Dream as if you’ll live forever and live as if you’ll die tomorrow. There is no dress rehearsal. This is the show. Perform now or never.

sorry i do not have source links for these images. if you do, please share.

I want it all. I want the creative glory I experience through the moments of my deepest misery, for the brilliance I once spun when my mind was it’s most troubled, when I was always just one drink away from being an everyday nothing-to-lose loud mouth drunk falling all over myself but still somehow elegant when it came time to mold rough thoughts into reality. I want the elegance again but wonder if I can get it back when everyday I am starting to shift towards happiness and light and laughter deep from within my stomach, jaw hurting rib stretching laughter. Can I have both? Are the troubled sad ones more creative? I don’t know if this is fact anymore. I can find a way … no no I must find a way to make beautiful things without a drop of sorrow running through my veins and it’s true I’ve always been a sad person by nature with most of it welled up in and around my eyes. I always wondered where that comes from? From genes? From experiences? Regardless, it’s time for that chapter to come to an end.  I’m turning the page and pulling down the stars from the sky and realizing that I was born to create, all of us really are, don’t you think? I was also born to be happy, to touch another with my smile creating subtle vibrations, making strong suggestions … illuminating the dark spots. In the end doing my small but none the less significant part to expand this universe, putting my drops into the ocean we all drink out of. And they will be pure happy bright colored drops.

I promise I will be good and true, that I will never sigh again and if I must, only when it is a sigh of great joy and fullness and content. I will draw you a picture of the inside of me. Because the words I need just haven’t been thought of yet.  I won’t say those things that I have before. I want to be good to you. Can you possibly promise me that you will look at me like I am the first flower of spring, like I am a line you just read that knocked you down and you have to repeat it over to make sure you just read me correctly? And tell me that no one else can knock you down that way? That I will wake up and you will still be there. It isn’t all madness and I’m just a girl with too many thoughts in her brain. So many firsts with  you, I refuse to have any lasts.

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Do you ever get the urge to get up and go? To purge your life of all that is unnecessary, those things that are dragging you down with their overwhelming weight. And even the silence has this burden, a heavyiness that sits ontop of your everything, keeping you from reaching whatever might be next. So sometimes it seems like the only thing a person can do is start all over, cut all ties and set up shop in a new place with new faces and only then does the thought return to your heart that the word “impossible” means nothing and you are going to make it.  So I say just go and bring only what is purely good and usually that means you are traveling with very little. But you can make more good and you can build something new without the help of others if need be.

when i close my eyes these words are burned into my lids over and over and over.

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

ee cummings

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“What then kills love? Only this: neglect. Not to see you when you stand before me. Not to think of you in the little things. Not to make the road wide for you, the table spread for you. To choose you out of habit not desire, to pass the flower seller without a thought. To leave the dishes unwashed, the bed unmade, to ignore you in the morning, make use of you at night. To crave another while pecking your cheek. To say your name without hearing it, to assume it is mine to call.” – from Written on the Body by Jeanette Winterson

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A lot of people ask me why I never write so much here and I think it’s simply because I am better with visuals. I associate emotions and events with images and truly love to tell a story with them much more than with words. However I write all the time, pushing myself to write at least once a day in my journal, an overview of the day’s highs and lows so that I may look back in a week, a month or a year and see some physical proof that I indeed existed on January 8th 2009 or some other date I don’t want to forget. Because time escapes us so quickly, it’s easy to lose a day and all the amazing and/or terrible things that happened on that day get lost right along with it. So it was suggested to me that I share some of this writing here in hopes that the people who read this blog will see I am actually a flesh and bones human being and not just a computer that pushes “publish” every hour Monday through Friday.

It is extremely hard for me to share this. I don’t like how this all sounds when I read it back to myself.

April 1, 2009

There is a bench around the corner from my office where I go to read sometimes and it’s “my bench” now and when I am having an off day it’s an absolute must to go there and read, smoke too many cigarettes, rain or shine. Completely close myself off from all the people passing by going to their next appointment, to lunch, to here, there and everywhere. The sounds of this city disappear and are replaced with your wonderful words read aloud in my head. And especially in the rain sitting there freezing to death I have had these “a ha” moments where the only warmth I feel is from the hot tears rushing down my face and splattering onto the paper in my hands. It’s very good to cry in the rain. The water from the sky and the water from your eyes mixes together and in that moment I realize that quite possibly the whole world is crying with me and I feel a little less alone and a little less small. I have wells of tears from over many years and over many people stored up for such occasions. And in these past few weeks it feels as if I am always on the verge to cry, that any second a word or a glance will be the final hit it takes to crack open my makeshift dam and a huge surge of hot salty water will come pouring down my face.

But I don’t want to complain about it, I like to cry just as much as I hate it.

I wrote a long something about nothing here … deleted it and wrote it again. Deleted it … again. Sometimes the words that come out of my head can’t possibly make any sense to anyone but me. So instead here is one of my favorite poems ever, which very simply and eloquently expresses what I was trying to say all along.

it may not always be so;and i say
that if your lips,which i have loved,should touch
another’s,and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart,as mine in time not fara away;
if on another’s face your sweet hair lay
in such a silence as i know,or such
great writhing words as,uttering overmuch,
stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;

if this should be,i say if this should be–
you of my heart,send me a little word;
that i may go unto him,and take his hands,
saying,Accept all happiness from me.
Then shall i turn my face,and hear one bird
sing terribly afar in the lost lands.

ee cummings

this photo of olivia munn has got to be one of the most amazing things ever. this is now my background. fucking incredible! shot by terry richardson for interview mag nov 08 issue. scooped from fashion shots

From Jak & Jil

Photo by twicepix

You fondle my trigger then you blame my gun. – fiona apple