Friday, January 09, 2009

Hello all, it's the pillow of Tuesdays here saying hi. I am trying LiveJournal as TuesdayPillow. This journal has been here for a while but it is VERY dusty. Sorry for all the sneezings and cobwebs and such.

So, should I stay here or stay on LiveJournal or go somewhere else entirely?

Sunday, December 02, 2007

Knock, knock.

Who's there?

Monday, December 12, 2005

This city is alive.

I often feel it in the ground beneath my feet. When I walk, I'm not walking on concrete over a still earth. I'm walking on a pulsating, throbbing vein that carries blood to the extremities of this city.

The river is the source of life cutting through the very core of our existence. It carries bodies (and anti-bodies) up and down, from the head to the feet of the city.

If the sky were to fall, it would make little difference. It would not disrupt the ebb of history, nor would it stop shadows from bleeding out of the cracks of buildings.

In this city, Centuries are people and Decades are infants.

Nightfall goes unnoticed by the many bridges who connect the ends of life and death. I know that the bridges are the arteries between the end and the beginning. Often they are one and the same.

I want to plummet into the river face first and listen to my neck break as I part
the waters with my body.

It is dark, and I feel energy pouring into the walls and windows. I want to escape, but there are too many that recognize me. They know when I touched the wall inside the cathedral, I had a vision.

The little girl was still in her sleeping gown, and she was running away from a clergyman. Why or for what for was not clear. Huddled in a corner, her knees pressed up to her chest, she stifled her sobs as best she could. But footsteps found her and she was off and running again, her stealth nearly impeccable.

They know what I saw better than me; and yet nobody will divulge the secret. They refuse to tell me the tale of that life, as if I will lose my last shreds of sanity at the mention of the story. My story.

This could be your story, too.

Thursday, November 17, 2005

Sometimes, train wrecks can be fascinating.

Why should I be compelled to write about such a thing when I'm about to board a train on Saturday?

Nothing unfortunate will happen to me, because all my misfortunes tend to occur in love. Is that ok? Is it better than being accident prone, or being a complete asshole and hurting everyone you know, or being susceptible to illness?

I'm not saying I want to be in a debillitating accident to trade for a perfect love-life. I'm just saying ... love is my greatest weakness, and subsequently it should be my strength. But who am I to judge that? My failed love relationships and friendships would tell you that love is neither of those two things: it's a foreign language I have yet to learn the rules of conjugation for, let alone master.

And so I embark on a path, like the fool of the tarot readers, blindly hoping that this time, it might work out. You might prove yourself capable of holding onto love this time.

One day, I will wake up.

Saturday, November 12, 2005

The city is alive, but not in the way you or I or our lovers are living. The city is impervious to pain. Even in the wake of total annihilation, their histories still live on. Sometimes they are recorded in books, or diaries, or the memories of the still living. Even for decades and centuries to come, people who never had the good fortune to grace the city with their presence will know all about it. They will know of its colours, its shapes, its sizes, its favourite foods and its pet peeves.

But those that do feel, whose ache is an earthquake tearing countries apart, nobody ever remembers them. When people are destroyed, nobody writes about them. They are expected to live on, their shells floating from day to day, keeping up the appearance of who they were before their earth split in two.

Broken cities can't write about what they once were, but we are often compelled to write about our demise. Unlike cities, we can look exactly the same in death as we did in life.

The trick is to never open yourself up for attack.

Sunday, August 21, 2005

"Heaven ... Heaven is a place ... a place where nothing... nothing ever happens."

- Talking Heads, "Heaven"

To anticipate is to set up for disappointment. What do you expect to happen when you die, anyway? I expect nothing and I don't bother myself with it. I don't hope for one thing and fear another. I'd rather concentrate on something I can control, which happens to be my life now as I live it. I may not have the greatest sense of direction and I may fall asleep at the wheel from time to time but for the most part I can make decisions and go places I decide upon. I'll do my best to make me happy. Then maybe I can spread that to others.

Anyone looking to be a piece of bread for Happy Butter?

Friday, August 19, 2005

Clothes are masks for sin. Everyone wants to be naked. It's a basic want, because we were born in sin, so why not live that way?

Shoes are disconnects to the earth. The less we touch it, the less we feel it, the less we care about it. Pretty soon the world will be one big Shopping Mall.

Porn is the anti-love. No strings attached, no possibility of failure, no commitment necessary. Kleenex is cheaper than condoms. Minimum work for maximum safety.

Doubt is the unlife. Go ahead and see for yourself. Or should you?