Flowers. And in such shades that nature can only gawk. The self-assured patterns of fake blooms riddled with admiring insects reign consummately over this place of deep, rosy-colored carpet and Parisian floral scents. An antique chair, a delicately curving oak vanity, the tall queen bed whose mauve ruffles imitate precisely the shade of the walls which so lovingly encircle it all...this room sings her praise.
But the house chants for him, and among the other doors swinging mildly on worn hinges, the one to her bedroom seems very closed. Open space sprawls out from this casual rejection and fills itself to the brim in rebellion. The dark wood suddenly lining the walls is overrun to near extinction by a massive array of profoundly random images, in proudly mismatched frames. Hulking, mahogany furniture finds sanctuary in every corner, right up to the cabinets that surround the ancient stove, whose every dish smells slightly of hickory.
Stepping outside and into good intentions, the wheat grass is endless. It sways protectively from the red-paint walls of the house to a lofty barn a few hundred yards away, reaching beyond them to reinvent the skyline. Only the smell of the trees, with their fresh and rotting versions of avocados, figs, and kumquats, tolerantly mingling with the almonds, walnuts, and pecans among them, could manage to break the constant impression of silence. At its birth, this house was the neighborhood.
Except, the neighborhood hasn't much resembled this hopeful expectation for years. It exists for the three shopping centers only a jog away in any direction, even as it still graces the base of the northern mountains. There are gated communities of identical houses, built to confuse any form of danger into befalling a neighbor instead. The masters of the town have seized the uselessly empty fields and fulfilled their true purpose as cleanly paved roads. The dirt path on the house's eastern boundaries is now a concrete wall, erected inches from the kitchen window. In its fervent consumption of excess space, this small town in disguise as a big city seems to think itself on the brink of fooling the world.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (6/3/07)
![[Un]fortunate Philosophies](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwu6S7Pc2oMwWth-cUInhseYn0wmMdJwf7OwNj3AlwmT16FJiUljP8V3yXWTUnNCrlfrMTqvCW9WZq7BaOmi0KBcOCyP-e2huKiWMrDHCyXuOsCFN_xrecCYpFzqyNC1jAJugc/s660/BlogPic2.jpg)
When first i saw her, i thought her sad.
I wish the length of the shadows were scented! The colors deny distinction; black on black on black on grey--like the soles of my socked-feet; like my favorite lack of color. Where's the sky when you need it, Love?! Where's the question exposed? [I wonder what the fuck I'm thinking about, let alone writing...but don't stop!]
I've been imagining up a version of a friend of mine lately. Really, ever since she last wrote me a letter about that stupid boy she loves. I've been thinking paranoid-ly about her, and in terms of my domestic violence advocacy training, in fact.
Now I'm almost definitely being a silly-girl myself in this respect cuz my friend is mostly fine (besides her dating a clueless, asshole-kid), but nonetheless I've maybe-sometimes got to look out for that girl.
So now I'm suddenly thinking about pretending things about yourself--something like a test of character for the people surrounding you, or even just visiting your life. It might be called 'self-deprecation', and much too unrealistic self-humbling, rendering yourself needlessly prostrate. Know you what I mean? Who among you will know, I wonder, to tell you to stand the fuck back up?
[A Power of Procrastination flyer that advertises an "upcoming group meeting" is hanging up in an office window. It's over four months old.]
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/23/07)
I've been imagining up a version of a friend of mine lately. Really, ever since she last wrote me a letter about that stupid boy she loves. I've been thinking paranoid-ly about her, and in terms of my domestic violence advocacy training, in fact.
Now I'm almost definitely being a silly-girl myself in this respect cuz my friend is mostly fine (besides her dating a clueless, asshole-kid), but nonetheless I've maybe-sometimes got to look out for that girl.
So now I'm suddenly thinking about pretending things about yourself--something like a test of character for the people surrounding you, or even just visiting your life. It might be called 'self-deprecation', and much too unrealistic self-humbling, rendering yourself needlessly prostrate. Know you what I mean? Who among you will know, I wonder, to tell you to stand the fuck back up?
[A Power of Procrastination flyer that advertises an "upcoming group meeting" is hanging up in an office window. It's over four months old.]
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/23/07)
"Wanna make love on the sidewalk?" "No thanks!"
Think of it. What is there to say? When you watch cars driving by--differentially speeded, so to speak--from underneath a picnic table (the grain gum-stucked), where will you draw the absurd line between the thoughts that seem to spill out of the sights?
These are the questions of and for the Steps-->how what you just did is affecting you to many a varying degree, as is every experience you've ever had, as though you too were not a process and experience.
Consider the strengths of affect-->how close and immediate Things seem stickier somehow...but also a bit of their size is at issue, as unequally influential. My last class is still talking through me, for instance, as is that guy whose eyes i met for a moment, in that it was (unfortunately) I who looked away. These things push along the Steps, so to speak.
But to go even further back we must admit of an even stronger sway of force. An experience from two nights ago is far from you right now, you see, and it is still the sharpest one pervading your thoughts (as i experience them) and also you (as yet a process). Moreso, the person with whom the experience was shared must too be admitted as occupying an even larger part of your passive mind...See?
(Even so, the future is here too. Seven minutes before needing to leave: DV training; two girls you'll see there, one compact/beige and the other tall/tiny/darkdark; a Mr. as yet still expected; and something like sleep, at last.)
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (4/29/07)
These are the questions of and for the Steps-->how what you just did is affecting you to many a varying degree, as is every experience you've ever had, as though you too were not a process and experience.
Consider the strengths of affect-->how close and immediate Things seem stickier somehow...but also a bit of their size is at issue, as unequally influential. My last class is still talking through me, for instance, as is that guy whose eyes i met for a moment, in that it was (unfortunately) I who looked away. These things push along the Steps, so to speak.
But to go even further back we must admit of an even stronger sway of force. An experience from two nights ago is far from you right now, you see, and it is still the sharpest one pervading your thoughts (as i experience them) and also you (as yet a process). Moreso, the person with whom the experience was shared must too be admitted as occupying an even larger part of your passive mind...See?
(Even so, the future is here too. Seven minutes before needing to leave: DV training; two girls you'll see there, one compact/beige and the other tall/tiny/darkdark; a Mr. as yet still expected; and something like sleep, at last.)
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (4/29/07)
Not optimism: self-preservation.
The old woman sits shirtless. She is cross-legged on her bed, staring at a candle-stick. She saw it through conception but it will outlive her.
There is a lamp on, defying the day. Its beams are not warm on her skin. They feel like the gaze of a disappointed lover.
She brings her eyes to her lap, looks at her hands. They are soft beyond the shapes they've made. She thinks they are the same as an infant, wrinkled and barely alive.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (4/18/07)
There is a lamp on, defying the day. Its beams are not warm on her skin. They feel like the gaze of a disappointed lover.
She brings her eyes to her lap, looks at her hands. They are soft beyond the shapes they've made. She thinks they are the same as an infant, wrinkled and barely alive.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (4/18/07)
Oh, to Grandmother's house we go!!
The sleeping woman had never seen her flowers lit by a midnight moon, but they stood before the sleet-gray flood with faces upturned as if this were nothing. This whole place of deep, soft carpet and Parisian floral scents had been similarly neglected, and still its ethereal shapes wore on into their existence. From the streaming light at the wall-swallowing window, the room's only furniture was revealed: the form of a tiny wooden chair; the outline of a delicately curving vanity, itself bathed in the semi-light of its looking-glass reflection; the dark queen bed, furthest and harboring the sound of thick breathing—all these things dressed scarcely in silver and shadow.
To abandon this room through its squeaking, sliding door would be to embark along a corridor that doesn't end past the dark wood suddenly lining the walls. Rather the tight, column of space is further emulated by the back of black sofas and the face of dark desks. With each imagined step the wooden floor beneath feet would whine a painstaking sigh in their course through the room and lead to a tiled kitchen. Only the impression of the hulking furniture would remain in a further venturing of the lightless house, and the dusty cold would seem an everlasting scent. Eventually, the single light source infiltrating the glass pane of a lumbering door, set away in a northern corner, would prove too overwhelming to deny.
Stepping outside, the undulating wheat grass was brilliant as it swayed protectively from the glowing walls of our house to the lofty barn a few hundred yards away, reaching beyond them to disappear into the hollow skyline. Only the warm smell of the trees, succinct in the cold darkness, bearing both fresh and rotting versions of avocados, figs, tangerines, and kumquats, tolerantly mingling with the almonds, walnuts, and pecans among them, gave witness to the whispering of the endless fields. These sights, here under moonlight, were the house's idea of a neighborhood.
From the stars' perspective this house would not appear distinct. Only a few acres beyond it was another, and past that one, still another; strangely boxy things stretching out into the hundreds. Each was free to fancy itself alone, masked by its own tall grasses, and virtually all of them do during these quiet hours. Together, their mistaken claim on township is made nonetheless in earnest.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (4/15/07)
To abandon this room through its squeaking, sliding door would be to embark along a corridor that doesn't end past the dark wood suddenly lining the walls. Rather the tight, column of space is further emulated by the back of black sofas and the face of dark desks. With each imagined step the wooden floor beneath feet would whine a painstaking sigh in their course through the room and lead to a tiled kitchen. Only the impression of the hulking furniture would remain in a further venturing of the lightless house, and the dusty cold would seem an everlasting scent. Eventually, the single light source infiltrating the glass pane of a lumbering door, set away in a northern corner, would prove too overwhelming to deny.
Stepping outside, the undulating wheat grass was brilliant as it swayed protectively from the glowing walls of our house to the lofty barn a few hundred yards away, reaching beyond them to disappear into the hollow skyline. Only the warm smell of the trees, succinct in the cold darkness, bearing both fresh and rotting versions of avocados, figs, tangerines, and kumquats, tolerantly mingling with the almonds, walnuts, and pecans among them, gave witness to the whispering of the endless fields. These sights, here under moonlight, were the house's idea of a neighborhood.
From the stars' perspective this house would not appear distinct. Only a few acres beyond it was another, and past that one, still another; strangely boxy things stretching out into the hundreds. Each was free to fancy itself alone, masked by its own tall grasses, and virtually all of them do during these quiet hours. Together, their mistaken claim on township is made nonetheless in earnest.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (4/15/07)
"They're like my version of Haiku, these fuck-ups."
There's this too-distinct difference, I like to think, between knowing where you're going and how you're gonna get there. There are all these people that you can only translate as possible, so far. The problem?
Well imagine describing what it feels like to fall in love--to the person you're falling in love with. Imagine owning such a thing!, as if your version of love is neither effect nor consequence. If you think you can, maybe then there is no problem. So far, I can't describe it to myself. Failure in articulation, say you?, or else still failing to "fall in love"? I don't really mind, mind you.
Speaking of pretending. I would like to acknowledge RIGHT NOW doors with names that I've closed and windows with faces still tucked beneath. Translate: "doors" & "windows" into real live people! People with FULL-fucking-names; siblings and yards; smiles! "You were not a dot-dot-dot...waiting for me to complete you." (Ani D.)
[Don't forget--don't forget! Solipsism is narcissistic and psychotic! It's an absurdity that only people could have come up with...and then ran with at full speed! Maybe it took the industrial-strength insanity of philosphers, for to articulate most terrifyingly.]
Let us formulate them into a list of letters all jumbled up, as though they could have meant something to me. Let them carry meaning that doesn't imply me at all, not in the slightest.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (3/21/07)
Well imagine describing what it feels like to fall in love--to the person you're falling in love with. Imagine owning such a thing!, as if your version of love is neither effect nor consequence. If you think you can, maybe then there is no problem. So far, I can't describe it to myself. Failure in articulation, say you?, or else still failing to "fall in love"? I don't really mind, mind you.
Speaking of pretending. I would like to acknowledge RIGHT NOW doors with names that I've closed and windows with faces still tucked beneath. Translate: "doors" & "windows" into real live people! People with FULL-fucking-names; siblings and yards; smiles! "You were not a dot-dot-dot...waiting for me to complete you." (Ani D.)
[Don't forget--don't forget! Solipsism is narcissistic and psychotic! It's an absurdity that only people could have come up with...and then ran with at full speed! Maybe it took the industrial-strength insanity of philosphers, for to articulate most terrifyingly.]
Let us formulate them into a list of letters all jumbled up, as though they could have meant something to me. Let them carry meaning that doesn't imply me at all, not in the slightest.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (3/21/07)
Cycle Revolution - "Your dealer alternative." [You mean I get to be counted as an emergency!?]
Pumpkin muffins are ridiculously good. Cream cheese and all...
I think I'm watching a T.A. advise a student. Her inflected voice has been carrying her along for about seven minutes - is as colorful as her seventies-style striped, stretchy over-shirt with matching beads encircling her throat - and still I have no clue as to what subject she could possibly be talking about. Too many "it"s and "that"s and "well I would've"s, though I do gather that their teacher is a woman, and cultural forces seem to play a grand and mysterious role. Probably.
Whatever, the student just hopped up and out and now the T.A. is giving up her table to a middle-aged faculty-looking couple, which is nice of her. ("No problem! Now I get to go stretch out on the couch, finally!") I suppose I'll never know what she was talking about. [Cuz heaven forbid I ask...]
Down to the cream cheese! - its pure craziness. And Sublime's playing "Caress Me Down" spiritedly at Cowell Cafe.
It's one of those days outside that rains while smiling. The sun'll be out and making the cherry blossom trees shiver, but it'll be freezing as fuck and dropping raindrops like tears, "she says in a good way." My hands have just about thawed, only the fingertips to get warm now. In the mean time: homework! And sitting across from a sudden kid who's eating citrus & reading Wittgenstein. ("Thanks! It's just so crowded in here...")
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (3/8/07)
I think I'm watching a T.A. advise a student. Her inflected voice has been carrying her along for about seven minutes - is as colorful as her seventies-style striped, stretchy over-shirt with matching beads encircling her throat - and still I have no clue as to what subject she could possibly be talking about. Too many "it"s and "that"s and "well I would've"s, though I do gather that their teacher is a woman, and cultural forces seem to play a grand and mysterious role. Probably.
Whatever, the student just hopped up and out and now the T.A. is giving up her table to a middle-aged faculty-looking couple, which is nice of her. ("No problem! Now I get to go stretch out on the couch, finally!") I suppose I'll never know what she was talking about. [Cuz heaven forbid I ask...]
Down to the cream cheese! - its pure craziness. And Sublime's playing "Caress Me Down" spiritedly at Cowell Cafe.
It's one of those days outside that rains while smiling. The sun'll be out and making the cherry blossom trees shiver, but it'll be freezing as fuck and dropping raindrops like tears, "she says in a good way." My hands have just about thawed, only the fingertips to get warm now. In the mean time: homework! And sitting across from a sudden kid who's eating citrus & reading Wittgenstein. ("Thanks! It's just so crowded in here...")
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (3/8/07)
Reciprocity is not a clearly defined thing.
[At least you didn't fall on him--it was a possibility. It always is. This plethora of brilliance! and idiocy, so full and apparent on any bathroom wall.]
I want a decision being made each time. I have to try not to confuse myself here: I hardly know the definition of loneliness. My experience of it must be this different from yours. What I think it might mean doesn't live up to the hype once i've banished it. Most of the time, all i can feel while in a group of people is how much i'd rather be alone.
[I am good company to be sure, but am regrettably aware of its (un)lasting nature, i think.]
It's subject matter, you see, the only kind available in the drowning of too many minds within each other. As far as this goes, we can only do justice to one person at a time--such is the fullness of a personality waiting to be discovered. How is it not time mis-spent among people watching each other be watched, and nothing shared? Or at least, not nearly as much as i can't help but want.
It is for this that I deny the possibility of falling into each other. Or of having things happen to me, and finding myself among the people most readily available--that is, on the strength of their convenience. I want a decision being made each time! I want it based on intuition; on drive; on desire--not on accident. Nor mere circumstance. This is it, the way that it is, so i'm not allowed to be worried. This is what i want.
Introspection sucks. I want poetry in every look. There's got to be something here. Something necessary for me to see, or to know.
[So where's your decision, girlfriend? When are you going to put yourself in the paths of the people you're curious about?]
Geez louise.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (2/28/07)
I want a decision being made each time. I have to try not to confuse myself here: I hardly know the definition of loneliness. My experience of it must be this different from yours. What I think it might mean doesn't live up to the hype once i've banished it. Most of the time, all i can feel while in a group of people is how much i'd rather be alone.
[I am good company to be sure, but am regrettably aware of its (un)lasting nature, i think.]
It's subject matter, you see, the only kind available in the drowning of too many minds within each other. As far as this goes, we can only do justice to one person at a time--such is the fullness of a personality waiting to be discovered. How is it not time mis-spent among people watching each other be watched, and nothing shared? Or at least, not nearly as much as i can't help but want.
It is for this that I deny the possibility of falling into each other. Or of having things happen to me, and finding myself among the people most readily available--that is, on the strength of their convenience. I want a decision being made each time! I want it based on intuition; on drive; on desire--not on accident. Nor mere circumstance. This is it, the way that it is, so i'm not allowed to be worried. This is what i want.
Introspection sucks. I want poetry in every look. There's got to be something here. Something necessary for me to see, or to know.
[So where's your decision, girlfriend? When are you going to put yourself in the paths of the people you're curious about?]
Geez louise.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (2/28/07)
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