Spies Like Us

When cold wars end, it's hard not to wonder how they ever got started.

This freedom in the day. This laughter at the thought. This peace. Unexpected and yet so comfortable and welcomed that it wasn't even a question of time. It wasn't even a question of distance. It wasn't even a question of fear.

        Until the last.

Somewhere in the smile is a cut. A bladeline that I not only know about, but can feel just as deep. Somewhere in the Kremlin there is a camera that's still connected to an monitor screen at Langley. Somewhere in a surburban home there is an alarm clock that's really just an eye.

      Somewhere in this embrace, we may always feel a chill.

                But I'd much rather brave the silence and cold
                than to ever see that wall rise between the strasse again.

[Listening to: Deftones, "Rickets"] 

Mittens

Our new game is kinda like memory. There are cards with faces laid out in front of us, and we do what we do to try and match them up with each others hand. Each time we miss, we instinctively draw another from the deck. The more cards each of us has, the easier it is to play. The less cards there are, the more the both of us worry.

The game is played back to back, the game is played in the day and in the dark. The game is played when we're supposed to be working. The game is played when the game isn't really being played at all.

      The game rocks.
      The game sucks.

                             ...and we're both really, really good at it.


btw - the new DIV makes my panda puppet clap. I knew I was their groupie for a reason.

[Listening to: Deep Inner Voices, "Ardore Segreto (V2.0)"] 

Heh.. Mechanical

            
            So?  She's Mechanical !!!!!! 

[Listening to: Poster Children, "If You See Kay"]

I Want to Believe

            
            ...that we see things the same 

[Listening to: Me'Shell Ndegeocello, "Trust"] 

Searching for Undial

I can't seem to be anything but an utter loser on the phone anymore. Every syllable and uncomfortable silence from my lips just another torpedo sinking my ship deeper under the water.

I just wanted to hear your voice, to tell you how I was feeling. I just wanted to play. But all the words came out in some foriegn language, some unreadable dialect that made me sound like some simpering idiot, some blubbering teenager. And lately it's like that's the only sounds you hear from me anymore.

     ..and I know you hate it.

It's like I feel as if I've already lost something, and all I can do is stand here in the wake and try to will it back into being. But even as I do that I know that it's the worst possible approach I could take. Even as I am speaking I know that I'm somehow only making things worse.

           Hmmmmm, lets see... Vibrant, interesting people who adore me for who I am, or
           this tool on the line who calls me up but then has absolutley nothing to say??

I'm gripping, and I've got to find a way to stop. Because this isn't me. This isn't who I am. It's almost like I wish you could somehow find me off the radar, or see me through different eyes. Ignore the flames and flashing lights, and just hear the voice of the man behind the curtain. But that's not the way it works. This is something that I have to figure out. It's something that I've got to fix myself, before it's too late.

                   I should have never dialed that phone.

[Listening to: Buzzcocks] 

Christian Troy

Something Lola said. Something I've always sorta known. Something about nice guys and where they finish, something about animals in cages, something about me that I don't think you really know, or have perhaps somehow forgotten.

All this hiding, all this assumption. All this frustration welling into anger, falling into open holes of resentment and confusion, calling out with a voice no one seems to hear from above -- above where all the skies seem as blue as a close-up eye and the wolves would still scratch at keyholes in the night if only they could.

It's almost like my devotions are glasses that I can't take off. Like everything I do hides the true color and shape of my eyes from you. Others can see it, others refuse to see anything else. But here, here in the world we know with it's masked spider demands, weekend work hours, and demon sleep that takes, takes, takes you away from me -- all you seem to see is the visage I've taken for us. The sanctuary I provide, the security you treasure like a favorite comforter across the welcoming embrace of a clean red couch.

But an open eye won't let you sleep,
and wolves don't take out the trash.

          It's like somehow I can't be both for you.
          no matter how badly I want to be.

But of course, I do it to you as well, don't I? Our time like lenses, thickening year after year to correct cataracts we've both perhaps discovered in recent times that we don't really have. But instead of clarity, it's as if we've taken up farsightedness as a crutch, taking solace in the miles away instead of what's right here up close, unless we put the glasses back on. Just for reading, only when I really need them, I know I should really get contacts, but after all these years I guess I've just grown accustomed to having him there...

"Tell me what you don't like about yourself"
"Tell me what you don't like about me"
"Tell me what you don't like about us."

                     Take off your glasses.
                     Please, take off your glasses.

[Listening to: Razed in Black, "Damage Inc."] 

Ravelle

Maybe I shouldn't be writing right now. Maybe this isn't the time, maybe this isn't the place. This isn't a blindland, it isn't a closed door. Everybody sees, everybody reads. Everybody gets hurt and everybody misses the point. And right now, there's this honesty inside, this lack of metaphor that I'm not sure I can risk.

       I'm not sure I can put it here, and I hate that.

I've got a new guitar. It's goregeous.
But within an hour of getting it, I broke a string.

Money's tight, so replacing has to wait. It still plays, it still sings, but there are notes missing. Ranges unavailable. There are songs I can't play, places I can't go. It's frustrating in ways that are hard to explain. The joy of learning something new, of caressing new curves, somehow shortened and unfinished.

              I play with 5, but keep reaching for 6.

And there I am all over again. My Midas greeds spirited away like some hungry pig. Unable to rejoice in good enough, not quite satisfied with what should be clear. It effects me in ways I don't like, it brings with it the vibes and the voices, making me deperatley want to get off the merry go 'round, even if it is the vortex. Even if it is the main nerve.

What's worse, all of this happened before I received the death threats in the mail this morning. The ultimatums, the red lettered questions, the anger, and the confusion. I am all these things in all these places, I am every note on the fretboard. I am because you say I am, even when I wish I wasn't.

              That's why I need the string.
              That's why I miss it when it's gone

[Listening to: Etro Anime, "Danger"] 

Came Do Burro

      Happy.. little.. trees?

                  
                   

[Listening to: Etro Anime, "Purest One"]

Dopplegang

      I hate being so bad at this.
      I hate being so good at this.

These disconnections, these misinterpretations, these fires, floods, and unwanted explosions.

      I understand.
      I wish you understood.

We travel the same miles, but somehow we don't end up in the same place.
And yet, here I am again.

      I hate being here again.
      I hate being here again...

Stir the water, steep the cup. This is what I do, this is where we get lost. It's frustrating, it's confusing. It pushes me over edges that push you over yours. It pulls you into corners you can't be in, but don't want to leave.

         Pay no mind what other voices say
         They don't care about you, like I do, like I do
         Safe from pain and truth and choice and other poison devils,
         See, they don't give a fuck about you, like I do.

         Just stay with me, safe and ignorant,
         Go back to sleep
         ...Go back to sleep

[Listening to: A Perfect Circle, "Pet"] 

Actually Spoken During the Course of My Evening

"No no no, you've got it all wrong.. you don't liberate strippers by charging into a club with automatic weapons. All you've got to do is go in there snapping your fingers in front of you while singing the lyrics to Love is a Battlefield!"

[Listening to: Depeche Mode, "Shake the Disease"]