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Lucy_pie
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Name: luce
Interests: smashed records. sunglasses without arms & lenses. broken ipods. singular piano keys. old floppy disks. disco balls. antique utensils. used paint palettes. retro earrings. memory-filled rings of engagements broken. kitch 50's-esque ceramic figurines. crazy buttons. all hanging from sweet blue-boxed chains.
Occupation: Student, Musical Director
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
MSN: always_in_trouble_15@hotmail.com
Member Since:
5/29/2005
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| She returns to xanga. Strangely enough.
On with the show.
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Overextended handshake, suspended midair, retract & reoffer. The timing like the year7s who took glee in duets of Heart & Soul on the two pianos in the band room. The tuning like those two pianos too.
The rush of comfort and insecurity when you said the very things I
believed with your nose scrunched and eyes squinted in concentration.
"That one's a quarter tone out, that one... three quarter tones?"
You were so much more talented than me & I was so determined never
to admit it, stuck adamantly to my firsts' chair, you sitting patiently
on my right. & so it was, through our laughter and incessant
chattering, and when the temperature dropped so chilly the violins
noticed. Ben always knew what was going on though. Even when we didn't.
Our untimed dance, so almost in synch.
Amongst the lavenders on a cloudy orchestra afternoon, we were going in
opposite directions, but held to the spot with how much you needed to
say something.
"You know how people make marriage pacts, 'if we're both not married by 30, we'll marry each other'?" he mused. I nodded. "Will you marry me? Except not when we're 30. When we're 21."
I laughted, "isn't that a little young?"
"Why wait, really?"
"I'll only be 19 when you're 21."
The impact of my answer is immeasurable, particularly now. I don't know
if I would have withstood the way you passionately attacked everything
you did, or all the escaping you did from your passions either.
I can see the way you played, eyes closed, shirt untucked, like nothing
mattered but that. The mornings afterwards were the worst times, where
you'd be so irritatingly persuasive, or not speak at all. Or leave me
to find my own way home from your sticks-suburb.
I did not find out until sometime much later what had happened. The
details I still don't know, but prefer it that way, so my mind can
create stories of you, spontaneously jumping, or painstakingly arranging everything
beforehand, or the thoughts leading you to your end.
You turned 21 this year.
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| oh dear lord i am sick of being ill.
i've spent the last six weeks in and out of doctor's offices, never having anything serious enough to merit a better response than "you've got a virus. rest a coupel of days and you'll be fine."
then i got flu. then my right neck gland blew out so big you could've hacked it off and taken it with you to play golf. i couldn't talk, swallow (no biggie, i used to have chronic tonsilitis) but i also couldn't breathe very well. and since this was like the 5th week of consecutive illness, finally i got a real doctor actually have me carted off for testing.
i have glandular, plus an inflamed liver (hepatitis) and also slight hyperthyroidism. ooh yeah. i sound cool.
i actually don't feel that sick anymore, just bloody tired. constantly. yet not enough to sleep. just enough to be a bit bored.
and j is extra pissed off. i told him about this, about how it's serious, that i have hep slightly. and what'd he say? he was not concerned for me at all. oh no.
"fuck! i'm sick and i'm never ever sick. this is your fault! you have hepatitis! that's a fucking std! you've given me a fucking std!"
oh my god.
but maaaan he did not listen. i only have viral hep, as a part of glandular. fucking selfish dick.
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| poetry assignment. bad grade. here it is.
porter avenue
Tree-lined streets,
their roots
cracking the pavers.
Matching house and fence,
crumbling brick
decades old.
Washed cars on the driveway,
but they'll never look
clean.
Children playing in the yard,
in the street.
Grey filtered light
casting shadows. Neither
black
nor white.
Their roots
cracking the pavers;
kids on trikes with
reopened grazes.
Crumbling brick
decades old,
like the couple on the porch.
It'll never look clean,
yards littered
with the past.
In the street
broken bottles,
sun-faded labels.
Grey filtered light
casting shadows. Neither
black
nor white.
Kids on trikes with
reopened grazes
rumble along tree-lined streets.
The couple on the porch
of their house with matching fence.
Yards littered with the past
and washed cars on the driveway.
Broken bottles keep
children playing in the yard.
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| okay, so i've been told to write more about my adventures. right. so here's a lovely little tale that happened a couple of weeks ago...
i was waiting for friends at the seediest pub in geelong - the gh, for those of you who know - and there happened to be a buck's party on. all the guys were very very drunk, had been at the races all day, and were hitting the town, hard. i was trying to keep to myself, have a quiet cig. or five.
a few of them start coming over to me; "what's a girl like you doing sitting here all alone!" "come out partying with us!"
so i'm being polite, having a bit of a chat, explaining that my mates are off their bloody heads at some house party, seriously beginning to doubt whether they'd ever show in town. (they didn't, just for the record. i was waiting an hour, bloody hell)
this one guy sits down with me, starts ranting on about his life, his work, how much he loves his family - wife and two kids. i'm thinking 'phew, i'll stick with family man, he probably won't try and have a crack.' oh man.
"you could think of me however you like," he starts saying to me, "as a big brother figure, as a mate, or maybe something more, coz well, what's wrong with one night of wild passion as long as nobody finds out about it eh?"
oh. god. i tried to deflect it nicely, but he didn't get the point, coz he was so pissed. he started trying to y'know, get the leg up hahaha, trying to put the arm around me, brush up against me. i feigned emergency and RAN out of there! hahahaha ahhh dear. | | |
| Who would divorce her lover with a phone
call? You did. Like that, it's finished, done -
or is for you. I'm left with closets of
grief (you moved out your things next day). I love
you. I want to make the phone call this
time, say, pack your axe, cab uptown, kiss
me, lots. I'll run a bubble bath; we'll sing
in the tub. We worked for love, loved it. Don't sling
that out with Friday's beer cans, or file-card it
in a drawer of anecdotes: "My Last
Six Girlfriends: How a Girl Acquires a Past."
I've got "What Becomes of the Broken-Hearted"
run on a loop, unwanted leitmotif.
Lust, light love, life all tumbled into grief.
You closed us off like a parenthesis
and left me knowing just enough to miss.
to write like that, like ms marilyn hacker... | | |
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