Stone Fox

(william eggleston)

in my constant attempt to find a movie that isn't foreign-language and is from the past five years that i can passionately write my film studies final on, i revisited the virgin suicides (i'll be the first to admit that i am not a big sofia coppola fan. but this movie is a wonder. pity it's '99) & in america. i feel really good right now, the way beautiful films (art) makes me feel. i also have the life aquatic and mulholland dr sleeping in my bag. i love films but somehow i am think i am trying too hard to lose myself, and somehow i think that by fixing this i am going to lose the bleeding part of myself. but somehow i wish i could just get up on time for class.

Chamomile
sober nights become sober mornings drugged up on nothingness and on the come-down. there are places i know most like the the belly of my blanket and she holds me quietly from the world at large that is blaring and beeping beneath me and beneath my window. underneath siren songs i sleep somehow and always dream of the kind of breath that is inhaled by nostrils and the kind of nostrils that would make me breathe in. she shields me from cold concrete and the meagre heat of the robots in halloween costumes that saunter round my ready-made womb of a mother vaulted off by land and sea. but while i am losing myself in worlds beyond eyesight, i forget her and she counters by holding me down, caressing me with wire, barbed wire, wanting something to show her help, wanting a thank you from my fading eyesight. sweet murder comes from love. sweet sleep comes from happiness. and happiness comes from sweet sleep.