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Name: Yolande Luna
Gender: Female
Interests: You. Tell my your:
i. Favorite Book
ii. Favorite Movie
iii. Favorite Person/People
iv. Favorite Song
Expertise: abandoned houses, acoustic music, antiques, apathy, beards, beach winds, burning lungs, bright eyes, books, birds, bicycles, charcoal, cheap wine, conor oberst, cupcakes & vodka, dreams, denim, diet coke, death cab for cutie, electric kool-aid acid tests, empty notebooks, experimentation, escapism, early mornings, expresso, feathers, folk music, forgetting, fields, fireflies, ferry boats, free love, glitter, grapes, gasoline, graveyards, haight/ashbury, indian princesses, islands, idealism, jack kerouac, john lennon, kisses, living toungue in cheek, lost change, love, love letters, music, midnight, moon, modern art, the national, nice words, nineteen sixties, nineteen fifties, nostalgia, obsessions, the oh wells, patchouli incense, penpals, poetry, pockets, polaroids, reading, record players, rolled down windows, rooftops, rain, san francisco, stars, smoke, swing sets, stained glass, sparklehorse, tattoos, terence mckenna, tree houses, tea, tents, vegetable gardens, velvet
Occupation: A Bohemian.
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
Member Since:
11/28/2007
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| Dusty backroom of my patience, where no one ever dares to go
when you love the star-eyed sunrise, which intends up to forgo
beneath the branches, under covers, impending on a faulty little heart.
making magic sound algebraic, simple emotions served a la carte.
Quixotic similes equal not, the impatient pleas of paper birds
central foldings call numeric please of toll free empty words.
Infinite ways of sounding out eternity in rounded vowels,
make nonsensical the lyrical of darkened midnight hours.
when nothing seems worth writing though it's been slaved over for endless hours.
you'll find autumn turns to winter, then soon again it's those spring time showers.
A dearth of sleep but absence of late nights leave owls and other big-eyed birds speculating abstract forms of syntax. Houdini with the black cape and the red nails and the keyboard smooth from repetitive use, becomes rigid when the cape is lifted. where are you going? where are they going? where am I going? all equality legitimate but as difficult to answer as a long answer question when bit by bit the lead in your pencil will go to waste. stars, and hearts and mrs. your-last-name, right? but october falls into november and paper stays paper, but the real truth is that there is emptiness in everything, be it found too early or late. so the adventure's not over if you don't know where you are, when the sunset rises over the right side and the east is east and the west is west and the light still comes in off the earth on an angle. I don't know what to say, but I know how I'll say it.
yolande ♥ | | |
| My laptop has done the computer equivalent of hanging a noose around it's neck so my mini haitus will unfortunately be lasting a slight bit longer then I would enjoy. Sorry. Hopefully I will be able to put something up soon, sadly typing on an ipod isn't exactly my forte. | | |
| I'm a safe bet, a safe bet. so are your eyes... like fireflies, like fire in the early skies of a new october- winter in the fields. when you fell, fell asleep, the song I wrote for you, well, I guess it grew like a diary you might relate to. blowing smoke- I told you I hate liars. and your voice, it illuminates. broken heart, replacement parts... to replace the maps and the charts written on the fog- as highway lines pulled away. we were making plans, making planes. with broken vows and notes on how to get away, to take your bow. oh but presently- you're going to stay between these four walls: vinyl records playing minor chords, secrets hidden in floor boards of sixty love notes- you weren't supposed to read.
yolande ♥ | | |
| "how does one measure reality?"i politely asked as he pulled on his coat. "in duration or in devotion? in elation or in expression?". and the ocean crashed into the sky, as an afternoon rolled quietly by, above the mountains. and blank stares were accepted as a reply, as I sat half still, stealing empty words and filling feelings. "what's your method of reaching euphoria?" and i knew a moment was lost- like every time clock hand moves faster then heart beat. and i make a mental note of what that cost- like every time i forfeit in fear of quick defeat. because what seemed so destined to venture- now seems to want to stay and when you fall asleep, you almost sound human. like the desperate shades of grey, of every word spoken under overcast sky, and every intimate moment gone awry; there is a westbound bus. on an eastbound beach. as a stranger walks, up an empty street, asking questions to the air.
yolande ♥ | | |
| the common drosophila melanogaste, fruit fly, lives for thirty days. they are born, become an adult in a week, mate, die. the common homo sapien thinks he is above this. thinks he can beat the life cycle, that he can beat the wild. he fills his hours with pointless goals and meaningless successes and at the end of the workday asks why life is so short. but does it ever tickle your frontal lobes that perhaps we are still nothing more then a larger fruit fly. or at least a chimpanzee with a longer life span. we must survive (or find a reason to survive) and then reproduce, and as long as we are succeeding at those two things as us florishing beings are doing we might as well enjoy our 77.6 years on earth. never had I seen a chimpanzee sit in an office, never have I see a fruit fly cry. they embrace their lifespan, but we make plans, we break plans and we say that ours is too short.
yolande ♥
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