the crime comes last of all

an exercise in blurring the truth.

Sunday, January 30, 2005

i've been watching, i've been waiting. . .

The phrase she'd most like to excise from the English language? "That stung."

Not in reference to physical injury, but when used to articulate man-pain.

The Rasmus - In the Shadows

Thursday, January 20, 2005

use me when you want to come, when i'm in you i want to die.

She leans forward, hip balanced precariously on the seat, to take a sip of her freshly "liberated" drink - which she promptly spits out, making a face. "Ugh, what is this, a quadruple? Girl's a fucking alcoholic."

There's a composed, almost indulgent smile from across the table. A hand with long, slender fingers moves to grasp hers, tendons nearly leaping from the skin as the grip tightens to gently tug her along.

Suddenly the room is filled with mirrors, and she can see the wicked, childishly excited grin on that gorgeous face, dark hair curling around everything as she turns sharply to kiss her square on the mouth. "Call me Liv," she says, but that's not her name.

Getting to the bed is awkward, stopping every five minutes to kiss, or fumble, or giggle in in a way that seems jarringly loud and inappropriate in the silence. Liv reclines on the floor next to the bed, a mirror at her back, and a feral smile twists her lips.

Marylin Manson - User Friendly

mama this surely is a dream, dig it?

She can feel drumsticks tapping out her heartbeat, hundreds - well, perhaps tens - of bodies moving along to it, while the walls and the railings vibrate, making her feel alien. If the club is a living thing, heartbeat measured by the tipsy drummer, she's a living thing within it, a parasite.

Marcy Playground - Sex and Candy

Monday, January 10, 2005

. . .the kind of song that ignites the airwaves.

Now that the varnish has worn off the relationship, and they've been close friends for several months, a lot of the things she used to find endearing or mysterious are now infuriating character flaws, and a source of constant, unjustified irritation. Everything he says that she used to find deep - his passion about music, his desire to write songs, his strange common-sense "religious beliefs" - she now finds trite, and she'll often boil his phrases down to their simplest, most practical form like some kind of bastardized teaching technique. As though she can show him how he irritates other people - and in characterisitic egotistical fashion, she assumes that some other people must be irritated - by vulgarly rephrasing his statements and belittling the desires he expresses in confidence.

The little things, like how sensitive he is or how seriously he takes things. . .or how he goes out of his way to be nice, to the point of inconveniencing himself and compromising his own happiness. Instead of finding it endearing, or at least understanding when he backs down in the face of a debate - about fuck, the state of affairs in French Polynesia or some bullshit - she wants to kick him in the head and force an opinion out of him. This absolutely reflexive distaste for his submissiveness and his desire to be inoffensive is irrational, and she's doing her best to quell it.

By avoiding him.

. . .so happy i could scream.

Lord, she is such a sponge. She can't get away with writing at the same time as she's reading anything, be it a newspaper article or scientific paper or fucking Neitzsche. She always ends up doing the same thing she does when she talks to a person with an accent or different way of talking - she picks things up. In conversation, she usually catches herself because it feels like some sort of ghastly faux pas, like she's making a mockery of the way they speak by gradually softening her vowels or drawing out her "r's."

She does the same thing in writing, but it's much more subconscious and much harder to detect until she reads the final product and nearly cries in mortification. Her internal voice gets muddied with the narrator of that trashy Mil Millington novel she's been reading, or with Professor Nafisi in Reading Lolita.

The Cure - Mint Car

Friday, January 07, 2005

. . .lays flat my whole take on us.

Deaths from natural disasters, while undeniably tragic, don't affect her the way she sees others affected. People become moved, they donate hundreds of thousands of dollars to faceless victims of an event.

People killed by other people, by atrocities and over things that aren't as desperately important as the armies and rebels think they are, fills her with this trapped feeling of revulsion. She can't understand why that isn't more important, why millions of people in refugee camps, or thousands of corpses left unburied because their owners were of the wrong religion, is put aside. It makes her so angry that this kind of thing gets pushed to the wayside because of what - water - and she has this stubborn, bitter desire not to help out.

"But it's heartless to ignore the benefit concerts, there's a lot of people killed, they have to rebuild their infrastructure." And suddently HIV and civil war aren't issues anymore.