Kitazawa Yuki's Journal|
[Most Recent Entries]
Below are the 13 most recent journal entries recorded in
Kitazawa Yuki's LiveJournal:
|Saturday, May 5th, 2007|
You don't need to shave your legs when you cut off jagged hunks of flesh. Current Mood: in pain
|Sunday, April 22nd, 2007|
|No change, I can't change.
Life is far worse than death; I should know.
I shouldn't have listened to Seguchi, when did listening to him ever put me in the right? Never.
Fuck that, even. I shouldn't have listened to myself.
Normally a devastating age for people as is - life is a third-over.
Maybe after the thirtieth time I've listened to this song I'll change tracks.
Note: Novel's moving... if I can decipher the bloodstains on the walls, ceilings, and floor.
I want my damn book back. Current Mood: want a drink
|Friday, April 20th, 2007|
|A weakened head.
As I look at the walls smeared in my blood, I ask myself, "What have I done?" Current Mood: drained
|Sunday, April 1st, 2007|
|Isn't it so lovely to have a Penis?
I'm going to join the Sakuma Ryuichi Fan Club.
April Fools to Myself. I hate that guy. Personal reasons that only one would know about.
Hey Tohma, 'sup? Nostalgia and irony wrapped in one, aint it? You know, it's SOOOOOOOO funny that you left a comment in my journal. Because you know what? It's probably not even you but some internet troll or stalker or something. You're pedojay
aren't you? Ahaha. Real good. For awhile you made me want to kill myself even more, ahahahahahah! Oh, Fate, how you fist me without lube!
What's the rule about anti-depressants? Stop when you feel mania? Does it apply for bitter mania? Depressive mania? I should self-castrate and see if I feel anything. Maybe wrap it in a box and mail it to him. They belong to you, I'd say, as does my heart but I didn't know who would mail it to you after cutting it out.
Tempting. Tempting. Tempting. Tempting. Tempting. Tempting.
Bury your bones.
Remember sneaking on the trolleys in the park and feeding bread to the ducks? Mmm, skyscraper, I love you. You were so, so very beautiful. So beautiful.
Aha. Yes. Not anymore. You’re ugly. UGLY! It’s my fault, right? EVERYTHING IS? Huh?!
Oh yes. It is. I made the wrong move. Aha. Bitter irony. Wrong friends, wrong drink, wrong manipulation, wrong thoughts. It was less than two years. Two. Fucking. Years.
I could have made it. I would have made it.
Fuck you, too!
FUCK YOU THREE!
Skydiving without a parachute is so dangerous. Just like free thinkers. Is Socrates in Hell shacking up with Michelangelo? Temper, temper, temper.
Fuck. God. It hurts to swallow. Can’t stand it.
Help me. Deliver me. Just fucking off me. It’s the book, isn’t it?! HUH?! HUH?! That STUPID book! I’ve written with all my blood, what more do you want?! It’s almost finished. I was just about ready then the plot twist came, one I didn’t expect.
Stay in New York. Contact me.
I’ll rot and die.
That’s what you want, isn’t it? Tohma, why didn’t you do it yourself? I would have let you. I would do anything for you. You’re so beautiful. And cynical. Some people wear gloves; others don’t. Why didn’t you? You have your why… was it not enough? I’ve eased the tension in your heart, right? So just put me out of my damn misery. I’m sure I’ll burn in hell.
On the tombstone it said “I hope to hell his soul is gone.”
Did you write that, Eiri-kun? Was that a product of you? It was in English.
Aha. Bitterness. Bitter. God. Fuck.
“The Drugs Don’t Work – They Just Make it Worse” – I forgot who.
I clicked on a link and saw a picture of Britney Spears’ vagina. How nice. Nice being an idiom for disgusting. Aha. It’s not. See? Another funny. APRIL FOOLS SELF!
Rope. That would work. And one of your albums and your book. Blonde country. Blond High Density.
I miss you.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Eiri-kun. I didn't mean to. Accident. And Tohma. God. Tohma, what did I do to you? Jealousy. I should have had the green eyes. Aha,wait, my eyes are greenish, aren't they? You pointed that out along with my bad haircut.
Up. Down. Where are the scissors? I'll be ugly. I'll do that so no one looks at me again. I'll become the box man.
Today is it. I finish.There are electrical sandstorms in your heart; let's fly, let's fly, let's fly, let's fly...Signed,
The Dead Guy Current Mood: I'm Medicated, How Are You?
|Thursday, March 29th, 2007|
Dear God, my head is positively throbbing. Migraine would put it mildly. I had the misfortune of working a double shift today -- I'm in the second half -- but was lucky enough to be given subjects to file rather than deal with customers. Still, researching might be something to calm me.
The headaches I have been receiving start at the temple then work to my forehead.
Writing is a slow process, and even slower considering the absence of my most valuable asset at the time. I’m furious with Seguchi for keeping it, yet I would expect no less of the man. I deserve the worst.
But what’s the bordering line between repenting and masochism? I can’t tell.
In a rage over my last few paragraphs, I had the notion to dice up the inside of my thighs and use the blood to write; this had often worked for me in the past. Even now, the faint scarring still remains on my hands: diligence, devotion, suffer, and excellence.
My prescription ran out, and I’m looking at the face of a terrible hospital bill. I called to inquire about what could be done in terms of financing it and they lowered the visit by seventy-percent. Still, I have to make payments for about four months. Electricity will be cut to a bare minimum; I will use flashlights and candles as much as possible. As well, it’s back to cold showers, or using the kettle to heat water for baths.
For a second I swore I saw Llian in here but when he turned around the ‘he’ was really a ‘she.’ I wonder how he’s doing aside from the investigation I did of his webpage.
In the midst of all this I almost called him but halfway through dialing I hung up. What do you say? “Hey, it’s me, Yuki, and I’m not dead”? “I’m sorry” isn’t ever enough.
I miss him terribly. Current Mood: lonely
|Thursday, March 22nd, 2007|
|I'm a diamond that is tired of all the faces I've acquired
I was moved almost ot the point of losing composure. Funny how he has this much of an effect on me; I suppose he always has. But now, more than ever, I feel utter hopelessness. I have taken to writing whatever comes to mind, at the moment string of consciousness (which I don’t often care for). It’s some sort of start in the right and generalized direction.
… who am I kidding? It’s horrendous. I absolutely abhor anything that comes to paper, computer, mind, mouth, or any other means of protrusion. Simply dreadful, that’s for certain.
My posting in this journal is in quite a disarray. A good portion of me longs for stability however the other section craves its sporadic tendencies. Unpredictable, I suppose. Just like going to the Met to find fucking Seguchi.
I don’t understand how I’m still alive – if the gun didn’t do me in then he
should have. Would have. Too tired to write coherently; certainly tomorrow I’ll cringe at this log.
But really… Seguchi.
How many millions of people live in New York? How many thousands of people go to the Met daily? How many people walk past “The Horse Fair” by Rosa Bonheur (my favourite painting and painter of all times – bless this woman for she would disguise herself as a man in France during the mid-1800s in order to go to the square, ride, and paint)?\
I’m half-inclined to think that I dreamt the entire thing were it not for the missing notebook and hospital bill.
ETA: This is the only copy I could find online that somewhat gave it justice: Current Mood: aggravated
Get the fuck out of my head. Current Mood: angry
|Saturday, March 17th, 2007|
|We don't see the Master's hand; we bang on gold tambourines in the cross-hairs of some transient gun
He’s made me positively ill, that or there truly is
something wrong with me and the penicillin isn’t working.
2007 – seven years after the millennium.
So much time had passed and yet I couldn’t forget that voice – the wrath of the angry angel.
I’m half-inclined to think that I dreamed the entire thing, that it was a hallucination, or that I finally stepped off the deep end – I’m not sure if I would have any preference.
Ah, I lost my train of thought when assisting some people in finding research books. Working at a library does have its perks, and for me it’s certainly ideal. Reading, writing, research – I can do it all though usually I don’t end up writing here.
I digress. Perhaps intentionally.
I absolutely do not want to …
Another train of thought lost. New record?
Perhaps it’s a sign to give up on it
, but that would only be wallowing in self-pity; I still must repent.
ETA: I just had to kick someone out of the library for smuggling in a flask of whiskey. God, that’s depressing.
ETA2: “Are human relationships more precious than life itself? We know of many instances where this seems so. A mother keeps her doors open to her crack- addicted son, even though he has robbed her, beaten her, and threatened her life. Marine pilots fly dangerous rescue missions to retrieve a downed pilot behind enemy lines, even though the likelihood of their deaths or capture may be greater than the likelihood of rescuing the pilot. A diabetic child in a sixth-grade class lapses into a near-lethal coma, because she feels "too different" from her classmates to follow a special diet and to take insulin shots at school, (Griffith, James L. and Melissa Elliot, p 40-41 THE BODY SPEAKS: Therapeutic Dialogues for Mind-Body Problems
This book is fascinating, though some of it troubles me such as:
“WITH SOME MIND-BODY PROBLEMS, speaking the story of one's personal experience is not the needed solution. In these cases, the problem is not so much that a patient's personal expression has been silenced, but that a guiding narrative of the patient's life is intrinsically destructive in the binds it places on his or her body, (112)".
“INSTEAD OF BEING displaced or discarded, a binding self-narrative can be newly composed into a form that is benign. This recomposing, or reauthoring, changes either how the self-narrative is enacted in daily life or the text of the script that is enacted, (134)”.
This post reeks of Attention Defecit Disorder. What the Hell have you done to me? Current Mood: listless
|Friday, March 16th, 2007|
Hold on, this'll only hurt a bit
Found my courage now, I'm finally face to face with it
Rejection broke me down while the dream was growing faint
No choice but to cut you loose, these shoulders couldn't stand the weight
I was scared of almost everything I saw
No second chance would ever come along
You had wandered on empty when the sky became my floor
I gave you everything I had but now you're back for more
Well, you blew in like a storm and then you crept out like a lamb
The tinfoil star had lost its shine so you packed your bags and ran
So close to the ending as it was
Filled my pockets and changed focus to a different cause
The stars you wore for eyes stopped twinkling with time
No choice but to see you free, this fruit was dying on the vine
I was scared of almost everything I saw
Blind to the elegance I knew was wrong
No second chance would ever come along
Oh, a twist of fate
Has made you run away
From the tinfoil star
Jet Set Satellite forgot to write a sequel: "The Lamb Returns."
This was a plot change I hadn't anticipated. Current Mood: sick
|Wednesday, March 14th, 2007|
It's 10:50 AM and, once more, clouds threaten what normally would be a rare, and beautifully clear, sky.
Today is a day to buy a pretzel from one of the street vendors and go to the Met.
I feel it.
Something is different in the air, I know it. Please let it be the fit of brilliance I believe I'm sorely lacking. That or an entertaining street performer.
Kicked from the library; thirty minutes up. Will finish this log later. Current Mood: artistic
|Monday, March 12th, 2007|
|You Spy Alone
This cough will not
go away. It’s become so routine in the past few years that I only notice it after a short, blissful period of absence, or if the librarian happens to ask me to cover my mouth or leave. With drawl is commonplace; guilt eats me; solace is in the work of others.
I bask myself in eternal tragedy and lament; forfeiting the pleasures of book dust would be unnecessary masochism.
Writing seems to come easier; perhaps due to motivation. It is not every day that someone rises from the dead, so to speak. The memoirs will, undoubtedly, be called “Resurrection.”
Today is remarkably warm though the clouds forlorn rain; I’ll extend my daily walk, perhaps bring the notebook with me. If I’m in that
good a mood, I might bring my camera though I’m unsure if I want to risk water damage should the heavens break loose.
Perhaps I'll visit an old friend. Current Mood: thoughtful
|Sunday, March 11th, 2007|
|Bíum Bíum Bambaló
Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades, centuries, milleniums...
What's the point in tracking time other than to show the disappointing passing of time? Horrid, really.
Needless to say, I'm not in the best of moods. Google really does have some interesting information. Current Mood: cold
|Monday, March 5th, 2007|
I won't stop following you.
Now help me pray
for the death of everything new.
Then we'll fly farther
'cause you're my girl
and that's alright.
If you sting me,
I won't mind.
We'll stop to rest on the
moon and we'll make a fire.
I'll steal a carcass for you
then feed off the virus
'cause you're my girl
and that's alright.
If you sting me
I won't mind.
Now look at 'em,
look at 'em now,
look at 'em sting.
I see a red light in June,
and I hear crying.
You turn newborn baby blue,
now we're all the virus.
I wish I could say that this is the re-birth of my interest with this band, but, alas, once again this isn’t the case. The only difference between my present state of now and then sense of perception lies solely in the fact that I have first hand experienced many of these things rather than observed.
My morbid fascination with death holds itself in limbo. For one, I value life far more than I had. We are not invincible; each moment is sacred. But with each value, every resounding reason, there comes the argument, and with it the experiment.
Why am I even alive?
How was it that I escaped death when the trigger was aimed and fired mere feet away?
For a moment in drunken stupor, the 8 Ball’s damage done, I saw salvation. A sweet end.
What did I hope to achieve by hurting the child? The eternally beautiful child, ah, perversion keeps him in my thoughts and dreams though this time of another matter.
He was spoiled by the hands of another. Two others. Two I knew from the backstreets, narrow alleys.
They always did bring me the best fix; I sorely hope that video was burned into the eternal flame of their damnation. A miracle that it didn’t kill me.
Why do these things keep happening?
I start to wonder, with a morbid horror, if I am truly one of those individuals who can only be described by the word ‘immortalis
Damn that overrated, pompous hag, Anne Rice. Eloquent words she lacks; thousands of words dedicated to pointless drivel and filler. If it weren’t for her characterization, I would say that the common reader has sorely declined.
And yet I bring her up because her description of life and death is the closest and most appropriate thing I can possibly conceive or think of to describe my current state.
I’m far too wordy and verbose.
Here’s to entry one – the beginning of my journal and prerequisite to my eventual death.
When the story is complete, so will the last chapter of my life. Adieu. Current Mood: contemplative