Good vibrations: 10 November 2011

Good vibrations: black-tipped nails, sweatshirts over dresses, almost finishing a book and starting another, secret uninhabited parts of London that aren’t touristy, cloudy gray mornings with coffee and thick socks and braided hair and alone, wearing the same clothes over again, letting the laundry pile up, silence, Polaroids, art museums, opportunity, the smell of autumn darkness, of crunchy leaves, of colorful leaves, of leaves falling, the moon, the fucking white lunar brilliance of some strange orb I wish I could be,

the unity creativity breeds, stupid art, double decker buses, wanting to be cold, waking up sweating, comfortable desk chairs, memories, never getting the coffee/milk ratio right and being pissed about it, packing, planning what to pack, not drinking enough water, photography as a strange medium to channel one’s energy, getting rid of all my things, no more things, I don’t want to buy anything ever again, hot liquids, making things for other people, trying not to be worried and anxious, not washing my hair, long hair, long nails,

texture, wondering how many times I’ve repeated myself, sex, sex as boring and unintellectual, wanting to want someone, wanting to know everything in someone’s mind, needing that fuel, needing another voice, another opinion, reflections in water, pills for depression, thinking I’m fat, the lines on notebook paper, the perforated lines ready to be torn, feathers, obsessions, bananas, not wanting anyone, just wanting to see people admire me, afternoon sunlight appearing through a break in the clouds, inspiration coming from small instances,

washing my face, not knowing the time by looking at the weather, hunger, photographs of family, other people’s drawings, fire, cigarettes, auras, your aura mixed with mine and what may be produced, not being satisfied, not thinking something is right because it’s not perfect, it must feel perfect, it must feel like it’s supposed to happen, curtains on windows, boat houses on canals, flower pots, slight humidity, pebbles, me lost in the crinkled pages of time, growing out my bangs, the fading colors of your hair, freckles and moles, home as wherever you sleep at night,

eyelashes, pajamas until two p.m., staying up late, touching the stone of old buildings and feeling history under your fingers, scraped against your palms the stories of thousands, shiny nail polish, writing but never quite defining, feeling pointless and indecisive, one night stands?, only feeling attracted to people when intoxicated, the darkness comes early, I never come, London, London? Really? Am I in London?, feeling the impact, my favorite music, BBC Live Lounge with Gorillaz making me love Damon Albarn more than I love myself,

statements that may be true or false, nobody knows, turning the pages into the future, baby powder, cheap food, perfume, letters and postcards, other people’s rooms, an unclogged shower drain as the safest thing, questions about science, the internet as dangerous yet fascinating, trying to not sound American, liking America more now that I’ve seen what it’s like not being there, catharsis as a really great word, other people’s teeth, my teeth as being nice, you know, white, straight, the English language is absurd, bacchanal, nimbus,

lives remembered from books I’ve read, being pleased with a particular outcome, almost missing soccer, that feeling when you score, that feeling when you know you’re fucking good at soccer, running, release, page numbers, writing essays, psychology as my favorite thing, thinking that perhaps I’m intelligent, wanting to write a book, not knowing how to get involved,