Impulsive Pandora

Life is a bowl of lemons for your own recreational use.

When I’m at ease, I’m galloping away, eating daisies, not even knowing I’m “running away.” 

When I’m trying to be purposeful, I bite the skin off my heart and squeeze the breath out of my lungs, — I think of all the things that are not treading lightly. Do all the Edith Piaf temperaments; running off in between the shelves in the library to dry-sob my head against the books, and even then I dare to think: Am I being Sarah Bernhardt — even if just to my own mind— or is this real? Is anything I’m feeling real? How can I justify myself feeling if I do not know? 

Then I breathe in, and am quickly stolen away into a page about “a boy who had no other interest but to read newspaper bits and save these newpaper bits of information in his head. For example, he knew that a drunken man in Japan was called a Tiger, and that there were over 150 Tiger stations for drunks to recoup—”

Then I walk back, and sit down, and am almost convinced, that this time, I will feel normal. 

Then I don’t do anything, because I want to run away. Just for a second, just for a grain of sand down the bottom half of the glass. 

Then I’m deciding, with composed composure, to go to the bathroom — I’m sashaying down the aisle, my hair is gently swishing back and forth with my step, I’m imagining it most very, very slightly, such a small note of composed grace and composure to complete this image of sanity — and cry as much I can. I am almost happy for myself that I’ve decided to dedicate such an activity for myself. I’m almost slightly radiant as I get to the bathroom door. I can’t wait. 

I push the door, in I go. I look at my face, and I take in one large breath, like the one-fell swoop of a swan’s dive, and sob. My first sob, and I inhale, and swan-dive again. 

There’s an abrupt knock on the door. I look at it in disbelief. 

I freeze, I can’t believe my ejaculating is stymied. 

The door is opened by the clerk. 
"We’re closing!" 

I turn away abruptly, 
"Yes, I’ll be out in a minute."

I just quickly take a piss with that one minute, because I know I’ve got to just because, and then just march out.

There’s no way anything useful will ever, ever get done. 

Writhing under Pothos

The sociopathic, objective shade of twilight — that disturbing, violent-less, blue — has turned a shade. 
Writhing, rolling around, post-consummation of me. 

Don’t snicker, are you proud of the way you are? The purple is rolling around, writhing mad — offing off everyone—, why are you proud of yourself? Don’t have smug contemptible ownership over your flaws. 

— But I was just trying to like myself—

—liking yourself is a thing independent from reclaiming the throne to your traits. 

I suppose so. 

The feeling is worst when I wake up, when I open my eyes and the first notification to being awake is not opening my eyes but the feeling. Waking up with the feeling. 

Maybe this is dealing with it? 

The gestures I witness to myself that indicate I may not be, 
is that sometimes I don’t feel a damn thing, yet, I’m still watching the storm erupt, standing in an atonal maelstrom.

I’m saying to myself, Darling, it ain’t easy, to pick up a cigarette
it’s from some song I heard. Maybe I’m daring to want someone to come over and tell me how trivial are the things, what trinkets are all my thoughts, that are claiming profundity over my ego. 

Will admitting small things permit a self-created devastation to reign over? The small things, the things we choose not to know about ourselves? However, they happen, this is fact. However, the ego permits a fog to become our mind, so that maybe it will not be fact. Then, self-expression. Do we permit these things to become fact? Were they always facts? 


John Сhristen Johansen


John Сhristen Johansen

(via lapictorial)


Wash out the dishes, I’ll blow your mind. There’s no heart. 
There’s no love or no love, there’s a sink — I can turn the water on (or off).

"You are free and that is why you are lost."  

I really want to go outside. You really wanted me to bring an umbrella. 
There’s no such faithfulness. I’m feeling the sun. I don’t ever see morning. 
I don’t know if it is morning. There is yellow everywhere. 

Prose is too intimidating for anyone. 

Hold me closer. 

I —- this is what they all do. 

Aw shit, I am completely forgetting how to teach myself. 
Just succumb to the “fat man doing ballet.” 

Audrine, you Audrine.
You combination of both Hepburns, don’t forget
Your sass —
and “tender” grace. 
It’s okay, you can still think that Grace Kelly is an asshole.

How you are made upset by minimalism, 
swimming —you see, suspiciously — in various modes and styles.
The sight of you doing this is like looking at
the pair of magnetized eyeballs of a goldfish outside of the bowl, 
darting around, behind glass, like the pupils of old women behind bifocals. 

Ginger Rogers with Director Mark Sandrich and visitor Anton Walbrook - set of Shall We Dance (1937)

Ginger Rogers with Director Mark Sandrich and visitor Anton Walbrook - set of Shall We Dance (1937)


My eyes dart around a la mode Blanche Dubois after the mirror cracks in the Elia Kazan film, or how they would dart, if it wasn’t seen.

My eyes dart around, swimming in the air, and finds such relief in a sudden painting in the room. How wonderful it is to have little cathartic things in times like these! Otherwise I would implode, and maybe I should, in micro-mannerisms instead, explode. I watch a video and I am crying for my laughter, crying like a parody that Noel Coward would make a perfect rhyme about or Dorothy Parker would smile at with deviltry, it’s so ridiculous it’s poignant, crying with gratefulness like a cow that I am finding something present and tangible to feel for.  

Not Galatea

Oh, but I feel ugly and it isn’t even faintly about looks. 
I feel ugly, and it’s not a grotesque kind, it’s not passionate enough to be.
I feel like the object that painters, sculptors, writers and other artist-Gods make that is not art. 

I am the clay. I am stone that is not Galatea. 

When I stood in the bathroom and tried repeatedly to snap! something out, 
there was no beauty in the photographs. 

I am thinking in the body, I am not thinking without a body. I don’t even have the grease in my wheels to think and move and formulate another conclusion why I am this way. This is the farthest the corroded train takes us. 

But it is okay ! I will be okay! Tomorrow is coming and I can tell you how I feel, and begin to feel again, begin to feel myself ! And I will tell you how I’ve felt for you and how it takes the feeling out of everything else because I’ve got to let you know because this feeling and all my other feelings are clogged, busted, congesting, holding up traffic, calcifying a knot in a pipe like snot in a fevered nose and turning into something else sour, which I don’t want to be like the mother who lost her newborn and carries the milk in her breasts. 

On paper, what have you done? 

Dave Brubeck - Kathy’s Waltz