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Lucid Loquacity

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August to March [Jul. 21st, 2005|10:33 pm]
Lucid Loquacity

littlecho
[mood |sadsad]

It was the best day I'd ever had, when I walked from the bus stop and into my driveway only to stop and stare at the beat up old Ford sitting there idling. I slid my heavy backpack off my shoulder, prepared to use it as a weapon if necessary, but I dropped it once I saw who was getting out of the car.
"Shawn," I gasped jubilantly, bouncing off his belly but retained by his arms around my back. My cousin picked me up and swung me around, setting me down in front of his wife, who caught me as I stumbled dizzily and mumbled, "Christine!" I hugged the red-head tightly, letting her squish me into a little Sara-shaped rag doll.
Together, with me comfortable situated between them in the front seat, they drove around my little no-name town for an hour, seeing what there was to do. I didn't care that there wasn't anything to see- I was just happy to be there with them.
Four years ago, that was, when we were all happy living in Pennsylvanian suburbia. Now, I see Shawn when he gets off the boat every five months and comes to visit with his Scottish girlfriend Susan, but I never see Christine anymore, because she's living with her Mom in Long Island and hasn't talked to Shawn since he first started working a year ago.
I miss them.
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Escape Artist 101. [Jun. 18th, 2005|02:36 pm]
Lucid Loquacity

concreteaviator
I stood with my arms stretched outward and began to turn circles on the grass. This was the way I'd felt for a long time, like the Earth was spinning in repetitive rotations. I often wondered what it would have felt like had the Earth stopped abruptly and ruined the mere thought of gravity. Gravity had a way of keeping me down, no pun intended. I felt like a fairychild hoping for some better escape, some greater existence. All I'd ever achieved, though, was escaping and pushing others away. Some came back, others tried to stay, but once you pushed...they never got as close. I didn't mind it much, to be quite honest, I liked being alone. I think it might have been a curse...having no one around. Everyone was disposable and temporary in my eyes.
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The Art of the Folded Napkins [Jun. 17th, 2005|10:44 pm]
Lucid Loquacity

littlecho
My grandparents took us out to a nice fancy (expensive) restaurant for dinner, but the problem with these types of restaurants is that they don't have what we mere humans call "food", they have "cuisine".
"Cuisine" does not equal "food".
And for some reason, it seems like a good idea for the majority of the menu to be written in cuisin-ese (also known as French), which renders it quite impossible to understand and to subsequently order food that I like to think of as edible.
I ended up with a salad, which I thought was perfectly safe. It was the only thing I understood all the ingridients of on the menu! How can you go wrong with "hearts of romaine" and "aged parmesan"? I know what both of those items are- lettuce and cheese. Simple enough...but wrong! It also had spicy dressing and cold chicken.
See? "Food" does not equal "cuisine", because this definitely was not edible.
I do not understand the restaurant industry- excuse me, the "Culinary Arts".
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(no subject) [May. 16th, 2005|02:39 pm]
Lucid Loquacity
bootsinrain
What is the opposite of analytical? I can't think of it. Synonyms I can think of: Reasonable, rational, critical or even maybe thoughtful. Name just one. No. I can't think of it. Oh yes: emotional? But that isn't right either. People can be analytical and have emotions, be emotional and at the same time analytical. The thesaurus doesn't help: "chaotic, uninterested, illogical, irrational, disorganized, illogical, synthetical, unsystematic." None of these are right. My thought is that the thesaurus was written by analytical people. Biased, coldly analytical people. Because what I'm doing is trying to describe someone close to me. Someone whose position I can't reveal, and also, seemingly, cannot describe. She (let us, randomly, choose this sex to represent this person; why not?) is the opposite of analytical. But does that mean she is "uninterested?" What is she uninterested in? Analysis? That may be true by some part of the way. But that is still not the opposite of analytical, that is still not her. Is she irrational? No, she does not walk in front of cars. She does not chose to make decisions any more irrational than I who, far more analytic than she, choses to knowingly, irrationally smoke many cigarettes every day. Is she unsystematic? Who is systematic? A computer. A factory machine, the weather. Compared to them, no human is systematic. How can I not describe her in terms of negatives?
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I Meant Well (chapter: Decadents) [Apr. 20th, 2005|05:49 pm]
Lucid Loquacity

dylpickled
It was a crumbling old mansion in a crumbling old resort town, covered in mossy green stone cherubs. Inside the walls were poison green, red paint thrown up in bloody spatters or swirled into mottoes in unexpected places. Some ceilings still had original frescoes, while from another hung a forest of plastic daisies. Everywhere strangers were curled in giant plush red chairs, laughing decadently, smoking Gauloises and drinking beer out of fine crystal. We made the rounds of the varied groups, joking with men in moth-eaten wool sweaters and women in vintage '20's diamonds. It got impossibly hot, and beads of sweat ran down his forehead. "Take off your jacket!" I advised. "Still wouldn't look half as good as you," he answered smoothly. I met an old friend at the bar, and, bored, he wandered off to the dance floor. He wasn't alone long.

(partially inspired by last person's entry)
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(i'm new.) [Apr. 19th, 2005|01:53 pm]
Lucid Loquacity
stealth_rodeo
[mood |contentcontent]
[music |bright eyes.]

ten;;

he'd never felt nylon in his veins before. the cold air that met his face as he walked out of the club, restless, was to him just an extension of the effects of the liquid that his blood was guiding toward his heart and brain – the liquid that could, if the air wasn't too cold, be called relief. but something was thickening deep within; he could feel it. something cold, nylon, dark, gray – dangerous because it was new. a homeless man crouched near the door asked him how to integrate cotangent as his green eyes looked around for another welcome.

inside club spektor there had been stories engraved on the walls and the ceiling had been filled with tiny gold-white stars. the music had been too yellow too calming too smooth to help him starve his brain, so he'd poured the rest of his hope for relief into his mouth and walked outside, into the california night whose cadmium streetlights shone like anything but fairies.

and i can see him gliding along the walls of the halls of a house, but the halls are too wide and the house is too big, too gray, too much like it used to be. the paintings are of them and they taste like salt and ghost water, with nighttime visions and spider legs that glide.

his cotton, and the way it bends, seems unnaturally smooth and much too perfect, cloud-colored (invisible so i can see his bones) – here's a flashing symbol, hanging irresolute but mobile-like, steady, below the strobe.


[ here and here. ]
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I Meant Well (chapter: Foreign Soldiers) [Apr. 10th, 2005|05:32 pm]
Lucid Loquacity

dylpickled
His name was Konrad, but he was called, for some unfathomable reason, Buchi. Small and sturdy and often the butt of jokes, nothing disturbed Buchi's calm. He hardly ever spoke, preferring just to squint at the world tiredly and contentedly from behind the smoke of his ever-burning cigarette. When I met him he was in the middle of a mandatory year of military service. I imagine the life of a young new draftee was hard, but this seemed to have washed over Buchi easily. He seemed comfortable in his green military coat, a red-and-white armband displaying his nationality, his coarse green pants tucked into sturdy black boots. He sat like a boy, but the constant training had given him a man's muscles. I pulled at the chain around his neck, exposing his dogtags. "What's this?" I asked, pointing at a number. He smiled laconically, "That's me."
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Dreams [Apr. 4th, 2005|01:52 am]
Lucid Loquacity

alice15
[mood |anxiousshoot me already]
[music |Something Sheryl Crow or Crowded House (for a dream effect)]

Hi there! I'm new....and here's my first entry because it's 2 in the morning and I can't sleep. (Alas, like most well meaning people, I to suffer from insomnia).
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"Sometimes," his hands spasmed, "I can't tell if I'm dreaming or awake."
He shook slightly, and the trial of staying....of remaining in reality began.
He could remember days before all this...when he had had no desire for escape, for release.
Now there were days on end where he'd just lie in his bed.
Thinking...dreaming...lost in a world that knew no time nor place.
Then, he would wake up.
He'd make coffee, he'd fry his eggs, he'd go to work.
Then, he'd do it again.
His hands convulsed.
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You and I are alone [Mar. 27th, 2005|10:39 am]
Lucid Loquacity
speakingsleep
I have nothing to say. Nothing to say to you. Get out of here will you, just go. What are your eyes closed or are you blind--just go. I am tired, get out. Go. Just go. God I am ashamed. Don't look at me anymore. Don't look at me anymore.
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I Meant Well (chapter: Innocents) [Mar. 18th, 2005|06:37 pm]
Lucid Loquacity

dylpickled
We stayed in the car, because to go inside would imply a commitment to conversation, and to head out on a walk would simply be too isolating. We didn't want to go but we wanted to stay poised on the verge of leaving, with the dashboard lights and Flogging Molly for company. Glimpses of my life came out in flippant remarks. He was strangely, naively surprised, as if he'd never before heard of such things. Maybe he hadn't. He traced the warm red lights of the radio and I copied him, wishing I could take his hand and trace its lines instead. He wouldn't have understood, simple and good as he was, what I wanted. I wanted to savor and celebrate, caress and enjoy- but never love- him. I said I loved complicated people, loved passion and confusion and pain. You're in luck, he said, I'm complicated.
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