where were you when the world turned black?

I wonder (as I wonder) why it is that my intentions clash with my actions so often, more than I would like the admit? It's as if, once night drops or I am feeling particularly young or the light glazes someone's cheekbones in just that way or my hands feel thinner than usual or a glass slips through my claws and shatters--those are the times that control evades me. It can really be anything, even the stupidest things. I could write a thesis on this; I could fill a room with words or a lake with glassy water. I want consistancy, and I want it more than anything in myself. There are stretches of time, afternoons and into the dark that I even lust after it.

Self-drenching in guilt over what might have happened had you (I) been enabled is sad and it is really pretty pointless, after all. There can be little to no structure in this state of mind. It is broken energy, I don't want it. I just wish that I were stronger, more smoothed out and resistant and resilient. Again, consistancy visits like a cat layered against your body in the night. It is slippery, it is there and then without a breath of a warning it melts away. I want to weep when it vapourizes; I want to smash things and I want to be better and sweeter and decades more aware.

Its a progression and it bites me in the heart organ (muscle? I should know this.) more often than not. The organic skeleton of what I want is to spare the circles of people around me pain. When I flail and thrash yet still come out of it all on the bottom, it frusterates me. God knows it doesn't do anybody else favours. Sometimes there are not enough ways to apologize; I think that regret would be well-suited to having a language all its own.

This afternoon I don't feel pristine or even remotely light about myself. Its okay though, I deserve it. I think that I will brew some licorice tea and blackify the nails on my toes. I will feather Meg with some words and she will transfer her own back and into me. That I know will be nice. A magnum of house red at Cafe 22 is 52 ounces and Tanqueray gin trapped inside a sleek green bottle is 40. What I am trying to say is that you should come by. Sit at the bar, slide a cool drink down your throat and tell me a story.

For now I will loop these two songs back to back and over again, like the weight of skin and bone and muscle transferred from one foot to another--

Sufjan Stevens--Borderline
Emmylou Harris--Take That Ride

When I feel streaks of gray like this, my friend Shira reminds me about prana yama breath. Thanks, Shir...my intention is to prana yamify my breath into feeling okay again. The truth is that I feel better already. Christ bless Le Suf and Emmylou, they are the ultimate beauties and the most calming of salves.

On a (somewhat frivolous) sidenote, eye up this month's American Vogue...there is a gorgeous spread right near the end featuring the lovely Natalia Vodianova, her sexy husband Justin Portman and their three breath-stopping children. She makes motherhood look like a blossoming adventure, and also pretty damn cool.

No more cigarettes by the river for this lady; we are as good as moving into winter-esque mode and with that season comes my personal murder of casual smoking. Thankyou London and Amsterdam and (especially) Paris for seducing me into this questionable past-time. Shaun and Ken (the jig is up, I know you are reading this!), please don't fret, I am hardly addicted. It is a onceinabluemoon temptation and every few weeks I cave and give in to it. So never fear, your daughter is not a smoker.

Okay, I am officially boring myself with this rambling.
Over/out,
rlb.