she appears composed, so she is i suppose.

_remains @ 2008-10-10T18:58:00

2008-10-10T23:00:07Z

I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;
Her coat is of the tabby kind, with tiger stripes and leopard spots.
All day she sits upon the stair or on the steps or on the mat:
She sits and sits and sits and sits - and that's what makes a Gumbie Cat!

But when the day's hustle and bustle is done,
Then the Gumbie Cat's work is but hardly begun.
And when all the family's in bed and asleep,
She slips down the stairs to the basement to creep.
She is deeply concerned with the ways of the mice -
Their behaviour's not good and their manners not nice;
So when she has got them lined up on the matting,
She teaches them music, crocheting and tatting.

~ T.S. Eliot, from The Old Gumbie Cat

_remains @ 2008-10-09T22:33:00

2008-10-10T02:49:23Z

it's a rogue cloud,
black as the nothing only seen
behind your eyelids, the second before sleep.
the worst part is not knowing.
do the dying know that the rumbling thunder
will appear in minutes or hours?
do they get that final grace?
the rest of us circle like vultures waiting,
fear quickening our pulses.
the grey sky is unrelenting but we brace
ourselves for the crack that will
tear ourselves apart from the prey.
our bones rattle as we shake, we the living,
holding our breath,
destiny laughing from its perch.

(fade out)

_remains @ 2008-10-08T00:00:00

2008-10-08T04:06:31Z

today i was walking my dog by myself. it was around four o'clock and we were almost home and i saw him look up into the sky. i stopped and looked up and saw a hawk high above us, just spreading its dark wings and gliding as if it were watching us, too. out of the corner of my eye i saw that my dog had stopped watching the hawk and was looking at me instead. when he saw that i was still watching the hawk and he looked up once again and we both stood there for a full minute.

this might seem unremarkable, but my dog is a pug and therefore is very short. he can rarely see what's above him unless it is high above both of our heads, at least.

it was eerie yet touching, both of us looking into the gray sky. i was carrying a red maple leaf home and that moment felt like a scene straight from a storybook.

_remains @ 2008-10-06T18:25:00

2008-10-06T22:27:22Z

And I realized why Ralphy had closed his eyes. It was because he was praying. I was praying that someone would come up and wrap their arms around me and hide my nakedness. I wished and wished in the darkness that I was not alone but no one came. I remembered that little boy Zachary from the foster home in Val des Loups who always believed that his mother was coming to get him. Right at that moment, I knew exactly what he felt like.

~ Heather O'Neill, Lullabies for Little Criminals

i feel like i've posted this quote before but i can't find it if i have. ♥

ahem!

2008-10-03T01:57:21Z

everyone go vote for this t-shirt design on Threadless because my heroine designed it, also known as _align. ♥!

_remains @ 2008-10-02T00:04:00

2008-10-02T04:05:28Z

the weather is getting cooler
and the trees are starting to dress up in their autumn colours.
school is starting, jobs are starting, new adventures are beginning.
everyone is on their toes waiting.
twiddling their thumbs and tapping their toes.
change is good. change in scenery, change in friends, a change in self.
don’t be afraid. it’s your life, rule your world.
soon we’ll all be smiling.

~ Leo Tolstoy

_remains @ 2008-10-01T13:29:00

2008-10-01T17:46:46Z

my self worth has dropped so low
that feelings only dribble out of the
tiresome wiring that composes my brain.
my fingers still move but somewhere
between those wires and my beating blood
a stone wall stops thoughts from leaking to my digits,
before they too get battered and beaten.
these lips no longer put form to my wonder,
these eyes are shades drawn shut.
my lungs still inflate,
only to suck in stale dirty air;
i breathe out a slight whimper.
stubborn windbags stimulating wires,
blood beaten through frozen flesh
pain only circulating inwards.

my pet zine!

2008-09-24T16:41:24Z

please excuse me for deleting my post yesterday. i was having an overly emo day!

on another note, i FINALLY have enough copies of my pet zine put together to have it listed on Etsy. it doesn't fit with my usual poetic stuff in this journal but i thought i'd share it with you nonetheless.

sample pages:

"dogs and cats, living together - MASS HYSTERIA!"

the classic line from Ghostbusters perfectly describes my household of 3 cats and one dog. in this zine you'll learn all about their wild purrsonalities!

- 10 pages, 1/4 pocket-sized
- black and white, with coloured-in title page

COST: $1 US + shipping
shipping has been factored in when you choose your location via my paypal button. the shipping is simply the price of a stamp to your country mailed from canada. (52 cents canada, 96 cents US, 1.60 international)

i accept PayPal, well-concealed cash, or trades. if you have a zine, i'd love to swap with you. if you have an ETSY account, please buy my zine through there and that way i can get the points/feedback and so can you. :) btw, i've listed 3 copies on there but i have an indefinite amount so if the post is gone, check back in 30 seconds.

IF PAYING THROUGH PAYPAL:
please leave me a comment here saying you're doing so (all comments will be screened), and what your paypal email address is. either include your snail mail address in the comment here or with your payment.

WELL-CONCEALED CASH PAYMENTS:
email me and i'll give you my snail mail address. if you're in canada you can obviously pay me in Canadian dollars. ;)

CONTACT:
please comment here or email me at the_torn_skirt@hotmail.com to exchange info or ask questions.

i hope this wasn't too complicated!

_remains @ 2008-09-22T00:19:00

2008-09-22T04:20:39Z

It’s not that I want people to think I am smart, or even that I am a good writer. I write because I want to end my loneliness.

~ John Safran Foer

_remains @ 2008-09-18T00:52:00

2008-09-18T04:52:47Z

I wish I could show you when you are lonely or in darkness the astonishing light of your own being.

~ Hafiz

_remains @ 2008-09-16T13:13:00

2008-09-16T17:13:41Z

My passions are ferocious
That I feverishly fight to contain,
Try to bottle the St. Laurence
In mason jars that shatter on the rocks.
Passion should not be a burden, no, just
A runway, a propeller, a burst of light.
Show me the heroines who have conquered
Such torrents, show me someone who is
Not afraid to live until the very last drop
Has dried out.

_remains @ 2008-09-13T16:59:00

2008-09-13T21:10:49Z

The sun was shining brightly as it started to descend in the distance. We waited outside a small store for our bus to arrive, and I suddenly remembered something and jumped to my feet. "Stay here - I have to buy your birthday present!" She laughed and said, "Okay!"

I flew into the store behind our bus stop, a small trade shop of souvenirs and gas station snacks. I knew time was precious, but I still took my time and looked carefully for the perfect thing. At last, I ran to the counter, begging the cashier for the use of her phone. I dialed the number and heard her pick up her cell outside.

"Hello?"

"I LOVE YOU!" I blurted.

Laughing she cried, "Well come back outside, then!"

I looked towards the doorway, enveloped in the day's last light, and I smiled, knowing I could. I could go right back outside and sit with her again.

_remains @ 2008-09-11T17:40:00

2008-09-11T21:42:58Z

When things happen to people, they radiate a light. Because they have a picture caught inside them. Because they were there and you weren't. And because you only got a piece. And because all you can do is shrink and blow up that one tiny piece.

~ The Tracey Fragments (film)

i'm mainly not posting new writing in here because i'm pouring my energy into the next issue of my zine. just so you know. :)

_remains @ 2008-09-07T22:46:00

2008-09-08T02:47:14Z

He awoke each morning with the desire to do right, to be a good and meaningful person, to be, as simple as it sounded and as impossible as it actually was, happy. And during the course of each day his heart would descend from his chest into his stomach. By early afternoon he was overcome by the feeling that nothing was right, or nothing was right for him, and by the desire to be alone. By evening he was fulfilled: alone in the magnitude of his grief, alone in his aimless guilt, alone even in his loneliness. I am not sad, he would repeat to himself over and over, I am not sad. As if he might one day convince himself. Or fool himself. Or convince others - the only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad. I am not sad. I am not sad. Because his life had unliminted potential for happiness, insofar as it was an empty white room. He would sleep with his heart at the foot of his bed, like some domesticated animal that was no part of him at all. And each morning he would wake with it again in the cupboard of his rib cage, having become a little heavier, a little weaker, but still pumping. And by midafternoon he was again overcome with the desire to be somewhere else, someone else, someone else somewhere else. I am not sad.

~ Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything is Illuminated

i will post something of my own soon, i promise.

Antilamentation | Dorianne Laux

2008-08-31T15:32:32Z

Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook.
Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.
Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don’t regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You’ve walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You’ve traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs
window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied
of expectation. Relax. Don’t bother remembering
any of it. Let’s stop here, under the lit sign
on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.

- Dorianne Laux

_remains @ 2008-08-30T18:37:00

2008-08-30T22:39:26Z

all along we hear that it's got to get better, it will, it will.
no one warns us about how much will get worse in the meantime.

_remains @ 2008-08-29T00:58:00

2008-08-29T04:59:31Z

If you want to write, if you want to create, you must be the most sublime fool that God ever turned out and sent rambling. You must write every single day of your life. You must read dreadful dumb books and glorious books, and let them wrestle in beautiful fights inside your head, vulgar one moment, brilliant the next. You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads. I wish you a wrestling match with your Creative Muse that will last a lifetime. I wish craziness and foolishness and madness upon you. May you live with hysteria, and out of it make fine stories — science fiction or otherwise. Which finally means, may you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days. And out of that love, remake a world.

~ Ray Bradbury

books and writers are some of the very few things that are sustaining me now. but to find a quote like this, what more could i ask for? ♥

_remains @ 2008-08-25T21:10:00

2008-08-26T01:11:34Z

Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colours, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

_remains @ 2008-08-23T11:04:00

2008-08-23T15:04:38Z

The torment of human frustration, whatever its immediate cause, is the knowledge that the self is in prison, its vital force and "mangled mind" leaking away in lonely, wasteful self-conflict.

~ Elizabeth Drew

_remains @ 2008-08-21T12:13:00

2008-08-21T16:24:19Z

i miss the illusion,
the spell that made me forget
so i could feel the
fabric of life in my palms.
i could stitch my own paths
through the patterns in my mind.

now i tear at my seams,
ripping apart the knots
that bind me together.
i toss the spool
and thread and needles down
the staircase and wait for
myself to come tumbling after.

of course!

2008-08-21T15:43:54Z

People say that life is the thing, but I prefer reading.

~ Logan Pearsall Smith, Afterthoughts

chicago

2008-08-20T19:21:10Z

have any of you been to chicago? i'm going in two weeks and would love any recommendations you might have for stores, specific areas, that kind of thing. :) thank you!

Grave Girl by Andre Jordan

2008-08-14T02:42:21Z

reading this story just made my day. i've had a day from HELL and this fixed it better than anything. ♥

‘Well,’ I tried to explain, ‘whenever you say words like that, people are a bit shocked. They don’t know what to do with themselves. The moment they hear such words they form an opinion of you – normally a misguided opinion of you. It’s like telling someone you once had the depressions, or your favourite pop group is The Smiths.’

from here

Grave Girl by Andre Jordan

I found her sitting on a gravestone. She was talking to herself and cutting up handwritten letters with the biggest pair of scissors I had ever seen.

‘Hello’, I said.

‘Hello’, she smiled, nimbly snipping away.

‘Whom are you talking to?’

‘Everyone’ she smiled, waving her arms around the cemetery.

I smiled. ‘And why are you destroying those letters?’

‘I am not destroying them,’ she insisted, ‘I am just cutting all of the words out. I love words.’

‘But why are you cutting all of the words out?’ I asked.

‘Because they are in the wrong order. And some of them,’ she theatrically sighed, ‘have been incorrectly spelt. What is your favourite word?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, wishing I could think of something magnificent. ‘I quite like oxymoron’.

‘Oh that’s a great word’ she laughed, ‘Isobella Monkton’s favourite word is cantankerous’.

‘Who is Isobella Monkton?’ I asked.

‘Isobella is over there,’ smiled the girl, gesturing towards a broken-nosed marble statue covered in ivy. ‘She sadly died in 1842.'

Whilst the girl was clearly loopy, I found her manner quite delightful, and so, not wishing to offend, I half-waved in Isobella’s direction and continued our conversation. ‘What is your favourite word?’

The girl carefully placed her giant scissors by her side and paused for a moment. ‘Oh I have so many favourites. It’s really hard to say, and it all depends upon my mood. Currently my favourite word is melancholy.'

‘Melancholy,’ I sighed. ‘I’ve been melancholy all my life. In fact I was going to say melancholy but I thought you might be frightened by such a word and so I said oxymoron.

‘Why would I be frightened of the word melancholy?’ asked the girl, clearly perplexed.

‘Well,’ I tried to explain, ‘whenever you say words like that, people are a bit shocked. They don’t know what to do with themselves. The moment they hear such words they form an opinion of you – normally a misguided opinion of you. It’s like telling someone you once had the depressions, or your favourite pop group is The Smiths. The moment you say it, you can see their faces change. Fear consumes them and they either want to stop talking to you - pretend that you’re no longer there - or they want to run away.’

‘I love The Smiths,’ cried the girl, laughing for the first time.

‘Me too,’ I gushed. ‘What’s your favourite Smith’s song?’

And then it happened. The most wonderful thing in the whole wide world happened. In a cemetery. The girl began to sing. ‘A dreaded sunny day, so I’ll meet you at the cemetery gates… Keats and Yeats are on your side…’ Oh it was wondrous. Truly wondrous. I wanted her to go on forever. I wanted her to never stop. But the girl said she had other things to do and she needed to be alone for a while because ‘cutting out words and putting them back in the right order takes a lot of concentration’. I said I understood. I would bother her no more. But I was devastated. Truly devastated. Would I ever see her again? Did she feel the ‘stuff in the air’? I didn’t even know her name? There was so much I should have said. So many things I wished I’d asked and now it was too late. I had missed my one and only chance.

I closed the cemetery gate, lit a cheap-cigarette and slowly made my way back home.

_remains @ 2008-08-13T00:51:00

2008-08-13T04:44:39Z

When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions.

~ William Shakespeare, Hamlet

_remains @ 2008-08-10T23:56:00

2008-08-11T03:51:01Z

There is a vitality, a life force, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique, and if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium; and be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is, not how it compares with other expression. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep open and aware directly to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open. No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is on a queer, divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others.

~ Martha Graham