here it is

"It always fascinated me how people go from loving you madly to nothing at all, nothing. It hurts so much. When I feel someone is going to leave me, I have a tendency to break up first before I get to hear the whole thing.

Here it is. One more, one less. Another wasted love story. I really love this one. When I think that it’s over, that I’ll never see him again like this… well yes, I’ll bump into him, we’ll meet our new boyfriend and girlfriend, act as if we had never been together, then we’ll slowly think of each other less and less until we forget each other completely. Almost. Always the same for me. Break up, break down. Drink up, fool around. Meet one guy, then another, fuck around. Forget the one and only. Then after a few months of total emptiness start again to look for true love, desperately look everywhere and after two years of loneliness meet a new love and swear it is the one, until that one is gone as well.

There’s a moment in life where you can’t recover any more from another break-up. And even if this person bugs you sixty percent of the time, well you still can’t live without him. And even if he wakes you up every day by sneezing right in your face, well you love his sneezes more than anyone else’s kisses."

2 days in paris, julie delpy

the bobby fuller four - let her dance

all i want

Myrtle
by John Ashbery

How funny your name would be
if you could follow it back to where
the first person thought of saying it,
naming himself that, or maybe
some other persons thought of it
and named that person. It would
be like following a river to its source,
which would be impossible. Rivers have no source.
They just automatically appear at a place
where they get wider, and soon a real
river comes along, with fish and debris,
regal as you please, and someone
has already given it a name: St. Benno
(saints are popular for this purpose) or, or
some other name, the name of his
long-lost girlfriend, who comes
at long last to impersonate that river,
on a stage, her voice clanking
like its bed, her clothing of sand
and pasted paper, a piece of real technology,
while all along she is thinking, I can
do what I want to do. But I want to stay here.

sarah blasko - all i want
sarah blasko - we won't run

photo: nathalie daoust (via of paper and things)

it's never the same way again

for the past few months i've been thinking about my friends. my old friends, whom i've loved for years on end and who now live in cities and countries across the ocean. those old friends who may or may not come back to this country, the ones who might leave this city in a matter of months. i've been thinking about those ones, because i miss them, because i miss being around the people who know me as well as they do.

friends like that, the best kind, they make you feel safe. like your favourite clothes, the ones you've had forever, the ones you've worn in and lived in, they don't make you feel old or boring when you wear them. they protect you, and you can be anyone you like in them. i miss that feeling, feeling safe.

i've been thinking about my friends, and i've been thinking about home. i don't feel like i have a home here. when i mention this to people, especially people who are older than i am, their sympathy comes with the slightest bit of exasperation, because everyone has a time when they feel like they have no home. i don't particularly like zach braff or garden state but even his movie makes this point, because it's a feeling we all get. i don't have a home here because my friends aren't here, or they are but they're already living their own lives, and back at the ancestral seat i have a room in my parent's house with some of my things, and in the city my apartment is a wasteland.

i spend a lot of time at your place. i remember the first time i went back with you, to your house. it was november and it was raining. i had to pee, we had been downtown drinking and i had to pee, and by then everything was closed and we stood in the subway and i stumbled with indecision, i watched my train go by, and we took a cab back to your place so we could watch television and i could pee. on the cab ride i half-closed my eyes and lolled back onto the seat, the drunkard's choice to check out, momentarily, and you put your hand on my hand. your hand was warm and dry. sometimes the booze strips off a layer of protection enough to give your insides a shock. you can put your hand on someone's leg, on their knee, around their shoulders, you can put your hand in your pocket. you put your hand on my hand. i don't remember getting to your place, i don't remember going in. i remember laying on the couch and watching tv with eyes half closed, and you put a blanket over us, and i looked at you and you looked happy. i forgot about that, but now i remember.

i miss my friends and i miss the home that i had with them, but i don't feel it all the time, i feel it sometimes, i feel it less when i'm with you. i've decried, loudly and often, people who fall into relationships for the bonds of built-in friendship, to escape loneliness and sadness and the coldness of winter. what i suppose i never understood is that it doesn't have to be sullied with fear, that when you get love, from the ones you love, the ones who love you, you get a blanket, the best kind, that you carry with you in your heart. you get to go home and sleep in the bed that's yours.



the smiths - there is a light that never goes out

photo via hello bauldoff

run every day

I dreamt that I was sick. I dreamt you too,
a face that moved over sounds. Comes a time
I'll wake, I know, but for now you'll keep as mine.
Love's a sickness that I dreamt. Love finds you,
or you it. You always said a messy room
would make itself a messy mind. Something like.
Love's a mess I meant. Comes a time the night
will bring no more to light, or nothing new.

Time is always falling back on its youth.
Everything slides from end to start, from age
to the past for a shine; an easy wage
to look on the never was and find truth,
to clear the mess into neat piles of dust.
I woke up tired, and licked away the rust.

new order - age of consent

photo: coquinete

under the weather

"I lose you in the subway. This trip, it's been long. Two flights, a train, and now this. Before this there was a wedding. I didn't know them, the wedding people. But they looked at me, standing next to you, and they said, I like you two, together. I looked at you then and I look at you now and I wonder if that's true. I kiss you, stand up, get off the train, wondering. You tell me you love me and I wonder.

You'll never tell me you love me, I'll never wonder if you do, again.

I always meet you in the fall. You're always gone by spring. Sometimes you don't know this until the winter. Sometimes you tell me you love me when it's over."

by meredith chamberlain

why? - berkeley by hearseback
why? - eskimo snow
why? - this blackest purse