lanterneyes

lanterneyes @ 2007-07-30T21:37:00

2007-07-31T02:46:09Z

Adrian Orange is singing "I am yours" from my computer speakers, and listening to his sad voice reminds me of C, how we played this album over and over, during the rainiest of times here in Portland. We would sit in our apartment, the concrete floor cold, as we curled our toes in boredom. I would turn the heater on, he would turn the heater off, I would turn the heater on, he would complain about the bills, and turn the heater off. I was his, He was mine. I would look him in the eyes, whisper into his ear, "I am yours", curl my toes in boredom, and turn the heater back on.

I miss him with every bone in my body.

2007-05-04T05:16:01Z

I obviously enjoy torturing myself. This was a couple years ago. Tonight I am sad and wondering what the fuck I am doing with myself. Life is good, certain elements just feel lacking...

lanterneyes @ 2005-11-21T15:37:00

2005-11-21T23:35:24Z

One of the kitchen workers ate lunch with me and told me about how he's living at a downtown hostel, and in the spring can either go work on an olive orchard in Spain, or be a tour guide in Greece. And he watched me eat my sandwich, and smiled as I chewed wholeheartedly, and I don't think I've ever met someone so delicate and sincere with their words. He had this soft round face, and walnut eyes which stared attentively at me when I spoke.
My lover has been quite nice to me, regretful of alcohol induced rants, which he swears he didn't mean, at least in context. Our bodies mold into these wonderful curves when we sleep.

lanterneyes @ 2005-11-16T21:24:00

2005-11-17T05:25:23Z

I think I've got the lantern by it's teeth.

The Tycoon

2005-09-28T00:31:35Z

The tycoon in Santa Fe was the loneliest man in the world. To cope, the man bought expensive desert cacti with his abundance of money. The tycoon placed cacti on every hard surface in his three-story home. He would tell them made up stories about how good he was in bed, and then prick himself in shame. Over the course of a year, the tycoon had collected over four thousand cacti plants. One drowsy morning, he tripped over his 3rd favorite cactus, and poked his eye out with the 43rd favorite, and cut up his limbs with about fifteen that weren’t even favorites at all.
The tycoon went to the hospital, and when he was released, he sold all his cacti for a hundred bucks. He no longer had anyone to tell how good he was in bed. A few days later, the tycoon found a surviving cactus underneath his bed. He clutched the cactus underneath his left arm, ran down his 2 sets of stairs, got into his restored Cadillac, and drove along a busy highway, weaving between cars that weren’t half as nice as his. The surviving cactus sat buckled up beside him.
The tycoon drove manically out of the city limits, into the desert, weeping as he maneuvered the old car of his. The surviving cactus sat buckled up beside him. 100 miles out of town, the tycoon pulled over, looked the cactus in the spines, and muttered, “Baby, words don’t do justice to how good I am in bed.” Upon this statement, the cactus stood still, and the tycoon let out a great sigh, threw the cactus out the window, and drove the 150 miles back to the city.

Only if you care.

2005-09-14T06:33:30Z

My mother and father have been landscapers since my dad was diagnosed with cancer, when I was 9 years old. My father used to own a harp shop and my mom was a stay at home mom. They became landscapers after my dad sold his business, but that is beside the point. Some days I feel as if I will become a gardener too, due to lack of drive and ambition, but this is beside the point as well. Keep in mind that I hold landscaping and yard services with high regard, despite my previous remark… If you are still reading, I shall continue.

However, my mother and father are landscapers, and yesterday, while getting out of their work truck at one of their long-standing jobs, something from the sky came rapidly towards my father’s head. My father ducked into the car frantically, only to see a pigeon land on the hood of the car. My father eased himself out of the truck, slowly (as his limbs are now beginning to fail him), and upon standing, the pigeon flew and landed on the top of my father’s head. My parent’s proceeded to complete the yard cleanup with the pigeon rotating from my mother to my father’s head, and at end of the job, my dad cradled the pigeon, and smiled as the bird cooed and closed it’s eyes in pleasure at the soft touch of my father’s rugged working hands.

A neighbor came outside and explained to my parents that the pigeon had belonged to a man who would take the bird outside, have it sit on his head as he did his daily gardening. The man had committed suicide, and his widow had let the bird go, stopped feeding the other animals, and had turned into a decrepit middle-aged woman, whom I, not my parents, know nothing about. At the sight of my father in his gardening hat, the pigeon had thought he had found his long lost friend. And If I am bold enough to say, I believe that my father, being a fairly lonely man, felt fully appreciated for the first time in a long while.

I used to have dreams that I was the bird lady. I was more the pigeon lady, mind you. I had these dreams several times, all early in the morning. In these dreams I was still young in form, yet old in mind and spirit. My spirit actually had transformed into one only tangible to birds. I would sit on park benches dressed in black, and the pigeons would hover over me, perch on my girlish limbs. These birds would coo and nuzzle my neck, tell me their secrets, which I would guard with all my silent might. Old friends would pass and call out my name, but I no longer spoke my former language, I now spoke bird. I not only spoke bird, I lived bird. I drank bird, tasted bird, breathed bird. Bird was the only way I knew how to survive, and these pigeons, the sole creatures that understood such sad, beautiful simplicity.

When I see the birds the flight now, in their mathematical formations, I've been known to cry out. I don't understand what it is that moves me so. I think it's because it seems that they can read each other, predict movements while in flight. I think the problem with humans is that our senses have been turned off, or maybe perhaps just numbed. We turn our heads away, consider our counterparts futile, shrug, and do the same the next day.

lanterneyes @ 2005-09-09T18:03:00

2005-09-10T01:03:26Z

I have so many things to say. Now, to figure out how to say them...