The Future
 
Give me back my broken night
my mirrored room, my secret life
it's lonely here,
there's no one left to torture
Give me absolute control
over every living soul
And lie beside me, baby,
that's an order!

_______________

Poem ("I heard of a man ...") from "Let Us Compare Mythologies"

I heard of a man
who says words so beautifully
that if he only speaks their name
women give themselves to him.

If I am dumb beside your body
while silence blossoms like tumors on our lips.
it is because I hear a man climb stairs
and clear his throat outside the door.

Leonard Cohen 
Leonard Norman Cohen, CC (born September 21, 1934 in Montreal, Quebec, Canada) is a Canadian poet, novelist, and singer-songwriter. He is among the English language's most distinguished and influential songwriters of the twentieth century. His musical career has largely overshadowed his prior work as a poet and novelist, although he has continued to publish poetry sporadically after his breakthrough in the music industry.

 day thirteen...

well my chest is so constricted I can barely breathe.. my torso feels like its tied in heavy knots... so other than my fantastical muscle troubles in my shoulders and neck, which seem to have my skull thumping at a good pace.. I appear to  have few mood swings.. having a few other fun issues.. but hey, why sleep when you can't get off?

enough bitching.. had a slow day at work [for inlieu time] and a good diner out with friends.. but need to rest more I think.. pushing a little hard atm which is prolly causing me some stress which is why I am all jacked up.. must rest on the day of the sun.. apollo waits..

+laine.down+ x.iii

well day ten....

nothing seems different. just plodding along as per usual. trying to round out 'syndrome papers' but its taking a lot longer than expected. book one, 'the dark transmutaions in our night time' is done, and I'm considering [ Cut  ] the first work on the second, 'the alchemal quandry'. guess its kind of a tryptic set of works, as the last section I was calling 'the epoch wake'.

started a new fiction work I guess... figured I have this particular language in my writing now, so I'm working on a kind of allegory currently titled ' X days ', as in the roman numeral ten. haven't figured out the arching plot yet, but I'll see where it takes me; based off of twenty-four hours over the days as consequetive entries. I don't believe in writing conventional fiction; I love the anti-hero ideal, but I think there is so much fiction out there these days, its hard to tell literature from drivel, hard to find a good story amongst thousands of authors.

and new link for "thursdays" has been added.

 +laine.out+

Welcome Rain on a Spring Night

The good rain knows its season,
When spring arrives, then it comes.
It follows the wind secretly into the night,
And moistens all things softly, without sound.
On the country road, the clouds are all black,
On the river, the single fire on a boat is bright.
At dawn one sees this place now red and wet,
The flowers are heavy in the brocade city.

Du Fu (杜甫) [712- 770] also known as Tu Fu, is widely acknowledged as the finest of the classical Chinese poets. His poems have a particularly sensitive feeling for humanity. He wrote in the High Tang period. His work is very diverse, but his most characteristic poems are autobiographical and historical, recording the effects of war on his own life.     : source

[ music: the.cure] [reading: anthology.of.chinese.poetry ]

well day six.... things seem pretty much the same. I am trying to be more social at work and when I'm around ppl, but doesn't feel much different. waiting till next week when my dosage is higher.

want to get some weblog work done today. need to make and add some new links to the right panel. may as well get that done this am. Have lunch plans with Minou & C, whom I haven't seen in forever...

+laine.to.it+

well in an odd twist of irony, I'm on my meds now..

we all saw it coming.. just figured it was time to get to it.

I've been writting this blog in various forms for nearly four years.. and it finally is a true account of my mental well being. *sigh* well, point being .. mood swings, anger, depression, and several other memory and focus related problems have all seemingly convulsed into one fantastic need for assistance.

 yay me.

 week one... my stomach aches, I'm tired most of the time, and my sleep has yet to improve. well, I'm sure that 'they' will be able to keep better track of me now. may as well make it easier for 'them'.

anyways, that tired feeling is kicking in.. I'm out for now..

+medicated.laine+

Crows Calling at Night

Yellow clouds beside the walls; crows near the tower.
Flying back, they caw, caw; calling in the boughs.
In the loom she weaves brocade, the Qin river girl.
Made of emerald yarn like mist, the window hides her words.
She stops the shuttle, sorrowful, and thinks of the distant man.
She stays alone in the lonely room, her tears just like the rain.

Li Bai (李白) (also known as Li Bo or Li Taibai), of the High Tang period, ranks alongside Du Fu as one of the two leading figures of Chinese poetry. He was a Byronic figure, whose life as well as his verse embodied the Romantic cliches of freedom, spontaneity and defiance of convention.    : source

[ .cut. ]

on any other day
these hands would be sheter
under running winds
against wild hair
cupping nape & bone
but its all holding out
and the edges still cutting me
are finally wearing my hours thin

notes aren't working
every page and torn piece
not tracing where we're going
what usesless visions are these
to help us to pass
these looming memories
in our aching fingers' beauty

its switching and cannot hold
in the stumbled rainning days
that's been waiting all this time
all language broken here
and sundered right beside
all this longing night tide
which we've tried to bury
under limb, marrow, and skin

just has no ending
all these gasping echoes
as wings are cutting me
rustling against flesh
that must have forgotten
all warm caresses
after all this time

where hands once moved
to break this shelter
digits soft and curling
round weary palms
that only know a missing ache
a cover burned and fading

but its where it should be
hands laid out low
in synch and snatching
all these clicking hours
since you put me down

our everday hunting duty
gather the burned and fading
satellites & cutting*stars ground here
humming each and everyone
tunes and tones we all share
divided deep under our lying shells

© Bryan McLean May 7 2006

Here I go again
Slipping further away
Letting go again
Of what keeps me in place
I like it here
But it scares me to death
There is nothing here

(humming)

The light is beautiful
But I’m darker than light
And you are wonderful
But this moment is mine

All of this dust
All of this past
All of this over and gone
And never coming back
All of this forgotten
Not by me

I find comfort here
'Cos I know what is lost
Hope is always fear
For the pain it may cost
And I have searched for the reason to go on
I’ve tried and I’ve tried
But it’s taking me so long

I might be better off
Closing my eyes
And God will come looking for me
In time

All of this dust
All of this past
All of this over and gone
And never coming back
All of this forgotten
Not by me

I can see myself
I look peaceful and pale
But underneath
I can barely inhale
I can hear myself singing that song
Over and over until it belongs to me

(humming)

: bettens :