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Hello. This is Today. (11.11.02)
 terry.zip
(pics of me)
Sometime in late October
picture
of me - sad eyes
picture
of me - looking to side
picture
of me - pulling hair back
picture
of me - leaning contour
picture
of me - bathroom angled
picture
of me - hanging in bathroom
picture
of me - bright corner
picture
of me - looking into mirror and filming
10.03.02
I wonder what she's doing from time to time, whether she thinks
of me or not. But in class or immersed in books she means
nothing and is truly trivial to me. This is my escape, and
I am happier now than I have ever been. But in the night or
at dawn, in the time between the bed and the bathroom I think
only of her. And everyday I wash my face and comb my beard
and hope that tomorrow my stare into the mirror is shorter
-that the blankets lift easier in the morning. But all in
all I am happy again.
09.30.02
Grad school first day. Everyone has short haircuts but me.
Even the girls.
09.28.02
The problem is there are too many sunsets. Too many sunrises
and beautiful horizons. The snow-capped mountains in the distance,
the sparkling fountains framed by vast gardens, jagged cityscapes
teeming with life. And in each scene I find some symmetry,
some lonely perfection that suffocates me. I was not meant
to be alone for these. All of these moments made for two.
09.26.02
I'm lying on my bed and it's raining outside. It's night and
it's dark. And I'm cold. There's no one here but me. And the
sounds the water makes outside remind me of the white-tiled
sanitarium shower. Except I'm not angry or lost or hopeless-
I'm thinking clearly. And there's no echo and you're not here
to see me crying about you and what you did. You're definitely
not here to taste the salty tears running through my beard
(or feel its wet coarseness) as they mix with the bourbon
on my lips. No, you're not here to witness the low point -your
victory, the reeling sadness that chokes me under the sheets
like black serpents writhing, slithering, constricting. So
you wouldn't notice me as I walk outside and greet the storm,
or see my soaked hair fall in ringlets over my jagged face,
mouth open, silently convulsing in the dim starlight of 4am.
But even if you were here, you wouldn't be able to
see me or feel me. At least not well enough to separate tears
from rain, shaking from shivering.
picture
of me - looking down and away sometime in july; just about
to cry
picture
of me - looking ahead sometime in july; just about to look
down
09.23.02
Well according to books I never loved you. According to
the PhDs you're just an obsession - a way to fill a void.
But you made a hole when you left, a hole inside a hole. And
I think to myself: How am I going to fill this emptiness?
<<07.16.02
I keep thinking to myself that I'm in control and that
I'm detached. Safe. But it's always the letting go with me.
I always have to fuck myself. Have to make it work in the
name of love or some bullshit. She's too wild. Too much baggage.
You think I like the idea that I have to clean up the fucking
disasters of other fucked up assholes, other tragedies, other
fuckers who half loved her at some point because she was exciting,
because her nails were painted black. Drunken losers who run
when the sex gets boring; fucking modern day rapist fucks
who shit on guys like me, who eat me for breakfast. Who ruin
every girl for any future relationship that doesn't involve
some masochistic bullshit, some cat and fucking mouse bullshit
that sucks every shred of innocence out of what some would
call romance. I call it sweet hell. Sweet fucking hell. Guys
like me beg to pick up the pieces. You put on that shit eating
grin and you do as you do because you can't help it. Because
you love them. Because you want to help them, even when it's
hopeless. Especially when it's hopeless. But who's going to
help you?
09.21.02
Robert Lowell "Will Not Come Back"
Dark swallows will doubtless come back killing
The injudicious nightflies with a clack of the beak;
But these that stopped full flight to see your beauty
And my good fortune . . . as if they knew our names ---
they'll not come back. The thick lemony honeysuckle,
climbing from the earthroot to your window,
will open more beautiful blossoms to the evening;
but these . . . like dewdrops, trembling, shining, falling,
the tears of day ---they'll not come back . . . .
some other love will sound his firewood for you
and wake your heart, perhaps, from its cool sleep,
but silent, absorbed, and on his knees,
as men adore God at the altar, as I love you ---
don't blind yourself, you'll not be loved like that.
09.20.02
It's hard to remember that tomorrow is more important
than yesterday when you miss yesterday, and tomorrow you'll
be alone like today.
Playing: Way too much Yahoo Pool.
Trying: To be a better person; To forget K.
Reading: Robert Lowell> Will Not Come Back
09.19.02
Postmodernism is not about fragmentation, disillusionment,
and despair of no-self: it is precisely the opposite. We do
not despair because our life is fragmented or disjointed,
but because it is homogeneous - a constant, cyclical, cosmic
bore. Fragmentation and despair over chaos is merely a mental
projection, or a climate of the consciousness which demands
that there exist something to BE disjointed, fragmented, and
chaotic. But in reality there is no constant structure. Gone
astray indeed. From what? From what ideal have we fallen?
What structure has been fractured? There IS an inpenetrable
superstructure of consciousness, but it is merely that. A
starting point. Not despairing consciousness or joyous consciousness,
just a ledge to leap from, a spark for dreams, fantasies,
and tragedies.
09.18.02
Listening: Death Cab For Cutie> Photo Album; Codeine>
Barely Real
Reading: Henri Lefebvre> Everyday Life in the Modern World;
TS Eliot> "Preludes"
Thinking: Why won't she call?
Watching: Seinfeld; Curb Your Enthusiasm in AVI format
Feeling: Empty, but hopeful.
09.17.02
I Am Quiet Too (for K.)
You sit on the edge of the bed thinking,
And I'm far away.
Quiet,
Sitting too just like you.
And we both hear the sound of the terrible ringing
Of dying stars and breaking hearts,
The crushing blows of colliding shopping carts,
Of screeching tires and grinding gears,
The frozen tears of yesterday---
All stopping for us.
And in the wake of such a halt,
We draw our breath in pain
And think of every move the other makes,
To pass the time it takes to forget a life:
The clenched fists and tangled hair,
The soiled sheets and midnight porch-light dreams,
The park benches and soft pressed lips---
The lies.
Or at least I do,
And I'm far away.
Quiet,
And cold.
But I have thoughts of you that would thaw the universe.
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