I remember how your lips taste.

These faces, the voice of joy. Birds wind themselves through the small bones of our features, and our eyes are filled with song. Long thin fingers trace blood along our thighs. The dawn brings itself to us, pushes under our hair, against our shoulders. We are laughing under blankets. We are speaking of ghosts. Each day dies, each day lives on. Blue flashes on, flashes on. Our teeth are bruising our lips. A woman turns into a mountain that turns into steam. We step out into the snow, and the world is so wide.

Walking down the street with a filmmaker from Israel, the air grey and wet on our shoulders. Her big eyes move over the buildings, eating them with a mild wonder. “The vines, in spring, are green, it’s beautiful,” I say. She turns to me, she walks close alongside my feet, she smiles, turning back to the wall over her shoulder. She is looking for the words. “Now, they have their… advantages, too,” she says. The grey light reflects on curving panes of glass.  

Fake fur short skirt bedroom eyes self-conscious flirt (I don’t know what to do with you girl) your face is like a mirror I wanna cut it with lines your body’s like a river you got it flowin like wine your teeth are straight and narrow but you got a decadent twist you got me spelling your name when you start shakin those hips–

Sid Branca - It’s Too Late (Buddy Holly cover)

Some of you know this, but I get weirdly emotional about Buddy Holly sometimes. Yesterday was the 53rd anniversary of “the Day the Music Died”, and I recorded this little thing. Please note that I don’t actually play piano at all, so struggling my way through three chords is an accomplishment. (And not even all the real chords from the original, I went in a more minor direction.) 

Anyway, in case anyone was wondering what my singing voice sometimes sounds like, now you know.

This is my life these days, all shooting video footage and fighting with a  broken sink, barely any time to breathe between them. I’m a busy girl lately, even more so than usual. Things are a little nuts, but in mostly good ways. I’m working on an insane number of artistic projects, and life projects, and all sorts of stuff is going on. If you catch me in passing running between one thing and another, maybe we can chat and catch up.

She walks like a woman afraid, her skin is pale and mottled with scars and her eyes are down except when they are up and angry and they are always angry. My name in her mouth is just one more step in a litany, to give me grace is to forgive them all and what have we done to her, or, good lord, what haven’t we? We have lured the stitches up from her arms, we have leaned in close and felt her hair on her cheek. How cruel I was, to fall in love with the image of myself in negative. 

Scattered thoughts, and at a great distance. Guilt is a ribbon, and you are a bow.

Two thousand, eight hundred

You wake up with your pockets full of dirt, 

smelling like oil and without your keys. 

You have hands that shake and knuckles that scab, 

four dead languages under your tongue, 

a broken bottle in your flower bed.

We pace the streets for the thing you lost, 

our backs stiff from the yellow floor. 

My bottom lip is fat and my voice is all yours,

six strands of hair caught on your neck.

Can you keep a secret?

So can I.

Come back before this winter ends

and tie me to this bed.

This city isn’t mine but its skyline feels like home

and the little girl at the water fountain

seems somehow like a sign.

I’m still keeping buttons for bass notes

and selling everything I own.

Tie a ribbon round your finger, baby,

it’ll be a long day yet.

It’s tragic (or maybe a vast relief?) that Nabokov didn’t live to see this happen, the sublimated obsession with necrophilia in the romances of popular culture clawing its way up to the surface. This isn’t new for the horror genre (see the Japanese zombie film Stacy, for example, in which adolescent girls become zombies because they really just need love–the love of necrophiliac middle-aged men), but this is a new level. The blogs are going to have a field day with this. I clearly have some reading to do. Maybe one day I will try and do some writing on why a large segment of popular horror film seems to have missed feminism? In short: GROSS GROSS GROSS, but I will probably watch it out of morbid curiosity.

Bright Eyes - Blue Christmas (off Maybe This Christmas)

Sometimes you miss a person, and that’s hard and complicated. Sometimes, too, it’s December, and that’s complicated and hard too. But hey, the New Year’s comin’ soon.