Pixels.
kitten   November 28, 2007

There's a picture of you I keep in my wallet, though you may never get the chance to witness this fact firsthand. Viewed with the cool objectiveness of a photographer, it isn't even a very good picture: the exposure is all wrong, the color oversaturated, the depth of field mangled. But I keep this snapshot of you not for such impersonal and detached reasons, but because of the visage it portays, the personality of the subject. There's a crafty gleam to your eyes in this, the way they crinkle and look askew, the way your hair falls just to your shoulders, and the twisted curve of your lips. That, more than any other aspect, is the reason this impromptu portrait found a place within these leather confines I am never without -- your hallowed grin speaking of quiet self-conciousness and sardonic reflection. A smile frozen in time.


kitten   November 23, 2007

By the time I'm done writing this, the latest updates should be uploaded and processed and integrated and all the rest. This week's rollout features Mechanical Moth and the oft-underappreciated Lights of Euphoria. If you happen to catch the track Consequence (Face Yourself), see if you think that's Ronan Harris on vocals, cause I sure do. Also, I just discovered Fiction 8, and added some of their songs into the mix as well; I'd never heard of them before but I wish I had.

War.
kitten   November 22, 2007

I was eleven when they came for us, and she was a bit older, though I never knew how much; they rumbled through the streets with mechanical indifference, heavy treads ripping asphalt and shoving aside the burning debris left from their first salvos the day before, their searchlights playing across corners and alleyways as they looked for survivors to be gathered or slaughtered. Like a big sister, she'd been watching me, keeping me safe, teaching me how to keep moving, to hide, to hold on, to survive. We'd been lucky so far, but not this time; their electronic eyes pierced through the gloom and their trackers let out a low digital shriek as they advanced on our hiding place beneath an abandoned Datsun. "Run," she told me, "and keep running," and then rolled out from under the car, standing, letting them swivel their weapons towards her, and I did as I was told -- scrambled out from hiding and ran, kept running, acrid smoke thick in the air and in my throat. I looked back only once, long enough to see their flechettes tear into her; it was difficult to see her clearly, but I am convinced even today that she did not cry. That girl died loving me, and I've never forgotten the lessons she taught about holding on, so it is for her that I shoulder this rifle and prepare to do my part to reclaim this city, to send them all back to Hell.

Wish.
kitten   November 21, 2007

You kissed me last night under a wild open sky with winter's chilled winds whipping all around us, my fingers numb beneath your jacket and yours around my neck, tracing the curve of my chin. Later, curled on a down blanket on the floor, you soaked your soul in merlot and murmered quiet things to me, spinning out the sort of dreamy thoughts I've come to expect from you, amplified. Take a look out that window, if only for a moment, and see that world; it can be yours, I realise. And with a word, it can be ours, too, or, at your desire, we can retreat from it, fashion our own. But all of that can come later, for your still sleeping form beside me expands with the rhythm of your breathing and you're not receptive to my own half-mad lofty thoughts right now. That's okay, though, for you said it all last night, without words, when you kissed me under a wild open sky.

Medication.
kitten   November 16, 2007

It's not as though it's a particularly good champagne by any means, not even to her, but it's also not as though she as anything particularly better to do, which is why she bought it that evening, the cash given to a gray-haired man behind the register with ancient, wrinkled hands, someone who should have, by all rights, been retired years ago. The foil shreds away from the bottle smoothly, the wire unwraps slowly. With some gentle nudging the cork sails into the ceiling and crashes to the floor, the first foam cascading down into the sink. She's had a lot of practice with this. When the rivulets subside, she tips the liquid into a glass -- no need for formalization -- and sits at her desk with the lights off and the window open, raising her effervecent elixir to the silence outside, fingers gripping too tight against the stem. Toasting nothing.

Distance.
kitten   November 15, 2007

The words I offer you sometimes hang in the ether like dust in sunlight because there's no way for me to know how you'll interpret them, what other things may be holding your attention at that moment, the atmosphere you've created for yourself in your room, or even if you're there to receive them at all. I want to breathe in counterpoint with you and let words slip away entirely, because sometimes the things I feel for you are too big for words and can more easily be expressed with fingertips. Still, words are all we've ever had, whether here, cursor blinking like a slow heartbeat, or on the phone, your lilting voice range-compressed and fired into banks of switches before reaching my ears. To tell you the truth, it's a little bit disquieting to know that my words may be dismissed by you without my ever knowing it, your fancy caught by more interesting things; it's also exhilarating realising that your words can stir such evocations in me. Someday, I hope to share more than mere words between us. But I promise you this, that if that day comes, my words will still be there for you, should you ever need them.

North.
kitten   November 14, 2007

Grit and oil had accumulated beneath his fingernails, covered his knuckles, worked its way up his forearms, and he wiped it off half-heartedly with an old towel as the hood slammed back down with a reverberating thud that echoed across the highway. It was not a well-done job, but it would have to do, and he placed an old screwdriver and wrench back into the toolbox in the trunk. This car, he knew, was not long for this world, and that was okay, for his destination held promises of something better. Just one more day was all he needed -- boiling radiator, cranky fanbelts -- and he'd be where he knew he should. After that, he imagined his future sketched out in front of him with the open-ended purity reflected in these miles of asphalt from here to horizon. Just one more day was all he needed.

Nomenclature.
kitten   November 13, 2007

Words run together as thoughts drift apart. This worn cassette player no longer works but I've kept all those mix tapes she'd given me anyway, collecting dust atop a pile of other equally forgotten items from epochs past, things I'd felt were also important at one time and now just memories dulled by time. She may have been the first in a long line of unattainables, unworkables, almost-weres, and might-have-beens, but she wasn't the last. Despite the heartache I felt then, I am, in retrospect, grateful for the lesson she taught me in her leaving. "I'm so sorry," were the last words I remember her saying clearly, my heart lay bare before her. But I think it's okay now, because I understand why people leave, even when they don't mean to. I slot the tape into the player, close the door to my bedroom, and press Play, imagining that I can hear the strains of music she'd recorded for me so long ago.