mirror film

Letters from a Broken Marionette

(no subject)

mirror film
"Left, Right, Backstep", I'm muttering this under my breath in the subway. "Left, Right, Backstep", and my feet make small suggestions towards the steps. I'm humming quietly and making these tiny shuffles, but I don't think anyone notices.

I picture the old swing dance instructor walking between the dancing couples, his curly hair bobbing while repeating those words over and over, "Left, Right, Backstep", and he continues moving between the twirling girls and rotating boys.

My hand is lightly touching a girl's waist and it gives me the same rush of adrenaline that school & wedding dances did. Her dark blond hair reminds me of my first dance. Being this close to a girl made my heart pound, sweat covered my forehead, and I swear it was happiest I had been. I didn't know any dance moves except the 2-step. But those two words were all I knew, so I walked in a circle going "left, left, right, right", and squeezed my eyes shut and hope she didn't notice. My hand on her side felt like the most intimate gesture man had created. Later we ran around going up and down hotel elevators as lightning flashed through walls of glass, full of breathless smiles.

Yet I'm still on the subway. With these flashes of the past. These romanticized moments and these dance steps waltzing in my head.

Another Love Sick Story
For Real

I probably stared at her eyes too much. I have the tendency to do that any ways. I always want to look people directly in the eyes until I notice their own wander too much, so I build in little off shot glances into the conversation.

I don't feel like it's my fault. The last two times I met her, she wore those sunglasses that are too big for her face, you know the kind that everyone's into now. I hate them. So instead I take this opportunity to look at the blue eyes that were hidden behind that layer of UV Protected coating.

We're in an old fort, walls high but still allows the buildings to lean overhead. The fort is off the East River, been around for around two hundred years...serving military, immigrants, fish, theater, fairy rides, music...almost in that order. Stories were ripped down, roofs destroyed, stones eroded.

One of my favorite songwriters is up, singing about that poor little "black sheep boy", and the stories of "bitter dismay of a lover who brought fresh bouquets every day when she turned him away to remember some knave who once gave just one rose, one day, years ago".

We leaned against the railing that looked out on the river, and towards the statue of liberty. The evening was growing dark, and the sunset reflected off her yellow ringlets. It's that sort of real-life romantic imagery hat makes you awkwardly aware of how the background doesn't fit the scene on stage.

"Did you like it?"

"Yeah it was enjoyable, thanks for inviting me"

"You should call me so we can hang out again," yet as those words leave my mouth I know she won't, and I know I won't care. It wasn't that I really liked her, I mean I could point out flaws (like the tendency to say random, slightly crazy, life-perspectives as proven truths), but the point was we didn't care enough. She was vaguely annoying, and I vaguely uninteresting. It was another neutral connection.

I always hope something will click, but they don't very much anymore. It's either one-sided or...nothing.

This all happened about a year ago, but I can't help to think that this scene just plays over and over on repeat.

Like a Melting Clock
mirror film
On Valentine's Day I meant to post about the one I fell for here, months and a year ago.

I tend to mythologize people. I make them better in my head than they were. I gloss over their blemishes.
Sometimes it's the opposite.

I forgot how much she affected me.
When I saw her my heart shook again. She was wearing one of her palsy dresses. Hair long, following the curve of her back. Her quiet demeanor was beautiful, her smile quick, her hands comforting. Her posture always had grace, which I'm a sucker for. She would wrap her arms around me with ease. When I got the call concerning my grandmother, she spent the rest of the evening walking down the avenues with her arm around my shoulder.

Under that dress I knew she had drawings of Dali on her limbs. I liked how she loved the dark and surreal. How she would obsess over the creepy archetypes and images of children's stories.  

I fell in love with her for her sadness. It was a quiet, I never knew why it was there. It was uncomplaining, but I wanted nothing more than to wrap myself with it. I liked how she abandoned it but at the same time it was touching everything about her. Maybe I for once did want to be the one to either help, or bury myself in it.

But I also knew for all her kindness, I would be abandoned. Not with malice, but out of her own whims which would take her into her apartment, away from everyone.

The Things that Chase us at Night
mirror film
I would stand at their doorway, a silhouette against the nightlights glowing in the hallway.
They would say I would utter randomness, about toys missing in my room, or about bugs.
They would lock the doors, worried that one of the times I'd wander out that screen door, and into the gravel streets.

Then it was the nightmares that haunted me while I was awake at night. I'd pace the halls and these creatures would haunt me in my head. Following me around in a bubble above my head, like a comic book. These creatures were fleshy, large, and galloping. I'd eventually return to my covers and turn on the radio to try to banish them away.

She was the first girl I slept next to for so long,
I remember whispering to her that I sometimes lose myself at night. That sometimes I wake up and I'm not really awake, and that I'm still in these other world with different rules and situations.

I'd slept next to other girls,
but not for this long. So I don't know why I told her. Maybe it was because I needed to tell someone. I do know I was scared, she'd wake up next to this scared little boy who couldn't recognize her. Speaking in the tongue of dreams, while sanity slowly returned.

Maybe that's why I stay up till exhaustion, till the dreams no longer come, till I'm not longer twisting and turning.

We Lose more than Souls
mirror film
She used to sit around with family,
and tell stories about the years they raised me.

She'd tell anecdotes, of funny things I said or did...that I never remembered. That I still can't remember.
Those things left with her. I don't think I ever fully realized how much of myself would die with her.

Other memories she left, I vaguely remember things she told me. The times of my sleep walking, the first time I ate an icing covered roll, the time the man in the cafe' taught me how to rig the salt and pepper shakers to pour out on an unsuspecting victim. Now I feel pressured, that I'm really the keeper of these passed on memories of myself.

(no subject)
mirror film
"Fascinated by human sacrifice, [Georges Bataille] founded a secret society, Acéphale (the headless), the symbol of which was a decapitated man, in order to instigate a new religion. According to legend, Bataille and the other members of Acéphale each agreed to be the sacrificial victim as an inauguration; none of them would agree to be the executioner." -Georges Bataille - Wikipedia

The moral of the story? It's easier to die than to accept responsibility.

By the way, I've started to move to another journal. This one is too wrapped up in me trying to create this mythology around myself. I want to be more casual sometimes. But I imagine there will still be times where I'll want to float around in introspective egomania, so I'll still use this.

(no subject)
mirror film
"As Elmer's health failed, he missed his coffee buddies in the morning and his afternoon card games. "

It's been more than 10 years.
And I can see you in that dark smoky back room,
placing down spades, diamonds, clubs, and hearts.

I never went back there. I don't remember if I was intimidated by the old growers of earth,
or shielded from the vices of man.

You were a good man,
a good human being,
and I hold on to the sentence floating around in my head that says, the world has lost much.

You were the only one in my life who ever received an honorary family title.
Uncle Elmer, I miss you, I think you're wonderful, and good rest.

(no subject)
mirror film
in the middle of the days,
I feel the strong urge to be saved,
desperate, clawing
(i can't be saved by these rag doll girls)

but it's only momentary
because I know by the dawn
my skin will crawl
and try to get away

I too get lost in rooms of light

I've been having a daydream, whenever I close my eyes.

I'm standing in an empty room. The light pours through the windows, leaving a small pattern of crosses along the shining wooden floors. The sky is so bright I can only see white light out of the window. Myself...I am just a silhouette, standing approximately in the middle. The only object in the room is a mattress laying on the floor next to me.

Everything feels clean, empty, simple, and perfect.

Sometimes my head takes it farther. I meet a girl. Like everyone in my dreams, she's just a figure, she's more a symbol than an actual person. She has no facial characteristics, but then again neither do I. During the night time, I dream of these symbols...a lost love...the unattainable...sometimes I match these meanings with a person in my life...but they are actually not them. A cast of archetypes and people known.

So...this girl...if I believed in such things...would be something kin to a soul mate.

She's earnest but easily lost. I am just a footnote in her life, she comes about once a week. She's an artist in the fullest sense of the word. She gets consumed by a vision and I lose her in these times. But I'm perfect in my room of light.

She appears once a week, and we consume each other. I am no longer a footnote but her breath. We indulge in each other for a moment, on the mattress that won't sit still. It's also pure of movement and emotion. Focused.

But then she's lost again, unfeathered by convention or practicality. I know it may not be realistic, but I hold on to that spirit while I can.

We both feel that everything is passing between our fingertips and to indulge in each other and art is the only thing we can feel so we feel it well before it passes too...and we again have to move on.

This is the daydream rattling in my head, catching me while I nod between the stations underground.



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