Je t'aime, Monsieur Moon.

Red Wheelbarrow, a writting class essay

2010-07-13T02:52:00.001-04:00

The rain was letting up, that he was thankful of. It had been raining last night when he had fallen asleep, it was raining as he woke up, and it had continued to rain until midday when the rat-tat-tat of drops on the window became a soft pat-pat-pat and the cool glass his face rested against warmed slightly with the sun. The clouds were passing. At least the garden was well watered.

The animals, too, recognized the change. The dog pawed the door and the cat settled down in his place beside the window to enjoy the new sun born from the dark clouds. Struggling, his boots were put on and the door was open and both man and his best friend burst into the yard and the dew and the musty air.

The dog ran off and the yard transformed in his mind. The area was a muddy trench now, the battle ground of a war to end all wards. The mud squelched under his boots as he patrolled. His men were dead. The enemy had won. Or so they thought.

As long as he survived, there was hope. A mosquito buzzed at his ear. Quickly, into the bush! Stay low, enemy aircrafts are scanning the area. The summer day turned into the darkest night. There were flashlights in the distance, people speaking foreign tongues. Two came close, their lights grazing the leaves above his head. Eyes closed, he listened carefully. “Sie Zerbrochen unter Folter. Es gibt eine links.”(Hervey, and Loughride) He checked his book for translation. They knew he was there. There was no hope.

But then…what’s that? That, across the mud and filth; an aircraft carrier half-sunk in the mud. It was one of theirs, the kind he’d flown in the first war when he was just a young man. He could remember it , but not so clearly. It seems all his memories were shot up with bullet holes and burnt along the edges like the photos his wife sent.

He had to fly the airplane alone his first time up. Other pilots have several hours of dual time in the air, with an experienced, qualified pilot in the aircraft. So for a student fighter pilot who would not get his wings for more than three more weeks, taking up this brand new kind of airplane was a challenge. (Robin)

It had toughened him, made his skin thick as leather. That’s how he’d survived this time when all the young and green were picked off so quick. The lights receded and he picked his way out of the brush slowly so as not to attract attention. It was a good twenty minutes away, but he could make it. He’d made it this far.

The boots stuck in the mud and every step was like a fight, like the hands of the men he had shot were holding him tight until he was found They had no voice to call out, but they slowed his pace. Twenty minutes could easily become thirty, forty. Maybe more. He was lucky though. With the land and weather what it was, the wet and the cold, his socks were soaked through. Trench foot was the least of his worries, but the thought was there. If he didn’t make it, he was dead anyways. But if he did there would be pretty Red Cross nurses like his wife having to saw his leg off at the knee. His pack was long gone so there was no chance to solve the problem. It was best just to push on.

More mosquito fighter planes and from afar, barking. They had brought the dogs. There wasn’t much time left. He pictured big German Shepherds with glossy black fur, teeth bared. They’d go for the throat. Maybe the rain and the scent of the dead would hold them off for a while. He was almost there. The trenches were so flooded but going above ground to the bushes and the flatter ground was too dangerous. The barking came closer, sharp like a knife through his chest. It was so close, his red beauty, and with every step she grew larger and larger until he could almost feel her cool steel under his palms, rain dripping from her propeller. He was so close, he was so close..

Mother’s calling from inside the house. His feet dry inside rain boots, the yard transforms again. The little dog chases clucking chickens. Rain drips off the rusted lip of the red wheel barrow. A letter from his father came in the mail. Maybe he’ll be flying home soon.

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
Chickens (Williams)

Wild Nights, a writing class essay

2010-07-13T02:46:00.002-04:00

Wild Nights--Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Our luxury!
(Dickinson)

“Shh, shh.” She hushed and the group giggled, anxious and giddy. She dug through her tote and pulled out a thermos with the name of her mother’s work printed along the side in the bold, cold letters pharmaceutical companies use in print ads in magazines for housewives. “Angelina’s having her seventh baby! Look how depressed you are!” The thermos is passed around our awkward circle. We’d crowded in the back of her mother’s van, the van she’d borrowed to get to my house. The taste and smell of cheap liquor was familiar by now. We were too young and felt too old and out the wide back window I looked out at the suburban neighborhood, quiet at this time of the night, and I wondered how many depressed housewives were washing the dinner dishes and letting tears fall onto their Lane Bryant blouses. How many told their husbands they weren’t in the mood and hid in the bathroom thumbing through the Newport News catalog? How long do I have until the life goes out of me? The radio hummed on in the background, almost like static, “What a drag it is getting old. Life’s just much too hard today.” (Rolling Stones, “Mother’s Little Helper”)

When the van had become too claustrophobic we burst out the doors like butterflies from a cocoon into the warm summer night and quietly, so quietly, we drunkenly fiddled with the gate until the latch gave way and across the yard we ran as far as we could. Out to behind the shed where man had dug a hole, a trench about ten feet wide and fifteen down. There was a tiny island in the middle with a tree standing up against the moonlight. A shadow of defiance. We stood on the edge and looked down at the dirt and gravel until someone was calling my name and I realized they’d all sat against the shed and someone was holding out a joint. This was the way our nights usually went. It didn’t matter the people, the only one I ever knew was her, but the situation was always the same. I’d get a call or a text and we’d meet and drink and smoke and they would talk about all the things you talk about when you’re drunk and high. It’s only teenage wasteland. (The Who, “Baba O’Riley”) But the best part of these nights was when I would fall back into the grass and look at the stars and feel numb and happy and enjoy the world spinning beneath me. My organic spaceship.

I had the joint and someone was calling me Kurt Cobain and the group laughed at my flannel and my cropped hair and the jeans I hadn’t washed all summer. They laughed at my silence and she told them to shut up, if I had anything worth saying I’d say it and it wouldn’t be their marijuana talk about Jesus and Batman and the vastness of vast-itude and they shut up pretty quickly until the munchies set in and off they went to the Wilson Farms down the street for whatever they could afford and beyond that whatever they could fit in their purses.

“They’re dumb, they’re so dumb,” she said, and I felt the ground beneath me shift as she crouched at my side. “I don’t know why I bother with them. It’s just…it is, you know?” And I guess I must have known because I nodded. She said that a lot at times like these. You know? You know? I guess I must have known a lot more than I realized I did because I never asked her to explain and she never asked me to contribute. Her job was to talk and mine was to listen and together we were supposed to be young and alive.

There was the sound of a lighter and she sucked in nicotine and tar. “I’ve always wanted to climb that tree. Let’s do it.” She stood and nudged my side with a bare foot until I opened my eyes and did as she asked. Together, her without shoes and me in old sneakers, we slid and scuffed down and across and up the dirt and by the end I had to help pull her up the other side and my jeans had a rip in the knee from falling and her feet were cut from bits of glass I hadn’t known were there. We stood at the bottom of that tree and stared up into it’s branches but I was too far gone to climb and her feet were too worn to do anything so we laid in the shadows and looked at the star and I listened to her heartbeat with my head on her breast as she sang songs from yesteryear.

“I can't get no satisfaction,
I can't get no girly action.
'Cause I try and I try and I try and I try.
I can't get no, I can't get no.”
(Rolling Stones, “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction“)

Her voice went out to the neighbors and the night and as she belted the lyrics I put my hand over her mouth and laughed and she kissed my palm and I sighed and the earth spun beneath us, hurtling us through space, and together we felt too young and too old and too small and too big and too many things that they don’t have words for. The important thing is, we felt. And that night, under the moon and the stars and huddled in the shadow of defiance, I promised myself I would always feel and god damn the supermarket magazines and the pharmaceuticals and the husbands and dishes. I was alive, and that was the way I wanted to keep it.

The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to
live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same
time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn,
burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders
across the stars and in the middle you see the blue center light pop
and everybody goes “Awww!” (Kerouac)

Jinkies!: The Velma Dinkley Chronicles (part 3 of ?)

2010-02-22T20:31:00.000-05:00

You don’t know yourself anymore once everyone’s gone. They take you with them, leaving behind a shell, just skin and bones and fat and no substance, no mind. Without Daphne and Fred and Shaggy I was nothing. I felt nothing. It’s like sleep walking. I could have died at any time and cracked this empty shell and…what? Been free? Maybe it’s just nothing. Machine breaks, nothing. Empty. Dead bug, kick it aside. I did my work, I went home, I sat and smoked and I didn’t think about anything. Not about the past. Not about the future. My mind felt so blank, so empty. So useless. I felt so useless. I ate when it was convenient. I stared at pornography on the television. I didn‘t even get pleasure from it. Nothing. I just watched this not-Daphne go down on not-Shaggy while someone who is not me spreads her legs so that not-Scooby can take care of the precisely placed peanut butter. Not-me rubs her own breasts, raising her pelvis. “That’s a good boy, Scooby.” Shortly after not-me will have her orgasm, shrieking “Aaah, ahh, oh! Jinkies!” Clever.

I felt sick after watching them, sometimes. But not as much as I should have, all things considered. Really, they’re just.. memories that never were. When I watched not-Daphne saunter away from not-Shaggy and wrap her hands over not-my breasts, I got chills. When she takes a rag and wipes away the remains of the peanut butter from not-my vagina, I felt it as though it WERE mine. That not-Daphne was doing it to me. That Daphne was cleaning me so carefully before kissing down my body, between my chest and down, down to my suspiciously shaved pubic area where Daphne would suck on my clitoris, elegantly painted fingernails sliding against soft walls, warm and wet and those fingers press just the right place, making me sigh and clutch bed sheets I’d never seen before. Her other hand carefully, teasingly, pinches a nipple. I moan, back arching as fingers press against sensitive akin. It’s too much, and the person who is not me comes, using her catch phrase once again. “Oh, oh god oh god oh JINKIES!” I make tea and rewind the VHS.

I turn the television off and sit in the dark. The brown easy chair has horrible back support. It was cheap, which made sense because it came with the apartment and the apartment was cheap. I need to wash my hands, so I do, and on the way I decide to get out. The air will clear things. Make it better. Coat, keys, wallet and door and I’m walking down a street I still don’t know. It’s late. It seems dangerous. Maybe I’ll take a subway to somewhere.. different. To see water maybe. Someplace different. Someplace nice. The streets are dark and mostly empty. A few couples walking, a man on his own. The station is even more empty. Down the stairs, sit on a bench, wait. What am I doing? I hear noise, someone walking, looking for change? I pull myself closer, hoping to attract little attention. Whoever it is comes closer. They walk closer, and then they run. To me. “Velma?” I look up. “Shaggy?” I’m suddenly terrified of this man. This is not my Shaggy. This is the not-Shaggy, thin and scarred and carrying garbage with a face gaunt and pock-marked and unwashed and aged years and years and years. “Velma!” He drops his bags and holds me. He’s filthy. He smells like rotting food and garbage cans. I manage to push him off and force a smile. “I’ll be back. I.. need to use the bathroom.” He nods and moves his bags under the bench with a foot, sitting and waiting with eager eyes and the childish smile I remember on a face so wrong.

I shakily ran into the woman’s lavatory. I felt sick. What was this? What is so wrong with this? Water. I was looking for water. I’ll splash it on my face. I bend down, thin hands grab my arms. Struggling. “Velma, why did you run away?” I stop. “Why did you leave me alone?” He didn‘t mean now. “I..I thought you’d go with Fred.. you two were close-””BULLSHIT.” He pushes me and I hit the floor, scrambling back against the wall, heels scraping against the damp restroom tiles. “He hated all of us, but he hated me most, and you knew that.” He was right. “So you left me alone. Do you know how scared I was? M-my..my best friend.. they killed Scooby! Because he was rabid! Bullshit!” He kicks at the bottom of a sink, “Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit!“ A deep breath and he looks at me. “Everyone was gone..I had nothing..I did..I found ways to be happy..I wanted to forget, so..I did what I had to do, what they told me would help, but it didn’t!” He sobbed down to his knees, shaking.

I could get up, I could run past him, find someone, anyone, but I can’t move my feet. I’m terrified. He’s calm suddenly, and so quiet, and rises, and wraps his bony hands on my shoulders. I close my eyes while he pulls me up against the wall. I bite back all the noises, the sounds trying to escape. I fight it all. His pants are down and I wish I was dead. I wish I was someplace else. Filthy fingers are under my skirt, pulling down underwear. I’m not here. This isn’t me. This is not-Velma. Not-Shaggy is fucking not-Velma, because real-Shaggy would never touch me. It isn’t me, and that’s not him. Somewhere, Shaggy is smoking a joint and petting his new puppy, wondering what happened to the old team. He lives by the beach where it’s warm and the food is always available. Not-Shaggy slams not-me’s head against the wall, screams at her. She’s not listening, just shutting down, body limp as not-Shaggy abuses it. He fucks her and hits her and makes her cry. He pulls out and blows his load on the front of her skirt. He kicks her and spits and leaves. Not-me doesn’t move. She doesn’t have to, because she’s just a doll. The doll was used and now someone will come and clean it up, clean up the blood on the floor. Someone like the pretty Indian woman who ran into the room and screamed and ran out and called the police. The pretty Indian woman is scared, but she came back and sits by the doll. She lifts the doll’s head and she rocks back and forth, even though not-me doesn’t respond, just stares. Not-me is just as numb as I am. She doesn’t think or speak because she’s just a doll. Just a shell. What does this woman expect? She has pretty eyes, dark and deep and full of tears like oceans. The men come and carry not-me to the ambulance. She stays with the doll, and I watch them. I watch them until I am too tired and I fall asleep.

Jinkies!: The Velma Dinkley Chronicles (part 2 of ?)

2010-01-10T19:33:00.002-05:00

Sometimes, when I dream, I’m taken back to when we were young. I remember warm summer nights in her bedroom, her bed at least twice the size of mine at home. I remember that I was awed by it, no matter how many times I’d been there. Her family had money when I was hovering slightly below middle class. I would go to her house, if you could call it that, in the winter and have my hand-me-down coat from some cousin in some far away state taken by the help, and come home the next day to my parents arguing about the gas bill. I think my whole family was destined to be just below living comfortably, because that’s where I find myself now.

In our little group, I was the smart one, but I don’t think people ever gave her enough credit and that’s including herself. Sometimes, she would have these moments of insight that would stun me and we’d just sit there in silence and she’d stare at her perfectly manicured hands like she was ashamed of what she’d done. One time when we were very high I told her I wanted to climb into her head and just listen But I don’t think she heard me above the fog behind those green-grey eyes of hers.

I think if we didn’t go off in that van, she would have stayed where she was and lived her life jet setting to places where people were tall and rich and just like her, at least on the outside. She would have married a millionaire’s son and had three children and she’s sit by the pool and drink cosmos, instead of bleeding in the snow. The worst dreams I have are that I’m her that night, and I can feel everything draining from me and all the pain and all the cold and then I wake up.

None of us had a college education. I wanted to get one, after everything fell apart, but there wasn’t any money left over after getting an apartment so I wound up working in a bookstore with an old man and a girl who dropped out of high school to follow her dreams of being the next Jack Kerouac. She lasted a month and three states before her money ran out and the need for food grew stronger than the wanderlust in her veins. She has sad eyes, I think, and that somehow makes her beautiful but in a way nobody wants.

On the side, I write about what we used to do. I get some checks because they make a cartoon about us now, but I don’t have cable and can’t watch. I think they’re cheating me out of the money I deserve, but I’m too tired to do anything about it. I have a place to stay and food enough and that’s fine. Sometimes, I write erotic books about women. I use a different name, because god forbid anyone find out Velma Dinkley writes lesbian smut. I don’t want scandal. I want to be left alone.

Every so often, if I have extra money from a book or a script, I’ll go out at night to the porn store a few blocks away and go through the movies and buy every one I can afford that’s about us. You’d be surprised how many there were. The girl at the counter is used to it by now, and she doesn’t say anything. She’s seen much worse come in, and she keeps her mouth shut to keep her job. We had a fling for a few weeks when I first came to town, mostly because she wanted to know what it was like to be with a celebrity, even one who’s fame was dying. I don’t think I thrilled her enough, and I know she didn’t really like women, just the idea behind them, so I wasn’t upset when she left. We talk sometimes, about as much as anyone talks to the person selling them videos of people fucking.

I don’t know anyone here, and I don’t really want to. I don’t care that I don’t talk to anyone besides customers, and I don’t care that the only companions I have are books and pornography and empty cigarette packs. I started to drink when I was first alone because I thought that’s what I should do, but I didn’t like the memories it brought so I gave it up. I’d rather stay here, now, without her voice in my head.

I heard from the girl in the porn store, her name was Cassie, that Fred was living somewhere in Reno now. After the gang ended, he was on talk show after talk show, and in TV dramas about Daphne’s life, always as the caring boyfriend so broken by her death he can’t bare to face his two remaining friends again. She tells me he’s been married three times, and his money is going away because he keeps being divorced by women who are sick of being knocked around. Everyone knows now, and in the new dramas about Daphne and him, he can’t play himself because nobody wants to see the actual Fred Jones abuse an actress who looks vaguely like Daphne Blake used to. I’d like to feel bad for him, but I don’t think I can anymore.

Jinkies!: The Velma Dinkley Chronicles (part 1 of ?)

2010-01-06T03:35:00.002-05:00

For a few months after it happened, I’d lay awake at night- sometimes for a few minutes, sometimes for hours, sometimes.. well, sometimes I didn‘t get any sleep.- and I’d think of what I could have done to make it right. What I could have said or how I could have moved or how I should have noticed how it was progressing. How that time was different. But after all those months, the only thing I ever realized was that.. that was the way it was SUPPOSED to end. There’s nothing that any of us could have done to change it. We could have noticed that, you know.. wandering through those bat caves finally got to Scooby, locked him up in the back of the van while we went after that goddamn clown. But even then, without a rabid dog to hold back, a desperate man is a desperate man. A slipped trigger finger could just as easily have been a deliberate shot to save a family from..god, he was raving about Christmas. Being laid off right before Christmas. How he couldn’t go home to his family and tell them there wasn’t going to be a ham, no potatoes or pie or presents.

Where’s your Santa now?

But even if Scooby was there, and the tension was just as strong, and he attacked again.. could anyone have pushed her out of the way? Fred was there, and Shaggy, in the back, holding onto that too big collar Scooby slipped right out of. He was so docile, we never really bothered to get him one that fit just right. It’s amazing that on a dog his size anything could be too big, but Shaggy “didn’t want to choke him”, and nobody complained. We just let them sit in the back, smoke and the scent of marijuana billowing forward. But again, nobody complained. It was the era, and it kept Fred calmer and nobody was going to fight that.

I was there, too, on my hands and knees in the goddamn snow looking for those fucking glasses. After that night, I got contacts. I don’t know why I didn’t bother before. It’s just.. another one of those things. The perfect storm. Shaggy was too high, Fred.. Fred was never much good unless he was telling somebody else what to do, and I was blind and useless. So when she needed me, really needed me, I wasn’t there.

They say when one of your senses is dulled, the others are twice as strong. But I swear I didn’t hear anything. Not one shot fired. I just.. found my glasses and when I stood up, there she was, sprawled in the show, red hair around her head like some ginger glow. And I thought, “God, Daphne.. always the damsel in distress. Way to slip.” But she didn’t get up. And her clothes got darker, and then the snow got darker, and I don’t know how long I stood there but by the time the police were pulling me away Fred had Scooby in the back of the van and Shaggy was gone and the clown was in cuffs and I don’t remember much else after that.

It was kind of like one of those dreams. As cliché as it sounds, that’s actually what it feels like. Everything is in slow motion and you kind of feel like you’re underwater and words don’t exactly make sense until a few minutes too late. “Can we get you something hot to drink? Coffee, tea, water? Do you need somewhere to stay tonight? Miss Dinkley, if we can help you in any way, just ask.” “No.. no, I don’t want any water.”
There were too many lights. Fred spoke to the press. He always spoke to the press. It was his face on the magazines, and his face in the news paper, and her face on every damn style magazine. They tried to get her in Playboy a few times, but Fred wouldn’t have it. It had to be right after we’d actually made it big, saving some.. record executive or something from the ghost of Buddy Holly or some shit that she was asked the first time. It was always an asshole in a mask. It’s honestly amazed me how stupid people can be. But that night, she got the call, and because we shared a room she ran over to his to ask right away. Shaggy was taking Scooby for a walk, not that that would have made a difference. The walls were paper thin, and I could hear how excited she was, and I could picture how she danced around him and touched his sleeve and played with his stupid ascot as she painted the picture of her in some skimpy, pinup throwback outfit poolside, a regular modern Marilyn Monroe. She adored Marilyn. And when I closed my eyes and tried to block it out, I could picture it when he pushed her into the wall, and see how he grabbed a fistful of her hair and she cried and he yelled, “You think I want to be dating some whore?!” and then they must have fucked because I left for a smoke and when I came back, his door was locked and she was still gone and Shaggy was in her bed and Scooby in mine. I think I slept in the van, but nobody other than her ever really cared what I did, not even me, and she had her own problems that night.

Phone Sex and Juice in the Fridge

2009-12-11T04:35:00.002-05:00

“Power’s out” she said
“How many fingers?” she said
I pictured her splayed out on the twin mattress, curly hair like warm earth spread around her head, bare chest heaving tiny mountains of breast in the moonlight shining through dorm window shades.
Four hours and forty-six minutes away the room slowly cools.

I sit up, drawn back to my room by the sound of a bathroom faucet. Warm light reflects off pink walls left over from a childhood of princess fantasies, creating rosy glows and a sense of innocence that feels all wrong.. The full-sized bed feels too big.

On the other side of the room, I open a window, letting winter chill greet skin overheated.

ramble rimble rabble

2009-12-09T02:35:00.001-05:00

1|

A man full of guts sat on the stoop
In front of my house with a briefcase in one hand and
His heart in the other

“It was my civil duty,” he said
And set the heart in the dirt and leftover autumn leaves

2|

The banana tree felt alone.
It cried to the birds.
It cried to the bugs.
It cried to the animals.
It cried to itself.

Nobody answered.

3|

She beat the piano!
Black and white keys bleeding red
Music screaming from inside a gaping wooden mouth
Somebody’s out of tune,
But we danced until daybreak in a haze of alcohol misty eyes and cigarette smoke.

4|

The hills don’t have eyes.
They can’t see the couple screwing in the dense woods.
The hills don’t have tongues.
They can’t taste the sweat from heated, passionate bodies.
The hills don’t have fingers.
They can’t probe her soft insides, feel her soft skin, feel his tensing ass midthrust.
The hills don’t have ears.
They can’t hear the moans and whimpers and soft cries of bleary ecstasy.
The hills don’t have mouths.
They can’t speak to her like he does, pleading filthy fuckery and hissing burning cumslop into virgin ears

Or so she’d have him think.

5|

The bear can stare
Its plastic eyes slightly askew
Its false furs matted with age
It’s mouth wide open, hole cut inside, filth from yesteryear
This is why we have yardsales

6|

I roared.
He roared.
She roared.
They roared.
We roared.

They audience applaud, we bowed, and the dinosaur orgy came to an end.

7|

“Bow to me.”
They pushed me down, but my eyes were still clinging to his.
“Your majesty!”
I cried to the king of the deer, his antlers mighty topped with a crown of acorns from the ambassador of squirrels
“I shall fasten you a salt lick sceptre! I shall fasten a cloak of fall leaves! We shall all be awed by your presence!”

He scoffed and rubbed his rack on the tree.

8|

The arrows rained down and we clutched the umbrella around us tight
The weatherman was wrong
He’d said they had orange feathers
Still, we kissed and streaks of blue pierced our livers and lungs and gizzards galore.

9|

The sea sang seashells to the dawn
And the whales carried the choir
And the shore caught the tune in salt and foam
And the hermit crab said, “Fuck this rock and roll.”

10|

“Hello mister fox.”
“Hello mister bear.”
“Hello mister owl.”
“Hello mister bat.”
Her shoes dragged dirt into the house, hair akimbo and dress askew
Her mother just hoped she was using protection.

I have secrets, secrets and a sick, sick stomach

2009-11-29T04:00:00.006-05:00

I have secrets, secrets and a sick, sick stomach
That twists and turns and wraps around your words

I have heartache, heartbreak and wasted time
With other that never saw me like you do

I have scabs and scars, inside and out
Wounds picked at, opened again and again

But I have hope
And love

And maybe you can save my soul, though no one’s ever tried.

_____

A faint trace
Of stale cigarettes mingling with
Chocolate and mint
Dance across your tongue, tease my senses
Make me beg for more

Grey eyes
Gone in an instant
Like second hand smoke
I’m addicted to your love

_____

Author’s Word:

Perhaps it’s a little strange to write the author’s word first. I don’t really know, I’ve never attempted to write a book before, so try to understand.. It’s only my first try. If you’re even reading this, it means I’m finally succeeded in sticking with something long enough to finish it, and that it was actually good enough to get published. Hopefully, pigs aren’t flying. Actually, scratch that. Flying pigs would be kind of cool, if a bit messy. If this book has been written, published, and is getting good reviews, well, maybe I’ll even get a boyfriend. And I suppose that’s the first sign of the Apocalypse, so I suggest you hold onto your hats, grab a can of soup and your electric toothbrush, and run for the hills, a storms a’brewin’.

Anyways, I suppose this is really unconventional in that I don’t have an idea yet. No beginning, middle, or end. No characters, plot, summary, nothing. I’m just going to type, and see where it leads me. Hopefully, to the Apocalypse. Whether it’s a drama, or a mystery, a romance or sci-fi, once thing is for certain;

Like all great stories, it’ll start with ‘Once upon a time..’

_____

I haven't updated in a while, mostly because there was no reason for it. I've been to depressed and too busy to even write, 1 is the first thing I've written in a long time. 2 was written at least a year ago. 3 was..somewhere in between. It was just an authors not for the story I was going to write (Who is Maggie Moon?) but that never panned out. Oh, and I've found something else;

a frantic disaster,

a great calamity of human excrement dropped from a ten story building in midjuly.

I don't remember when, or why, I wrote this, but there it is. And another thing;

4

I am the static on a television screen.-m

I am the white noise of a radio broadcast failure.-a

I am the stack of newspapers piled in the garage- wrinkled, waterlogged, and browned.-m

I am the lonely library books of yesteryear, forgotten fiction musty and aged.-a

I am the love letters of soul mates dead and gone, bound by shoelaces and fine ribbon, lost in the unfinished basement of a great grand child.-m

I am the record on repeat, scratching and flickering like a candle in the wind, fighting extinction in sterilized stereo compact disc mp3 generations.-a

I am the woman on horseback surrounded by the comforting musk of earth rather than stifling exhaust stink, moving with her mount’s smooth three beat candace rather than the jarring leap of neglected potholes.-m

I am the shaking girl in her half-lit bedroom, sopping hair cut short for fear of bugs, paranoia writhing in skin like worms hours of shower-scrubbing cannot remove. Every freckle is a new disease. -a

I am the drug induced euphoria, a perception skewed by chemical- the only road to normalcy.-m

I am societies underbelly, a scavenger of truth and the unconventional filthy pleasures.-a

I am the haunted eyes of a middle aged woman- studying herself in a mirrored reflection, memorizing worry lines, crows feet, laugh lines- the time line of an inconsequential life.-m

I am the sinking realization of the meaningless existence we live, the cubicle mind and 9-to-5 brain cells dreary and hopeless and dissatisfied.-a

I am the doe, wide eyed and bright, unaware that the soft tread of cleft hooves has caught me in cross hairs.-m

I am the quivering hand clutching a cigarette in the cold, tips pink and veins blue- splashed of colour and bruised nails.-a

I am the skin of an infant, lumpy and puckered and pink where it ought to be smooth and perfect and white- flesh forever marred because of a mother leaving her unsteady offspring to fend for himself in a suburban kitchenette complete with the splattering oil of frying chicken.-m

I am the wild night, the drunken glory and camaraderie or secrets yelled out van windows to the world, warmth creating gasoline blood to set the heart on fire. -a

I am the bird in the still of the night, full moon’s sun light reflection casting the misshapen patchwork of tree branches onto frosty spring grass. I shriek into midnight. Over and over again, shattering the peace of the dead of night. It is to no avail. I am alone.-m

I am the tourniquet, strangling tendons the syringe with ignore- the veins with fill, inducing pleasure the world can no longer give, fear it will end too soon, shame you have plunged so deep, horror at the track marks and lost hours. -a

I am a decaying leaf, tumbling down a concrete path of ecstasy and comfort, dragged by whirlwinds of woe and malice, and stopped by the heel of your selfishly engineered shoe. -k

M is Marissa, A is myself, and K is Kaitlyn. This was titled Text Message SOS and when my laptop was wiped, I'd thought I'd lost it. It was recently uncovered on an expedition through my hard drive. They occurred over the span of one night, the text messages between Marissa and myself. The last one, by Kaitlyn, was added after a read through once I'd typed them all out.

About 6 weeks ago I was in a car accident. This is what was posted on my tumblr that day;

Today I was in a car accident. I was in the passenger side and the car got t-boned, smashing the whole side of the car that I was sitting in. The car is now totaled, and I just got back from the hospital. Thank got nothing is broken, but I am very very bruised and very shaken up/scared.

I cannot express how terrifying that was for me. Feeling the other car smashing into me, and then not being able to breathe, being so confused, pushing the airbag away from my face, still not being able to breathe. Just..sitting there for 10 minutes before I could crawl out the drivers side and pick the glass out of my hair and off my clothes.

It was horrible.

My brand new phone got destroyed, too. Thankfully, I still have my old one to use for now.

I went to the hospital a few hours later because I couldn’t breathe well still and my chest/lower rib area and right arm were hurting really bad. After sitting for a few hours and getting some tests done, it turns out I’m just really badly bruised.

So yeah.

Cars are nasty.

I am scared of them.

I am never going to drive.

Now, six weeks later, I am no longer having flashbacks. I am still very anxious when in cars, and that probably will never change. However, my arm, neck, and back still have a lot of pain. If I use my right arm too much, my hand goes still and becomes very painful, and the rest of my arm starts to burn and ache. My mother says it's nerve damage. Oh, well.

In other, startling news;

I..am in love. And that sounds remarkably silly and stupid, and I know it, but there's no other word for the way I feel about her. Or the way she feels about me. I am still so terrified of it all, because as of now..,she's the only one who has never hurt me, even accidentally, and that..is something that scares me. I keep waiting for her to turn and run away. So far, so good, though. Hopefully I won't fuck this up.

There's so much I'd like to say about this matter but I simply do not have the words for it.

All I want is to go back to her bed and sleep in her arms like I did that weekend.

I've never been happier than I was in those moments.

This whole town is so fucking depressing.

2009-09-24T16:38:00.002-04:00

It really is. There's nobody to have a goddamn decent conversation with. I mean, sure, people are talking, but they're never really saying anything. Not to you, anyways, they're just talking to themselves about themselves and using you as a goddamn medium.

The last time I had an actual conversation was with Abby a few days ago, when we talked about intellegent design and creationism and how bitter I am about all of that and how even though we disagreed, we could UNDERSTAND each other. I can't meet anyone who understands me half the time. It made me feel pretty damn good for a few hours, that conversation did.

Before that, it was with that guy I met at the party. I was pretty drunk for most of it, but damn, that was a hell of a talk. I'm sure he was a shitty guy and all, but he called me the next day and was real sweet about how drunk I was and all. Gentlemanly, I guess. Didn't really change that he was a shitty guy, but that coversation made me feel damn good, too.

And before that was the night I took shrooms and it was wasted because half the time I was crying my eyes out and the rest of the time I couldn't even speak but that was a fucking good time regardless and I was happy and warm even if I felt so fucking alone in my big old room with the lights all pink and everything looking really rosy and soft.

I'm not saying every conversation has to have a point, no. I love just fucking talking about shit with people I care about. Just talking. Texting. Whatever. But god, it gets damn lonely in my head, with all these ideas and needs and fuck I don't know. I don't know.

All I know, this town is bumming me out. I just need to stop smoking so many cigarettes and reading so much because these books are all written by people I could have a good ass conversation with and it's really fucking lonely.

Katzenklavier

2009-09-20T03:56:00.003-04:00

Things I have done lately:

1.

It was a cold September and I’d wasted away the day chasing fairies through woods,
but they had all packed up before the winter came and blew it’s vicious wind to chill their hands
and stop their fluttering hearts mid-beat.

The night was calm but cool and I stood on my driveway,
shrouded in darkness
my feet
and teeth
and skin trembling in time to a song I couldn’t hear,
the way they did when you pulled me close and held me tight as I’d cried over a world
so unforgiving and
so complicated and
so hard.

I could never understand why you loved me.

You were so good, with your eyes so big with lashes dark and full and skin so soft,
it pained me to touch it with my own
flawed and dry and rough.

I had to leave before I broke you, too.

2.

I once met a man
or should I say, I once saw him,

terrified to move as he walked the streets at night.

Confident in his two feet
he seemed so large .

And
I so fragile with porcelain bones and paper skin and lead feet rooted to the ground,
trapping me in his gaze.

I could feel his eyes on my flesh like cold linoleum on bare feet
though in the cover of darkness hidden between cars in the driveway my insignificant form could barely be noticed.

In that moment, I became an unmoving, breathless spectre, my trembling soul caught by those eyes.

He may have seen me and known his effect, but he moved on as he had, his pace never changing,
and was gone,
leaving nothing behind.

I have never cried so hard and understood so little.

3.

Barbara could tell from where she was standing that this man was dirty, scared, and probably on some sort of illegal substance. Since they’d been in the elevator, he’d pounded on the metal doors, sobbed in the corner, paced back and forth, and talked to his dog. She was grateful for the size of the elevator, that it was a bit larger than usually as hospital elevators tend to be, because to call the brown dog large would be an understatement. It was massive.

When they’d ran in here, they didn’t know that in a state of panic the elevators locked down. They didn’t know that in an asylum such as this, the elevators were industrial heavy-strength massive things. Nobody gets in or out unless the system wants you to. She’d tried everything, almost every tool in her utility belt she’d thought would work. But people who work amongst the people who are locked in these places know more than Barbara did about the strength of the mentally insane. One could argue they knew more than Bruce, but he’d been doing this far longer than Barbara. He’d dealt with a lot more. And he was the one that usually handled the clown she was sent here about.

Just after the first hour mark, when none of her tools had let to any improvement on the situation, Barbara had began questioning the man in the elevator. He hadn’t complied at first, just crying and holding his dog, but once he’d realize she wasn’t just a delusion in his stoned and panicked mind, he started answering. He’d come there with his friends. They heard the place was haunted and strange occurrences were common in the area. They were some kind of mystery team, this addict, some feminist with daddy issues, an aging prom queen and a man with severe control issues.

And the dog.

By now, having been sitting for a few hours, it was starting to smell. Rigor mortis had come and gone. This man didn’t seem to notice the state of his animal. He’d practically dragged it in, talking to it, laughing nervously, eyes darting from it’s lifeless form to Barbara’s hidden face. To the man’s credit, he couldn’t have known who was working here. He couldn’t have known how fast things would have gone down. He couldn’t have known how, over the last few months, after the death of Bruce Wayne and the disappearance of Batman, how bad Gotham had gotten.

And now this.. Shaggy, he’d said his name was, was stuck in an elevator with Barbara Gordon. It had been almost three hours. Nothing had noticeably changed. The air had gotten heavier somehow. Thirty minutes ago, Shaggy had calmed down to the point of just petting his dog and making small talk with Barbara about the places he’d been. Barbara had relaxed, too, sitting and leaning against the cool metal walls. By the time she realized they were being gassed, it was too late. The last thing she heard before she passed out was the doors sliding open and that clown’s horrible laugh.

The first thing she heard when she woke up was that same laugh coming from her.

4.

We were all pretty confused when the commercials started changing. At first, it was kind of funny. We’d chalked it up to advertising and the push in recent years to be quirkier, more memorable, more bizarre. But when the companies started coming out, suing the stations, swearing they’d never changed anything.. That’s when people started to get a little frightened. When the commercials kept changing, when it started slipping into the television shows, people started to really panic. Especially the children’s shows. A few months ago, watching Dora cry out his name would have been funny. A real fucking gas. Now? Not so much. Not when scripted shows came on in a language nobody could understand and the actors could never be expected to speak. Not when their voices came out in some alien sounding garbled tongue, deep and chanting the same lines over and over. Not when the newspapers suddenly switched to these ancient, I don’t know what. Tomes, symbols, scriptures.

I could recognize it. Of course I could, I’d read about Him on the internet all that time ago. I was a big fan. Hell, I’m so fucking out of it right now on anything, everything I could grab off the streets and out of the pharmacies and out of the liquor stores I’d probably look Him right in the face and tell him, “Hey man, I’m a big fan. You do great work.” See, the thing is, as I was learning about Him on the internet, so were They. That’s the funny bit about the internet. The exact people who shouldn’t ever, under any circumstances, get that information.. well, they usually do.

Way back when it first began, we laughed at the religious nuts who fled to underground shelters to inbreed for a few generations until they felt it safe to come back up. We laughed because we thought they were overreacting. They laughed because we’d finally all be gone. Too bad that whatever it is that comes back up, if it even gets the chance, had only just prolonged it’s fate. They’re just going to be eaten last. Right now, I can hear the people screaming. I can hear gunshots and windows being smashed. I can hear people struggling with the knowledge that shortly, He comes. I’d like to think I was smart. I have enough drugs and alcohol here to last me.. oh, a week at least. I’d like to think that I was pretty smart because, goddamn, it’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.

I flick on the television.

“Hi! Billy Mayes here with OxiClean and Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn..”

what was normal in the evening by the morning seems insane.

2009-07-28T05:15:00.000-04:00

The Piano Speaks

After Erik Satie

by Sandra Beasley

For an hour I forgot my fat self,

my neurotic innards, my addiction to alignment.

For an hour I forgot my fear of rain.

For an hour I was a salamander

shimmying through the kelp in search of shore,

and under his fingers the notes slid loose

from my belly in a long jellyrope of eggs

that took root in the mud. And what

would hatch, I did not know—

a lie. A waltz. An apostle of glass.

For an hour I stood on two legs

and ran. For an hour I panted and galloped.

For an hour I was a maple tree,

and under the summer of his fingers

the notes seeded and winged away

in the clutch of small, elegant helicopters.

_______

minimum wage steals the night away
& morning always comes too soon

what's the point of being special if noone's there to see it?
midnight
one
two
three
halflit cigarette fills a porchlight with smoke

chases away the demons of the night

midnight to dawn;
this is the hour of the wolf

and we're all too fucked up to feel it
that sudden sinking
that unseen terror
we've no guns or knives or blunt sticks
we arm ourselves with nicotine
booze
steel-plated hearts

just to make it to the sunrise.

I've been experimenting with new mediums. My new typewriter for one, which is why only one poem of late. The rest wouldn't translate well. they aren't worth the time it would take to type again, anyways. Blackout poetry, too. Pages sliced from a book that now acts as a jewlery box. I've picked up knitting, again. I've picked up a new turn table. I've picked myself up and knocked me back down all over again.

It's been a while since I last wrote about life, and I suppose things have changed. I am still the teenaged mother, though with my aunts passing it's gotten easier and more difficult and I find myself snapping at odd times because I am the strong one and I can't, I can not, allow myself to become an emotional wreck again.

Of course, no matter what I do, I turn into a completely different mess.

I drink too much and I smoke too much and I hate myself too much and I am too out of control and too stuck in myself and too big for my own two hands and for this island and for people to understand what I am going through. It's all my fault, but I can't help it. I can't stop it.

There are so many blurry nights lately. I've fallen into old habits easy. And I want you to understand, I do. I just worry that you worry and it tears me apart. I let someone know once and they just couldn't keep caring. Not that I could blame them.

Missed meals and the ones had lost soon after with a quick little finger trick. Long digits are good for something, at least. Lately it's been easier. I forget sometimes, I do. But I am trying. It's just hard when I see the weight dropping off and the compliments finally come, the first kind thing my mother has said in years.

I am tired of being the disappointment.

I hate that I love the nights of fudge with shrooms that tastes like easter candy in august, chalky and stale and straight to your head, lights blooming like flowers until all the words are ripped from you and tears stream down your face. I hate that I love the numbing of the pain pills, the lightheaded giddy seperation from everything. I hate that I love the blackout nights, the sloppy drinking, the half empty vodka bottle in one hand and cigarette in the other. I hate that I love waking up to the bruises and the missed memories and the knowledge that at least, for a few hours, I was free from my mind and my mother and my OCD and manic depression and hypochondria and body issues.

I hate that when I feel out of control, I feel beautiful.

I hate that I love the way my eyes look so blue when they are so red, when my head is a bubble about to burst and every moment is like waking up from a bad dream into something wonderful.

I hate that I love skipping the iron pills, playing russian roulette with the days until I am walking and my legs give out to the black explosion in my mind, falling forwards into disorientation. I hate that I laugh afterwards. I hate that I do the same thing a few days later.

I hate that my mother calls me a failure. I hate that my brother calls me a drunk. I hate that my father doesn't even call me anything, I am not that important.

I hate that when I am happy, it doesn't last long until this comes back. I hate that when this comes, I hate all of you. I hate your talent and your beauty and your flaws, because no matter what they are, they are more glamorous than mine. I hate that I could write books about you, I could love you all forever, but I know that in reality, I will always be the afterthought. The fuck up. The mess.

I hate that when the high wears off, I hate myself more than ever. I hate that people have to play 'mother' like I am some deranged child incapable of caring for itself. I hate that I am exactly that. I hate that I can never shake the feeling another mistake is around the corner. I hate that it's what keeps me going.

I know you'll never understand it.

I know you'll worry.

I know this will come back to haunt me somehow.

But I know I will be alright.

Just give me time to make my mistakes.

Sing me to sleep with an Rx lullaby

2009-06-17T14:14:00.000-04:00

I am trapped

I am an anachronism
a remnant of what could have been
the memoir of a dying generation
the last breath of the last real poet,

all the failure and rage and dreams and hopes and
none of the joy
none of the glory.

I am alone and they passed on at the moment of
my birth and
my rebirth and
my realization of being born

I am the bastard child of the ages.

II.

have you ever felt the world dying around you? felt yourself going mad like some planet crawled inside you and is growing and growing and strangling you and you'll never get free and you're drowning in this modern cesspool of society and you'll die young in the next ten years and you were never meant for this era. you were born too late and you'll never belong and people will look at you funny like when the radio is between stations and you're static and erratic and you'll never see the fall.

III.

Between the books, sections Hg3883 and Hf5548.4 our bodies touched. Heated kisses, muted sounds, gently caressing against works of nonfiction. Could their authors see us now? Feel our passion? Crave you as I do? Would they understand the way I ache? In a million years, when this library has turned to dust, will our love still stand?

IV.

Sitting in my room, shirt off, Lucky burning in what I can only describe as a finger bowl, I have hit what I can only begin to think is the most wonderful balance of vices. booze and incense and nicotine and rage course through my veins in spastic screechings of children on a water ride, letting the liquid take them where it wants. tea cools on the night stand. my beautiful cotton second hand blanket is blackened by frantic ashings of a shaking hand.

I am completely content.

I am out of control.

[exerpt from the litle blue bird journal on the nightstand, written several nights ago, fixed for spelling errors]

Things have changed.

The way I spend my days, my nights, my brand of cigarettes, the way I felt towards someone who would never feel the same, the colour of my skin, the health of my aunt.

I am traped in the life of a housewife, a teenaged mother. With my mother at the hospital, care and keeping of my tiny cousin has fallen upon me. I cook, I clean, I do all that is requred of me with no complaints, not to my mother. I am not going to be unnecessary stress. But it numbs the mind, and I can slip out every so often on a walk, escaping to follow the sounds my headphones pump into me and clear my head with nicotine flooding my body. With all that is happening, I can't quit.

I don't want to quit.

I rarely write during the day, but it's hard to access the computer at night now that my laptop has, unfortunately, passed on. He's off in some factory now, cooling system having malfunctioned, and should return by the 6th of July.. or I am to get a new laptop from Best Buy, if they can't fix him. His memory was wiped, and half of my poetry that I never uploaded went away with it.

I am so tired. Sleeping is nearing impossibility, or, at least, good sleep is. I wake up more exhausted than when I fell asleep.

My skin, usually pale and spotted with reddish gold freckles, has taken a vibrantred of a red-brown tone depending on where you look. My thighs are so painfully burnt. My shoulders and arms aren't as bad as I would expect, but they're exposed far more frequently. I haven't worn shorts in two years, but I've worn plenty of strappy tops. The plus side is that with all of the sunshine piercing my skin, many, many more freckles have come out to play, sprouting all over me. Including a few on my face, which hasn't freckled in several years.

I've created a tumblr, it's mostly photos and things I find intriguing, along with blogsecrets I find amusing or relate to, and conversations with my friend and myself over things that were tumbled or retumbled or something similar to that.

I'm reading Haunted right now, I've recieved and finished The Show that Smells, and I recently watched Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I've started smoking Lucky Strikes (I miss my blacks), I'm a pescatarian for over two weeks (who made a mistake yesterday of eating some chicken. filled with guilt over it.), I am doing my best to stay sane in these trying times. I have conversed with spirits over a ouija boards, had a tarot reading, and remembered how I am going to die. I am young and reckless, but not as wild and wrecked as I would like to be.

I am so many things compiled to create a nobody.

SOCIETY WILL LAY IN RUINS

2009-06-01T00:50:00.000-04:00

The depression came again, but I have been working through it this time, and it is not as bad as it used to be. I still can't sleep, I cry all night, I wake up with tearstains on my cheeks, reeking of heartbreak and incense. I am not smoking any more. My aunt is living with us now. She has three kinds of cancers and a perforated bowel. We don't know what will happen. It scares me. I just want a cigarette, but I don't want to be her.

Not smoking has make me gain weight. I have gone through three different diets in the past few months. Because of the weight I gained back, I have lost a total of three pounds. Some days, I make myself sick in the mirror. Other days, I can guide my hand down soft skin and fat and feel beautiful like the stars in the twenties. They weren't so thin. They wouldn't give me dirty looks.

My birthday went well. It was small, a few friends, and I spent part of the day at the hospital with my aunt (she is now home with us, as I said). I was pierced, on my left brow and my right nostril. The brow piercing is horribly bruised now, deep blackpurple and reds and yellows. I received wonderful gifts, like a ditch head named Hershall who was gained through means I do not believe were exactly legal, and an antique clock shaped like a giant pocket watch. I have new clothing and jewelery. I am soon to be getting a gift in the mail from a friend who lives far enough away that it is required.

A few days later, my friend took me to Lily Dale as a present. I had a reading done and she also bought me a few things that hopefully will bring me what they are supposed to..

I have spent almost every day with my friends so far. It has been the most wonderful summer I think I have ever had, and it is only the end of May. We eat lemon ice and watch movies and discuss the fall of society and how we will come out unscathed and dressed in the height of steampunk fashions. Marissa purchased a gas mask. I am lusting after goggles and circular bandoleer scarves.

Everything is kind of backwards right now, but I am working through it. I am stronger than I have been with all of this support. It isn't so bad. It isn't so bad.

I just want a cigarette..

Little girl, little girl..

2009-05-20T01:28:00.000-04:00

Little girl, little girl
Why are you crying?
Inside your restless soul your heart is dying.
Little one, little one
Your soul is purging
Of love and razor blades
Your blood is surging

Runaway
From the river to the street
And find yourself with your face in the gutter
Your a stray for the salvation army
There is no place like home
When you got no place to go

Little girl, little girl
Your life is calling
The charlatans and saints of your abandon
Little one little one
The sky is falling
The lifeboat of deception is now sailing
In the wake all the way
No rhyme or reason
Your bloodshot eyes
Will show your heart of treason
Little girl little girl
You dirty liar
You're just a junkie
Preaching to the choir

Runaway
To your lost tranquility
And find yourself with your face in the gutter
You're a stray for the dregs of humanity
There is no place like home
When you got no place to go

The traces of blood
Always follow you home
Like the mascara tears
From your getaway
Your walking with blisters
and running with shears
So unholy.
Sister of grace.

Runaway
From the river to the street
And find yourself with your face in the gutter
You're a stray for the salvation army
There is no place like home
When you got no place to go

- ¿Viva La Gloria? [Little Girl] - Green Day

My birthday is tomorrow.

I've asked for books, a typewriter, two piercings (nose and horizontal brow), a tattoo (the owl for my left foot, to go with the lonely seahorse on my right), and some clothing.

To be honest, I don't expect much of anything this year.

Which is good because it means I won't be disappointed when I am pushed aside, as that is the latest trend.

I can, but I can't.

2009-05-05T23:49:00.000-04:00

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more.
People talking without speaking,
People hearing without listening,
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dared
Disturb the sound of silence.

http://nuddy--pants.livejournal.com/39507.html

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/journal/article.html?id=182837

Tonight, I am filled with the madness of youth, but I am trapped in the net of how tame I really am.

Some nights, I just want to scream and yell and be out until five in the morning, walking along the beach and wearing my shirt too low and drinking too much and saying things I never wanted to tell.

Some nights, I don't want to curl up on the couch with my books and my laptop and the tea I haven't been able to make because of the kitchen being remodeled and the stove being detached.

I don't want my soft slippers and comforting cotton pants.

I want to wear too much makeup that will smear and I want my jeans to be too tight and smell of spilled liquor and I want my hands that I obsessively wash to be sticky from my own sloppy drinking of something I can no longer name in a red plastic cup.

I don't want to be the modern poet, caught up in my comforting home. I want to be Jack Kerouac. I want to be Charles Bukowski. I want to be Allen Ginsburg. I don't want to be the domesticated human.

Can't I be wild every so often?

I know I break the mold every once in a while. I know I can be a mess. I know I can, and I know I crave it, and I know I feel a little bit better, a little less soft, when my hair and my hands smell like the black kretek cigarettes I smuggle into the dark, hiding them from my Father in the middle of the night.

Why isn't anything ever enough?

Robin red breast..

2009-04-25T22:51:00.000-04:00

"Who killed Cock Robin?" "I," said the Sparrow,
"With my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin."
"Who saw him die?" "I," said the Fly,
"With my little eye, I saw him die."
"Who caught his blood?" "I," said the Fish,
"With my little dish, I caught his blood."
"Who'll make the shroud?" "I," said the Beetle,
"With my thread and needle, I'll make the shroud."
"Who'll dig his grave?" "I," said the Owl,
"With my pick and shovel, I'll dig his grave."
"Who'll be the parson?" "I," said the Rook,
"With my little book, I'll be the parson."
"Who'll be the clerk?" "I," said the Lark,
"If it's not in the dark, I'll be the clerk."
"Who'll carry the link?" "I," said the Linnet,
"I'll fetch it in a minute, I'll carry the link."
"Who'll be chief mourner?" "I," said the Dove,
"I mourn for my love, I'll be chief mourner."
"Who'll carry the coffin?" "I," said the Kite,
"If it's not through the night, I'll carry the coffin."
"Who'll bear the pall? "We," said the Wren,
"Both the cock and the hen, we'll bear the pall."
"Who'll sing a psalm?" "I," said the Thrush,
"As she sat on a bush, I'll sing a psalm."
"Who'll toll the bell?" "I," said the bull,
"Because I can pull, I'll toll the bell."
All the birds of the air fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,
When they heard the bell toll for poor Cock Robin.

The weather has been miraculously beautiful the past few days, enough so that I dusted off my windows and pried them open to let the air into this musty room today. Despite the sickness that has crawled into me, I found myself off at the beach yesterday evening with two of my very best friends. We walked along the pier, and at the edge, climbed over the fencing to sit on the rocks and watch the sky bordering twilight. We talked and laughed and I took pictures with my little book camera, and it was cool but the breeze was warm and we didn't mind that our feet got wet even when we went back and walked along the sand. It was dirty from the winter still, and driftwood had been scattered along the shore. There was a dead fish stranded along where was water just barely met the land, and it is just now that I am realizing the poor thing was still there because the seagulls weren't quite back yet.

When it was just about twilight, we went back to my house, and the warm night left me sleepy and content and after a shower to scrub the sand and sunscreen off, I fell asleep fairly quickly though I unfortunately didn't sleep well. It's not too unusual, considering I am, as previously stated, ill.

Recently, I watched Little Children, mostly because Jackie Earle Haley was in it, and it is yet another thing to add to the list of why my heart breaks so frequently. It really is a wonderful story, and a tragic one in how very human all the characters seem. I highly recommend it.

I miss the days when I could breath and move without with odd aching in my bones. It is a want that i cannot satisfy and I am tired and sorry that I ever allowed myself to grow this sick, though I know it isn't exactly my fault. I was very sick before it, and on ten days of the horrible smelling sulfur antibiotics that made me dizzy and sick to my stomach. And once those ended, a day later, this came on, and it will not go away.

I need to get away. This place is suffocating me.

Hello, I am the brokenhearted.

2009-04-06T03:44:00.000-04:00

My heart once again aches, and the pain is the sort one can only get from a particularly good novel. I've just finished Peter Pan, and though I know it is a children's book, there is so much of it that I think children can't grasp. Or perhaps that is just my silliness, the way I sobbed at the end when Wendy had grown and Peter had returned and I truly felt as betrayed as he must have. Though, again, this is perhaps just my silliness that makes me see Peter as such the tragic boy.

The weather has grown cold again, which I don't particularly mind. The warmth of the few days brought me to playing about outside with my tiny cousin and my two friends. We drew chalk pictures on the front walk and played tag in the back, running very slowly when the baby (though really, she is a toddler, or whatever four year olds are to be considered) had been claimed 'it'. The running about had left me sunburnt (I am the only fool who can get sunburnt in March in upstate New York) and sore with the aching of laying about all Winter and suddenly running about for hours and hours. I imagine it's how a butterfly must feel when it first spreads it's wings. Like all of it's muscles had been pulled tight, and to move them after so long would be too painful, if the feeling of flying was not so great.

I've all of five hours to sleep before I need to wake for class in the morning, and I don't believe I'll get that much if I attempted to rest now. My sleep is so interrupted lately, and I toss and turn and sigh and fail to find a comfortable position. It's always been a bother for me to fall asleep, hours of laying around with not a wink coming to me, but lately.. it has been more troubling in a way I cannot begin to describe, for I myself can't define it. This insomnia leaves me ragged and exhausted, but I have not yet resorted to taking the pills again, nor anything else I may have, in the past, self medicated with.

Someday, I'll beat it. Someday, I'll lay down in bed, close my eyes, and sleep soundly, lightly, and wake up able to think clearly, the fogging and pain of yesteryear long forgotten.

Perhaps tomorrow will be my someday.

Oh, but I AM such a pretty disaster.

2009-03-20T00:38:00.000-04:00

I have made so many wrong decisions, I can't even pinpoint the things I've done right. Everything is coming around, and while I was flying high a few days ago- hell, a few hours ago, this rollercoaster I'm stuck riding swung me down again back to the bottom so quickly I'm left with nothing but a whirr of half remembered words, nausea, and a headache that makes me tear so badly I can barely see the glow of the computer screen.

Arrests, death, cancer, suicide. Families falling apart. Nobody to turn to.

Is this what being an adult brings?

The people closest to me are suffering and there is nothing I can do. I can cry to myself, curled up in my bed, but what good does it do? When all I have are my pretty words, what do I do when I don't know what to say, how to make it better? I can't make it better. I can't do anything.

I'm sorry.

I'm so, so sorry.

I need to go far, far away. It won't solve anything, I know it won't, but I can't be here anymore. I can't stand to see you all in so much pain. I can't stand to feel so useless.

Bits and Bobbles.

2009-03-16T01:46:00.000-04:00

It’s the dark I want for myself, all for myself, but there is so much I want that I just can’t have. And why I do these things, I don’t know. Not to feel, not to be numb. Not to break, but to feel broken, perhaps.

So I stand in the dark, with this cigarette between trembling white fingers, their red nails matching the colour of my cheeks, a blush that rises from the cold of this winter night.

It’s nights like these, with the snow falling on this suburban wasteland, the streetlight illuminating the stop sign and the four way street, that makes one feel so much like a caged animal. I am trapped, harnessed, and I could free myself if I wasn’t so terrified by what would happen.

What could happen?

My hands are shaking, my heart is breaking, but not for you. No, not for you. Not the way you are now. But the way you will be when I hurt you so. I will hurt you, even if you don’t know it now.

And I want so desperately to be saved from this madness, this fear, this cold. But I put myself there, and I keep myself here now on this late winter’s night. I put myself here, but I won’t let it go, even as the edge slips away with this nicotine fix.

Even as I retreat to bed, my body quivering, aching with exhaustion, I hold it close like a bird with a broken wing- hobbling along, singing a shattered song.

Oh, how I long to fly.

_

Outside this cheap, dingy motel window I can see, shining across the street, a neon sign declaring ‘Shrine of the Infant Jesus’ in colours that could save your soul if only you had one. I’m sure I sold mine long ago, cashed it in for a night in a room just like this, for some cheap liquor and a few hours of being somebody new.

And just like then, this sign was like the guiding star, with three women huddled under it, wearing clothing so thin you could see the little bits of dignity trying to hold on and failing and falling down into the dark, stomped down by the shined shoes of the business man who had his hand on the slightest of the three’s waist. Even from here, I can see the way her skin crawls beneath his.

I wonder what kind of gifts they were bringing to the baby Jesus tonight.

Eventually, I pulled back from the window, falling onto the bed. The t.v. went on and on in the background, as it had been doing, flickering lights against my closed eyelids like a dream machine. No sound. I hate the sound of televisions, though with the thudding of the bed against the wall in the room beside mine, it almost seemed worth it to suffer a night of trashy cable shows with people who have even less dignity than the three wise women across the road.

I was craving a cigarette. I was craving sleep. The clock flashed 2:45. 2:45. 2:45. 2:46. 2:46. 2:46...

_

So, there he was, perched on his couch and smoking his joint easy as can be. Like nothing had changed between us. Like nothing had even happened. But that’s just the way he was, you know? So at ease, no matter the situation. As long as he was smoking, anyways. I’ve never seen him lose his cool when he was smoking, even if it was just the Lucky Strikes he usually had. I clear my throat. It takes him a minute to turn, but he does, and fixes me with those doe eyes. “You know,” I start, my voice faltering slightly. “They say you’re abusing substances now.” There’s a soft noise, something between a snort and a laugh. “Honey,” He said, stretching out onto his back, one long leg dangling over the edge, “Substances and me have a funny kind of relationship. To say I’m abusing them.. well, that implies something bad. Me and substance? We’re like Van Morrison and his brown eyed girl. We’re Sonny and Cher. Do wah diddy diddy dum, you know? The thing is, substance and I have a sort of, you know, S and M relationship. Substance wants to be used, abused. But it’s not abuse. Not the way you’re talkin’.”

We make small talk for a while, subject dropped, and it’s not until later, when I’m doing the piles of dishes in his sink and he’s perched on the counter when you bring it up again. “Honey,” he says, and I know that tone of voice. That soft, sad tone that he’d use in his favourite songs and when interviews got too personal. “Someway or another, I abused everything in my life.” At this point, I’m shaking my head, covered in suds to the elbows. “That’s not true.” I said. “That’s not true.” I repeated. “There’s me. You never abused me.” And it’s his turn to give a tiny shake of his head, curls brushing across those cheeks. “Yes, I did. Ten years from now, if you’re around, you’ll hate me for it. You’ll look back on me and you’ll see it and you’ll hate me. And if I’m still around, I’ll understand.”

Like I said, that was the last time I saw him. Ten years ago, almost to the day. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know why he never returned my calls. I don’t know why he wrote the letter to me. I just..I just don’t know, okay? God. I don’t know. He left, get it? Ten years ago. That day. He just left and he never came back and, fuck, would it kill you to give me a box of tissues? He left and I don’t know why he killed himself and I don’t know why he wrote the letter to me and I hate him, I fucking hate him, and I don’t know, god, I don’t know. I just don’t know anything. Can I just.. can I just go back to work ?

-

In actually blogging about myself news, I am completely obsessing over Watchmen at the moment. Well, for the past..since December. But it had gotten a lot worse in the past few weeks.

I don't particularly mind, but I have an unhealthy love for Rorschach that is daring to pass my unhealthy love of the Joker. I am a comic book loser destined for abusive relationships.

So it goes.

Things have happened, of course, such as nights spend running through pouring rain to see a roller derby, lies to our parents, a man dressed up in blood and gore, oh so many black cigarettes, lady salvia, southern comfort, and a ride in the back of an SUV that left me numb and calm and sleepy, laying without my seatbelt off across the street while the others chatted amongst themselves, the lights from the bridges whizzing over my head like little comets all in a row. Lady salvia, if it was not some impostor, was not good to us that night, but we ended with a note of camaraderie that spun out into the night and turned slightly sour the next day.

The kitchen is being remodeled, with the walls a rich plum and the cupboards freshly white. They've been moved up, so it is even more difficult to reach bowls and plates and cups. I can barely get to the second shelf without needing a chair. The lower half of the walls have been replaced from their plasticy white predecessor to wooden strips that remind me of a fence with all the posts very close together. Altogether, it is pleasant, but I eagerly await the day when I can begin cooking in there once more, or at least find myself making a good cup of tea.

I have filled my life with music and books, the most recent of each category being Bob Dylan and On the Road. On the Road is everyhting I have ever wanted to put into words. It is what I long to do with my life. To write and travel and go, just go. Hitching and taking buses when I can, working odd jobs, staying amongst people who understand my wanderlust and addiction to prose. I fear there are too many who are too afraid of this world to even try anymore. I fear I am too afraid to try.

But someday, I know it's true- someday they will ask about me, and someone will be able to say, "That bird has flown."

Someday, I really do hope I will be grand enough to have Beatle's lyrics quoted on my behalf.

What a glorious way to be.

So you want to be a writer.

2009-02-13T01:12:00.000-05:00

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

— Bukowski

These are a few of my favourite things;

2009-02-09T23:36:00.000-05:00

Words and objects and other nonsense I enjoy:

Life goes on, bra.

These pills are fine to pass the time 'til I find my new drug.

Run, Rabbit, Run.

We are obviously soulmates.

Someday I will own them all.

I made these. They were delightfully adorable.

Oh, obviously there is much more. Such as my recent fascination with knitting, and the subsequent learning of it. Having italian feasts with darling friends and laughing until my stomach aches. Listening to music that makes me smile and laugh and cry. Writing until the sun comes up and my eyes burn from staring at my little computer screen. (Someday I shall get a typewriter. I want one so badly.)

I also like discovering new music and sharing it with people who will enjoy it as much as I do. Maybe they'll think of me every time they hear it.

<3

Run, rabbit, run.

2009-01-27T23:38:00.000-05:00

It's been a while since I posted.

Life took me by surprise yet again.

The lows it throws at me are astounding, but after a few weeks of earl grey and nag champa and Beatles therapy, I seem to be doing much better, indeed. I find myself smiling, laughing, feeling light and airy. I suppose this is my 'high' time, what with the risky, energetic behaviour I've engaged in. Perhaps my judgment is poor, but I feel alive once again.

Spring has sprung early in my mind, and I am once again writing and singing and sleeping soundly, though sometimes my pillows and cheeks are a tad wet when I wake up and it does, still, take me a while to fall into slumber. Such is the insomnia. That will never change.

A new college is what is in fashion, I suppose, and I do enjoy this one far more than the last, even if I am living at home through this. The classes are lovely, and I take many night courses, so my schedule fits nicely with my night owl tendencies. I am writing odes to the new characters I come across every day. They make me smile and sigh and be thankful the world is such a colourful place yet again, even in this cold, grey winter.

My friends go to this college. Two had gone last semester, and one of those two, a small, pretty, delicate, birdlike girl with tiny bones and wispy hair happened to be in two of my classes with me. The other of the two, a dark haired, elegant and slender and all to beautiful girl, carpools with us to our late night abnormal psychology class. The last of my friends who goes there caught me by surprise, as until two days ago she was supposed to be six hours away. This girl is one of my very best friends, and has been for so very, very many years. She is absolutely stunning with her hourglass figure and mile-long legs. But her mind and her heart.. they are the most beautiful parts.

All of these lovely ladies are going to give me a complex. Oh, dear.

I have a new tattoo, a darling little seahorse on my right foot. Soon enough, I will get it's pair, the owl, on my left. And then I am off to have my right side done with the moon that was designed for me by my other best friend. Somewhere in between those will be some facial piercings. Nothing too much, but a little stud in my nose and a bar in my left brow. I will feel alternative and hip and perhaps somewhat pretty.

I do hope I feel pretty.

Perhaps I will sleep when I am dead.

2009-01-11T18:10:00.001-05:00

I think this is what they call being alive.

Not living, not quite.

I haven't eaten properly for god knows how long. Not because I'm anorexic, not because I'm starving myself. This world just leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, a sour, acidic churning at the back of my throat. It's hard to eat when you're constantly thinking and thinking and thinking. Realizing. Knowing. Feeling.

I take pills to sleep at night. This insomnia might be part of it. I am so tired, even though I fall asleep and the hours pass quickly, dreamlessly. Dark one moment, just passing out, feeling nothing. Gone. Colours and noises and dull aches and stomach acid the next.

Is this a disorder? This realization of the world. Is this what they would classify as depression or bipolar disorder or schizophrenia? Am I just a broken little mind, meant to be fed pill after pill after pill to pacify this mind of mine like a screaming, crying, filthy child? Not that I don't already feed myself enough pills. Iron, Calcium, Echinacea. Migraine meds, stomach pills, sleeping pills, pain pills. Pills to keep my mind from slipping, keep me focused. That's harder to do when you haven't eaten the way I haven't eaten. A bowl of rice, a piece of pizza when it gets too much. Cup after cup after cup or teas. Herbal, black, green, it doesn't matter. Something warm to slither down the back of my throat, dull the burning in the pit of my stomach.

I am sick, and this world is my illness, and it is a sickness for which there is no cure. As long as there are raped women, starving children, poverty and illness and disaster and death, I can't eat. I can't sleep. I can only feel these hot tears run down my cheeks, feel this acid and the throbbing aching behind my eyes. I can do nothing to fix this. I can only block it out. My body craves it, the pills and drugs and liquor to block it all out. Not because it is addicted, no. But because, just for a moment, I can feel nothing. I am blind to this world, and, if only for that moment, happy. At peace. Myself.

It's a lonely feeling.

Am I the only one infected?

Bonnie and Clyde

2009-01-01T16:53:00.000-05:00

'Bonnie'

At this moment, we had only two things in common. One, we were both completely naked. And two, we’d both just eaten the exact same dinner in this shitty little apartment. Could this even be called an apartment? Maybe twenty odd years ago. Now it was just this piece of shit derelict building at the edge of town. We could have called it as house, never a home, if more than one room was inhabitable. It was too much work to clear the shit from the other rooms when we’d be leaving in less than a week or so. Given our track record, probably within the next few days.

I was in front of the window, the countertop fan blowing across my skin, brushing the little beads of sweat on the back of my neck away. You were sprawled on the couch, flipping through the channels, pausing every time our faces were plastered on the tiny screen. The way you’d been doing for the past god knows how long. You just stare at that screen and smoke those cigarettes and laugh about them always getting your bad side.

Before you, everything kind of feels like a lazy blur. Like one of those old sepia movies, pushed into the back of my head. It’s too hot to have you pressed against me now, with your skin on mine and your scent in my nose. Spicy, not like cinnamon or curry or pepper, but something all your own. If we could bottle that up, we could make a million, settle down, live that picket fence life both of up know we were never meant for. Not that we hadn’t tried. We met in college, both of us struggling on until you’d snapped and burned your textbook and set of the alarms that sent the whole dorm off into the night at 3 am. You were laughing, I was freezing. I bummed a smoke, those clove blacks you still get today. We’d fucked in your truck.

Half a year later, we dropped out. A few months later, they were calling us the new Bonnie and Clyde. Which was funny shit, you know, because we were different in some pretty damn obvious ways. That week, I nearly broke your arm and you gave me three damn bloody noses and a black eye for the record books fighting over who was Bonnie and who was Clyde.

Your lips break my concentration, bringing me back to the heat and our bodies. You taste like you always do, chocolate mint and cigarettes and that spice of your skin a hundred times more, fogging my mind and weakening my knees just like it always has. That spice, god, it’s like red lipstick in black and white movies, a shot of colour in the dark. Like the smoking barrel of a gun in an old mob flick. You make fun of the way I’m addicted to film. I make fun of the way I’m addicted to you.

We both knew it was coming to the end. Those weren’t wedding bells ringing, it was that familiar siren always in the back of our heads. The dinner we’d salvaged, the chocolate mint ice crème, well, I could see in your eyes you tasted it before I did. God damn, that mouth of yours is so distracting. That spice, it was betrayal and deception. Broken glass and car crashes. It was danger. It was probably the first thing that should have tipped me off about you back in college. Maybe that’s what I’m addicted to. Not you, but the danger. The excitement. Modern day Bonnie and Clyde, my ass. We were something completely new. Something I couldn’t quite put a name to, not when you’re pulling me down on the cracked tile, the dust clinging to our overheated and underdressed bodies. What was that line from the movie we’d snuck in a few years back? It seemed so appropriate for just this moment. That woman, standing there, singing away. “Some men just can’t hold their arsenic.”

Maybe they can’t. Maybe they just don’t want to.

____________________________________________

'Clyde'

Our bodies are just laying on the floor, our arms entwined at the elbow. Hot, sweating, nude forms pressed against the practically ancient cracked tiling. That was partially our fault. You had the cuts all along your back to prove it. We really should have fucked on the couch instead. That seemed slightly more stable, even if it was filthy. Not that it mattered where we went. Anywhere we go we’d be coated in the dust and filth that just accumulates in these places after a while. If it weren’t for the APB, we could have got a hotel room. I cringe, another piece of tile is digging into my back, and turn, and the sight of your face makes me forget everything. We’ve been together so long, but no matter what’s happening, your face can always catch me by surprise. I can find you anywhere, it doesn’t matter how big the crowd. Like when we’d met in college. It was late, real late, and I don’t know what happened. They say it was stress or drugs or whatever the hell people usually say when they try and rationalize something that was purely irrational. I took my Psych book and I set it on fire, every last little page. And I watched them blacken and curl with the alarm going off in the back of my head and then I threw it out the window. And just like that, I grabbed my jacket and keys and walked out with everyone else.

That’s when I first saw your face. You, in those tight jeans with your hair all windblown, crouching under one of the trees in the smokers area to fight off the late fall wind. You, I approached, offered you a cig. Those cat eyes met mine. I was lost. Helpless. We didn’t say anything. And then I started to laugh. Really laugh. And you were startled. And then you laughed. And we sat and we laughed until tears ran down our faces and we kept laughing even when everyone else had gone back inside. Then I took you to my truck and, basically, we fucked and fucked and drove away. Left everything behind. It took a few months to get up and go, but we weren’t who we used to be, and time didn‘t matter any more. After that, we had our first debut. Television. We were on the 5 o’clock, 6 o’clock, 7, 9, 11’o clock news. Bonnie and Clyde, they said.

I pull you closer, into a kiss, and you tense but lean into it, your body on mine, our lips connected. You always talk about the way I smell, the way I taste, and all of those movies you watch. I’ll always remember your eyes, your nose, your lips, the way your skin feels under my fingers, how this filth can do nothing but enhance your radiance as the tears run little rivers through the dirt caked on your skin. First, it was just the sirens but now, as you cling to me so hard I can’t breath, I can’t speak, I can just feel your heart thudding against mine and feel the floor shake as heavy boots thunder up the stairs.

You could get out now. You drove, I held the gun, I took the money, I did what I had to do. But you would never, and your broken sob breaks the silence of the room just before the door is kicked in and uniformed men with their little guns and little sticks and great big egos all full of power and hate grab you and pull you off, and your face is so helpless and broken and pained that it takes me a minute to realize I’m screaming at them. Words and phrases I don’t even comprehend, I just yell and cry and fight to get to you but the cuffs are around my wrist and there are too many and take us off separately, in different cars. Intimidation through separation.

And I swear in the back of this car I’ll have you back.

And I swear they will never take you away from me again.

Oh! Hello there, 2009.

2009-01-01T16:14:00.000-05:00

2008 has past, and I am somewhat grateful and mildly surprised I can add yet another year onto the collection. It was a tough one, with a few twists and turns, but I made it through. Onward to 2009! The year was started off right with a dull ache behind my eyes and my hairs all astray and my head a foggy, clouded confusion. Having my very first hangover (I blame the cosmos. Sweet drinks aren't my specialty.) doesn't bode well for the rest of the year. Not remembering most of the previous day, as I am wont to do when vodka is about, doesn't exactly bode well, either, but I am not so concerned with that.

I do remember cooking and eating and cavorting with friends, weaving a web of lies, smoking pomegranate shisha and other, unmentionable, substances in my new hookah (Which ended in the carpet being mildly torched, but that is another story), and falling about a lot. Eventually, when everyone else had fallen asleep and even the powerful amount of alcohol couldn't cure my insomnia, I attempted to brew tea. Half of this, I remember. It only vaguely recall the kettle boiling and the next recollection was pouring more vodka into my teacup, my mum forcing my to go to bed, and then the morning comes.

Which brings me here, to texting people and apologising for 3 am, slurred phone calls. Strong tea (Oh, my love of Earl Grey has no bounds.), a bit of artisan bread, and the miraculous healing powers of limeade have cured all but the swirling of my head. Tomorrow brings exciting plans.

2009 is an empty journal, and hopefully, this year will be filled with interesting people and new places and memories that are worth remembering.

My resolutions? I will live every day to the fullest. I won't let writers block wreck such havoc on my life. I will make my dreams a reality.

Maybe I will lose twenty pounds and find a new love.

If I have time in between all of the life living and dream fulfillment I will be doing.

Perhaps an overdone idea.

2008-12-23T02:48:00.000-05:00

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.

2008-12-21T17:45:00.000-05:00

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.

2008-12-13T15:38:00.000-05:00

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

2008-12-06T04:05:00.000-05:00

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!

2008-11-08T00:52:00.000-05:00

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

2008-10-12T13:11:00.001-04:00

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.

2008-09-12T23:38:00.001-04:00

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?

2008-08-31T01:26:00.000-04:00

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?

2008-08-11T16:52:00.000-04:00

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..

2008-08-07T20:26:00.000-04:00

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?

2008-07-30T04:26:00.000-04:00

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?

2008-07-14T23:34:00.000-04:00

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!

2008-07-09T23:29:00.000-04:00

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?

2008-07-01T17:05:00.000-04:00

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.)