KPV

the violent sweetness of life

Tue, 25 Sep 2007 09:19:39 GMT

it is in a monotone voice that all best lies are told.
grippin' a map of no places to go.
splitting nightmares dancing to unsung songs.

hey, where did the child with the yellow flowers go?

it's turning gray outside. rain knocks on my door.

whenever you come back you bring sunshine.

pockets full of sunshine...

and the wild melodies of smiles shout out loud: play it again.

the treacherous game of being loved

Thu, 15 Feb 2007 03:56:54 GMT

it was a few years ago on valentine's day that i was getting ready to go out to dinner to celebrate lovers night out...i lived off of sunset and bates, around fountain. as we, my husband at the time and i, headed out toward the car, we heard gunshots go off and someone screamed in pain about a block away...we didn't call the cops. our first instinct was to drive away in fear that whoever had a gun would be running around the corner and eventually be right in front of the building...then two more gun shots were heard even closer...

we didn't want to get involved. did that person die? would our phone call have made a difference? did someone else call the cops?

why was i so dismissive? why were we collectively dismissive? did we not want to ruin our valentine's day out?

that year we went to vida, up the street from our place, on hillhurst. it is now a jewish center...that night they had an overpriced menu, we sat in a cramped space, the servers looked like models and acted as if they were way too cool to cater to the crowd. it was a semi okay meal that cost too much and the whole time i kept thinking that while i was having my romantic affair for v-day someone out there was agonizing in pain.

today i woke up with the same sick feeling i had that whole evening. loved or not, cared for or not, good or bad, who was i to determine whether that human being's life was not worth bothering about?

it was someone who was running from the motel across the street,probably being chased by someone whom he had rendez-vous-ed at the bates motel? or was it called something else? it was known for its male prostitutes and the respectable men of honor who'd frequent it to take their male conquests there. the city finally closed it down years later when i no longer lived in that area.

who was that person screaming? i just hope someone saved his life.

as the years go by, v-day has lost all its charm...i feel that i am given the opportunity to be kind and loving to my friends and lover everyday of my life...i hate the hyped bs this holiday represents and i can only imagine how many disappointed people will wake up tomorrow wondering why they spent a fortune wining and dining some asshole or some floozy who means nothing to them, except the opportunity to not be lonely.

speckled memories

Sat, 27 Jan 2007 18:44:12 GMT

the sudden shift of angles confuses me for a moment. and then i see myself dancing with no shoes on, on morning damp spring leaves in that forest behind my uncle's house. i am swirling around and i'm wearing a baby blue dress with tiny white flowers and barely there ruffles peeking around the skirt and my head is thrown way back as i stare up into sun. "you'll go blind..." i hear my aunt's words diffused by distance. sunlight drizzles into my eyes. the trees hide from me and i am lost in that whiteness.

unveiled

Wed, 17 Jan 2007 08:38:12 GMT

there they are, all the ugly details derailed, finding no courage to hide anymore. my truth.

are there crevices where only my lies go? are they unretreivable? i'm beginning to think they're not...

The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock

Fri, 12 Jan 2007 21:49:28 GMT

S`io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair---
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin---
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all;
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all---
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all---
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?...

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep...tired...or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon
a platter,
I am no prophet --- and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor
---
And this, and so much more?
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."

. . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or to
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous---
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old...I grow old...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Til human voices wake us, and we drown.

-- T. S. Eliot

the harder i laugh, the more i cry

Sat, 25 Nov 2006 19:51:43 GMT

it starts as a memory and then it turns abruptly into a reality happening in linear time, in the present and then it all reverses. i go back to that place, where the memory was born and the colors shift and it inundates my senses in muddled shades of uncertainty. you were there holding a gun to your head and i looked into your eyes and you spoke words. "sorry"...

miss inspection

Mon, 09 Oct 2006 05:58:30 GMT

sometimes i wanted to place a piece of film over her life to blurry out the uglyness. nothing sickened me worse than to see all the dirt in her every crevice. i inspected the folds of her aging skin, her curled turned smile and her dark brown hair.

and then...

the war between a flicker and a speck

Sat, 02 Sep 2006 18:36:16 GMT

lightning. soft. hard. stomp. lips curled up. snap. last night. they say emptiness runs wild sometimes. left me wondering. on a sidewalk while looking at a homeless man peeing. you came in currents with cosmic debris. do they live here? what was the name of the toothless woman? there are vacant spaces full of trauma. i don't recall telling you that i was a frog, grog, a flock. the sound of your fingers on my skin splices visions into metaphors.

he died on a tuesday. not true.

water. rivers of lies. i don't know when everything got so wrong. i hear darkness where there's light. call me and we'll go get fries at the corner shop.

tomorrow there will be yesterdays to think about.

irregular wine tasting

Sat, 11 Feb 2006 19:38:07 GMT

the first two: sauvignon blanc and a chardonnay, tart as fuck. though i'm no oenologist, i know my palatte doesn't lie. if it's not pleasing right away, it won't be. the next two are reds: i like #4 best. the girl comes back around and asks if we'd like more merlot or cabernet...in unison the whole table says #4, the cab. we haven't had dinner and i feel myself dwindling between sobriety and intoxication. i'm looking forward to ariel pink. before we sat down we saw don and his friend. i see them by the exit door smoking. scott is speaking on his cell phone when i come back from the bathroom moments later. i alert kim, who runs to the bathroom just to run into him. the irregular wine tasting isn't over. i stare at the sky, that seems wrapped in lights...the air chills, the girl comes back with two more bottles, a shiraz and an italian red. the shiraz is the table's favorite by far. a guy named cesar gets up, earlier he was prompted to make a toast...he says, "to strangers!" and we all raise our glasses and drink to that...

tables away, i see collin sitting with a group of his friends. i try to not look his way. after asking me out and ignoring his proposal to have dinner, i'd rather not acknowledge him if i don't have to. he seems to be on a date. i don't understand perpetual daters. it bothers me. i prefer not to date, but to hang out and have fun with people before we even contemplate spending an entire evening eating in front of each other at an awkward fancy restaurant, who came up with that sordid, traumatizing experience? kim tells me that it does look like collin is on a date and i feel relieved knowing that he won't pester me if he sees me. i used to like irish accents. his annoys me.

when we walk inside the echo, the gris gris is playing. they are pretty awesome. psychedelic nostalgia. another band plays, and then we step outside with don and i forgot his friend's name, and we smoke cigarettes. i like the way the trails of smoke come between us and we laugh and stare into one another like wild creatures and the pretext is to hold a cancer stick between sleek fingers and bring it to the mouth and exhale in a sensual way the smoke that just ravaged the insides. we all laugh at random things.

i ask don if he's been drinking. he says not much because he took two vicodin. hence the mellow smoothness in his demeanor. his friend appears just as sedated. as if his body's pulse were missing, yet his eyes are still open and somehow their bodies are functioning by artificial means. i say, it's best you don't drink, then. no one needs another drink. kim seems to be passing out while standing. we go inside for arial pink and it's been a bit much at this point, so i don't really get to completely enjoy them. four hours in one venue is claustrophobic. ariel pink was surreal and harder than i expected, trippy, psychedelic, a throwback to something i've experienced in parts, and it all comes together on stage with them.

you need a magnifying glass

Sat, 05 Nov 2005 05:29:47 GMT

we walk toward Chelsea (formerly known as the meat packing district) and enter the first photo exhibit, aerial photographs of stadiums, the sunset strip in the sixties and pools in suburbia. the pictures, in the next exhibit of a Hungarian photographer whose name escapes me right now, are old and small and we have to get very close to them to make out the details. we see someone walking around with a magnifying glass. i didn't know this was bring your own magnifying glass event...i didn't get the memo, i said. i didn't know either that it would be a BYOMG event, he replies. we look at each other and smile. we joke about what each picture might mean or represent. when we stumbled upon a picture of the actual photographer, naked with his friends, i told Ben that i found two men naked together hot. he smirked. as we walk out and glance toward the front, we see many magnifying glasses lined-up...and we laugh at our ineptness.

we go into another gallery and the pictures are huge, of Chinese industry: assembly lines, shipwright, quarries, endless monotone conglomerates of buildings and urban sprawl.

todos

Thu, 06 Oct 2005 10:40:28 GMT

En el momento exacto en que todos los pensamientos se encuentran, todo parece ser común, sin consecuencia...estás ahí: sin comentarios, esperando las nuevas noticias, las palabras que no logran nada, los placeres estúpidos que con el tiempo se vuelven frígidos, llenos de ilusiones ilusas, fuera de serie, misiones piadosas, pensamientos que no llegan a nada...

pero te digo, "hola" como si nada...

y te das cuenta que el mundo que te rodea es absurdo y ridículo y que no importa cuánto tiempo ha pasado... Lo que importa es que pasó y no podés explicarte nada.

hugging trees

Mon, 19 Sep 2005 05:56:49 GMT

we had brunch at my house and mimosas and laughed and ate too much and decided to walk to griffith park where terra hugged eucalyptus trees...and we talked about how smooth they are when they lose their bark. we followed the sound of drums and the signs to the lebanese american festival where people smoked flavored tobbaco out of rented hookas and the women had beautiful deep-set brown eyes. a circle of people moved to a simple rhythm on the dance floor. it reminded me of diana's sister macedonian wedding. the same steps, same spiral. we hoped to crash bbq's, but we were suspicious looking. we couldn't blend in. we saw a sign that said "humberto's b-day" and followed it and stumbled upon a drum circle that had competition just yards away from another smaller, more intimate drum circle playing afro-cuban beats. older men were singing. i couldn't make out the lyrics. we sat on the grass while terra played with my knee and kim watched the bigger drum circle and justin gave tara a massage and i stared at the blue sky as i laid on the grass...an upside down cute, chubby girl with wild hair and a braid that flung in front of her eyes ran across my field of vision. she was holding two hoola-hoops and her shorts were pulled up too high. when i made eye contact with her, she gave me a big smile.

it's all illusion and blur

Sun, 11 Sep 2005 11:09:38 GMT

the heroine enters the scene and she has beautiful dark hair, slightly hesitating in the wind. her hair is full of stories and smells of sweet fantasies. i once lost myself in it. she's all deliciousness that tramples over your reason and you want her to be yours and hold her and keep her prisoner of your desires, but she is not a captive, she's the wind, she's what you envision freedom to be. if you were to be a bird, you'd be her. and that's what makes you fall in love with her, her demise, her sadness, her sudden urges to scream and kiss you fully on the mouth and make you hers. and no one else can do that for you and no one else will ever do that for you.

she once fell into the dark damp nest of a bird at nightfall and she wondered whether she would ever emerge unscathed from the deviating reality of the moment and then she met you and she knew that it was all about this constant back and forth disconnection with the world and with humans. it all started slow and safe and dangerously atrocious.

full of quietness

Fri, 26 Aug 2005 23:50:02 GMT

she comes into the room and asks all the procedural questions and i say, for now, one...in the last three months, she asks? looking at the form i filled out...i say, yes. she asks about that "one" and if i know of his past and i say i don't know, but i assume he hasn't been with multiples at once...then she says, us women should find out more about men's pasts...they might seem nice, innocent because we like them, so we don't ask questions about their sexual past.

all is fine with you, she tells me...and relief settles.

i guess i don't care to ask questions. i've never been that way. i trust. and i want to be trusted. it's worked out this way forever. why change it. if something ever goes wrong, then i'll find out. hopefully my intuition never fails me in this particular respect.

there are lots of beautiful people in the waiting room as i get out. and they all have sex and exchange fluids, saliva.

i said to kim the other day when we were checking out the hotties at the LJ that behind every cute face, there might be an std. condoms are a must.

in films we never see the awkward moment of pulling out the condom and wrapping the penis up. why? i like those rough parts of life, the dirty, unsightly aspects that make us vulnerably human, animal. life is dirty. movies should be dirty, full of all kinds of unsightliness.

sometimes the light is so bright it hurts

Mon, 22 Aug 2005 06:12:08 GMT

last. never. yes. no. the light blinds tonight. the full moon last night shone on everything. irene was blasted. i couldn't pay attention to the movie because irene kept complaining about the movie being boring. okay, butch cassidy and the sundance kid might not be your action packed western, but so many shots in this movie are beautifully orchestrated.

scooby's been sleeping all day. i should have done the same. i'm coming down with a cold.

different

Wed, 17 Aug 2005 10:18:26 GMT

i was there once and now i'm not.

i like you better

Tue, 21 Jun 2005 09:53:35 GMT

we unfold like two sad metaphors into the harshness of winds and life and sheets and skin and kisses that don't lie. we laugh and talk in whispers and share thoughts of loneliness and we both keep quiet and distant and unattainable. i am a ship out there in the ocean and he's the north star that doesn't guide me anywhere. we listen to music and he lets little kisses fall all over and i want to say so much and i don't say anything for fear that my words might corrupt the longing, the perpetual desire that i now represent in his life. his eyes don't lie, but he conveys all the wrong emotions through his clumsy movements...we take the shape of each other's bodies on the extense terrain of his bed. it turns into a sudden stillness and a soft lethal moment that dwindles nowhere, like a trapeze that comes loose at the most crucial instant and you fall and there's no safety net.

i feel so vulnerable.

books

Wed, 16 Mar 2005 09:28:25 GMT

eating in the dark by kathleen hart
art's prospect by roger kimball
las siete leyes espirituales del éxito por deepak chopra
las religiones del mundo por huston smith

loveless

Wed, 16 Feb 2005 23:25:25 GMT

"...a loveless world is a dead world, and always there comes an hour when one is weary of prisons, of one's work, and of devotion to duty, and all one craves for is a loved face, the warmth and wonder of a loving heart." -Albert Camus

how good am i?

Mon, 24 Jan 2005 05:23:02 GMT

I've Never Had It Done So Gently Before
Richard Brautigan

The sweet juices of your mouth
are like castles bathed in honey.
I've never had it done so gently before.
You have put a circle of castles
around my penis and you swirl them
like sunlight on the wings of birds.

Sputnik, mi amor

Wed, 19 Jan 2005 01:01:22 GMT

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Sputnik, mi amor
Haruki Murakami

Disponible en 7 d

Editorial: Tusquets

Colección: Andanzas

Páginas: 248

Precio editor: 14,00
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Perdidos en la inmensa metrópoli de Tokio, tres personas se buscan desesperadamente intentando romper el eterno viaje circular de la soledad; un viaje parecido al del satélite ruso Sputnik, donde la perra Laika giraba alrededor de la Tierra y dirigía su atónita mirada hacia el espacio infinito. El narrador, un joven profesor de primaria, está enamorado de Sumire, a quien conoció en la universidad. Pero Sumire tiene una única obsesión: ser novelista; además se considera la última rebelde, viste como un muchacho, fuma como un carretero y rechaza toda convención moral. Un buen día, Sumire conoce a Myû en una boda, una mujer casada de mediana edad tan hermosa como enigmática, y se enamora apasionadamente de ella. Myû contrata a Sumire como secretaria y juntas emprenden un viaje de negocios por Europa que tendrá un enigmático final.

Will Eisner

Tue, 11 Jan 2005 21:34:51 GMT

05/01/2005

Fallece Will Eisner, "maestro de maestros del cómic"
El dibujante estadounidense, Will Eisner, pionero de las ilustraciones de los libros de cómics, murió a los 87 años, el lunes 3 de enero debido a complicaciones cardiacas.

Eisner es el autor del personaje 'The Spirit'. un luchador enmascarado que protege a los inocentes en Central City con sus puños y su astucia, que fue publicado en diversos diarios desde 1940 hasta 1952, en las ediciones de los domingos.

El "maestro de maestros del cómic", como lo llamaban algunos de los seguidores de las historietas, nació en Brooklyn, Nueva York, en 1917, y era hijo de inmigrantes judíos.

A partir de la década de los años 70, Eisner publicó obras que llamaba "narración gráfica" como 'Contrato con Dios', 'Pequeños milagros', 'La avenida Dropsie' y sus libros: 'El arte secuencial' y 'El Cómic'.

La industria de los cómics creó en su honor los premios conocidos como los 'Eisners'.

the sudden laughter of the sun

Tue, 30 Nov 2004 20:42:27 GMT

nothing compares to the evenings spent counting the stars outside my window on marie avenue, but nothing will ever compare to that ever again and that's what life is about, i suppose. about taking memories and saving them, creating sanctuaries where they can live forever untarnished by the laughter of the sun.

i used to wonder what will happen later on when all the years of living innevitably blur early memories. now i know that some things live vividly in the mind forever based on the intensity of the experience. fresh. i can still smell certain memories, certain scents that remind me of times long gone.

the memories i'm creating now will one day have their own particular scent, their own way of being recalled over and over. it will just be a matter of tapping into them.

the color of memory

Fri, 15 Oct 2004 08:33:20 GMT

he comes in and out of the room. i smell his lonesomeness, his need to be talked to or touched. we don't speak. we stare out the window and focus on unimportant things. we look to the horizon and wonder if we're both thinking the same thing. we both keep quiet and look away.

the specks of dust flying everywhere are evident as i stare into the light. dust particles dance a silent dance to a rhythm i'm scared of. and we finally look at each other, into each others' eyes and see the same freckled brown eyes staring back. the blood that flows between us links us to a life we never intended to be a part of.

one day i will wish i had known him longer, better.

fuck

Tue, 12 Oct 2004 18:23:11 GMT

fuck
fuck
fuck
fuck
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