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noise.

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The babblings and bullshitting of Amanda Sloan.

When the beat turns on, my feet start thumping taking to pelvic thrusts. I miss the the sound of moaning in the morning but nothing compares to the silence of the ones I wake, wide-eyed to, now. I’ve crossed bridges and climbed mountains to get here, and I was met by light and laughter. I was lured by the same old fucking shit that stands just three feet behind me every night, every lunch-in, every movie we watch, every kiss we kiss. I promised not to do this, I promised that this year wouldn’t be 2004, with minor differences. You’re house is cleaner. I don’t powder my nose anymore. And alcohol is not the only thing that summons us into bed. Besides that, we might as well sell running tickets at the Paramount theatre, read the journals aloud, and recite every fucking winded detail. We’ve been repeating too much and this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. We’ve both wanted to be skeletons. Delicate creatures with nothing to lose. With a body like that, you’ve got to have substance, thoughts for days, legs, arms, my limbs. I want bones in every way. I fill up toilet bowls nightly with wish after wish. I want to meet weightlessness, I want to meet god, and everything else with power!

We like to listen to indie music, music that’s noise and says things our mother’s wouldn’t be proud of. We like music that’s a riot on ear drums, living out every detail of a life we’ve given up. Heroin invested gravestone-hopping, drunken hippy, cold blue cocaine and smiles, Broadway at three in the morning on some fucking orange sky evening. And that’s the way that I roll. And that’s the way that he rolls. And that’s the way the fucking wind is blowing tonight. So we’ll take to the streets like litter, asking strangers for favors and loving every fucking second of it. Excuse me? Do you have a quarter? I’ve got to call my mom. This is our life. This is our never ending fuck fest. In the car. The back seat of some black guy we knew for twelve minutes. In the store. The elevator. Up against what used to be the tallest building in this black hole city. When people stare, that’s when it feels the best. They can see every sick detail, every drop of blood I’ve shed, every cut you made. But we cut each other. Deep and hard. We slice into each other like there’s something to be told. But there isn’t. and there never has been. We are just another Edward Norton film. Intellectually mind blowing and trashy.

I am talking about two different things. Two different men. But it doesn’t matter. It never has. They share the same name, and most of the time, the same bed. I’m starting to feel like a little girl again. This is the low to a high that never really stopped. My feet haven’t touched the ground, I can’t even see it. Green and blue story book – I’ve read everything else, let me read you. I’m done talking about dicks. Limbs and bones, and hearts, they have. But they're only connected to one thing. Big, pumping organ. Thrust, lust, fuck. Me.

I almost cried last night. Connected to wire and poles. That’s how I see you most. I know you so well I could almost smell it. I live off of sun beams, fluttering and shaking, my teeth, my feet, my breath in the fall. Many call me a writer - I wouldn’t call me anything besides lost. I can write about love, fucking, drugs, sex, rock and roll. The way some drunken party smelled some sultry Tuesday night, but do I know devotion? Do I know the ocean? Do I know loss? Real, hard, livid loss. I’ve felt. But I don’t know it. I don’t know how to write about other’s pain, unless I rhyme, and I don’t rhyme. I use “I” too much when I write. Poems should be applicable to anyone, and mine are not. They are completely mine. One hundred percent that moment that sat to write it. Most people would call that inspiring, passionate, fucking beautiful. That doesn’t sell books. Now does it?

I guess I think about money. I think about the future. I think about waking up to us and having nothing to feed you in the morning. I think about waking up alone. Waking up to some cold hardwood floors that haven’t been swept. Newspapers and coffee. The pixies, mirah and the microphones, being the only voices I’ve heard in weeks. shoes with holes, a dead end job, and college everyday. College for art I don’t like. College for art that wont get me anywhere. College for something that no one gives a fuck about it.

Art is fucking over rated, and I doubt anyone feels it the way I do. I know Richie does. He’s art. He feels it in his toes. He feels it in his breath on winter mornings, and through his bright burning sticks. But I don’t meet anyone loud. I don’t meet people with the boom and fucking bang, that often. Seattle is the art capital of, well, forever, and I feel like I’m surrounded by imposters. These “new” kids. The ones who got digital cameras for Christmas eigth grade year so they would have something to record their many trips to the mall. Who took one cool picture. Who got a better camera. Who started wearing scarves. Who changed their favorite bands on myspace from the bands on those Atticus records to the ones on TouchandGO records. The ones who quote sexton, jerry, plath and the later literature gods - gibbard, elvrum, oborst, mirah. The ones who put the words on the page and call them their own.

You know, you know the ones. They make me sick but they fucking surround me. The ones that used to want to be doctors, or singers, or something that has nothing to do with light, and flickers, and art.
What do you do?
I make art.
Oh yeah?
Yeah.
So you’re like everyone else?
Yeah.

My angles got a black thumb, itching and screaming down the doors that kept you out. Feeling the way through the ground. Gum-grind-cigarette-butt ground. This is a franic happening, is it? I’m not sure about love, and I’m not sure about pain. All I know is this feeling of slow fuzzy light. I guess the closest example is when you get static. My life is static. Black and white, salt and pepper. There is no beat. No dancing. Noise, and frustration. I remember the first time I heard her space holiday. I was at a girls house, it was five in the morning and I was fucked up off my ass. Speed does that to a person. Erin linked me to their page, I went, I listened, and I pressed refresh for five more hours. Later, I realized I was only on the intro song. I hadn’t even looked at the media on their page yet.
Image size
900x600px 107.05 KB
Make
Canon
Model
Canon EOS 30D
Shutter Speed
32/10 second
Aperture
F/1.6
Focal Length
50 mm
ISO Speed
800
Date Taken
Nov 15, 2006, 7:52:47 PM
© 2006 - 2024 mslovelyamanda
Comments5
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Missprecioussuicide's avatar
A good read. I agree, with Raphir, that the image and text both coincide with the other. I've always like show shutter-speed light experimentation. You have an interesting perspective.