - so i don't have my usual writing space to work. it seeps out like wet dream ejaculate. i haven't had any gravity seas to swim for weeks while i mourn and mourn for pure-hearted james and need it most, so i actually made use of the logitech notebook i originally scrawled my first treatments and script outlines by my girlish cursive way, all the way two years back, in this very house, after i finally knew true rebirth and baptism of being. everything is so full circle and fucked up. my true creative form is unleashed upon learning liberty from the drag of drugs but i need the pills to live. i wish more of that me was let free for the world let see when i was with megan. she could've had more to be proud but she was so enthusiastic to tell so much of my talents, who i am, and so much sore to everyone we met and more. it's the everlasting thing... vintage 90's depression, anxiety, agoraphobia, epilepsy and my will to make everyone else proud versus shutting out the sky from my bedroom cloud, kingdom of heaven sliced for the purgatory crowd, and there's only so much life left i'm allowed.
my best friend in the whirled world in smitten kittenish swirled but i'm only ever reasoning with the end of the world. i'm alone and holding nothing. i let her know the most intimate of everything and hear nothing back. just the most beautiful words every so imagined ever. i have no support network. not in this house. if i have one, it's the kitties, feline therapy, my momo most special held by anemic blood cell vessels,
oh yeah, i also went to a screening of ghost in the shell (JP w/ eng subs) @ shattuck in berkeley but i didn't see kristen. not that i was looking, i was a bit late because traffic on the 880, and i slipped out without expecting much fanfare in usual post-screening depression. i mostly wanted to get back in my hatchback, nobody next to me this time, and only after circling from the orbital point where telegraph meets shattuck. where my life was really lived in true love. i strolld alone. our comic book shop. our restaurant. our breakfast spot. our routine. our subway station. our life. our love. our kitty kept trilled to the door. i had it. we had it. we lost it. she is young, she was young, but i wish she could've known what i had to hurt to finally know. she'll learn. i know she will because she's bright if she'd let herself be and not drown in drugs. that's life, kitten puff, and we have to learn to live it sometime. maybe i'm a genius, an artist, a poet, but maybe i'm nothing and the devil wrote it. maybe i was sold as a kid and better for it, this way i'll know the quintessences of life to suckle and sew it, and then i'll play my part as the sad singer for the flush of searchlight flash for art.
i just wish i was loved. i'll let you know what changes when i get around to it or the rest of the world finds me.