sorry bunny

sorry bunny

Sunday, January 29, 2012

and big eye'd drew 'er chin up, face towards the stars. dark genesis squisht tween little lit-uppers. and big eye'd, a looker-upper list all the things 'e saw. 'e saw a blind child sitting, spread into nodes, knotted through the sky blanket.

as we stare up into the sky i think we might be looking through a covering sky darkness made of space fabric continually weaving and unraveling.  and holes from this blind child's nobby parts sticking into the spaces inbetween the weaving, created through the poking. and light comes out,      and shines on us. as we stare into the sky, we see the light reflecting on everything reflect back up through the holes and what we see is the light bouncing back and bounce back and bounce back light, over and over. as we stare up into the sky we stare back down at ourselves, staring back up at the sky, and the light moves. and this moving.. and mixed with there and here, creates what we see. i think i think.

dark genesis eyeballs stick out 'er big eyes at a passing vehicle, sighing, but actually stops. gets out. fades to black.
fades to white. fades to black with some spots. fades to white with some spots moving.

light genesis creeps in. the small blind child grows. the blanket eventually grafts to 'er skin. and we are part of the sky. and we become the blind. and small-eye'd, but with many big-eyes now a'part of us. and this apart of us and this uh apart of us, so we may feel apart.

but i think i think lines are just arrows and bridges. membranes of transport. sight upon sight. reverberating space. residual grease.

then what is disconnection? poking your eyes out for completing the oroboros? when sight is now a lost part of the equation.... we are  nothing and empty  ? as i empty
i place myself to death
on the ground i kneel to kiss my forehead
and rise to walk the earth like death

to walk the world blind, having put aside your eyes, and some still with theirs,

to shock stare like big-eye'd into the stars. to draw sight in and out as breath.

and see what comes. and feel what comes.

these hands learn then to be feet.

when my hands work like feet i will feel real.
i left it all numb'
                       machines made to prod don't know anything

              i asked for too much

    handed                 a-n   out          rage-charge
          now hardning so hard in blessed golden red rainbow sunshine

     still and flat like a picture
                               too manny marks to remember

and fade to white. but bled blue clean... no more. gross miscalculation and explosions foam
i suppose
i suppose
a ring does travel ... to here.

no babe. babe? babble. shadow.

a little looser.

i fall frozen . fuxin.

slippery fabric and forgetting how to love.

Monday, January 23, 2012

somehwere inside it does not matter who you are
 and there is only me, as the black water, and only me is the poetic wander
and not her, because she's everything I am and more.
her and not her. only in me there could be black under lightening and tired trying for still waters i want want want that calm
maybe if people made it seem like
no one was special.......

performance on dec. 10th or so 2011

Sunday, January 22, 2012

am i not supposed to feel?
am i not supposed to feel?
am i not supposed to feel?
am i not supposed to feel?
am i not supposed to feel?
cause i don't.

but i did.
and i sort of remember it.

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

the immovable projectile vomit
the round soft chemical sore in the stomach
acid circles and spills over it
soft chemicals greased by stomach juices melt over different spots on the inner lining
the inner lining crumbles in disgust
shivers trembles heaves and gives way
a rumble heard of an explosion
bursting flames of liquid from a mixture of meals undigested
blended by a series of chemical reactions
molecules, leftover by-product formed
taste sour
taste like dust
chem trails
bitter powder
yellow pale and degraded in its image
old and rotten too soon before eaten
stomach gasps and from the sore spot
close up remains
to sit still
as their putrid look continues
to sit
until sick
until claim can be made to say
"i've thrown up the entire contents of my stomach can i go home now pleas?"
but if you can search for sour with texture
with a touch-to-touch rub up against look
sensing the presecence or absence of foul
determined to
throw up the enitre contents of your stomach
of your past
of your empty sac
still until the sores remove all iriitants
by rubbing
the two corners of opposites siding slants of inside lining
lining made to feel foul play
lenthening and grasping for air
in an effort to
expell the foreign object

and is dis-com.fort for reign?
object projectile

is it laced with acid?
lined, in fact

the surface level, beckoning?
"come hither and i will destroy"
little tiny green and neon yellow people scream
"feed me!"
waiting to destroy
but not big enough to digest poison
who's poison will you be swallowing and with so many things to put in your mouth...
how can i remember who's who
or when
or from where
which object?
__________ projectile.
the air or the sea of the loom
the sac filled like a bag on a bag
inside each russian doll organs
another reason to ward against what object
you may or may not know
was ingested
by a mouth and a brain
one or both too open to explain
both shut off to anything but
that touch-to-touch sensor of
a perhaps mistaken identity
the one in which your gut and its neurons
try to tell you how it feels to perceive your self
and in their mutterings

and in their mutterrings

you lose all memory of being nothing
or ever having to feel sore at all

but the memory stays
of the stomach dispelling objects prohibited entry
ojects prohibited disguised
objects lost in birth
and objects mistaken for identity reign
like the who am i who am i who am i one in the two corners flapping against eahcother creating sore spots
trying to find their orientation in space time
anyway they can   fucking like children
where fucking is a metaphor for using a sense of touch to find
the inner lining couch history
of what you were in a history
but not in this vessel of experience
casually absent of any misleading energy
that could be real
and i could be real
and i could be real and i could be real
but the reall forgotten image is the one yellowed by negligence
and strung out on chemicals
left out too long in the kitchen
causing extreme abdominal discomfort
that you may not really be a part of
when how could you be anything more than the vessel, its walls only holding but not becoming anything at all
just point to the rubbing of two sides of innerlining and say
who am i where am i how did i get here

no response at all.

the divine line is me
i carry no space
hold marks of material undivided
i am a divide line
marking terror-story
divide light
one story true one story bad
divide in-fuse-ion
of what was never there at all
but the never-quite existing yet memory of what could have been already fashioned in texture marks of skin

that might just might just decide to throw its insides to the wall.
turning inside out
it projects you on the sides
and the removeable removes the  immovable
now moved and explelled can draw no reality
its lines now outside of formalities
its reality in the feel
of the walls inner lining sides
rubbing up against each other enough to
how it feels to be dividing
and this recognition of an un-recognized extremity of being real is realized only as dream
when it awakens to the sense of existence
but through textures touches
of holding and carrying
but not being able to be carried itself
itself the imaginary space inbetween the lines outside and the lines from within
forming space at the points of lines met
divided in part to explain its existence
touching to remain divided while reminding your bodily vessel of its lack of existence
and therefore superimposing its image, the inverse of reality, on its stomach lining
like a movie one can only watch by touching
you lay yours hands over every part of the screen and eventually your hands will see
of the work we've been making
which is
lost in the corners of time space as unreal
as the divinity of lines
and the spaces inbetween its selves
as the line is a body
who has a body
and is never really there at all
as imaginary as air
and its surroundings dependent on its existence
yet never needing to re-appear
as if what never was, remember? can exist as a pocketed image
as the pocketed image, yellowrotting chemicals, powders itself
on the walls of your inside lines
on the wall of your outside lines
and the spaces inbetween
that feel.

to vomit

(as so tenderly fleshed upheaved in removal)

Saturday, January 14, 2012

portions for forces

explodes and neeeds no real-time activity to prove itself

needs no skin to skin touch
but in proportion to one over the inverse square of the distance

to death

increasingly, and acceleratingly so, wishes there could be physical validation
in portions, for forces,
for foxes, for stolen things wish'd to be made real

make me real!
cause im not changing
make me feel real!
so im not a blame'ed thing
with a feel?
cause it's the closest thing
to being normal
secret: normal is an imaginary non-imaginary concept of standards that no one fits into, But
Everyone's Gonna be there.
naked is the most real thing to me

as i write this to you, oh avatar, i relenquish my own-split spirit
only avatar hears
only avatar smells my body
only avatar and the real as imagined normalcy to them who portends to be outside & other
a.k.a. my   two eyes
(ogling) *shudderrs*


good'bye! *blinksquints*

Thursday, January 12, 2012

haven for tulips

“I will literally pee my pants.”

“Mistress. If I rent out the hall.
Speckled. Fingered.”


She can’t tell and can’t smell.
A man has no race. A man has no religion.
I destroy woman. Only man. And all men. And Amen.

Especially I feel my species.

Species is a man who no one else must have sex with. Yet.
Undisclosed yet to be discovered body parts. Under long skirts. Warm
Flannel Logger Fashion Culture Wagon.
Off-the On-the wagon culture future measure.           

No sex for boys who think too much. No sex for psychosis machine. No sex for Christian children. Sex play gone. only shame corporation. By the time 8eight to 16sixteen before you’re gone out the door, and Inner Child tugs the long skirt. Reaches their hands underneath, burial growth. Dead man’s legs, not really there,
or there at all. Portions for forces, eh, no Idea why. Special Corporate.
Special corpse swing. Child loves swinging up high in the air. Reaches their hands from underneath tree tops to cloud tops like muffins. Open your eyes at the apex of that temporary

Broke chard

Sparkling in mirror land. One arm to the
Grain to the
Small tractor like toy car
John     wagner
Like flesh happy skin dancing mildly observing their own.

Hands as the reach maker speech poach master.

Holla the hipster. The holla.

Reach marker. Page.
Crouch down curb player. No loom around.
Hands swift write flick, black and forth, stand away. Walk away, long skirt .

Who reaches under?

Thou who has
Thous who has
Thou who has-- filled.
Thou who has caught, rim.
Thou who is
Thou who ill.
Defile him   self.
In string particles.     For forces.
Long hair and smooth   ____     hair.
A music-make fills my vocal.
Cha chacha   cha chacha   cha chacha        cha cha      cha.  Cha’cha.

No longer open mouth. No longer spread it all out. Yes now hold heart close. Okay to be protective. Algize and perthro.

To be
Sacred breath

But opened

Haven for tulips
Haven for tulips
Haven for tulips
Haven for tulips
Haven for tulips

Haven for tulips
Say it strong enough. go out in a cloud [to]

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

little boys are little girls, in little boy clothes, when they grow up, they wear dresses, and lose their past life
little girls are little boys in dresses and make-up, little girls grow into young men, and allow themselves to put on clothes that flatten their chests.

logger boots, in portions, for forces

Friday, January 6, 2012

little match person

when you name yourself a metaphor do you really distance yourself from the meaning?
or don't metaphors enlarge the light being focused through the lens? (the lens being your perception)
magnify & metaphor
meta-flower and magnet-fly
metal floor & manga flower

(thoughts flutter in and out one ear)
i can't make anymore sense than i already am sirs

Tuesday, January 3, 2012

i keep feeling like this blog should have a warning..


i'm not trying to be good anymore. it's alright to be bAD.whatever bad is.

I'm okay with this sort of recklessness, contained inside a computer, from a keyboard, onto this electronic page.. whatever.

anyone could be crazy really. (i just watched One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, i have read it long ago, that's what led me to The Electric Koolaid Acid Test). But, I'm just saying. I think most of the time I'm afraid to speak, because what i want to say comes out all crazy. I don't really want to be around people that would think I'm crazy.
I've been getting angry lately. It's sort of the emotion I resort to when I'm feeling left out. It's easy for me to feel left out. It's easy for me to think about what people haven't done to interact with me. I often ignore the positive things people have done for me, towards me, and yearn and long for the people who, frankly, aren't really that into me. Or, I will grab on to a conclusion real fast, and put you into he category of an asshole. A certain number of conclusive failures on your part, right before I fall in love with you, and we will never speak again.I feel ashamed a bit guilty to feel love for people that don't even want to be seen with me in public, or are kinda flakes. But, my understanding of people helps me to realize that I just can't really tell who is an asshole. Lots of stuff is flying in the air and drowning our eyes out. Mine too. I wish so badly I can release this anger and resentment towards others who aren't "enough" to me. I don't like the dualism of, you're eitehr an asshole or my favorite person in the world.

I could easily be out into an institution if I wasn't so godamned intelligent. People like me who can talk "intelligently" don't get put away, or arrested when they're tripping balls, for example. I'm safe Mom. I can always snap out of it. Like Emma said.

Today i was reading a Qi Gong magazine, an article about the centers where trauma is processed.
( )
..I don't know where I was going with that. My head kinda hurts, I've been trying to really relax my jaw muscles, nwo I have pain, and a headache, which I rarely have... OH! I remember. Well.. I guess I am processing trauma in my liver, because I have anger, jealousy... and in the article they talked about seeking/yearning compulsively for love being also associated with this organ.

What is it Nur? Do you even love these people? Why do you have to share your body so easily? Just cause of a little red aura? a little blue? Some fancy prince? My heart leaps out. I fear I'll be alone, my mind shoots straight into the future, Okay I'lll have the baby on my own. There is No baby. Time has ended. It's 2012. TO THOU AND TO SELF... remember?

But sometimes I do remember. Sometimes I remember all the people in the world who care about me, so much i can seee it. I love all my friends, and even though my family is sorta effed up, they love me so loyally righteous.
At this moment. I thank you.
But please help me. Give me the strength to stop seducing hot boys. God, Please. They'll just stop talking to me immediately after and I'll realize they don't really care, and even if they do care, I will scare them away. So, please. Give me the strength to be so much more pure, and patient. My body is not just an animal. No animal's is. If I know that, surely I can... keep it more connected? At least know I can talk with them beforehand? Please God, give me the strength to resist the temptation to use my body to feel good and to share my love. Because I have so much love to share, and I'm way too vulnerable to give it out freely, without mutual respect. And because I can't tell who's an asshole, I'll run away and make them one.

I gotta go. Dude.

Monday, January 2, 2012

thoughts and explorartions 2nd day of 2012

Center for the Study of Mind in Nature

What the cosmos is Eurythmy and why haven't I ever met her until now?
Eurythmy – Harmonious or beautiful movement (Greek)

Life is very weird. For some reason going to Burning Man this past summer made me feel a look into the future, in other words, made me start thinking about how I could direct my life now in a direction. That direction is intentionally becoming full of many plans/opportunities and full of many holes to be filled with unknown activities, to be given room to breathe like crochet. 
Here is a run-down on what kind of skills I wish to develop (for support and stability), and what kind of activities I imagine would encourage my spirit to rise up in me (and out of me) like the most bangin' fire I have ever seen. FIRE!
In a few words, the origin of my re-birth (this is the beginning of the 26th calender year of my life) will start at the mouth.
The food goes in, and reminds us of our terrestrial origins.

The digestive fires burn and flames are shot out, a song & a breath.
The cycle is perfect. We are all perfect.
A warrior spirit grows in me. I have much work to do. Much love to be made to the Earth.
To give myself to the ground, is my first baby step. As I grow food, so too will my body grow in me, more than a mere hologram of my being. Full of nutrients. Metal & Fire, Earth & Air, over water.
------------Pathway to Guatemala------------------------
zero: Nur needs to get a job. Nur would like to begin to train to become a massage therapist. Using your hands is an antidote to anxiety/depression. Serving others, in complete relinquishment of your self, will also provide a good basis for the life of service Nur wishes to follow. I think massage is something very acceptable by most any culture, and that with this skill I could make money in an already socially acceptable structure-less manner. So, a silly job could pay for my living & the beginning costs of a massage program that will in the end leave me with a skill that could make enough money, so yes, I can eventually break out of this traumatic economical/political system. 
Winter 2012 / College &  part time job.
Spring 2012 / opts. 1) College &  part time job (graduation?) or 2) full-time job & massage school / get passport($60-$140)/ solidify farm work-trade position
Summer 2012 / work/massage school / saving up for trip (=>$
Fall 2012 / Guatemala
----------------Mountain Water----------------------
fix teeth / continue self-learning alternative methods to jaw surgery
learn to learn: medicinal/magical plants, energy healing, massage, spanish language, poetics, sculpture, performance, getting really healthy!, permaculture
I'm not really sure when I'll leave Guatemala, I sort of assume I'll somehow spend around 6 months there. It may be longer, who knows, a few years? But I'll probably return to Olympia, WA and continue studying massage and working a minimum wage job. I may continue going to The Evergreen State College, even if I have graduated by this time. I have much more to study about making music, art in general, but especially metalworking & performative poetics

Well, now the time for this writing to be a focalizer. Remember Nur, you can't pay your phone bill & you have no money for utilities, you're banking on the fact that you prolly won't have to pay another month still. Without financial aid, you're financially stranded. So you're job is to get a job. And your job is to turn your excess of clothing into money. The reality is you are not an anarchist, not yet, and you are stuck in the system. And as we learned last year people can't squat or travel, even if they give up their personal goals to do so, with two cats (w/out surrendering their freedom to explore..). But you're good at getting a job. And you're good at making your room be a comfortable place to live. And you already paid January rent. You have one month to get money. You have one month to use your skills to make beautiful things. You have one month to organize a plan, so that you are not repetitively homeless every time your plans fall through. Suck it up. At least you're not married anymore, and at least you don't have a baby. You'll find a job that won't make your crazy. And you'll be responsible. Life is stretching herhimwe's hands out waiting for you to make the best of what was honestly a far too cushy place for you to have been in. And even if it goes away. You're prepared to not let your life fall into pieces. I love you and you're beautiful.

in a few words
wondering who Nur is?
Nur is
noise music
performance art
strong wind warrior
the sound of our feet beating into the residual terrestrial prints of being

Just so this is documented, "If any one of your friends kills you I will cut out and eat their livers, go to jail and spend the rest of my life there." -my mother

Sunday, January 1, 2012

i love french movies

Watching: The Names of Love /

Le nom des gens   ... 

"You didn't Love them. You just weren't scared of them."

- like Arthur, I too usually end up with the persons I am not afraid of. While the ones that I really feel something for, leave me. Because That whole, throat closing up, nervous chit-chat, or avoid-all eye contact! Thing. It really does suck to get all nervous around people I feel I instinctively connect with. And with Society these days, people aren't used to Me NOT being someone that has created a habit of pretending they're okay, not nervous, not attracted, just Chill. So they think I'm lame & annoying. And I have created a habit of "acting" lame & annoying. Talk about nothing, say something weird, but say it quick so no one thinks you're serious. Of course, this may be what in reality, constitutes as lame & annoying anyway... 


"Come to My place I don't want to be alone."

- it seems I am a composite of the 2 main characters

- I feel like I must've been sexually abused as a child, my tendencies otherwise just don't make sense.   I mean I always wondered if it was true when I told my pre-school teacher I had been touched...

all guys are dicks. all girls are ego-centric. all fathers are assholes. all mothers are suffocating. i can only trust those without a gender... but most of all: all guys are assholes & can never be trusted. (i will hurt myself trying to believe otherwise) 

- it sort of quells my desire to fall in love when i watch a movie about 2 people falling in love. you'd think already falling in love would have done it, but i guess we are all really poly-amorous, especially if you don't believe in time.

"i'm bored without your aSS" -I AGREE.


"We're half-breeds. We don't know who we are or where we are from"  yes, we are, aren't we? see, Arthur is  a secret french of jewish descent, and Baya is a half-algerian non-muslim. and me, I'm a half-palestinian barely-defined-hispanic terrestrial

just realized how funny, "half-palestinian" sounds, it's like which half? oh, the half the UN gave to us? or the half we stubbornly sent back? (see a real palestinian would never say that.) 


[we can try to find out about our past, our parent's parents, why we were handed whatever we were handed... but maybe it is all a dream, like the ones we have every night, all the same. is it more seeking, to be seeking something real historical?

it isn't seeking i search for, i search to be uncovered. i search for my future. i hate hiding. i'd rather take my underwear off in public than be forced by social norms to stop talking about all my embarrassing things.

a more wrinkled jacket.


carrying a dead bird

we can't seek the past of our parent's

whatever they never told us

what they hid

we know

and what we can do when they die-

is to never hide ourselves, and never lie


to be hit with the long pipe

standing upright just as you chase after the dream of your LEGITIMATE history

fear for the old, getting crushed by subway doors

chicken concentration camps

for half a new year's i was vegan

and for the other half, I had no identity


if you could truly forgive & forget all the bad things, don't you think your children would notice?

and if you were silent? don't you realize they'd feel ashamed. but not know. quite why.

with your shirt half open

and my heart sewn shut


in the end... they said, "screw his roots". but I say.. I'm just confused, and I grew from somewhere, and those places have names.  but what i feel rooted to, in terms of origins, is something that cannot be covered by names. and i feel it, see it, breathe it in. whatever you call it. you know the smell...