Ruby Sparks

[hypocrite222]

Hi. I'm Ruby, I'm 18... and this is my diary

I love film, literature, music, and daydreaming

I write plays, screenplays, and fiction, but I'll probably only post poems here

I love big star, nina simone, the doors, wilco, luna/galaxie 500, belle & sebastian, nancy sinatra, a$ap, françoise hardy, elliott smith, death cab, ride, slowdive, cocteau twins, siouxsie, hum, king crimson, pulp, did I say the doors? the doors, and on and on and on...

Some of my favorite directors/filmakers are Lynch, Haneke, Bresson, Bergman of course, Gregg Araki, Kaufman, Seidelman, Tarkovsky, and PT Anderson

Books that have shaped me: kafka on the shore, bonjour tristesse, antkind, submarine, the pigman, the secret diary of laura palmer, white night, even cowgirls get the blues, anna karenina, ariel, valley of the dolls, the virgin suicides, sculpting in time, le deuxieme sexe…

Some of my favorite philosophers are Hume, Betty Friedan, Weil, Sartre, and Camus

Godspeed...

[hypocrite222]

I'm being sent away. Not going to have my phone for a while

Bye guys

[hypocrite222]

I desire violently-- and I wait.

[hypocrite222]

[hypocrite222]

Thank you Nicole Dollanger and Lalleshwari for turning my every thought into such hauntingly beautiful music

[hypocrite222]

Ask me anything, I’m bored and I’ve suddenly decided I like talking about myself

[hypocrite222]

I've grown to accept that I'm an addict. When it's not dr*gs, it's some other form of self-destruction. St*rving's another kind of high, bleeding too. Even seeing the popped blood-vessels under my eyes is its own dizzying bliss. But presuming some new identity is unlike anything you'll ever take. You get good at forgetting. I know better, yet I put myself in dangerous situations for affection or a false freedom; I find it in the strangest places. I deny, deny, deny that I just can't stand it-- being me.

- Ruby

[hypocrite222]

This is about me I will never write of love

The constant rejection of a fleeting heart is truly necessary isn’t it? 

A fleet of fleeting moments disagree they proved to me 

that I was there and absolutely not an idiot. I will be your crowbar 

and pry open your softness until the day I die 

I know it was there once. I will put down my things 

and shut the blinds I am not ready to go 

and I won’t be until I know. If you need air I will give mine 

until your chest cracks and collapses. Mine will stay the same it’s been empty 

for years. I’m better off hoping and I swear I might 

just be scratching at the surface but the ice is under my nails 

so I know I’m getting somewhere. I will breathe eventually. 

You will take your boot off my tongue and I will break 

into the great sky with a force of gentleness you have never known. 

I’m better off hoping but it is never too late

[hypocrite222]

What is it, hidden beneath in that place of hollow earth, some hideous angel of technocratic death? A great green lovely shell of rock, and wire, and falling of god? Alternative cities, silent, empty, waiting for the day-- they yell into the black: Oh, it must be something to protect us! Something to hark the call of judgment day! And pass no warning through its telephones?

There is somebody in them-- unnatural. Wholly unnatural in themselves-- and unaware. Once again Night has made his mark, poured unto us, here. Here we are, once again, secondary to skin and fragmentary. We raise our eyes, frightful, god-fearing in the truest sense, and once again we are infant-- clinging closely to a stranger's breast, closer to birth, closer to death. Once again we crave that saccharine taste of first breath, Once again, we fear what we have waited for, and want only to regret. To un-bottle the primal genie of the earth, and to thereby de-pervert her, day, that is, or perhaps Light, that vulnerable spark in man a buried constant, a hope for some great son of Light herself to come forth, Alive in that way we tend not to be, and set Light free And that darkness of day might, in turn, bury itself into a new hell, One we will never know, as it will never again reach us.

--Ruby

[hypocrite222]

They do little to fulfill,

all these fleeting things

I see tragedy as a worldly pleasure, suffering too

I don't know how to cut myself off from it

I can only gulp at the dust in the air

Sift it through serrated teeth and hope

that the debris is all that's getting through.

This is not enough--

accepting only the dirt that is delivered to me.

Still I scavenge for certain connection, and hurt

But that, too, perhaps most of all, is transient

After such a dull time here I've grown impatient

I can't trust that I will grow out of this

-- Ruby

[teddypng]

Elliott Smith covering Thirteen in Lucky Three (1997) dir. Jem Cohen

[hypocrite222]

I remember, four– 

my first pediatrician. She

called me tiger, fervent.

Told Ma I had trouble with needles.

I had trouble, really, with the plastic hinges of her shoes

And the way she sucked every third breath

in through her teeth, like it was a chore.

Like that was the normal way,

like the gaping hole in her face was a wound,

and the teeth her stitches,

What was trying to get through them, I am not sure.

She could not have known either.

She gave me a cream-soda lollipop and did not tell

my parents how she had her interns hold me down.

Now I have trouble with lots of things.

I think that sometimes a table of contents would be helpful in my days.

I dislike the taste of thread.

I appreciate the smell of twine, but I hate to imagine it near me.

I think I should try harder drugs someday, and maybe sex.

I do think I should have a week or two of delinquency, so that I

have worse moments to compare my bad moments to.

I want to more directly neglect the role I have assigned myself.

I want to shout! No! I want to shake my head and run, 

poking fun and throwing pebbles at disciplinaries.

I don’t want to hide behind trees, I don’t want to be afraid!

I will climb them and shake down the bee-hives!

I will climb, mister, I will run your train off into the weeds!

I will suck up the ocean, and spit it out!

And you will thank me, I bet, for returning it.

And I'll remember how good it feels to say sorry, and to tell myself:

Tant pis.

Ma will buy me a new toothbrush,

so I don’t get sick again, and I’ll never have a dirty mouth, or any traces of one.

The medical interns will compliment my clean ears, but they don’t know.

Maybe I’m the only one here that knows anything of substance.

I think I kind of really suck at this whole damn thing.

Mostly, I think I'll sit in the tub tonight and forget my name for a bit.

--Ruby

[hypocrite222]

[hypocrite222]

I hate this human stuff. I don't want to have a kidney or a party or a degree. Or a smoke or a disease or a mother. Or a clock or a number that I know how to read. I hate it all. I feel so wrong. This is so not what I'm supposed to be.

[hypocrite222]

I don't even think it's about getting pretty I just want to be someone else and I don't know find some other 'me' living closer to my skeleton. I don't hate my body I just hate that it's not mine. I don't see myself and I'm sure whoever that girl in the mirror is is nice but I was put in the wrong fucking body and what the hell happened to mine??????? Gettttt meeee outttt offff herrreeeeeeeeee

[hypocrite222]

I just want to be beautiful. It's all I think about

[hypocrite222]

Why can't there just be some obvious perfect morality so that I can have it? How is that at all fair that there are so many lines and not one un-blurred one?