Little Мю

this livejournal is on hiatus. For an indefinite amount of time.

I just don't have the energy to write anything in an online journal anymore -
it was fun while it lasted, I wish I could keep it up.  I will miss more of you than you know and some of you I will miss all the more because we've lost touch in the wide real world. I wish you all the best.

So long -

m.

PS - as always, I'm reachable at marraskuu.tuuli@gmail.com and my cell. If you need the number, ask and I will send it to you :) 

the apartment is empty. for the first time in weeks, i'm alone, listening to my highway rushing by like the ocean, listening to the careful shadow-steps of things too overwhelmed by all the humanity around to move carelessly, like they did before.

i took out underwood from the Uninhabited Room today. It's surprising what a few months of abandonment do to a living thing like a typewriter. It's rusted in places, stuck, it won't move farther than the first letter, and a spider made a home between the keys. cat hair caught in the spiderwebs. It looks like it's been left out in the rain, not sitting in the corner of a room - but then, when a room has been abandoned as well, shouldn't everything inside it become fragile.

there are bits and pieces inside of me that feel like that, abandoned, too fragile to touch, so I tiptoe around them, past them.

it's only been a couple of months since I left Wood, but then, since i left him, i felt like years passed  - and why shouldn't time affect him just like it has affected me. I'm all he's known, my words, my touch, my fingertips pressed intimately against the ribbon, leaving traces of ink on the world.

i've been drawing strange animals all over the walls. it feels like something this place always wanted, a chance to become wild, to emerge into shapes and colors - shapes and colors dreaming under all that paint.

the world has been so thin lately, i feel like if i think about something alone just a little too long, it will rip and coalesce into something completely different.

 i'm in dire need of music recommendations - no specifics, just something you think fits the current season of snow and long nights. 

  

There’s clarity in winter. At the end of November, when all of fall has slipped away and in the mornings the grass glitters like a thousand stars crumbled over it at night, days shorten. It gets light at seven and dark by four. Everyone seems to be inside, so at night if you are on the street, you are alone – with the whirlwind of snow and the sound of wind running past the walls, looking for a single crack to rush into the house, into your dreams, into your stories. All the shy, frightening stories come out in the winter, ghosts and things that prefer silence. If you stay awake, you can hear them wind-chime past your house at night, and in the morning, there are faint footprints on the snow. 

 vii.

 

the fall was beautiful. waking up in the morning, walking down the balcony steps, on the street the name of which I still don’t know, but it’s between Ash and Hibernia. At the very end of it, where the street meets the wall meets the traintracks, on the wall the graffitti of an arch continues the road into sky-blue country.

 

i suppose, if one was drunk enough, or in that particular state of mind this city seems to offer the lonely, the desperate and the free, one could walk through that door and out, out, while above the freight trains clang with this awful feeling of wanderlust. 

 --there's simply too much to tell. It will come out, eventually, in words and letters and possibly entries, but right now its all tangled up with itself, just like my NaNo novel. Not all of it is good at all, not at all, but I don't want to talk about that, so I will talk about writing.

Yes, I did finish my NaNo novel. I finished it exactly at 50,000 words - no tweaking, no anticipation, i just wrote the last scene, and it was the last word. i was in a 24hour cafe, waiting the night away, waiting for a bus from New York to arrive. just like most things this fall, it came easily because here i have endless time, and yet i have very little time -here-. I make no sense.

That being said, I am going to be submerged in writing even deeper in December. A. and I decided to do a NaNo-like thing between the two of us, since she had exams & couldn't do it in November. I'm also going to be feverishly writing down this fall. Because in all honesty, I am afraid the moment I leave this city, this room, my job, it will all disappear as if it had never existed - it is made of finer, warmer stuff than most of the things in my life, and of thinner stuff too. This fall has been a lifetime all condensed into three months, a lifetime. 

So the 'lost' zine is being put on hold - it hasn't felt right to write it since september, and i know it will. when i get back to the city i became entirely lost to anything and anyone, it will be easy. i don't feel anxious about it, it's waiting for me. In December I'm going to be writing another story that has been waiting for me for awhile, for a long while. we'll see what comes of it. 

I'm planning to squeeze and squeeze myself until the truth runs, all lemony and with pits and such. 

--the city is an enormous lighthouse, searching the skies in the cold October night for all the lost. i forgot my keys  & i stand on our wooden balcony, the trees holding up other people's windows, & watch the apartment from the cut window in the door. It seems like things move through it -- and later at night, the front door opened while we were sitting in the room, someone walked in--and didn't leave.

all night I dreamt of children turned to birds, old frightening houses, red shoes & pianos. children who got lost in their own storytelling & walked straight into a nightmare.

fall mornings are translucent-cold, a single bird screaming outside the window. When I get up, it is still dark, but I leave into a pre-dawn shivering of the city.

we drink & laugh & talk about Judas and things that should be left alone, Родогощь -
we wear dresses in the rain, in the dark, in the park, on the green-green grass candles fizzle out & we read fortunes from the cards she found in cities - they speak only to her, but i can listen in.
in dreams we run & laugh and play games with passerby and the world bleeds into dreams and dreams bleed into the world - everything is inked poems left outside before the rains came down.

there's a leather jacket on the balcony, drops beat against it, we smoke & I ask our roommates irrelevant questions when they drift in to get something from the fridge.

there's a fierce, impossibly wonderful sadness in the air - - secrets spilling onto the floor, clumsy & desperate, like drunk dances in the dark.

sisternights.

...'lost' is getting on my nerves-- i've never written anything that was so difficult and frightening and infuriating. i've been walking around the city, afraid of what it's going to become, afraid that if i write everything like it was, then i'll never be able to escape the fact that it was exactly that way.
i've also stopped making sense, yes.

i apologize for not writing - words have been hiding from me, or rather, pulling me under like a rip-tide, like the surf on Fire Island. I can't discern any of them enough to write, i can't breathe for the most part, without crying. i'm still not used to being back, so for a while, all i have are pictures.

Here are: faerie sun of St. Petersburg.

...the Hudson Highlands are full of ruins of houses that i could've lived in. berries grow all around, dark-red, sour-sweet, untouched by rot or worms. faerie food, don't touch, don't eat. we do, of course. The river below is smoke and mirrors, we have been climbing for two and a half hours and, standing at the top of the world, realize that we don't have a lighter and all the matches are wet. stars circle above, my imagination circles the dark.

..my bike got stolen last night as i sat with O. talking about my multiplicity and the past and a thousand other things i've missed talking about with her. her husband saw a man walk off with the bike, but he didn't know it was mine :) . i hope my bike will be happy wherever it's going and that they won't take it apart for parts. i want to tell them that it's been to Toronto and back and down and up misty northern Jersey roads with my brother and that it was bought for a dream when everything was different. But may be it'll tell it to them anyway and they won't take it apart for parts.

...i'm craving forests and fires, overwhelmed by cities and roads and people. Somewhere in the darker parts of me, stories are coming to life stronger than ever before. I dream of beautiful shapeshifter girls pulled out of drowned planes. We kiss each other on roofs and on attics and swear we'll never part.

... mist and the impossible.

Thank you for all your lovely book suggestions. I am leaving soon, and once again the announcement:
if you wish to receive a postcard/letter from me as I'm traversing through Lithuania and Russia, leave your address in the comments, which are screened. Especially if I don't know you and/or don't have your address. Strangers welcome.

m.

i'd like for you to recommend a book for me to read.

something that is life-changing or beautiful or ridiculously happysad or hilarious or strange.
or
something about the hidden shadows of memory and the world.
or
something that you think i need to read.
or
something that you've been reading all spring, and think it fits.

i'm going on a long journey, i need new friends.

i'm done with college.
i feel strange and weightless and a little bit sick all the time now.
i met Mart yesterday, he's a week and a half old and beautiful. I do have a mother-gene.
I also have a dream-gene - tonight I wandered through some New Jersey backroads and flew in the sky with a little girl. We smoked cigarettes ( I kept telling her it's too early for her to smoke so much, and she kept telling me 'what does it matter if I have no home?') and I ended up almost getting hanged for kidnapping in an abandoned church, which looked like a palace.

now i'm trying to plow through the mess that is my apartment and come to terms with the fact that i will not be going to school in september. or in the forseeable future.

ever since last weekend, my dreams have been brighter and stranger. I don't want to wake up, most of the time, i've lived a few lifetimes today and visited way too many cities. i wake up exhausted.
new orleans and st. louis, a small town named Clementine, and specifically dream-places where i've spent way too long. there was a communal house there, just a hut with some windows, a fire and so many people who were amazing and whom i haven't met. and then i was a witch on the wind, flying north, and then i met a creature from the subterranean caverns of Tahiti and the people(?) who lived there.

my head is full of wind.

strange. i've had times when i needed color. red-yellow, warm, green, bright bright blue, ultramarine dress, orange socks. i've had times whne I needed objects - my objects - surrounding me, clay figures, wooden boxes, leaves, photographs, memories.

when i was deep in the pit, depressed out of my mind, i didn't need color, but i didn't need anything, everything was a uniform hospital-color-walls color, with the same smell of medication and sheets which were washed of death.

never in my life have i needed such an acute absence of color. Contrast, Black and White, nothing in-between. My red hair seems a travesty now, but I'm letting it be just for the sake of keeping something afire. I want to strip my room, my Maind, my stories, of objects, of color, of time, and lie on the floor under the whirling fan in the dark, smoking as the darkest hour of the night settles into my bones. I want to read about death and I don't want to drink or sleep.

This is Marraskuu, the part of me who remembers the Northern Lights through genetic root memory, and somehow i haven't been happy like this for a long time. Fierce, fragmented, hurt, in flight, in fight - it's started, it began, the door opened and the first shadows walked in.

...I've been sitting here for the longest time
Reading all the warning and the danger signs...