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Hydro Electric

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(machines that can only make money) [21 Dec 2006|06:29pm]
"I want you here
by my heart--
in my head...
I can't stop
till I'm dead."

--Pillar of Davidson, Live
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Because I Don't Want to Talk About It (sad face) [31 Aug 2005|02:56pm]
This morning I was hollering at M from my perch in the office about not being late to work, and to move faster, and to eat faster, and to dress faster, and to leave faster. I wasn't sure when the bus left so I didn't want him to miss it. At some point, while he was brushing he teeth, it occurred to me that maybe I should drive him to work, save him $2 and a half-hour, instead of just fucking around on livejournal.

Of course, I was comfortable, not finished with my breakfast, and in my glasses. So I approached him and asked "Would a good girlfriend drive you to work this morning?"

And he grinned, gave me a hug, and said "No. A good girlfriend would relax and eat breakfast to get ready to take the car in and buy some work clothes."

It occurred to me then, and I told him this, that that was one of the most heartwarming exchanges ever. I told him I appreciated and loved him, because he was quite possibly the first guy I've ever been with that told me exactly what's-what (and yes, he's done this in situations where he'd prefer I didn't sit around on my ass and instead drove him, too :P) So I told him that, while I love mindfucks and headgames at certain times in the evening, I was thankful that I could know exactly what was wanted and expected from me.

***


Later, after I did end up accomplishing most of what I set out to do, I was again sitting in my office and I noticed a piece of paper with unfamiliar red writing scrawled on the back. I have been going through boxes, some of which haven't been opened since before St. Louis, and I remember that I had found a few old pads of paper that I threw in the drawer. Well, one piece become separated and drifted to the floor.

Upon further inspection I realized that it was Doc's handwriting. There was a sad or disgruntled cartoon face on top and underneath it the caption "Because I don't want to talk about it."

And I thought that was fitting and clever, so I decided to put it in here to remember. One, as a delightful counterpoint to being with M now, where I can ask him outright and receive and outright answer. No slack-jawed hmms and haas or "I don't know, what do you want to do" or being told one thing only to deal with weepy "I thought you knew me better" crap hours later.

And two, well, I think a lot of the reason I was with him is because I didn't want to talk about it, by which I mean my relationship with him, the storm and stress I was experiencing internally, or properly mourning the loss of what I had thought was a good relationship with Brian.

That's all for now.
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[22 May 2005|07:13pm]
it's all water, baby
sometimes the limbs have to tingle
to get the mind to the deep
moderation, mother
i want a good night's sleep
for the trouble

breaking softly into the oncoming night
catch a drifting circular tunnel
and follow it home, ohm.
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always falling over me [16 May 2005|07:24pm]
[ mood | distressed ]

you symbolize everything i cannot bear to lose
i have cut a pocket in your chest, and put my world in you
just under the skin, to the left of the beat
i hear a tender whisper that i know is mine
and when i think of loss, or grief, it is you that disappears
while i scream at the machine we have been using all these years
just under the skin, a dangerous heat
that burns my future into jagged lines

dead-end, dead-end
over and over again

i've seen your body in a box too many times;
no, pirate
this was not the ship we had in mind
whiteknuckled&tightlipped i would not cry
unless i thought of the cold rivers in your hand
and at that moment knew
that i'd been left on land,

later that night i'd lie, streaming on the tile
hot iron and dull blade to mark my mourning
and while my wound was setting
i'd bleach out the tears i'd be forgetting.

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shower musings [18 Feb 2005|04:51pm]
[ mood | just right ]

I like the way I grow up and down with you from day to day, I like our different wavelengths and I love the times the resonate, dancing to the same frequency. I love the way our years unfold and grow and shrink and scream together.

Sometimes I think of myself as a little girl and you a little boy, left alone for far too long at home. And we giggle and play with each other, content in our company, but a little anxious too, wondering when mommy's getting home. And we're scared and we're alone but I tell you stories and you hold me close and all the darkness in the world turns warm in your eyes. You hide with me in the crimson glow of the shower while the monsters prowl outside, and you make sure it's safe again. I burn the cookies but not the salad and we make it one more night without an adult looking over us.

Then sometimes we're old, really old. And our bones hurt and I'm sick, stricken with something or other and you're lost, wondering if your life's been wasted. And we wrap ourselves in layer after layer of comfort, our house a mismatched world of textures and softness. The food is warm and a fire is crackling and we play chess in our robes while the rain taps outside. No one knows where we are and we don't know anyone to tell.

But often I'm almost 23 and you're almost 25 and we are astounded by all the rainbows in our lives. I think it's significant that when we find them over the freeway or in the corners of our eyes that it never occurs to us to look for a pot of gold until afterwards, when we're reflecting on our spectrum, but I'm happier that way. It's never felt so right, I've never seen a statue come to life. I love you, I love you, I love you.

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[01 Aug 2004|09:04pm]
I promise if you ride this with me it'll be better than ever.

Everyone keeps throwing the damn phrase : "The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again anticipating a different result" at me. They have a point and so do I and so here we sit around a cluttered coffee table stabbing at each other with our many sharp and gleaming points.

So doing the same thing over again would be rejecting my parents' hysteria, ignoring what they have done in the wake of my mistakes and misjudgments, and plunging forth alone. I have longed and waited and dreamed of independence, poverty-stricken or not and here I am, hanging my head and affixing my ankle to its collar.

I don't want the Romeo & Juliet bullshit, the us against the world mentale, I don't. Everyone in the world is happy for us except my parents, but unfortunately they're the ones I have the longest history with. I can't shut that out for seven months of the sweetest addiction and most dangerous encounter I've ever had the pleasure of enmeshing with. But I can't take the needle out, either, and won't.

Sometimes I wonder how their view would change if they knew me, all the sick things I desire and the madness that I crave. But this is getting away from the POINT and what is happening, and what must.

I cannot be cliche, I must compromise. I will have it both ways and I will reframe reality to fit whatever suits me best. Ride it with me, like a bad trip, like stale air conditioning, like rain and swamp and sickness, and I can't wait to see where we'll be at the end of it. I need it, like this

and I know I can't get it like this without you. I'm still with you. Hold on.
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Addendum [15 Mar 2004|08:40pm]
In an earlier post here I talked about there not being enough "good chaos...there aren't enough good surprises."

That's pretty much the only entry in here that references Doc, discloses the fear of my impending hopelessness, the fear that this journal would be so burdened underneath the past it would never glitter again. Not crystal under the waves or streaks of lightning in the sky, just broken glass under a mountain of trash.

Suffice to say I like the fact that didn't happen. I love the fact I can write in it again, about you, because it is you. That I can hear the song and not only feel like I used to hearing it, but sing it to you because it's ours now. The past is wiped away and with everything we are doing to ourselves and our bodies it steps in line with the other nightmares you wake me up from with your touch.
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[15 Mar 2004|08:33pm]
I remember the time when I put all these restrictions on SEX. Not lovemaking or fucking mind you, SEX. This topic has been explored vaguely but meaningfully already in Bathroom, so I won't reiterate further. But anyhow...

I remember putting all these restrictions on it. Like getting a promotion at work, or qualifying for a home loan. All these things to make sure I wouldn't wake up feeling regretful in the morning, to make sure I was only fucking what could be the future. Haha.

This all came up because I was just reading through hydroelectric, start to finish. It's not that long so why the hell not. It shouldn't surprise me the way the content ranges, the evolution of consciousness as it were. But this is also off-topic.

One of these prerequisites for SEX was for Doc to read all of my journals. The prereq for Brian was well, being with me for too long, years, until I was sure. Doc waited five months, although I would hesitate to call it waiting as it seemed to be something I wanted more than he did, despite the fact he got more out of it than I did. That's also another tangent that's ultimately meaningless. So his prereq was to read all these journals, with the notion that these things committed to digital memory would tell him the most salient parts of me, or at least an inkling of them. He would truly know who I was, on his own time so he could process and pore over in private without my gaze affecting his judgment. Then, if he still wanted me, it would be knowing what I wanted, assured he could fulfill it, and we would come together and consummate that knowing and life would be grand.

Why that last sentence is so laughable is of course another topic that has been expunged so many times while drunk or sober or laughing or screaming that it has become like a bad sitcom on daytime television, where expunging it yet again HERE would be grossly inappropriate, unwarranted and (more importantly) undesirable.

But, since this is the sacred LOVVVVVE journal (chortle), it provides necessary backstory. With Brian it was years, with Doc months, with Michael days. And that's not to say my affection for a person should be judged by how quickly I hop into bed with them, if that were the case Brian would have been much quicker than Doc, and Doc probably not at all. But looking at all this in retrospect I had so much faith and hope from the beginning. I've never wanted anything like I want Michael, never was so sure or knew. When Brian booked I was devastated because I felt that the only thing I had ever been sure of in my entire life had been proved wrong, and how could I ever know anything again? But this just served as stunning suspense before I learned what knowing really was. And with all this talk of knowing and believing I am beginning to sound like a self-help book, but love obeys all cliches, it really does.

With Michael it's never sex. It's never some biological means of attaching to one another, of fulfilling illusions or trying to fool myself into believing emotions are real and I'm not supposed to feel good. It's a touching, all-inclusive, mutual engagement and I've never known that. I never knew it could be this good. I never hid from these other boys, never kept myself from them purposefully, but here my sly subconscious, my immutable body was keeping me safe from these infants and monsters that would only cripple me if given the chance. In a way I still was a virgin when I met Michael and I know what that would sound like to readers. But *things* (also other topics of discussion and livejournal posts) have happened that lend themselves to this concept. Particularly the fact I am not screaming "No really, I am a virgin...technically" in some peculiar way to rationalize, it has been an MBS reaction...so much so that without me saying a word he's picked up on this, he's vocalized it. In a way, I lost my virginity this past Valentine's Day. I lost my virginity my birthday weekend. Life's a bowl of cherries, infinite, even. And I want it all with him.

And that's what brings us to this wandering conclusion. He doesn't need to fulfill these pragmatic obligations. Doesn't need to read my journal to know who I am, or wait so I can make sure he won't use me. We knew. And suddenly I am ill-fit to judge anyone else who knew in such a short amount of time, because I understand now. If it wasn't there in November, in January, we couldn't have brought it to the surface through SEX and manipulation of each other's minds, because it was never there. There is no such thing as spontaneous generation, there are only drugs and defense mechanisms. And underneath both of those is this new thing, this surety, this infinite arousal.

So now I do know. Now I love, now I make love, now I fuck.

Ta-da.
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Becoming reacquainted with the Recording Angel [08 Mar 2004|11:26pm]
(Written in the inside cover of The Da Vinci Code)

3/2/2004, 11:51 am

11!

We should be on our way to the BART station, but as tradition demands we are both naked awaiting food and not at all interested in meeting our REAL WORLD obligations.

I like our CONSENSUAL reality ever so much better.

*


This was bought for you at Sam's Club as an early Valentine's Day present. You were SO concerned about the money, so adamant to put it back.

BUT, being that I am historically more adamant than most people, me and my mighty checkbook won out

AND THEN...

(duh na na)

The delicious look in your eyes, I could feel the appreciation, the love, radiating back to me. I would build castles in the sky (or the Bay) out of cigarette boxes and spent nitrous cartridges for you, for that look. I would and have rebuilt my world into a many-faceted jeweled unknown with stars made of razors and diamonds and windows of crystal.

Yeah--THAT look (hee!)

Like when you sank into my arms at WiSH, or the wide-eyed glassy look of rapt attention while I sing, sending my voice out of my throat-garden of broken glass and into our blue birthday weekend universe.

This look makes it SO GOOD to be good to you--you deserve it and no one (NO ONE) is better than me *wink*

This is how I KNOW

And I come out of every state of consciousness-the darkness, the blue, the red, the purple, the metal, the candy, the scream, the dance, the party, the bedroom, the sunset, the machine, the MOMENT

(the bright abrasive beauty of it all)

with that LOOK crying out my need, my want, my thanks

IT'S YOU!

MWA

(and, on the last paragraph of the book [For a moment, he thought he heard a woman's voice...the wisdom of the ages...whispering up from the chasms of the earth.]:

Coming full circle-clearly this final paragraph was a reference to our nitrous sacrament.)

There's no bitterness, no anger (amazingly) just a subtle, joyous urging to distill this feeling into text and bring it glittering to the doors of those who I've left behind, to show them, to tell them. See Brian? See Doc? This is what I was talking about, this is what I wanted.

But what the hell, there's still Nerds.
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dark highways, hidden oceans... [03 Mar 2004|07:55pm]
[ mood | eternal ]

Your images, my words, our images.

This time I'm sure.

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progressions into trance [22 Jan 2004|05:52am]
When I was younger, I would compare everything to everything else. This was my only means of measuring, well, anything. And my mother would always roll her eyes and say "If you always compare people to other people, and things to other things, you will never be happy." I never quite understood this logic, but more importantly I couldn't stop my comparison trials even if I wanted to. And I did try.

So this morning, having just gotten home from work, I walk in to a message on my answering machine. And it's Michael, and I'm growing more and more in love with his voice.

And.

(this is also relevant because it highlights the way my thought processes have changed since being deflowered by nitrous:)

The first thought, towards the end of the message was This is amazingly sweet, I love it... followed by the comparison daemons shuffling in to take a look at the situation, and saying Yes, yes this has never-- and pausing, just like that. And a few other people clamored in to look, to listen. To press repeat. And they said...well, wait? Has this been done?

And they all look to me puzzled, and I realize I'm smiling.

You see, I can't remember.

And that's what's important. That's why this is better. I can't remember, I can't compare.I see it now.
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oh, i am the goddess of love letters. [21 Jan 2004|10:08am]
This is going to happen, one day. And hopefully it won't have to be sugar-free.

taken from this past summer

i want to steal you away from work and take you on a sugar-free picnic. i
won't even drink pepsi, i'll drink some sweet non-carbonated thing with a
pale color and a cool taste. we'll eat fried chicken and sandwiches and
peasant bread dipped in olive oil. cheese on water crackers and plenty of
wine. lots o' fruit, bunches and bunches.

then there will be pie, lots of pie and snuggles and smiles and sunshine.
it's so warm it's all tank tops and tan lines now. i want to dip my toes in
water and splash around, go swimming and nearly drown. have sand caked on
my legs and brush it off in fine sprays. tie my hair back and let it down
later in a smell of freesia and summer wind.

we'll listen to frank sinatra: reprise and make love on floors and beds and
tabletops. i'll see if you like candlewax and if not, ice. there will be
feathers and leather and thin straps with metal rings.

sometimes i think i'd like to bleed for you.

we'll never ever sleep again. we'll never want to. the sky that vicious,
pulsing blue, i'll stretch these moments ever longer.
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[05 Dec 2003|12:23am]
I thought about you a lot, today. I talked outloud in the bathtub, relishing the way my voice echoed in the dark. I know I can wait, but it's so hard, so I give in to these fits of insanity where I talk to a shadow.

I record this so I remember. It can get worse, I'm sure, but it will also get better, eventually. I feel weepy and angry all at the same time. I'm so tired of being hurt. I'm tired of cowardice. I'm tired of monsters. Who else will ride the scales with me?

Well, you will. But all I've got now is your shadow stretching from the bottle and underneath the door. I wish someone would come in and kiss me.
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[08 Nov 2003|04:37pm]
So I knew there was a reason I didn't just cpy this journal over to hard drive and delete. And here it is:

This is my love letter journal. It's going to be sweet and funny when I finally find someone that will (fill in any number of appropriate verbs).

It could be silly, or pretentious, but putting these things down will overcome those unfortunate bouts of weakness that I've been having. This feeling welling up inside and nowhere to let it out, save here.

And some he will read it one day and we'll laugh at my stupidity, but I know I would be touched if someone wrote letters to a shadow that belonged to me, so I know someone else will be equally happy about it.

I remember listening to this song on repeat while Doc was sleeping. Even though I had school the next morning, he had more trouble staying awake than I did. And that was okay. It was early on and things were still light and wonderful. The world was snow-covered and cold outside but it was warm and full of good food smells in the apartment.

Then of course, it turned out it wasn't his shadow. And the more I listen to this song, now, the farther away it takes me from him and into this ocean, "unscrewing the waves."

That's all for now.
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[18 Oct 2003|02:15pm]
Who has a crush on hydroelectric?
The below numbers indicate what sorta crushes hydroelectric's friends have on her, as taken from the results of the original LJ Secret Crush Meme.
Questions? Please read the FAQ.



0 people have a Secret Crush on hydroelectric.
0 people have a Public Crush on hydroelectric.
1 people have an Ex-Crush on hydroelectric.


How many people have a crush on you?
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sssh, lean closer. [08 Sep 2003|07:16pm]
I'm going to find you.
I'm saving all this ravenous energy,
it's building and it almost feels as though
it has the power to break me
but instead it reinforces
and it's waiting, and this time
I'll be sure.

And then?
Then I'll show you this, and
you'll laugh and, both
of us knowing what this means,
we'll rip through dark highways
into hidden suns
and secret oceans.

Yeah.
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[09 Apr 2003|09:02pm]
oh,
i am far
from through
with you.
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unite and take over. [07 Apr 2003|12:35pm]
Well. I was hoping that the last entry would be the last entry, leaving things on an amusing and vaguely positive note. For me, at least. But alas, here we are again.

Hydroelectric has become my filtration system. Pyretta, Sternenfall, hell, even Almarina, they're all too good for this. And so am I. But there is still this residual plaque sticking to my arteries, clogging my heart with its bullshit. There's still residual pain. And every now and then a clot, an aneurysm, something breaks loose and I can flush it out. No easy task but a necessary one.

And so I again turn to you. You in the hydroelectric sense. I hope one day your good name is cleared of all the negative connotations you've come to represent. I almost don't even like the song anymore. But I have faith in you.

Anyways.

This weekend/past couple days have thrown a million balls of yarn at me and while I would love to spend aeons unraveling all of the carefully and learning how to knit beautiful things, I just don't have time. I had a glorious red moment Saturday night, but like most of them lately it was cut drastically short and was less than I had hoped for. Still, I'm thankful for the tear.

I am trying to figure out what is wrong, and there are so many possibilities I don't know where to end or begin, what's ridiculous and what is genuinely plausible. I can't remember much anymore and most of the details have faded out. This is reassuring in the sense that this amnesia will most likely come in handy again, but horrible in the sense that I can't learn from anything, really. I feel like the guy in Memento, only I don't have time to travel around snapping Polaroids and writing notes.

One of the only lessons I remember having learned from Brian, besides the obvious money/living with someone issue is: Don't ever allow yourself to feel too special, as much as you want to. Don't ever think that you are important enough to anyone to be exempt from their bullshit. Look at the way they treat most people, think about what and who they care about. Watch what they do. For awhile it's great knowing you've been elevated above that. Everybody likes being on a pedestal. But sooner or later they're going to treat you just like everybody else. They're going to feel for you just like everybody else.

Which is bothering me right now. Really bad. For a couple reasons. One, I dread its inevitability. Two, it means I would be better off with someone who loves everyone, is good to everyone. And this bothers me. This bores me. A man with no enemies is a man with no convictions. And besides, I want to feel special. I just want it to be genuine. And I want it to be lasting. But nothing really lasts. Or something. I don't fucking know, and I'm afraid to find out.

Moving on,

I remember Thanksgiving:

Me: So, what do you think of Jesper?
Dad: I don't know, this is the first time you've brought anyone over with a personality.

Let's start there. There is this awful, monstrous part of me (I think) that would rather have someone who looks 'the part' rather than is 'the part.' Brian was so perfect because he was utterly malleable, because he couldn't make decisions, because all he ever wanted was someone to stick around. And since he did what I told him, I had no reason to leave.

I don't know if any of this is true. This is just one of the tangles. And, if it is true, that means I'm a lot more horrible than I thought I was. I think. Maybe it's just the way I am. I don't know.

This would give him an excuse to leave, knowing this. But I doubt he did. I doubt he could, because not even I knew. If I hold fast to the irrefutable fact that there was no excuse for his laziness, then I will be all right. Everything else is irrelevant. If I was a monster for molding him, he was an idiot for giving his life to someone, anyone, for molding. It doesn't change what he did.

"You would not make it if you were on your own, and this is why I'll never leave you alone." --Oomph! "Supernova"

That was his song, had been for a long time. I would take care of everything as long as he did these simple things, which he couldn't do.

Still, there's these tangles to deal with. It makes things difficult because now I am dealing with someone who doesn't need programming or developing. I'm hard-pressed to know what to do about it. Maybe I never knew you could just be with someone, you had to be constantly fucking with each other's wiring. Doc and I still are, but not in the same way. I went from knowing everything (even the possibility of what happened) about a person to, duh na na, knowing ZERO again. And it's such a pain in the ass. Most of it isn't like an adventure. Otherwise it'd be okay. It's not a glorious flood of chaos. It's confusing and unsettling and often hurtful. He stares at me and thinks why is she crying, and I look at him and wonder if he's telling the truth.

I need more good chaos, that's the trouble. There aren't enough good surprises. Just the I'm Sorries and Not Tonights and Give Me Times, from both of us.

But then again, would it really ever be enough.

Then there's the John tangle. There's always the fucking John tangle. Thinking more and more about it, about similarities, about things I didn't necessarily miss but nonetheless regarded it as irrelevant information...because, well, I didn't anticipate it happening again. With James it wasn't the issue because the distance kept me safe. But with every stone crumbled and every foundation worn away I need to pull it all out again.

That's enough for now, the headaches are coming.
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[01 Feb 2003|01:44pm]
There was a time when thinking about you made me feel this good. I wrote lots of terribly sappy poetry about it. It makes me laugh now, to keep from crying xD.

Of course, those poems were mostly instruction, and the penmanship was utterly unreadable.

I really do understand. It's like in Dogma when humans can't hear the voice of God or their heads will explode. God can't possibly take it personally, and neither will I.

Best to you, angel.
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No one's going to carry you. [28 Jan 2003|12:38pm]
all the monsters
dance to rubicon
and i move
just as violently
beautiful.
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