Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Monday, April 25, 2011

Lovin' time

We have a big fight that we mend with a smaller one. In the first round I had forgotten my interpersonal communications course from college. I used, "you" language. In the second round I said the same things bit used "i" language. E mia coppa, ma... At the end of round two he thanked god that his girlfriend, me, is so open. Who said college wasn't useful? We fought about things most people, especially women, can't understand, not because they aren't capable, lord knows we are the more capable of the two sexes, rather because we are not cultured in this area.

Im selfish and I don't like the idea of someone wasting my time. In a relationship I don't like investing in something for no fucking reason. Partly because I hate romantic relationships. To tell you the truth it seems like a bunch of bs that two people should be side by side for sixty years without homicide. A sort of convenience is really all it sums up to be in reality. I have a dildo, shopping buddy, drinking buddy, etc all in one. Who wouldn't at least try? The point is that I'm giving it a go, bit I don't want to waste my time. Which means if there is a reason to abort mission, lets get on with it. Now.

I often feel that my personality is a little too thick for most men I have dated. The number of tears that have stained my collarbones while they pumped to the Rhythm of their sobbing should earn me an award of sorts. I'm not mean by any means, bit I'm also not easy. I'm not the type to tell my lover he has a a gifted bat that's bringing me home if he's actually struck out. Im nice, but I'm honest. Too honest. And I know it can eat away at them.i feel more and more that I'm the cause of the depression, his new found preference for grandpa behavior. "You have to leave the house or I can't miss you. If I don't miss you I start taking you for granted. Please go somewhere" I said. I even offered to make prostitutes fair game, hoping it would get him out of the house. Plus, he would give me a break from his non stop advances and prepositions. "If I bring you coffee, will you pee on me?". I'm sure a hooker would gladly pee on him. Whereas even the question makes me a little awkward. Doing it is more awkward, which is why I have only given in once. I think women and men need distance and a taste of loss to maintain that little sense of "lucky me". However he doesn't leave the house.

I asked him if he left the house when he was dating Cristina. That was his gf before me. He used to fuck her in front of people. She's Spanish. He would cum in her face and she liked it. She was probably molested. Her picture is the screen saver on my phone. I put it there to teach him a lesson about giving your new girlfriend, your old phone, with photos of your old girlfriend on it. He was happy and had a life while they dated. Clearly something doesn't work between us. However instead of admitting it, he makes excuses.

I don't particularly want to be dumped on my ass, but I would rather figure out now whether or not it's worth the investment. I don't like the idea of looking back five years from now and thinking, "he knew even then". Time you can't get back, and for that it's worth the argument . However, "tell me if you were happier with her" sounds like a trap to him. He gets defensive and wants to protect what we have. Realistically though, I want to know if there is any need. Am I destroying him? Love is not about the ability to maintain or hold, it's about the ability to let go for their well being. For me it's about saving time and feelings by ripping the bandaid fast before it has the time to adhere to the skin.

Sylvia Plath -- "The Applicant"

An interesting sonic manipulation of a Plath recording from the BBC.

The Applicant by oMa

The creator of this piece, oMa from Chile, would love to hear your comments on his adaptation of the Plath recording--what do you folks think?

Saturday, April 23, 2011


You lift your head up, closing your eyes because the salty sun harshly attacks your sight. Your dripping skin, sopping wet from its own exhaust, is encased in the static quiet of the swollen air. You move slowly, body beaten down by the heat of a tired army that relentlessly tramples your motivation, step after step, beat by beat. Your only resolve from this undying heat and pounding humidity is to escape into the ocean water, a greater and grander pool of life than the sun or the earth upon which it lays. Standing in its presence is to stand in the company of a giant. You hope it swallows you whole, gently, as you walk into its gaping mouth.

You stride into its vast expanse of a stomach. You dip into its cool glassy liquid. You begin to ride its stampeding waves instead of crashing into them, triumphant and at ease.

“Where do you come from?” asks the blue giant, finally accepting your entrance into its rippling ribs. You close your eyes and let the chilled insides and smooth embraces envelop your aching body, sinking into and in between your every curve and fold, exciting your skin.

“I come from land. I come from dry crumbling Earth--sand, rocks, cement. I come from tense active places, stress inducing, crime producing, smog-ridden lands of waste and toxins drivin by the mundane lifestyles of a society ruled by machines. But it is my home. And I understand it. I am a product of it, and it is comforting.” You float carelessly on your back, gliding along the giant’s skin. Your eyes stay closed.

“Stay with me,” demands the Ocean. “Here you can live happily--free of the constraints of your home. I will take care of you, and give you anything you want. There are many interesting and beautiful creatures here. They will take you into my depths. It is cold there, the sun can’t reach you, nor the poisons contained in the air above. It is quiet, my body is heavy and the pressure will blanket you, protect you. ” The giant re-affirmed his grip on your waist. It now yearns for your presence beneath and you begin to feel a vortex circling your body. It gives you an unsettling tug. “You should come with me.”

“I can’t.” You rotate your body upright and begin to paddle in place, your legs kicking free from the undercurrent, stirring up the beginnings of a plan clouded by desire. “It’s hot, but now I feel refreshed. I should go home. Thank you for letting me rest here.”

“Your home is here now,” whispered the giant. As you kick your legs faster you notice that you’re slowly sinking. You keep kicking into the emptiness that soon loses its substance and begins to pull at your feet. Each attempt at upward movement is futile. The ocean pulls you down, one foot at a time, one kick at a time, it into its body.

by Martyna Alexander

Jack Kerouac on a Saturday morning reading about Saturday night.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Not Even Porn Stars Like It

It had been a month, maybe more. Sometimes I just lose track of the time, and it's too late by the time it occurs to me that I 'should' have done it, or at least let it happen. Once in a while I become disgusted with it after watching something on BBC, or reading something horrific, and all too "normal". I'm often hormonal, and uninterested two weeks out of the month, I only want it 24 weeks per year which really limits the opportunity, however it is completely conducive to the way of biology. According to "the law of averages" and my best friend Nicki, there is only a window about 7 days per month when it actually counts. The rest of the time it's just a "bonus" or extra work after a long day. Nonetheless, I gave into it.

Maybe that's the wrong way to put it and it would be better to say "we" gave into it. It probably wasn't one of the wasted attempts. Evolutionary attempts anyways, we weren't trying anything, because that would be stupid and while we're still human we're of "those" kind that would sooner die off, then create more idiots. We're young minded. I'm worried we would forget about it, and it might drown. Then I would have to deal with the loss of a family member, and manslaughter at the same time. That sounds stressful. I would rather deal with the itching of "false skin", that never feels natural, because it can't. We don't actually deal with false skin though, rather the trusted pull out method. Pop goes the weazle and it rains goo. What can you do?

The blood spot on the wall was residual. The gut explosion of those nasty bugs I smashed six months prior. I stared at it. I can only come once or twice before my mind wanders. Malaria. They have Malaria. I don't have sickle cell aenemia, which means I won't die from sickle cell aenemia, but it also means I'm not protected from Malaria. Catch-fucking-twenty-two.

"I want to cum in your face". He says.
I turn and look at him.
"No. I don't want to wash my hair tomorrow".
"Why no!?"
Then I realize, if I say no it's going to kill the excitement and he's going to take longer to finish. Five more minutes and I will have let my mind wander into god knows what subject and that could be painful for the both of us.
"Oh, I meant Si, Si, Yes".
He speeds up. I can tell he's going to finish so position my feet. I'm a puma.
"Vieni, come here" he says, and pulls out holding his penis ready to take aim.

"No fucking way!" And I leap off of the bed and run across the room.
I turn once I reach the other side. He's laughing hysterically, penis in hand, on his knees. There's spray everywhere. Our puppy has taken his usual shelter under the bed and I can see his eyes poking out at me. My boyfriend, unable to control his balance, his orgasm, and his laughter at the same time, he falls off of the bed disappearing into the small two feet space on the other side of where I stand. I walk over and peak down at him now laughing too.

"I love you." He says smiling.
"I know." Lie down and wait for him to get up. Trying to remind myself that this is why I love him. For the next 200 times I hate the sound of him breathing, I should remember this.

We fall asleep.

You Make Me Feel Like

I’ve been crammed into a flimsy
box of uneasiness
flapping at the insides—
pecking away to make holes
to let the pressure come
bursting out
are the black crows
only to shy away from the brilliant
charlatan that you are.
It can’t be helped:
I’ll have to make my home
amidst this tumultuous nest.

>>Feedback is welcome!

Friday, April 15, 2011

End-of-semester Performance!

We have an official date and time to present our work: Friday during the end-of-semester party, in the Stubbs lecture hall, in the SACI main building, Palazzo dei Cartelloni, immediately after the awards presentations, at 6:35 PM, the Creative Writing course will be performing their texts--come one come all!

Thursday, April 7, 2011

This for my visual artist friends

"Creating does not men affirming creation, but, rather, cancelling it out with the created object, means opposing it to itself where it holds sway, means, as in enamel work, a second firing. Negation always, in some way or other, goes through fire."

--Edmond Jabes
The Book of Dialogue
(Translated by Rosemarie Waldrop)