Perhaps an overdone idea.

Dearest Juliet

That’s what we’d agreed to, right Juliet ? Or was it Julius? I do miss calling you by your first name. Given the circumstances, I suppose it’s understandable. Either way, I’m sorry it’s taken so long to send this. I’m sorry I missed our train, and I’m sorry it took me this long to discover your current location. And I’m very sorry that by the time this letter reaches that sweaty, dry, dusty temporary home of yours you’ll be gone. Could you even call it a home? Do you even have a home? Has the entire empty little world become your home? If you were here, I know what you’d say. I know you’d smile that half smile, your cat eyes narrowing and your lithe body curling into my arms. “This is my home,” you’d sigh. And it is. It always has been. It always will be.

Do forgive me. I know how you hate such sentimental talk. I suppose I’ll get straight to the point, then. Things have gone a little awry in your absence. We can’t seem to keep organized without you to guide us. The other day, I found Jeremiah in the study with an old looking glass, reading the pages of a book reflected in it. Evidently, he took a few of your old notes rather literally. I wish you had been here to see it. The kitchen is an absolute wreck. Most of what is cooked is burnt or undercooked or something in between that still just isn’t quite right. These blackened pots are missing you about as much as we are.

But I do have good news, my dear. The date has been set for the nineteenth of Octorbre. Recognize that date? Yes, our anniversary. Well, it was just unofficial at that point, but still.. it is the earliest day of our togetherness and as such I hold it quite close to my heart. Or, more specifically, I hold it in my breast pocket behind the pocket square. You know what I am talking about. Damn these codes. Of all the people for me to love, did it have to be you? Stealing my heart had to have been the easiest thing you’d stolen over these years. Which reminds me, please send the packages to the warehouse from now on. This home is getting rather cluttered and I daresay Jeremiah and Francois had nearly broken most of the more fragile (and exquisitely rare) pieces. I would hate to have you think it was all for nothing when you get back and your collection is in ruins.

I will cut this short now. These damned guests of yours have been in and out all day, bustling with news of this and that and cluttering up the place. If we weren’t already under watch, we certainly would be now with the suspicious crew you’ve gathered for us. It really makes me wonder, the sort you associate with. Wonder and fear. You wretched thing, you had better return in one piece.

Come home soon. You know where it is.

Romeo

The letter was clenched in my hands and a quick examination revealed the digits were, indeed, stained with the black ink from the pen I’d shakily used to address the letter. It was only a short note. Well, compared to the others. An excuse to get away, pushing past men with gold monocles and women in their furs. I half-nodded to the constable, watched him give me a once over before returning to his post outside of his car. Outside of my home. Damn. Damn damn damn. I could only hope Jeremiah and Francois had the whole thing under control. One slip, a glance backwards showed the constable with his binoculars, and it was all for naught. But, oh, we were trying. We were most definitely trying.

My shoes slap against the rough stone streets. It’s different out here. Here, the people aren’t decked in ‘missing’ jewels or clothed in the skin and fur of animals both endangered and undiscovered.. or generally thought of as ‘untouchable’. In the Emporium, we cater to one and all. Anything your heart could desire. It’s there, on our shelves in our little shoppe disguised as a home. A large home, antique and falling apart, but a home nonetheless. There aren’t many who live there, just myself and my love and our two shoppe boys. It’s easier to keep the secrets that way. If the Emporium were to be breached, it is not just we who would fall. Francois keeps a very accurate guide to all of the items and to whom they disappear to.

I stop to adjust my top hat in the restaurants window, ignoring the looks from the patrons as I slide it into a more proper place, pushing my glasses up higher onto my nose. I always look so frantic when you are gone. I think that, more than anything, tips them off to our going-ons. Or, maybe, just to the fact we have goings-on at all. They would never, not in a million years expect that Alfred Bodley, the fifth, would be involved with anything too torrential without any sort of tip off. No, never. All of the Bodleys, including the Alfreds prior to myself, were quiet, tall, thin and frail looking men with soft blonde hair that often went prematurely grey. We’re a very nervous, gaunt looking bunch who walked quickly and kept our nose out of gossip and drama. Quiet, nervous, the appearance of one of those light posts in the middle of the night. All of this is in my genetics, as it will be in the Bodleys after myself.

All of the previous Alfred’s had been bookkeepers. It was supposed to be my lot in life, too. It still is. I do keep the books. I just keep other things, as well. Dangerous things, illegal things. Horrifying and rare things. Special deliveries and special requests for common place things that had to be made out of much less common items. A necklace to be fashioned with the eye of an Iberian Lynx, papyrus scrolls from ancient Egypt that supposedly hold the secret of the meaning of life, bags and shoes and jackets fashioned with leather of human skin, water from the rumored ‘fountain of youth‘. Things that do not look extraordinary, but, oh, they are.

It isn’t always requests to bring things back. Sometimes, we are sent to do things. Drop a penny into the original, true ‘wishing well’ and make the wish for that person, scatter ashes out in some far off area, find out if something or someone still exists. Some people don’t want to have things, they just want to know things. That is where you come in, my love. You travel this earth, know everyone on it. You steal if you must, haggle and bet on the others. If we are paid in advance, that is used to buy whatever was requested, or used to travel to whoever we might have you go in order to fetch it. A cursed scarab from a mummy’s tomb, Atlantian gold, paintings from civilizations long since past. You’ve found it all. Some people barely believe it, come in as a joke and expect us to fashion what they might expect. But I know you. I know you and I know what you give to them is never a lie. But if that is what they believe, the object become one of our collection pieces until someone else needing one comes along. Saves you a trip, in the end.

Shaking hands deposit the yellowed envelope into the postbox. I was to come along on this one. It was an anniversary gift. We were to go on ‘vacation’. It was going to be exotic and fascinating for me. You were just happy I’d come along with you on one of your trips. I am always home, you say. I am always home and I have experienced none of this world. You want me to see your world. You could never stand to be in mine. It’s too bookish and dull. You need to stretch and grow and spread out across all of these lands. Amazon one day, Egypt the next. The arctic, the city, the forests and the deserts. Even the sea. They all belong to you. I am content with my somewhat large home, except when it is filled with men with gold monocles and women in their rare furs. That is not my world, not anymore, and I am antsy and more frantic than usual when thrust into it. You would not have me any other way, you said. You love that I am homely and quiet and bookish and too tall and too thin. I am your opposite. Yin and yang.

I miss you far too much.

Far more than I can handle right now.

Leave me alone, I'm lonely.

Christmas.

Maybe it's just the holidays that bring out the absolute worst in me. And by that, I don't mean I am particularly rude or spiteful. What I mean is that the holidays tend to bring out everything in me I particularly dislike. The loneliness, insecurity, hopelessness. Every feeling that rots my insides, leaving me cold and hollow and so damn tired come in for a visit. By Christmas, I am absolute nothingness.

Maybe it's accelerated this year because of the ulcers and stress and insomnia I've faced for a long, long time. Maybe it's because I watched Requiem For a Dream and have since felt like any and every good feeling have been clawed out of me like a wire hanger abortion. I don't know, I really don't. Maybe it's because as my four year old cousin screams and runs about and watched her Christmas cartoons, I sit and read Fight Club and realize the truth of everything. That I am nothing. According to Tyler Durden,

You are the same decaying organic matter as everyone else, and we are all part of the same compost pile.

And it's true. It's true. It's so fucking true Socrates couldn't argue against it. So I sit here, and Lexi sits on the floor taping up her notebook so she can rip the shiny, silvery paper off and imagine it's Christmas already. I think she just wants to scream some more. I think my head is going to explode. It's throbbing, white hot pain building up. All of this Christmas cheer goes straight to my head. Maybe I should just go take another nap, sleep for twelve, thirteen more hours. I don't know. Whatever it takes. I just want to feel alright. I just want to feel better. I just want to be loved.

It was, all in all, a rather eventful morning.

Memorials are quiet places filled with quiet people all wanting to be loud.

And the reverend speaks like a comedian on television, his voice loud and strong as he tells jokes about Jesus and eternal life, but the punchlines aren't funny.

And everyone crawls into themselves, stretching their skin tight until their faces pinch into forced little smiles while her daughter reads off an essay in life too fast, with emotion tucked in her pockets to save for a rainy day.

And half the family cries silently, sitting in front of the rest like animals on display. Look how they break. Look how they fall.

Then we all march up in silence, hugging and shaking hands of a husband who clutches his Kleenex like it will save her soul.The children smile empty little smiles and the ones that don't cry laugh and shake in their black patent shoes, teeth clenched, holding back the flow of angry words as women with fake smiles and forced apologies put themselves on pedestals, acting in front of the crowd like players of a stage.

"Why are you here now when you were never there then?"

And we all walk back to our cars feeling hollow and lonely with the weight of death on out shoulders, distanced from the rest in all of this togetherness, just wanting to close out eyes and sleep.

I am Alex's Shattered Mind

What happens when the insomnia and the anxiety and the stress and the depression all kick in is that suddenly, your whole body feels too big for itself, except all of your organs are all crammed in together real tight, and all of your muscles are twisted into little French braids, delicate and thin and red with bits of blue and white in between where the bone and the veins show through and your heart beats too fast and you can feel it thump-thump-thumping right in your ears and at the roof of your mouth and the palms of your hands, in the tips of your fingers and your toes and pounding at the fat on the insides of your thighs. And while your organs are packed in tight with the little vines of muscle snaring them, there's too much empty space left where the organs should be and your stomach fills it, feeling full and bubbling with the empty, burning sensation that crawls up the back of your throat. Like all of the acid decided to make a break, hunting for an exit from the desolate, dilapidated organ that's shrivled and wrinkled like an old paper bag all tied up in the string that are your muscles.

What happens when the insomnia and the anxiety and the stress and the depression all kick in is your mind goes into overdrive and everything happens too slow but too fast for you to really concentrate, so you find yourself focusing on things without really focusing, your eyes glued to something while your mind goes far away to process all the information while the noise shifts to the back of your mind, behind the thudding in your ears and the acid in your stomach and the aching, dull feeling in your sunken eyes and the caked-on makeup that feels too heavy but society doesn't want to see your face, not really, not if it's imperfect with little scars and angry, red spots and the purple under your eyes and everything just sounds like it's gone underwater and you're swimming in your mind until you realize what your eyes have fixated on is a person and that person is uncomfortable and awkward under your stare because no matter what you do, how much makeup you put on, the distance in your body will show through in the eyes. It makes people uncomfortable to see someone separated from society, even for a moment.

And what happens when the insomnia and the anxiety and the stress and the depression kick in is that your mind and body distance you from society and you feel empty and lonely and broken, like a little wind up toy that was dropped and no longer turns and sings the way it should, like a car with old, broken parts from other cars that nobody wanted that goes around and around but something is always not quite right in it like the heating is broke or the radio sticks or the seat just feels wrong, like nobody should be there, like this car should just be tossed away where nobody should have to see it or deal with it or have anything to do with it because who really wants something broken anyways, even if it get fixed up every morning with it's paint caked-on and it's fenders all shined up.

What happens is at first your feel numb besides the aching and straining of your muscles. Mentally numb, everything is on repeat. Get up, get dressed, get to class, go back to the dorm, go back to class, go back to the dorm, go to dinner, go to bed. Repeat. You're the broken doll turning yourself around, the same note over and over again. And then the note cracks, the doll falters, skips a beat, and your mind cracks open just a sliver, just enough to let the loneliness seep slowly in. Just enough to enlighten you to the situation. And because of the insomnia, it stays all day and all night and fills your skull to the brim and it's all you think about while the stranger in the room beside you twists and turns and sighs and the girl in the hallways sobs and vomits in the bathroom and you wonder what went wrong and suddenly the doll won't turn anymore. You sleep through class. You don't have the effort to eat, the acid churns in your stomach. You start to forget, to lose things. it takes you longer to recognize voices, faces, your own name. People call you time and time again before you notice it's you they're looking at. You feel them looking through you, not at you. You're not there. You're on a different level, distant, alone.

The essay sits undone. You fail one class, two classes, three. Your life feels like it's spiraling. Nothing goes right. Paper cuts on your hands, glass in your fingers, a burn on your face. The acid churns. Your eyes feel so deep in your skull, if you could turn them around you'd see your brain floating in the sea on loneliness, the crack letting light shine in and illuminating the grey tissue. You crack again and it feels like you can never stop crying. Crying makes you so tired. Another crack, it's pouring in like water in the bathtub, not a trickle but the full force. You can't cry anymore, not even if you wanted. It's pouring over the edges now, soaking into every pour, dripping down your face in a sloppy, black mess, coating your skin like filthy and grimy and dust and it's as thick as fat and black as tar and no matter how hard you scrub it's still there, in your hair, your eyes, your blood. You're filthy, human waste, nothing. You don't belong here, but you;re not there anymore. You're gone.

What happens when the little train that is your life falls off the tracks is that the wheels keep turning, but you're going nowhere, just laying on your side, steam pouring out and whistle filling with dirt. Everything rushes by you, moving on with life as you keep going ever onward into nowhere, into nothing, slowly deteriorating. You keep trying. You don't want to let the world take you, to let the mud pull you down into the sinking, stinking pit your life has become. You pull against it. Your wheels keep turning, the gears straining. Everyone else tugs along, following their little paths behind one another. Different tracks, different beliefs, everyone following one another like little lemmings. You want to be them, clean and bright with ideas funneled into you like coal to be burned, to be used to go on. You long sense burnt that up. You don't know who you are, what you believe, where you're going. You're everything and nothing and it's cold and empty and you're tired and the wheels turn slower and slower and you haven't moved an inch and you just want to give up.

That's what happens.

So, what do you do next?

Let's Join the Jr. Philosophy Club!

There once was a man named Rene Descartes. He was a pretty good philosopher, except when he attempted to prove, without a doubt, the existence of God. He did fairly well for himself otherwise, though, with successes such as “I think, therefore I am”, which is discussed in the first Meditation. Perhaps his most interesting idea, it is debatable whether it can be called a success, is the idea of mind-body dualism. This is something that is discussed in a few of the meditations. Mind-body dualism, according to Descartes, is the opinion that the mind and the body are separate entities. The mind is entirely metaphysical and the body is purely physical. This could have been an excellent point and a fabulous step in proving the existence of God and everything else. However, Descartes didn’t exactly prove for the metaphysical and the physical worlds were connected. Apparently, they just WERE. Also, like all things metaphysical, there was no way to prove the existence of the separation despite all of his morbid points that involved the removal of body parts and whatnot, which didn’t really prove much at all in the end. All of his arguments could easily have been debunked, disproved, and called disatisfactory.

Despite the failure of Rene to prove, without a doubt, that mind-body dualism is a fact, I can honestly say I believe it to be true. Or, at least, I can see where it can be true. The mind and all of the thoughts have always seemed to come from somewhere other than the ‘self’, the physical manifestations of ourselves on the Earth. We can’t feel the thoughts in our heads, and while modern science can pick out particular areas in the brain that flash when thoughts or feelings and senses are provoked, we still do not know where some of these ideas come from. At any point in time, any random thought can pop into your mind. Where do the ideas of authors come from? Artist’s mental images? The ideas for all things scientific? It seems to come from something much more intense than simple synapses in the brain. If it was only the synapses and the electrical activities, why are some of the ideas so unique and new? Why don’t we all have them and understand them?

Consider, instead, that the mind is a metaphysical thing, sort of a floating ghost brain in the metaphysical world where God and the like exist. Or, if it suits you better, picture the ‘mind’ as your soul or true self. The soul/mind is something that has many thoughtds, ideas, and dreams. But the mind is blind, deaf, and mute. It is simply a thing like the air around us. The mind wants to see, wants to move and touch and speak and expand itself. The only plausible way to do this is to have a physical manifestation of itself to manipulate and move through. This is where the body comes in. The body is the soul’s container in the physical relm, though the soul/mind isn’t exactly contained in the body, but connected to it. Picture a video game, where the person controls the character on screen. Though, in this case, it would be like the character controlling the physical person. Ther obvious issues with this are that the controller obviously is in that situation, along with wiring and other tools. In the mind-body dualism, there isn’t something so true or obvious. There isn’t really anything that can be contemplated that is both physical and metaphysical. It’s impossible to be both.

However, at one point in the book, Descartes mentions the imagination. As I see it, the imagination can be this ‘controller’. The metaphysical mind is extended from the metaphysical world to the physical body by the imagination. The imagination is used by the body to create, to bring ideas and thoughts and movement from the metaphysical world to the physical world (I.e.; While I sleep and am tapping into the metaphysical world, I picture a house. I wake and create that house in the physical world.). The imagination also brings the senses and images from the physical world to the metaphysical world, allowing the ‘soul’ to clasp onto those ideas. Where it can ‘see’ and understand metaphysical ideas, the sights and sounds of the physical world are much, much more vivid and allow for better growth and expression for the ‘soul’ in question. It can, to a certain extent, be almost compared to how a robotic prosthetic arm allowed the ideas of the mind to become movement again. In essence, the body has become the robotic prosthetic body to the soul.

I realize, of course, the issues with these ideas. I still have the problems that one will always face when concerning the metaphysical world. “How do you know?” “Because I can feel it.” is a poor answer. A better answer would be, “Well, where else would these ideas come from? How else would humanity have learned some of the things it has, if not from pulling them from some other, greater force?” The greater force, of course, would the metaphysical world where all ideas and answers reside (And God, if that is your belief.). But even that can be knocked aside easily, I am certain, but a much better philosopher than I am. It is this that perhaps should prove that the idea of mind-body dualism is nothing but a laughable matter that should be quickly tossed aside, especially since modern technology has all but proved it completely false. Still, it would seem rather empty and useless to believe that all of our thoughts, emotions, feeling, ideas, and creativities are just neurons and chemicals firing at random intervals. It takes the ‘humanity’ out of being human and makes us, essentially, organic robots.

So, perhaps Descartes was wrong. Probably, I am wrong. Maybe everyone is wrong. Maybe we’re just little wind up, hormone controlled dolls. There is honestly no way of knowing any of this. Well, unless we were to off ourselves and possibly sever the delicate bond that ties our ‘souls‘ to our bodies, but that’s not exactly the brightest of ideas. No, for now, I think it is safe to say that Religion, Philosophy, and Science really don’t have it figured out just right yet. They all have their guesses, but nobody has the absolute answer to the problem. It isn’t like one plus one. It’s something so much more difficult to answer than that, so much more controversial and complex and nobody can prove a damn thing just yet. Maybe not ever. And hey, maybe the mystery is what life is really all about.

The Infinite Feeling of Friendship

If any of you haven't read The Perks of Being a Wallflower, I suggest you go do that right now. It is the most incredible piece of literature that will ever sit in those little hands of yours. A book like that doesn't come around too often. But maybe that's just how I feel for it, this great swelling in my chest, this longing to read it just one more time. It's beautiful and fleeting and each time I feel closer, feel more connected to Charlie.

Everything about that book holds me in a vice, sends me reeling when I, once again, flip through the pages and cry along in just the same spots or maybe a few more, depending on the mood I'm in. And, oh, Perks is an emotional roller coaster. You hit so many highs, so many lows, feel so much more than you have ever felt before. When every emotion collides and you feel nothing and everything all at once, that's when you know you're reading Perks.

I think there's a bit of Charlie in all of us, no matter who we are or what we're doing or, god, how old we are. And if you can't feel Charlie, there are so many others. So many others to know that somewhere, someone like that exists, with all of their flaws and beauty. I've been the wallflower; I've sat back and watched the world go by and felt what they feel and nothing of my own. And I've felt infinite. I've been running so high, grasping at straws and holding tight to that feeling of everything and togetherness and the world just MOVING all around me and I've been right there and it's incredible, as fleeting as the feeling is. It ends, the inhibitions return, the night moves on, and you wipe those tears and stop laughing. In moments of absolute truth and beauty and realization, I think everyone should laugh and cry and scream out the window. Let everyone know how you're feeling.


If I ever become the author I want to be, the poet I feel inside, it is my greatest wish to write something as brilliant as Perks. It won't, it can't, happen, but that doesn't stop me from wishing for it.

The dawn of a new age.

I can't help it.

I can't help being afraid. And lonely. And it's not so much afraid as something so much more, something that hollowed my chest and shoves everything into my throat or maybe my nose because I really can't breath through that anymore and I'm just kind of sitting here making odd little gasping, wheezing sounds while tears run rivers down my cheeks.

All in all, I am a hot mess.

But jokes aside, is this fear rational?

This horrible, clawing feeling.

Is this what getting older is all about?

Ten years from now, will I be sitting in some dark apartment, no heat, no gas, eating the cheap bread and instant noodles and feeling so god damn alone and it'll be there, this feeling, crawling all over my skin like hundreds of tiny maggots that eat away at all the joy in my life I never really had, but really just borrowed from all of you.

And now it's all gone, and you're all gone, and someday, everyone will be gone and it will just be me and my happy-eating maggots and this feeling and my cheap bread and I think at that point it wouldn't even be worth it to kill myself because really, that is the absolute definition of death to me.

I can feel it.

I can feel it coming.




I think I need to sleep for a long time.

(Maybe this is just that depression all over again?)

The begining of the end?

I have never felt as lonely and different than I do at college.

Remember when I thought it was my great escape?

It just makes everything worse.


I'm so tired, constantly sick to my stomach, and I know that if I just disappeared, nobody would even notice.

Or care.

Except for the people I can't even drive to see.

Fuck this, I'm getting my license and a GPS unit and hitting the goddamn road.



College is for pussies. I'll do my learning on the road.




Come see the world with me?

If I say it out loud, will that make it better?

Today while reading postsecret and then scanning the forums, I decided something. Instead of sending in my secrets for people who don't know me to care, I'm going to post them here. So that whoever you are, you can read it. You probably know me. I don't blame you for stopping now, who really wants to know that much about another person? -I am going to do every drug humanly possible in order to inspire myself and write something truly good. I've already done prescription drugs and came up with a surrealist piece, and most of my poems are written just before I pass out on my bed and half-cry myself to sleep. Alcohol tends to bring out the worst in me, and that usually makes for the best poetry. -The real reason I want to be published is not so people will admire me and my work, but so I might finally be able to feel loved. I don't know how I made the connection, but it's the only thing that pushes me forward. -I haven't slept well since I stopped drinking and taking pills. I know it's my own damn fault, but I can't help considering grabbing a bottle when it's 7.30 in the morning and my head is filled with thoughts I can't escape without the help of sleep. -I haven't been happy since you stopped giving me those little words of encouragement every week. I really needed that to hold on. Sorry. -I can spend hours doing my hair and makeup and picking out my clothes, but one look at any of you and I can see how pathetic the attempt was. Jeans and a t-shirt, without makeup, hair in a ponytail..you're everything I wish I could be. There's more, but I can't bring myself to spell them out. This is just the tip of the ice burg, the things I can type without fighting myself mentally. Hope you enjoyed. White texted, so, you know, you don't HAVE to read.

I need to go write some more.

Perhaps the begining of a beautiful friendship..

I've tried my hand at starting an actual story. Would you like to read it? No? Well, I'll force it on you anyways. It's short, and not very good, and I apologize because I am an awful author. I don't really know where I got the idea I was ever good at any of this, because..because I obviously am not. I am almost okay with that, too. I've spent most of my life being good at nothing, so the thought I would ever be a writer should have never crossed my mind. And I should have known that the minute I stopped being 'good' at something everything would go back to the way it was before. I'm nobody again, nothing, useless, and maybe it does hurt a little to know my family cares so little. Of course I won't be the golden child. I don't play an instrument, I'm not 'pretty'. I can do nothing for them other than clean up the house, take care of the child, be a verbal punching bag.


Well, that got out of hand quickly.

I'm sorry, I won't show you what I've written after all.


It hardly seems worth it, in the end.







Maybe another time.

What is the feeling?

Know that feeling where you feel all empty like something is all wrong but you don't know what it is? Yeah.









Yeah.







(On the plus side, I could possibly use this as inspiration for a new poem.)

A description of the inner self?

Individuals born on the cusp of Taurus (the second Sign of the Zodiac) and Gemini (the third Sign of the Zodiac) are ruled by both Venus and Mercury. Here, the influence of Venus endows these cuspians with a graceful and easy manner, coupled with a winning personality, while Mercury's influence increases the talent for music, art and eloquence. These individuals are thinkers, orators, artists and inventors. In short, the hands and brain work together in perfect harmony for this cusp combination. They display great imagination and tend to be very expressive, both physically as well as mentally. Taurus/Gemini natives would be well advised to become actively employed since the more they have to occupy their minds, the greater will be personal happiness...massage therapy, pottery, writing, painting and the composing of music can bring great fulfillment to these cuspians. In short, an idle Taurus/Gemini subject is a morbid and unhappy soul indeed.

The Taurus/Gemini cusp combination, also known as the Cusp of Energy, corresponds symbolically to the period of human life at around the age of fourteen. The firm-set Taurus nature here (which is controlled by the Planet Venus) acts as a counter-balance to the activity of Mercury (the Planet which rules Gemini) with its quick and mercurial ways. Because of the Gemini character, the desire to try new things is in the ascendant, but there is an inherent reluctance to relinquish the old...a carry-over from Taurus. This factors greatly in stability. However, an excess of this trait can hamper the Gemini nature and may result in an attempt to do two things at once...usually to the detriment of both. It can also make these cuspians stubborn about lesser things, even when they know little about them. Self-control is strongly needed in this blend and, once acquired, will enable these individuals to correct yet another aspect often lacking in this particular cusp combination...that being concentration, which is essential to this highly adaptable but somewhat contradictory Zodiac type. Those governed by the Taurus/Gemini cusp are said to be gifted in any domain they see fit to enter. These are often the artisans (and frequently the artists) of the Zodiac but, without the correct early training, are likely to develop in an abnormal fashion with a tendency to spend their time in sensuous enjoyment. These cuspians are said to have three masters: Castor and Pollux (who are seldom in harmony) and the Bull (who is ever determined to rule that historic pair). At best, these individuals are very busy and helpful...at worst, they become indolent.

Taurus/Gemini natives are exceedingly proud souls who would undoubtedly prefer starvation to dependence. If they do happen to find themselves in humble circumstances, then they will certainly be very miserable but, displaying entirely too much pride than is good for them, begging for help of any kind will be totally out of the question. These are glorious givers but reluctant receivers...a trait which can result in a character who is overly-free with money and a tendency to be wasteful. Thus, it is important that these cuspians develop a purposeful aspect to their nature. Nevertheless, these subjects can succeed at almost anything if they are willing to try. They are always active and energetic with refined manners and pleasing habits. They possess a keen interest in the world around them and the inherent charm cannot fail to draw innumerable friends and sweethearts. However, those involved with Taurus/Gemini individuals (who are notorious for their reputation as unstrustworthy souls) are likely to live in constant fear of losing them. To some, this may be an appealing challenge...to others, it is a frightening concept, particularly in the areas of business and employment. The brilliance of these cuspians is not normally sufficient to guarantee success in a given field unless such is supported by a string of undeniable accomplishments. Unfortunately, the characteristic associated with this cusp rarely manifests an endurance which is equal to personal desires and impulses. While slower and more purposeful people simply "hang in there," Taurus/Gemini individuals often find themselves being passed in life's race...rather like the hare was overtaken by the self-possessed and deliberate tortoise. The preparation of a resume may well be a rather painful process for these cuspians since it will likely reveal an eclectic background which is lacking any real depth...short sojourns in each job and somewhat dubious accomplishments, for example. Learning about the creation of structure and the value of limitations is essential for the growth of a Taurus/Gemini individual.

Taurus/Gemini cuspians will probably easily perceive themselves as more of a force than a person. No experts in self-awareness, from an early age they tend to forge a role for themselves in life which is active rather than passive...dynamic rather than static. As children, they are interested in everything around them, apt to fly every which way in their search for stimulation. These cuspians want to do it all and take on the world through a frontal assault. Some Taurus/Gemini individuals fail to form a strong ego when they are young, constantly wishing to please and often fearful of rejection. This can result in a character which accepts the wishes of others at personal expense. Thus, self-assertion and the building of a powerful ego can become a lifelong occupation for these cuspians. Taurus/Gemini individuals frequently remain youthful and light-hearted their entire lives, but the inherent need for physical pleasure can lead to an over-emphasis on money and the accumulation of possessions. Indeed, they are frequently somewhat addicted to sensuousness (and, at times, sensuality), prone to carry their tendencies to extreme and apt to invest in such items as fast cars and other material means of stimulation. In addition, without the correct training early in life, these cuspians may develop exceedingly large bodies. Nevertheless, these are basically tolerant and gentle souls who are often perceived by others as being scattered and highly-strung. The many interests of Taurus/Gemini subjects make them entertaining and loyal friends with a carefree and unpredictable twist. In their leisure time, Taurus/Gemini individuals enjoy pairing up with partners for recreation. Outdoor activities that allow a closeness with the earth are most favored. The love of conversation and good food ensures that relaxing dinners with friends are highly enjoyable and the inquisitive and literary orientation of this cuspian means that he or she will also enjoy mentally challenging pursuits. In short, the Taurus/Gemini cusp combination makes for a charming and congenial individual who has many friends and acquaintances in all areas of life.

With regard to relationships, since the rulers of this cusp combination are Venus and Mercury, any love affair must be both physical and mental in origin. The practical applications of artistic ability and authorship are profound on this cusp and domestic life is best if financially secure and mentally stimulated. The elements of earth (associated with Taurus) and air (associated with Gemini) rarely blend well. Instead, each element will seek to find its own territory or outlet. Taurus/Gemini individuals are inclined to be richly sensual by nature and, if left alone or isolated, may well become deeply depressed. Projects that are many-faceted and require patience can help in the healing of hurts for this combination. If security is threatened, a nervousness and lack of mental grounding may occur and it is essential for these cuspians to guard the throat and upper respiratory tract since, under stress, these body parts become most vulnerable to attack.

The great strengths of the Taurus/Gemini combination are stability, perseverance, and both intellectual and conversational skills. These cuspians are able to analyze difficult ideas and communicate those ideas to others in a clear an concise manner. Their methodical determination enables them to be productive even when others have long since "given up the ghost." There is a natural talent here to reason with others and this cusp combination is one of the strongest of the Zodiac when it comes to meeting goals...largely due to the inherent reliable persistence.

The most important lesson to be learned by Taurus/Gemini natives is that they should always be careful not to wear themselves out and realize that there are limits to what an individual can achieve in a short period of time. Additionally, it is important for them learn not to come on too strong and they also need to recognize the value of confronting personal fears and insecurities. As with all cusp individuals, these cuspians tend to be attracted to others born on the cusp...particularly those who fall within the Aries/Taurus and Sagittarius/Capricorn combinations.

-- Possess the earthy physical traits inherent in Taurus --
-- Possess the airy activities of thought, communication, nervous excitement and energetic movement inherent in Gemini --
-- Energetic, convincing and prolific --
-- Tendency toward over-indulgence in things that they like --
-- Prone to wear themselves out --
-- Find it difficult to set limits on themselves --
-- Thrive on verbal interchange...and are talented in that area --
-- Prone to "come on too strong" --
-- Reluctant to confront fears and insecurities --
-- Versatile --

Notable Taurus/Gemini Cuspians Include:
Malcolm X; Grace Jones; Cher; Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; Joan Collins; Bob Dylan; and Victoria, Queen of England





And from the celtic zodiac:



May 15-May 24: Those born between these two dates also fall under the lesser influence of a secondary tree...the Chestnut, whose motto is "In Quest of the Truth" or "The Honesty." Chestnut individuals usually possess unusual beauty and a tendency to be overly-critical of themselves. With no desire to impress and with an inherent distaste for falsehoods, Chestnuts are blessed with a well-developed sense of justice. They are vivacious by nature and very diplomatic, but tend to be sensitive in company and easily driven to irritation...which can be indicative of a lack of self-confidence. Chestnut people will sometimes act superior but basically feel as though they are misunderstood. They are prone to love only once in their lives and often experience great difficulty in finding a partner.

Got that all here. It was surprisingly helpful.


This post had nothing and everything to do with me and my life.

I'm looking for a new tattoo. I'm leaning towards something occultish, astrological, or a vintage moon/sun/star design. Also, a little something for behind each ear. I'm thinking a tiny moon on one side, and a tiny sun on the other. Maybe a rune on the back of my neck, if I could find soemthing I deem appropriate.

Out, damned spot!

My dears,

It would seem that the writers block took a break, or my muse popped in for a quick visit the other day, and ideas just..popped into my head faster than I could write them. And I do have to write them fast, or else..well, the flow just flies away, and the wording doesn't situate right and I have to work very hard to try and remember what came so easily seconds before.

Now, that's not to say that I've written anything particularly good, or spectacular. Sure, I'm going to put it up on my fictionpress account. But only for ideas. Opinions. Ways to make myself better. I haven't gotten any of those lately.

It seems like, anytime I write something, I'm automatically praised for it. Like, I'm just this..robot that pops out poems that sounds nice, but don't leave you with much more. And when I'm not writing, I'm not good for anything. I cook, and clean, and act the good daughter/future housewife (oh god, please no.) but I don't really do anything. Writing is all I have, and I'm no more special at that than I am at anything else. It just happens to be the only thing I'm mildly notable for.

So, I'll crank out a couple things once in a blue moon. people will read them over, coo their compliments (which I am honestly really grateful for, really, I swear. They make me feel wonderful inside. Better than ever.) and leave me wanting..more. Just like my poems. Empty somehow. I want to be better. Someday I want to be, gasp!, published. And I'm probably being egotistical thinking it's possible, but it's my dream. The only dream I have.

It's all I've got.

That, and your lovely compliments.

And that little empty bit of longing left after hearing them.


(I considered leaving you with poetry, but instead, I'll leave you with my fictionpress account. ..Well, I guess it's the same thing.)

New blog?

I've been useless lately.

I haven't written one good thing. Not one poem, not one short story, nothing.

Not that I was ever good at short stories as it is. I'm so rusty, I am misspelling storie and storys. Plural and singular forms are mixing together. My mind is in slo-mo and there's nobody to hit the fast-forward button.

I miss the days where I would wake up at 4.15 in the morning, scrawl something illegible in my little, leather pink book (that is always on my nightstand, with a nice pen, just in case.) and when I wake up, marvel at the thoughts that entered in my head through the night. Like my little muse curled up next to me ear, whispering sweet nothings all night.

Baby, where did we go wrong?

I am inspirationless, bored, and slowly getting dumber, lazier, and more depressed. My life is on a downwards swing, and I am only 18 years old. I haven't even started college yet, and it feels like everything is over.

I read over my livejournal, and some of my blog posts there were good, but for the most part it was just the typical angst expected of preteens (the kind of angst that lasted from age 10 to age it-isn't-over-yet-for-me.). My myspace blog was a little better, before I hit my 'LOL I WANNA EB A SCENE KID OMGGG~! && <3'>

And now I come back from digging up tags for the two pairs of (really cute) shorts that I have to return to Marshalls (I put them on, they were badly sewn and basically every stitch ripped. They weren't even small on me. It was a very painful blow to my nonexistant ego, I'll have you know.) along with this blue tank top that despite the elastic is way to small in the chest and pulls this move that flattens and pushes them into weird shapes. Kind of like taking a huge ball of playdoe (playdough?) and putting it into one of the half-size containers. It just doesn't work, and it's actually quite painful.

Except the playdough (playdoe?) is actually my rather nice although un-proportional breasts that are NATURAL thankyouverymuch.

Why can stores never make clothes that would look good on a 5 foot tall, mamoth chested 18 year old girl? Petite clothes often look..grannyish. Because old ladies are often very small, and very thin. But I am not 'thin' and I also do not have granny/petite boobs. It is a cruel and unfair world to those of us with oddly-proportioned bodies.

This is turning into out of control rambling. I think I'll let it go for now.

Peace, darlings. <3

(Jones soda is the shit. I don't know what I would do without all the excess calories it allows me to obtain.)