Saturday, March 21, 2009

until we bleed

Kleerup (with Lykke Li) - Until We Bleed

So, you go on pretending.

Pretending that it never really mattered, that it never really meant anything. Pretending that the film script in your mind ran alongside the director's cut of IRL. Pretending that everything means what it should be. Pretending every task means something else and it's familiar, we've heard this before, we've heard this too many times. We've heard this enough.

But it's never enough, and it never will be enough. Or maybe it will. Maybe this is the way it's supposed to work. Maybe maybe maybe. Maybe you forget that this is what is about. That there is no "maybe" except for the maybe of the now, this exact moment, this exact song, this exact sentiment carved on the surface of beating little hearts and tired eyes and blistered heels and--maybe. Maybe it's meant to hurt, maybe it was meant to disappoint, maybe each adventure is a gateway to yet another, and eventually leaping through fields and castles and locked bridges and strange warehouses and long concrete blocks and cobblestones that hurt in sharp straight heels there is some secret that is hidden and disguised better than any other and this secret, yes, this, this is the one. The last and final and only one but when you find it it slips so easily through your fingers and in just that moment you remember and realize what it was all for and that, that moment is when you suddenly forget.

And this secret drops like a parachute slow and soft and steady, bellowing pastel bloated curves down a perfect painted sky and green grass fields and it lands, still and dead and trodden beneath footprints of the hundreds and thousands and millions who'd walked this path before, uncovered this secret and then forgot. Forgot and destroyed it and as the seasons swirl around you and the world dances through its maybes and the wind becomes less harsh but a sudden drop in temperature is like a sudden hammer to the head, bloody and painful and it stings and hey, just a month ago it would have been a blessing but now it is a danger.

Elsewhere: the streets and wind the strangers passing by and their stories wrapped around them like coats and cocoons in the winter but now it's simply dissolving in front of your eyes, and as freudian slips bubble from thin cracked lips and voices and comments become songs, absolutely joyous, delightful, impossible songs songs songs that SING in your head you go on pretending and hey, it's working, it's erasing the edge of the gray sky and revealing the sunshine (but oh the sunshine it is deceptive it is bright and beautiful but when it lands on your skin it is just as cold and wretched) and the buildings are showing you a side you'd never noticed before and that door! It holds a design a painting a piece of art that's inspiring (but oh you know that it's trite and overdone and you've seen it before, before, before and again, again, again and it only ever really looks good in photos) so you snap the photos and smile to yourself (but oh that smile is jerked away so easily and it's one sided and plastic but you convince yourself that it's not because who is it for but yourself and it's only fake if it's meant for others but never if it's meant for you) and walk on and when you meet the gaze of someone passing by, and it's sudden and unexpected and it slices open your pretense and disguise and suddenly you are vulnerable and naked and shivering before them but you walk and walk with your head high and breath choked and suddenly it seems so impossibly bleak and dreadful and the pretense withers into a puddle by your feet and--you pause, finally.

You stop, and you watch it bleed.

Monday, March 2, 2009

Snow Days

0094., originally uploaded by Matildai.

I'm painfully weak. A weak body that refuses to move, motivation deflated, released from every pore of every patch of skin, every movement a strained, painful exaggeration. A weak mind that refuses to stop, overreacting even as it desperately strives toward something else, endless words and images fluttering through in super speed snapshots that my body could never actually live up to acting. A weak will that gives in so easily to temptation, that bends and shapes itself every other minute, that is endlessly connected to its counterparts, yet hopelessly different and flexible in a way it shouldn't be.

Outside there is a snowstorm and at times, the thick layered carpet of white is an occasion for epic poetry, for songs and grand cenematic scenes to be played out in front of frozen cars and buildings from another white world. And then there is the sludge, the soaking heels dragging on the pavement, struggling to maintain balance and walk and stay upright against roaring winds. The difficulty in usually plesant trips to a classroom or a dining hall made into a vicious challenge.

A battle of the elements and physical, but mostly a battle of the mind. Weighing options and necessities: starvation versus comfort, exhausion versus socialization. And meanwhile, all the while, that eternal ongoing battle beneath these exterior temperal concerns. That of the weakness, clamping on, spourting into flowers of abstract worlds and concepts that will never become of anything...

Ah, abstraction. Vagueness. Turning every single word and sentiment into a meaning laden something else. Wouldn't it be so much easier to take things literally, and never reach for that impossible to articulate "more"? But this is the curse. The curse of the weak will and the weak mind that gets overtaken so easily. Speaking in abstracts simply because it is easier to speak, personal without being personal, revealing without really saying anything at all. It's a special talent, and in a way it is the job of the writer, the poet, the artist. In a way it is a jailhouse of the mad, and every word written lets another demon escape.

But see, there. There it is again. Vagueness. Metaphorical something more. Sketches of a life or mindset that is not quite real...or maybe too real. Hyper saturated, brightness/contrast sharpened, digitally enhanced version of reality blurring the line. Buildings that look too beautiful and glow too wonderfully, art that turns into an experience, awe spiraling out of control and conversations that may or may not have ever happened at all. Maybe it was in my mind, always, half in my mind, and half expressed in reality in gestures and moments and sewed inside labels of certain pieces of clothing.

So why not just tell the story. The story. Hi, my name is Laura (but not laura not really not originally and sometimes not even now sometimes someone else someone with stylized hair and fierce heels someone who struts rather than walks someone who smiles someone who the world stops to watch strut past), this is my story. This is the story of my life, maybe the novel of my life, told in snippets, told in painted blurred polaroids so that you never really know. But I wouldn't want you to know. Not the details, not the reality of it, anyway. What fun is reality, what fun is getting caught up in minor technicalities, what fun is a laundry list of things done and waiting to be done, what's fun is this, mind games, self analysis, portrait of a girl, portrait of something else, portrait of a world that is between the gray white cold angles of this very real New York City and the glowing, selectively colored perfectly captured film reels of this other reality, this reality that exist within the sharpness of photoshopped photographs and stylized, abstracted words upon words and words.