18 Aug 2003|11:54pm
There are millions of fireflies that light up the night. There's a low rumble of thunder as rain threatens to consume your sunny day at first chance. There is a sky alight with fire like none ever seen before, as the polution of millions of bodies bends light in new magnificent forms.
There are a million and one things to describe, all so I can avoid the words that piece together just how it is I feel. Because I don't know how I feel. I don't know what it is that I am supposed to elate to others. I don't feel much. I've never been one to feel those raging rivers of emotion, be them love or hate. It's just not who I am any more and when something significant happens, I can't react the way that people want me to react. Just let me remain the hollow shell of the hormone driven emotion riddled being that I used to.
I can only tip toe around the truth for so long.
This new city scares me, but not enough to make a noise on the inside of my inner area where thoughts happen.
13 Aug 2003|05:11pm
Being that kind of sad-sick parapeligic in the city like you always thought you'd be. Still struggling to fight that feeling of unrest in the pit of your stomach every night. Just can't quite get it right. Just can't quite fit the pieces together. Just pretend that it isn't there and push it aside until the next morning.
You think you're perfect don't you? You think that the others don't notice your flaws?
I think my hinges rusted over, and then forced mine eyes to remain closed to it.
Closed to the fact that you couldn't help failing every one other than yourself.
Closed to the fact that in your world, I never really mattered more than in the here-now.
And now that the here-now is never coming back, I never really mattered at all.
You make me sick. So sick I write twisted anonymous commentaries about you so that everyone knows your name without looking at it. You always have. I was too lonely and despirate to see that then. I didn't see much then, remember? It's about time I faced the truth. It's about time I let those aching hurting muscles of mine relax and just forget.
My heart muscles are just a little more resilliant then the rest.
***
I wish I had the lime light. I'd like to be lime rather than green for a while. It takes time, but some people stumble into it now and then. And even if you were there from the beginning, your stepped over in the end.
Hello doormat.
***
There's that sad-sick feeling again.
Hello agony, care for a cup of tea?
18 Apr 2003|12:45am
Dans leurs yeux des dollars
Dans leurs sourires des diamants
Moi aussi un jour je serai beau comme un dieu
07 Aug 2003|11:06am
While the summer heat raises from the ground up, there are cars that pass too quickly, and motorists who just don't care. There's the sound of crickets at night, so deafening it would drive anyone mad, save for the fact that inside you can't hear them because of the savior from the heat fan that is ever whirling as the dish outside the window fills with rain.
The busses are lined with sleepy faces, a vague unpleasnt smell, and seats which are never empty. There are advertisments, and graffiti, and cross dressed prostitutes blinking mile long lashes. There are towering buildings ten floors bigger than the biggest building ever seen, and they pass you by without a second glance at 100km/h.
There is the underground metro, where things move even faster, and bustle never looked to frightening. And there's still heat, and humidity, as a strange black man gives you a half smile while sitting across from you and muttering in French. There are lights that flicker from the tunnel you move through, and there is a screaming wail when another metro goes past at unsees speeds. Those people traveling in that other direction aren't even visible as light. Just a blur of nothing. There is small electronic noises to make sure you know that there ahead lies your destination. There are platforms lined with buskers, and people thrown away like the garbage that lays beside them.
And then there are retail shrines to spending the money people work so diligently in neighboring complexes for. They work to make money at places other people spend it so that they too can spend theirs, and have a turn at living. And neon lights advertise these vicious cycles from the underground all the way to the sky, and no one can escape the noise of freedom being sold. Towering floor after floor of opened buisnesses pous voitre necissite. Il y on a magazines pour tous les personnes, mais pas un pour moi. Je crois ça par ce que a Atwater, j'aurais acheté seulement un cadeau. Des cartes postales pour les personnes qui a donneé moi chez address.
Sur un autre journeé au autobus, quand une fille a poser un question a moi en Français et je ne comprendu pas les mots qu'elle dit, sur la maison de tour la pluie a martelé l'autobus. J'ai marché chez moi avec pluie sur le dos de ma cou. Ma feutre de coeur comme étouffe comme mon jeans, et je n'ai pas eu des objections la pluie par ce que mes cheveux étaient déjà mouillés.
Le coeur de la ville effraie.
I need to learn more French.
04 Aug 2003|12:46am
And the steps into a new world, and a new time and a new life make you the better person that you are supposed to be striving for. Because what's improvement without painful sacrifice? Because what's the old in comparison to the new? Because this is the beginning, and anything before now is not supposed to matter in the slightest inclination of our eyes.
You are not allowed to cry over people lost.
Now head out there, and make something of yourself. Step between the falling rain to seek that refined version of the hollow thing that you used to be. Hand yourself over to the wolves and hope that they don't eat you up alive.
There are victims in the big city. There are people who just don't make it. Their lives become unfulfilling and dull. They become the drones that they swore through their teeth that they would never wake up as. And then they opened their eyes one morning, and spoke aloud theor names, and realised that those words meant nothing any more. They were no longer even granted the ability to be summarised within an surname.
And so they took a rifle to their head, and lit up the skies.
And the papers wrote the stories, of the big city tragedies, and placed them in the all important page C8. And other nameless drones flipped past the story while on a coffee break. They ignored what they were bred to ignore, and their lives went on seamlessly. Because that's the kind of person you become in the big city.
And that's who they want me to become.
18 30 Jul 2003|10:20pm
Laura: Hey, I'm in Toronto.
Douglas: Great... don't breathe in.
22 Jul 2003|03:18am
... I just kept packing and packing, and throwing things in and moving things around until it reached the top, because once it reached the top, I was finnished packing the box that was all I was to bring with me onto the next phase of my life.
And as I applied tedious layer after layer of clear packaging tape, I came to realise that the contents of the past nine years of my life had indeed been reduced to an RCA home theater 5-CD system box. A very heavy box. A very well revised box. A box that could never possibly hold all the things that summed me up.
A while ago, I believed that I had been undergoing the proscess of being reduced. It's a proscess that had been occuring without my notice for some years now. I was reduced to a number continuously, rather than given a name. I was a thumbprint, I was a drone, I was simply here for the greater good of all the evil in the world. This gradual awareness to my personal reduction did not go over so well. There was a phase after realising this that I was convinced the government was behind all these actions, and the walls of my room were subsequently and temporarily coated with every last piece of tinfoil I was able to get my hands on.
Turns out it wasn't the government after all. It was just me.
Now I've been reduced once again. All of the things that I believed were me over the previous nine years have now been revised. They have now been reduced.
The real question I have to ask myself over and over again is: in this action of ridding myself of all the just that I clung to out of a sick sense of nostalga, in the end am I a more complete person, or missing the things that made me who I am? I, being a living breathing, thinking[hopefully] human being, can no possible be summed up by the things I own. Right? My car sterio does not give me my charm. My protable mp3 player does not embody my sense of compassion. My cell phone isn't me.
So why is it that other people sum themselves up as the extent of their materialistic worth? A Lexus must truly make you a better person. A big house of course means that you have more status as a do-gooder in the eyes of God.
[butthisisofcourseaGodthatdoesnotseemtobeabletoworkoutside
ofthewallsofaspaciousandexpensiveglasscathedral]
there is the other extreme of my less than objective opinion to concider as well. I think of people whith little to own not out of choise but out of reason, and I have to respect them. This zany Budah character seemed to think that material things didn't make the man. And he seems to hold a lot of ground in the respect department to quite a few people. Being materialistic and admitting that the materialistic things in life bring you comfort should not make you a bad person. Being materialistic and admitting that the materialistic things are all you need in life might make you a stupid person. Although, being overbearing and admitting that any kind of materialistic acquisiton makes you a bad person might also make you a stupid person. But, you'd just be a stupid person to me, and what does my opinion matter, right?
to quote: "you are not your fucking kackis"
I have newsprint on my face.
18 Apr 2003|12:45am
In the time I claim as a human being on this planet, I'd like to say that I've lived some somewhat livable expierences, and I'd like to, as a person who likes to write, be able to recall these events in words. But when I sit with a pen, poised, and muster up thoughts that are to be formed as memories of events in my history, all I recall is painful and sad memories. And I don't mean sad as in pathetically convoluded sad; I mean 'The Oprah Winfrey Show' sad.
I don't terrably care to recall any at the moment. If I were to, and then share them with others, I would come off as either:
a)seeking pity in amounts of unfathomable proportions, or
b)the recipiant of an unholy and unnatural mass quantity of bad luck and the victim of the world's worst timing
Not a position I care to hold in the eyes of others.
Pity to me seems like something that so many people have to work very hard for. I don't care, in my apathy for things like this, for working this hard for a daily scornful frown and head shake when the history of me is revisited. People who are pitied are those who want to be pitied. I suppose that with pity comes perks, like free things, and hopefully money, and maybe hookers. Pity hookers can't be a bad thing. And if recalling your life's misfortunes over a beer in a pub gets you a pity hooker, or even a consoling pat on the back, then how on earth can it be a bad thing, right?
But then you'd have to evaluate those who live their lives enshrouded in mishaps and accidental decapitations and wonder where they seek refuge. Because if things that bad keep happening, and you are continually, time and time again the recipiant of bad timing, then you just might be putting yourself there, albeit subconcenciously, perhaps for the pity hookers. Is pity just the reward for having your house robbed four times in a month? Does a strangers empathy make up for you forgetting that your house cat naps in the dryer on laundry day? Would a sigh and a shoulder pat make up for learning that a large family of venomous snakes habitate under your house only upon realising that your youngest child has been missing for days?
In the long run of anything, pity gets you nowhere. But in fact, in the long run, just about everything gets you nowhere. It's not a helpful expression of emotions, being just about the most useless exsisting, but somehow people seem offended in it's absence. If you recall your cousin's accidental adventure with matches and propane gas to someone and they stare blankley back at you while you recount his absense of hair and skin afterwards, you'd be offended. Think about it. Pity is expected. Otherwise you wouldn't have wasted the breaths. Otherwise you wouldn't have strained your brain to recall the exact shade of black his skin was when they found him. This tragic event's recollection by you was supposed to gain you something. Perhaps not even pity hookers. Maybe just the respect or admiration of having been there to witness and survive such a horrific event. Of course, in actuality that blank faced, pity deprived person just wonders what kind of a gene pool has escapades in matches and flamable gas.
Maybe there is a genetic factor in those who seem to time and time again be the winner in The Pity Game. Maybe there is an entire clan of predisposed people native to the outskirts of southern Mongolia who's codons and amino peptide sequences and skewed in such a way that Time and Space are influenced to track them down and use the horrific bad luck fortunes that it has left over on them. Perhaps they were the luckiest race ever to live. Perhaps they were kept around in misfortune and irony to pass onto the world the gift of always having someone to pity. Clans from the Anglo Saxons born from the Mongoles of northers Mongolia would gather and gossip about a clan so unlucky that their ledgend would have lived on. And seeing as my relatives and relatives of many people with the Angle Saxon heritage that I know have decended from this legendary clan, we too might all have that genetic factor in our deoxyriboseneuclaic acid bases for misfortune.
A genetic link most definitely must have to exsist behind luck and misfortune. It's undeniable. Because every one of us, every last person I have ever talked to and come into contact with must know of someone that they must have at one time dubbed as 'the lucky fuck'. Every one of you knows a 'lucky fuck'. I'm not refering to someone who has a few lucky things happen to them, lottery and casino luck don't make you a winner. Someone who comes from an entire lineage of 'lucky fucks'. These people have had every piece of fabric which weaves their lives and their family's life's tapestry perfectly placed before them. Everything that ever could have gone wrong in their life hasn't. It would be an impossibility for them to have a mishap take place. Not because they don't deserve it [most of the lucky fucks I have ever known could have used a mishap or two to ground them] but because it is just a scientific imposibility. And if there exsists such a race of lucky fucks then there has to, somewhere in the universe, live a race of the most pitied people to ever walk this or any other planet. If you stop and think about it, it just makes sense.
Then again, this might just be me, the person who wants to write a boring ol' story about something that happened to me in my life that Meryl Streep couldn't act out making a room full of grown men break into tears. Maybe I'm just tired of pity hookers.
I want a pity male stripper.
12 Jul 2003|02:49am
And the slowly smeltering fading sense of forbooding blacks away and all you have left is the low tide of remorse, and a headache of thoughts that lead you back and into that same old feeling. I smell of smoke right now. I smell of cheap alcohol. I smell of lavender and sweetly suckling fruits of nature, but please please don't tell that to any of the men at the same party as I. I feel free enough to float in a sea of forgotten words and blurry concenciousness. And as my mind seizes up to the blinding pain of another overbearing migrane that will enevitably rule my body like the vengeful and overbearing God that it is to become, my body slumps under the unfaithful and interwroughten foleys of a night long since lived. Though I live it, it has been lived many lifes ago. But it only makes sense to me now, in the burroughs of this dreamscape. You might not understand this right now, as you read it and try to encompass what it is that I am staggering towards, but I might also hit the wrong key, or have this foley of an internet fuck up on me again and in a minute, in a frac tion of a comprehensible second, this could all be lost. Because when it comes down to it, all that one has evere written could so easily be eliminated in a mere blink of Time's eye. Silly Time. That'll teach it to blink.
I've lost many a word to time and my own personal foleys. I do believe my own worst enimy is myself. And perhaps it is thast I was not to realise this until the day that I too joined the ranks of those who too had heard Death crawling and clawing its way to the edges of myself. Who am I to move out of the way when Death comes staggering at my door? But then I too can feel Death wipe away any final indication of life in my puny and stupid body, and know the yield of what I never before worshiped for its sheer power and knobility. Fear not death, for in it lies the truth that we all grope in the dark towards for the seeming eons that we share this planet with others. Perhaps this blinding migrane is getting the best of me. My skinlike boardefrs of my mind are giving weigh. My head is caving in on itself. And all is lost in a sea of swirling knowledge that I am not supposed to even be aware of.
I am so far ahead of myself.
11 Jul 2003|04:14am
I often contemplate what exsistance would have been like had the world's contents never awoke to the concept that there is more to the sky than the celestial tapestry that they spent many eons constructing. If I were to have the very fabric of my beliefs in a place that I thought very highly of in predicting the crops yield questioned, I too might not hand over the concept so easily. To them it just made perfect sense. The sky was here, encompasing the one and only bio-sphere that they ever had to believe in. No idea that there was a cavernous emptiness just beyond what illuminates in the radiation of the sun every morning. There were not even the inkling of the thought of another world to exploit. And people believed that some faithful-housepet-supreme-being habitated between the vacant gaps of nothingness not inhabited by stars. Without these thoughts of other worlds, they were close to innocent. And then someone raised things to a new height, and to the world was revealed its shape and appearance from a place that 99.9 percent of it's inhabitance would ever dream of being in. So being fed the idea that we are adrift in an incomprehensively immense void made things for the world have to stop and question. This fath, having guided humanity through such times of extreme blindness, was now proven wrong beyond the shadow of a doubt, and then someone, somewhere sat up and thought, "I wonder what else we got wrong?" and so the questioning and ultimate doom of the race began in a hideous and glorious downward spiral. No wonder this Christopher Columbus guy's discovery was so mass rejected upon announcing that there was indeed no void past the horizon and that nothingness exsisted only above our heads, not within walking distance. Perhaps the only real voids being the ones in the minds of those impermiable to the truth. Because those people still exsist today. And there is nothing you or I can do about it. Because there are always going to be ignorant people, breeding with other ignorant people, and infecting their disease of unritiousness to those who at one point were so aware of their surroundings. Those people pulled into the cult surroundings of the easy way out. Sure it's nice to have the ability to pretend that we are invincible, and powerful, and the winner every time, but there are those in the world ready to accept the fact that one day they will cease to forget, and people will go on living, and slowly but surely forget. Because now things are always being born, and old things are ceasing to exsist in any form of relevance. It is the cycle of the world, and it is an enevitability in every creatures' lives. But we are fickle and one outcome will never settle in our minds, because there is too much more to see on any given day, and if there was one universal acceptance of the events of one's death, then of course things like religeon would be blown out of the water, and where would that leave humanity? Fucked, that's where. Because it's that indecisiveness that adds to the charm of our having to weigh decisions. Because wheather it's chosing between the destruction of a distant and alienated country through the use of biological weapons, or the decision of a chocolate bar in line at the supermarket, it just so happens it is the very same neurons that are firing.
05 Jul 2003|12:25am
The grey ended streets led not to
what she had long been hoping for
in her disolance and solitude
but as the lovers arc
so does she in her perfect world.
this beauty in believing gave over and into
her blackened lungs
now filled with the kiss of heat,
and love, and passions.
things that never before made sense
were the focus of much
fascination in her eyes.
these eyes which see.
these eyes which cry.
these eyes which have held
in their peripheral field
a moment to churning and beautiful
that they refused to trust even themselves
in a world of deciet.
And all that kept running through my head as he lightly kissed barely the surface of my skin, lips[soul?], like no other has was:
AND THE LOVERS ARC
and his mind, unlike many others' was not the steeley seve that most posess. Very little let through. Maybe my mind was not nearly as focused [badlittlepatheticmindreader:soeasilydistracted] as it should have been. Glides his fingers through my hair, my clothes, [mysoul] over my skin to everywhere but the invasive curves I secretly trembled fearing they'd find; like I expected them to.
not what I expected.
not what I ever could have expected.
Magneticly withheld balance of attraction in my mind. Too far one way. Then the other, then the next. Then balanced so speechlessly beautifully for a fraction
of
a
second.
***
And the smile of the cheshire cat peels away revealing it's pearly grotesque smile of loathing and love, and fear and hate, and revalry and fantastic delight. It will bask a silvery blue-grey glow upon your simple self; like nothing else could have ever. It will flood your eyes, drown your mind. It will leave you struck with open-mouthed awe. The smile that rips into you and leaves your comprehension torn into a million tiny shreds.
Smile.
29 Jun 2003|12:24am
And I am drawn once again to think of that day on the beach. The salty air flowing over my skin. The sun heated rocks beneath my weary legs. A shroudy mist forcing the endless horizon of the Pacific to blur in a haze of early summer.
And with our backs against the dead and dried logs, the wind moved through the grass which clung to the rocky, jeering cliffs. Without him expecting it, I reached out to brush away unknowingly placed granules of peppery sands at the end of his nose. He surely had no idea what to expect when I slowly moved my hand into his hazel gaze and brushed him only lightly enough to usher away the sand. The heat rose from the sun-warmed ground and he looked at me giving over and into the longest moment of my life. To break the silence, I simply floated a laugh out of my lungs and averted my eyes and mumbled pointlessly on.
He laughed and, like me, ran his hands in and about the tiny rocks and fine sand below our feet. My head began to swelter. Was it the sun or his constant stolen glances? And then, as I too traced circles in the sand with my fingers, on my thigh he placed a heated rock.
I looked at it, then him and he was smiling. It took it in to my hand and rolled it around in my palm expierencing its heat for myself. I was able to run my fingers over its weather beaten surface, feel its smoothness and odd two sided shape. And after minutes of anxious silence, it was flat in my hand and it struck me with the fact that it was a odd shaped and polished heart.
He had given me a heart. His heart, and I hadn't realised what it was. By the moment that I had, he had resumed his half-minded talking and I suppose I decided it best not to infer with his train of thought with my slow witted realization.
Only now when I look back on this only somewhat romanticized act does it move me such as it should have that day on the beach. It was sweet. Simple. And of course in the weeks that followed, through a warm and as per usual breezy summer, my discovery that I was silently replaced in this affections bidding with another only mildly tore my insides.
I supose that acts like the ones he did for me never meant what I must have been deluded to believe they did. After all, I was stupid to think that he felt the things that I assumed he might have. He still escortes me to the places that we went to before he found his other half. He confides in me occaisonally these days about how much my friendship meant to him, and how he will miss me terrably. It makes me think back to when we sat cross legged, our knees touching as we fondled each others' fingers, and subtly examined each others' eyes and I wonder which kind of friendships contain such activities.
He tried to express to me his emotions of grief and loss at my leaving, but again I was numb to them up until the moment his arms were around my waist without me knowing. I'll never know why he chose to forget his intrest in me in favor of another and I am never going to be quite sure of the level of sincerity in his words and actions.
Spending the day with his girlfriend, and soon to be roomate [yes, the one he chose over me], just reaffirms the reality that some thing happened when I wasn't looking and I ended up the loser in a race.
What a fool I must have been to have believed that someone felt these things for me. I'll never be able to endure the mystery that was his sudden change of mind. Where does this expression that women are fickle come in?
27 Jun 2003|02:40pm
Did they stick us in there because we weren't working right?
Don't move, stay just like you are. I want to hold onto you the way that you seem to be looking at me. Don't breathe because that means you're growing and changing. Just stay like that forever. It's all I ask. One day I will open my eyes and everything will be grey, and things will be humid, and the sky will shed tears of lightning, and the pre-planted maples will sway in the wind as they did in my childhood. I'll recall vaguely the names and colours and smells of places that still exsist, but I wont know them as I had before the haze of the Pacific enchanted my mind. And people will not be people, but rather their sicophant replacements that are there only to complicate things in the softly reassuring tone of voice that most people strive to achieve.
I feel as though I am being abandoned. It's not the abandonment that I fear, but the fact that I will be forgotten. It's what you do when you go on leading your life. You forget the past that isn't there in your face reminding you of it. A scar. That burns. Regardless of the outsome from Concordia, I am moving away. I have several people supporting this decision [and I refer to financially] and several who are but mildly opposed. Most of both of these are the same people. Abandonment is a small price to pay.
Because here, all I have are people who know my last name [usually enough to reach 'friend' qualification] and a lucrative career as the cosmetics whore at Wal Mart for the rest of my life.
I should be silly and abandon others before they abandon me.
Too late.
I could take after my friends and either become obsessed with a significant other, talk about them incessantly and worship said significant other enough to forget that there are other people that want to be around me sans the other half of me personality. I could do that.
Or, I could become an asshole and just forget everyone else that I didn't think cool enough. Or abandon people that understand me. I could out of nowhere just be a heinous, irrationally mean person. Hey, I did do that for a while.
I can just sit here, and just wish that I can still make love, and wish that I still and the world in my grasp, but as those jeering people spit on me from above, I can be the one who leads the way screaming and kicking and making everyone remember just who they were dealing with in this and the next lifetime.
I'll just lay down and devise a plot worthy of the things that I have earned to do. Forewards and backwards.
Smile at the thought of me becoming invisible like I always secretly have been.
25 Jun 2003|01:38am
As you pacify me those answers that I sought in the dark, I am granted access to the gates so I, as the child that I am, can idly walk through your mind's garden. Take a stroll through the fields of wildflowers and row upon row of flawlessly imperfect roses. The kind that actually do have form and scent. Because we can never be those store-bought roses with their perfect skin and scentless gracious form. My edges are moth eaten and tattered, while yours seem to uphold that seemingly timeless beauty that permiates as much as your smell in a room and your presence past the door.
But we can always have those moments where there was singing and giggling in the distance, far far away. And in our world, at that very time, those stars, and those city lights held as much relevance and perspective and the time we ignored. Blazing stars became but glimmers highlighting the holes in the blackened canvas above. City lights danced in the heat, as flames would have in the reflections if the whites of your eyes. Music played. Time was working with us, being the savior to the fact that we so neglected it. And the music of our amazingly rehersed words played on. No matter how many times you can reherse the lines, so as to flawlessly execute them, none will flow and dance on our tounges as the ones that we sing to each other.
It seems at times that we were once a single mind. Somehow in the chaos of the universe and corporeal exsistance, we seemed to have been separated and in each other's absence, removed to the sorrow and the darkness of being one without ever knowing 'whole'. And when together, symphonies play in the words we spew of truth, and hurting, and pain, and bitterness, but when we recall this in all it's glorious, stomach-churningly frightfulness, there is never a sweater moment. How lovely. In recalling each other's pain, we have found an actual state of happiness.
I am in love with our passionless romance. Our twisted sense of togetherness, and wouldn't change one part of it for all the strawberries and chocolate in the world.
Alright, you've caught me. I lie. There is something that I would try to change about our love. The fact that all too soon, it is coming to an abrupt end. What a fowl way to rip two passionless lovers apart. And it's life, and time, and exsistance that is once again depriving us of each other's misery and lovely company therein. It's that corporeal sense of humor that time and life seem to have.
Har har. They've found each other an in it some form of bottomless friendship. let's fuck it up just for kicks!
Funny how the world works. Not har-har funny. More like kick-in-the-ribs-while-she's-down funny.
But I know, try as the fates might, I can and will not forget the playful romps in each other's minds gardens. I simply can never give up the colours and the vibrant form of living that I have discovered in this locked up and closely guarded mind's paradise of yours.
When I die, I want to reside in your mind and your mind alone. I'd like my stately little self to have those fields to play in. I can dress in something with frills and live out that magical tea party that I gave up when I gave up pretending that my teacup was filled with more than delicious air. We can fill it with Fireballs. And there and only there would my heaven truly exsist.
23 Jun 2003|01:26pm
The wierdest of the weird.
Maybe I need to control my thoughts. It's always been my impression that those closest to me would have been willing to take my woes to heart. I suppose now I realise that I am gravely mistaken, and it's not the ones that supposedly know me that care. They can't even pretend for pretendings sake. They just find that it's not what they, in their sheltered little self-absorbed little ways, want to have the burden of knowing. Ignorance is bliss. For them at least.
But burdens such as myself are soon to be leaving. I can't help but think of the people I have lost touch with in only recent months *cough*shea*cough*
These are the casualties in my life to the war of the sexes. I have lost many a good person to the other side. That evil side. That side that always secretly plots and plans to destroy and hurt. Because that's what they do. They hurt us. And they take away from me, my world.
I am a teenager. In my life, there are but few, and I mean few things, that make it feel somewhat complete. In fact, as of now and as it has been for the longest time, my life consisted of nothing but school, work, and school, and a bit of working. And that was it. Other than that I have no means of living. But I find pleasure in spending time with the people that I chose to, but of course, they seem to have less and less time for me. I don't want to seem selfish and uncaring in thinking the things that I do, but as I explained, this is my only source of happiness in the world, and it's up at stake. I imagine that just about anyone would feel the same should the people that they thought cherished the time spent, really were just looking for a new best friend. And apparantly they've found one, but it's not you. It's one of the opposing side. They've laid claim to something you thought you knew, and now, it's not part of you any more. It's theirs. You've lost out because you weren't good enough.
Every day when I see things that shouldn't matter to me, I think in my head over and over again, "he's with her, because you aren't good enough. She's with him, because you aren't good enough."
And I still have nightmares of things that make me cringe when I think of what he did to me on that bed in that airless, dark room. And I still just assume the fetal position when my body flinches all over from remembering. And I wonder, as the tears smudge the makeup, if this thought will ever go away and allow me to be like all the other people.
My hairdye bruises don't even concern them any more.
[you'llneverhavetodealwiththethingsthatyouhatemeforagain]
18 Jun 2003|10:51pm
Two or three weeks ago, I might have felt differently about things. About how the world is turning out. About how things in general are progressing. In fact, I would have told you that the things I was looking to see in this dragged out year would have been to see time speed up. To see my 'year' come to an end, and things just roll to a complacent and settled end. To blink and have it be some time when I could turn my head and see my diploma, already on the wall in a three dollar frame. I really couldn't have asked for more.
Years ago, I couldn't have fathomed things like leaving school. When I was a child, the way I saw things was simple. Elementary school. Middle school. High school. University. Life? Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I come from a family of outstanding university alumnis [iknowyouwouldn'thavebeenabletotell] or to do with the fact that these facts had always been the way of things. Gently massaged into my cranium and understanding of the workings of the world. This is life kid, get used to it.
Is it really so hard to think that I might have thought things otherwise? I mean, I know that this is the form of things, and that's what is expected of me, but what if I fail? I can be a falure. I know I can. I think these things just might be within me. I just might be capable. Hell, I could be the first in my family [asidefrommywonderfulfatherthatis] to fail at the only thing that my family seems capable of doing well, school. It's just the fear of not having a purpose that keeps me from venturing off and trying out the things that I might really like to do. Not having a purpose is the number one fear of the adolescants I know. Adults fear dying. That might be because their purpose is currently being served, and to interrupt this might misplace something from the carefully planned scheme of theirs to mark their place in the world, to make it impossible to forget.
A strange thing about me is that I don't really truly mind the idea that the world might forget me. I have tried in my years not to terrably stand out. I have hidden in the shadows, sulked away my weekends not fraternizing with people my age to build social skills, but lurking in the hard working shadows all the while watching peers go on dates, and party, and live the lives that I never really dreamed I might be capable of living.
Maybe tomorrow, right?
Long ago, way back in the beginning fo grade eleven, when I arrived into a school that I knew I had only two years to conquor, I didn't think that I'd fall in love with the school. I didn't think that I was going to shed a painful tear in an overwhelming sorrow filled goodbye of a building that I walked the halls of. I never thought I'd grow to like the people in it. And I didn't. Sorry to disapoint you, but high school for me was as painful as it was for the rest of the world. I can't imagine who in their right mind [maybeit'sthecrazies?] would call highschool a wonderful expierence. Deluded individuals. It's an awful place, and the only reason I, and so many other people feel the slightest inkling of attatchment is not loyalty but fear of that great beyond.
Time tells us that people are age go on to become those functioning and wonderful adults that we in our average lives do find ourself interacting with. A completion of high school leaves us all the closer to what we are supposed to become, right? Rhetorics, I know. I sure hope I never become one of those damn adults. As many fantasies as I have about wearing a striking skirt buisness suit combo with my hair in a bun and nifty glasses to go along with my cell phone and silver SUV and Dell notebook computer, I have to admit that no matter how many confrence calls I manage to hold at a single time, and no matter how many lapse employees I get to publicly castrate for incompetancy, I'd be fucking miserable.
To actually be happy, I don't think that attending an institution is going to make me a new and fae more mature person. All I can think it doing is making me more educated in factual knowledge, and possibly more endowed in the workings of the human mind [outsideoftheretailworld]. I might have a perspective or two skewed, but certanly not transformd as I once imagined as a child. University is not the caccoon that I am going to emerge from a beautiful butterfly. I am never going to be a butterfly, and I am never going to be beautiful. But I can be a better person knowing how people work, and who knows, I might put to use that little piece of paper that I earn and get a 'job' or something that pays in a field that dosen't make me miserable. Who knows, the world may stop turning, and I might actually enjoy what it turns out I end up doing.
Forget those childhood memories of going to the moon, or ever being an intergalactic taxi driver [yeah,youherdme!]. I might become something better. I might be something that changes the world. Not that I couldn't of course spread my lovely religion of cynicism to people regardless of my means. Attaining a higher level of education simply forces more of the average working persons to take me seriously seeing as with a BFA or a masters in phycology, I can't pass as well for a crazy bum on a literal soap box coated in gasoline in the middle of rush hour traffic. Goddamit! I'd be a well educated crazy bum on a literal soap box coated in gasoline in the middle of rush hour traffic. And unless someone takes me seriously I might have to strike up a match rather than a well educated and hauty conversation.
18 Jun 2003|12:08am
And for another six and a half hours, I got to forget that I was human, that I was another living breathing being, and I got to serve as the robot that I was designed to be. The being that I was programmed to be. I was not me. And to releive this pain of forgetting my humanity, I took in something that was once, in a CAPP class long ago, guaranteed to take five minutes off of the end of my life. And all I could think was, "good, goddamn, I hope it does. And I hope the end of my life is just that much closer. Because if I live that long, I'll want it to end that much sooner."
And my skin itches.
And my scalp itches.
And my hair makes me mad.
And I can't ever find the scissors when I need them.
But in my bathroom, I brushed aside a tiny fluttering moth, and in this action robbed this tiny pathetic creature of flight forever. To strip this being of the thing it was designed to do. The simple act of flight that I shall never in this lifetime know. I always underestimate the concequences of my actions. I mearly passed my hand near this being, and in turn ultimately determined it's fate. Beings as rediculous as I should not be allowed such power. I shouldn't be allowed to walk down the streets. I might change the outcome of too many beings exsistance. That's more mercy to pain than I as a large and clumsy thing can handle.
I can see by the way that you hang your head in empathy. I can see by the way you dish out a little or a lot, sometimes. I know lately, I've been having mine. Just getting further and further from being human. And all the thoughs I fought, and all the things I've felt in my life seem not to sum up the things that I currently running through my brain.
We are creatures of the wind. Wild as the wind. Give me more than one caress, satisfy this hungriness. Because I too am a creature as wild as the wind, I hear the sound of mandolins when you kiss me, with your kiss my life begins. Life a leaf clings to the tree will you please cling to me. You touch me, I hear that sound of mandolins, and you kiss me and my life begins.
I don't want anything in return.
I'll give nothing in return.
My skin needs layers and layers of the darkness that clings to it to be removed by the waters of the ocean I am going to leave behind.
The Pacific. That is the single thing that I am going to regret leaving. How can I not miss it's delicious salty rocky shores?
17 Jun 2003|01:19am
I do believe nostalga holds me in it's grips. It's crushing my ribs. Making it so very hard to breathe. Making things turn red. Making me want to cry with the simple trip down the streets that I no longer will prowl as I have. I could go off, about how I am going to miss things.
The square, Thin Edge Pizza, Dallas road, Beacon Hill, the bus ride to Sidney, Curious Comics, Yellow Jacket, Ledgends Comics, Starbucks on Cook, Silk Roads, or more the smell, the Inner Harbour, Bastion Square, QV's, China Town, Fan Tan Alley, Gates of Harmony, OPUS, the bleachers of Vic High, the AGGV, Rogue Art, Solstice Café, Gary Oak room, Burnside, Haultain road in spring, Ministry of Casual Living, Cucumber chairs, Prism, Lens and shutters with their always rude service, Turntable, the guys at Turntable for always being far too nice, The Patch, Ditch Records, Off the Cuff, Jhonson street, Petting zoo in Beacon Hill, Chaps kids, Evan Jones's art, Bria's music, Clover Point, Cattle Point, Uplands Park, Willow's Beach, Glass Beach, the Pier in Sidney, Statues that deserve yelling at, Tanners, Sidney school playground, Bowker Creek, Ross Bay cemetery, Cheesecake Café, Teala's bedroom, Spirit Garden, Kris's house, picnic table near inner harbour, double decker busses, Lansdowne back field, [Oh!andthebands] Lythic Blue, Undergo, Shortfall, Gallow's End, AK47, the invincible DJ Knowone, Dayglo Abortions, the Humungos, Limestone, Meatlocker Seven [onehullofaJamSpot], Moneyshot, Ten Feet Between Us, Porchlife, One Drop, Hot Hot Heat[oh,theclamydia!], Down With Inglish, Little Hannah
Goddamit, I might even miss people.
Teala Callingham, Briar Rose, Shea Costello, Zoe Sager, Mir Vin, Derek Wong, Beth Hughes, Claire Pitcher, Joel Prittie, Jason Webster, Evin Weston, Kaitlyn Griffiths, Lizza Scrambler, Leah Esau, Amanda Skaalid, Kimber Parfitt, Devon Voglaar, Kristian Fletcher, Lindsay, Paul Rose, Jay B., AJ Fenton, Sarah, Jules Andre-Brown, Jessie Houstey, Katie Kirwin, Kris Shaw, Luann Burton, Erica and Molly, Randi-Leigh, Aaron McDowell, Ox, Nikkie Nason, Matt Morrison, Lynn Vu, Krystal, June, Shannon Powell, Harkarin, Greg the milkman, Bev Lewington, Tasha, Holly Lewington, Hari Nasmith, Floriana, Charles Japayal, Ryan Ling, Laura Stubbs, Vanessa Lee, Ariel Ladret, Amber Woods, Jessica Phillips, Zeke, Will, Gothic's Jay, Terry Zlot, Robin Stefanic, Ms. Lane, Mr. Poy, Richard Grahm, Mike, Chuck Protharoe, Leah Speller, Nina and Ian, Ron Sauve, Harvey, Lisa Shirwood, Kristen Duckworth, Arwen Rowe, Melanie Duckworth, Big-headed Aaron, Evan Pepper, Sacha, Alastair, Zac, Katie Lee, Katie, Yuko, the many boys I have ever lusted after, Reah , Jamie Hennigman, Nicola Vernon, Bonnie, Dasiy and Larissa Warrington, possibly Cedleih Costello, but definitely the whole Costello clan, Kim's mom, Bruke, Amber Clarkson, metal heads from the Square, that valedictorian Branden kid, Emi Kajita
There's just a whole barell of ruby red apples for me to decide as poison or not, and they all seem too perfect to believe. I'll remember you quite well. If I neglect, it's probably for a reason. Reminders are needed for when I am great distance away. Those distances will only increace as time passes, and anyone who knows me knows how I am with remembering things.
I hope I can't forget.
16 Jun 2003|08:15pm
And I always seem to end up on the floor of every single July, broken and without mercy for the sky that I scream towards.
I do believe I am doomed to be broken.
Broken forever.
I do believe I am doomed to be the victim of bad timing. The victem of my own sleep cycles.
I want to run to you. Away from the man that hurts me. To you. To your arms. I do believe in you. Not the rest of the world or all that came before perhaps, but you. You in your solidity, and perhaps the ability to save me that I have endowed to you in my mind and my years of secretive and childish lust.
I just want to run to the you that I have created in my mind.
He’s just so perfect.
Is that too much to ask?
I do believe I am sad.
16 Jun 2003|01:23am
What was, still is and what is still was what wasn't ever going to be.
Cracked lips, wandering eyes, hollow words await me on the other side of sleep. Across the border of your eyelids; just a little past the skin that is supposed to save them. Where breathing is heavy, noises invade, and pain is actually real.
What would the world do if I decided not to cross the great divide this morning? What if I decided to let my body stay where it lay and just let my mind float forever in a salton sea of dreams. Is it better there? From this vantage point it seems so, but only because I stop to contemplate it. I don't believe I have ever stopped to ponder this side of living while visiting that side of sleep. Does that mean that I am incapable of it, or that the need nor the time have ever come up to contemplate such a forigen place.
Such a place. Things are darker, more quiet, and enho only emptiness. In my dreams walls of brick, moist and soft with age, reflect the blue light which bounces off every unshadowed inch. The colour of the sky just after the sun is forgotten. The air is cool and still. Nothing stirrs. There are cement stairs following their paved path from above, to below the surface of a glassy silent lake within this brick room. A lake that catches the falling tears from above, and pulls them into the depths of the unknown below with only the soft echo as the evidence of the fall. Then the lake composes itself and all trace of anything is gone. There is indeed something below the surface. Something there to greet the stairs on the way down, but it is only there to exsist beyind visual confines. Murkyness steals the recognition from you and leaves only the vague recollection of incomprehensability.
Have I mentioned my dreamscape of this before?
And then the random thought of the daughter of the man who used to bring me lemon chicken and fried rice invades my mind. Ruby. red. scarlet. gold. heaven. a permiating stench of deep fried glory.
I wish I could proudly stand on the roofs of the city's tallest, and loudly pronounce:
I hate myself and I want to die!
But that would be a lie, because the painful truth of my life is:
I hate myself and I want to be perfect!
Why does the world make me want to cry?[oh,howicanhearthemassesnow.becauseyouaregothdearlauraandicansayfuckyou,becauseyouarepartoftheproblem]
Why can't I just love you forever, as things should be. I am in love with your soul. I am in debt to your mind. I am in awe of you. We can admire each other for the rest ouf our lives.
A 'Y' is starting to look more and more like an incomplete 'X'
One day you'll decompose and you'll wake up and those birds are singing.
Quote me on everything I have ever said.
I regret nothing. You know the rest.
13 Jun 2003|10:19pm
How many times can you live a night that you never really lived, but have gone through [orareactuallynevergoingto] yourself. That imaginary, sparkley, shiney-happy land of oblivion where there are dreams and hopes on the other side of the terrential rainbow.
I saw her glide across a stage. I saw her turn red from the embarassment of the love projected from the ones who love her from above She was achieving something that others like her have done for generations, and will go through for generations to come. They will all secretly glow with the pride of a day and event that they have waited for since the day they first learned that it really does go something like this. And in my head I saw myself finally get to bring to rest the things that I only then realised I was missing out on. I saw myself dressed in the same gown. Same hat. Same pose, prose, and modesty. And in my head, I planned the sabotage of a night that I will now and forever never have the chance to live.
I had decided to spite the event as it should have been spited, but not as I chose to in my absence, but in a revolt against the things that I was suppsoed to be reveling in. I decided in my head that I would not pause graceiously at the end of the velvet blue carpet before I turn to face the man who holds my destiny and hard work in his hands. In fact, I would pause, but not to smile and flash the world one last chance at snapping an image of me sans diploma, but in stead, drop my hat of ceremonial and traditional stupidity and rediculosity, and let it land at my feet with that shallow sound that a fabric covered piece of cardboard might make.
[pause for audience gasp]could she really be doing this?
Look up. See them staring. See them gawking. Hear the first half of the sylables of the name to be called after mine. I have interrupted the conveyer belt after all.
[more gasping]insanity!
I would have the trail planned out brilliantly. I would casually walk off the stage, to the right [my right] and down the stairs, and through the side pathway that my fellow peers and I only a short period ago proudly marched through. And head stead fast for the exit, all the whilestripping myself of ceremonial evidence.
Break free to where the bunnies roam.
Yonder nature.
Of course, I might just be a melodramatic and angsty teenager looking for yet another way to italicize[ilovemakingupwords] myself from my peers. After all, who wants to be just like a group of people wanting to be just like me? What else do I have to use to spite them. Ruin their months of preparation. Their rehersal time. Their hard work. Just make things go on without me. Because what choice would they have? Stop everything? If I chose not to pick up that roll of paper from that bald headed monotonious wonder, then that is my choice. There would simply be a pause, glances exchanged, and a continuation of things as if I never exsisted. Just like things really are.
But I made my choice. I stayed home. I slept through it. I never had a chance to see my potential getaway until this night. And what a spectacular one it would have been. There, after all, would have been 'F' through 'Z' for the room to buzz about my actions. Poor, poor Bryan Fink. He would have been the only one to have to suffer from my actions. Coming alphebetically after me must suck.
But the most important person to me in the world did it. She made it. She was perfect, and made me as proud as the mother sitting right next to me, camera in hand and tear in eye.
Teala, congratulations. I love you more than any one in this stupid misguided world. You deserve everything that you have earned.
12 Jun 2003|02:38pm
My new hero. I love you Derek.
And all of Joel's hair is gone, but Aaron showed up.
And I had to wear a dress.
But the day after, anticks were back to normal, I almost got it from him too.
I fucking hate you paul.
10 Jun 2003|03:33pm
While sleeping, in my mind, I composed a beautiful and perfectly balanced written masterpiece, but of course, I was no where near anything that might allow me to take these thoughs and make them viable for others to enjoy. Now all I have is the vague and indescribable reminder of a now very beautiful piece of literary art that might have perhaps changed my world as I know it. Imagine a perfectly balanced orchestra, now put it into sentences.
Oh the pains of not having paper at hand in my mental state of heavy mind activity, and light restfulness.
Now my hand bleeds. I have a nervous habbit of making myself bleed. I also play with my earings. Fidget with my watch. Zone out. Play with my rings. Chew my fingernails. Laugh like a nervous fool. Recite prose in my mind.
Good bye Mary. Goodbye Jane.
Will we ever meet again.
Feel no sorrow. Feel no shame.
Come tomorrow, feel no pain.
I did this with such reverence on this evening past. There was a bottomless ocean for me to dive into, but I have been standing freezing and exposed on the dock for these two years. It was just something about the water, in it's tempestuous solidity. It raged back at me. This was it's answer to the question in my mind of wheather or not to jump. I kept seeing those moments of calm, when the surface became glass and it begged me to jume in. And I might even to as far as to hover my foot just above it's frightening infinant depths, but it always surged back just before I dare feel it's coldness and it's wrath.
In fact, once I managed to take every ounce of myself and moisten it in that wild waving ocean below. I believe I grew tired of standing on that dock, and saw that calmness and feared not what might come of the waves in a few minutes. I seized the moment. I seized the day. carpe deium I sank into the waters below and felt their icy grip. Then 5 am came, and I decided to get a ride home not knowing what became of. But that was months past, and presumably forgotten, and this is and was and forever will be right now.
Because, what on Earth are the odds of me ever seeing these[couldireallymeanthis?] people again in my life. Isn't that right?
I need to fear not what might happen, anad just think of potential. There are many things that people tell me that I need to change. It appears to me that the world would like to change me really. Everyone has their little suggestions for me, such as a boy I knew for a good 5 years, who never once had a conversation with me, informing me that I indeed need a much more positive outlook on life. Thank you Jason. Now that you in your inebriated stupor informed me of this, I shall run out and become the person that the world so despirately pleads me to become. Subtle. Veery subtle.
Tiptoe around the ovbious only to find the glaringly obvious. It is set up that way. That is how the world wants you to see things. Don’t you get it?
Good bye stranger. It’s been nice.
Hope you find that, paradice.
Tried to see your, point of view.
'Cause all your dreams, have now come true.
Summarizing then for the people who just don't get it:
-No life changing, tear jerking expierences.
-No pigs blood [damn shame really].
-No coffee.
-One delightfully whitty conversation.
-Many nervous jestures.
-One HUGE leap of faith.
-Many conversations with forgotten and inebriated old friends.
-Smoke inhalation.
-One night definately worth the trouble of shaving my armpits.
08 Jun 2003|10:51pm
One is a number divided by two. Have you noticed that lately too?
At work two boys called me a freak today.
I had PMS so I went into the back and I cried.
What a way to deal with things. I have allowed my fears to get larger than myself. They are approaching the level that might indicate they torture me. I think it’s the torture and the fear that are driving me. They are driving me to insanity. They are driving me into purgatory. They are driving drunk, and I have no seatbelt.
In this car I mistake the speed of the drive for the things that I need. But I get to roll down the window and see that I am where I never thought I’d end up. I fear I might be where I need to be, but not where I want to be. I hate being in the passenger seat.
I want to dance. I want to drop everything and lose myself in the middle of a field in the dead of night, with no music other than the lovely melodies that constantly ring through my head. And I want you to take my hands in yours and just sway to the inaudible bliss. I want to have to rest my head against yours, and I just want to lose myself in the moment.
But it seems that you are incapable of this act, or those like it.
When I disect this, it makes me a little sad.
This is just what I never had suspected. I can’t really tell. You know what it’s like. Don’t you?
Just pick up the pieces on the way out the door.
07 Jun 2003|12:27am
I don't like watching ugly people make out together.
I don't like being jealous of ugly people being happy together.
I don't like being jealous of everyone that is happy together.
I don't like questioning what grammatical term is right.
I just want to be what they seem to be. I just want to have someone I like spending time with. I just want to have someone I am attracted to. I just want to have someone that is all that in one. Is that too much to ask? Well, I assume that there is one more unparallelled quota that needs to be filled. I assume that this wonderful, magical person needs to like me as well. I have two of the three. Guess what one I am missing at the moment. Go on. Take a guess?
Well, I have people that I like spending time with. And I have people that are attracted to me. And in fact I have a person that I am attracted to and who likes me, but whom I don't enjoy spending time with. What does that say? Maybe I ask too much. All these other people seem to have found it. Maybe they are fooling themselves into believeing that the they're are being fulfilled by the person with their arms wrapped around them. I know that I tried that. But of course I felt dead inside.
But I came home to the empty house, and again in the ritual that I have come to know, rely on, and undoubtedly loathe, I got sick. I am tired of getting sick. I become familiar with the floor of my bathroom. And I am tired of it. I am tired of pulling my sweat drenched and muscularly exhausted self from the toilet to the sink. I get tired of the cold soothing water. I grow weary of trying not to look up for fear of seeing the only person in the world that I have and still hate the sight of.
I hate that full wall mirror in my bathroom.
I hate the fact that everything in my bathroom is reflective, and shiny, and chrome.
I hate the fact that all I have the urge to do now is go back and lay in front of the toilet. This is not how I envisioned leaving my established world behind.
In fact, I lie. It is.
I envisioned being alone. I envisioned being depressed. I envisioned hating everyone, but myself especially. I even invisioned being in horrific pain.
I guess I was pretty accurate. And this seems to be the way that life will end for me in the next while.
Call it stress. Call it hormones. Call it another chemical inbalance. Call me weird. I am that at least.
And so once again, the black makeup is smeared down my face, and the sweat still clings to me. And all I feel is hollow, and terrably unsatisfied. So terrably unsatisfied with everything. And it's more everyone's smiling faces that does it to me, more than the self-loathing and the pain.
And so it appears that there are no pills this time that are going to save me. There never were any. They just numb this, this, whatever you want to call it.
Just kind of pass the blame.
But that black makeup streaking my face is still there. I left it there. This time I avoided it with the towel, as I wiped everything but the pain away. It's there now. It's a reminder of what I went through. It's a reminder of what I am going through.
Why the hell am I sharing this?
05 Jun 2003|02:55pm
I think I need a decoder ring to make sense of the world and the things that it makes me feel. I can’t help but think about these things. I truly can’t help it. It’s not like me to be like this, but on a long enough time line, I have to believe that eventually I will turn out like everyone else.
Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s the cigarettes. Maybe it’s the cheap liquor, or the drugs, or the scars that I just wish would open up, rip themselves apart, and just flow like they used to. I can’t imagine feeling again the longing to bleed as I used to.
It’s all coming back to me now.
Self doubt.
Loathing.
Fear.
Denial.
Hatred.
Petrified child.
Confusion.
Examination.
Frustration.
I have to slowly dance back to the cure for the things that I finally found. I cant believe that one little sip of it will finally make things stop. But it’s not going to make things stop. It’s not going to make things stop. I know that by now. Not until I wise up. I am a fool as of late. I have not prepared. I have signed things over to the world. I have lost it. Lost the gamble. It’s not going to stop. I have to wise up. I have to give up. I have to give out. I have to put out. Apparently that makes everything better. It makes me feel special. It makes me feel like a whore. It makes me feel fat. It makes me a fat whore.
I am a fat whore.
Is that what you wanted?
It’s not what you thought when you first began to see the things in my world. When I caught that glimpse of what I by now can’t stand at all.
I need to wise up.
I can shake these things out of me. I can find my lost soul then I think that it will make everything better. All I ever wanted was for everything to be alright. Why can’t I ever get what I want?
One step forward. One dance back.
01 Jun 2003|12:18am
I will not be getting lillies on graduation day;
And the lights will shine, flicker, and light up the eyes of a thousand faces. And the air will be heavy with anticipation and ten thousand exhaled breaths. And the palms will be sweaty. And the hands will beat together in an indistinguishable frenzy of joy. And two thousand ears will listen as one voice at a time speaks of the years gone by. And skin will meet skin in yet another uproar of cheers. And the lights will dim to focus on an individual one of three hundred ninety given their forty seconds to revel in the past thirteen years. And that light will radiate off of their smiles. And the gowns will flow in the sway of the exhaled breeze. And one by one, from a behind-the-stage-alphabetically-tweaked line up of bodies, each more nervous that the last, they will be handed their fates, and congratulated by men too busy to ever learn their names. And with this movement, Life will snipe them off, and they will step off stage, booklet and parchment in hand. Now wounded, broken, and staggering, they are graduates left to limp the rest of the way to the end, or whenever Fate finally can elude them no more.
From a balcony high above the several thousand pairs of eyes, ears, and breaths, I will witness this bloody massacre of a childhood that they each held on to up until the very last moment. Not a childhood among them can outrun the snipe of the Adult life that just waits for them to step into that light and reach for the handshake. Their adolescent ideals and morals will be picked off, brutally slaughtered in an alphabetical order.
Their reward for faithful years of their devotion to education is to emerge from it an empty bleeding shell of a child.
Through all of this, the sole observer from above, watching my peers become graduates, adults, workers, survivors, elitists, blue collar, white collar, frightened children all over again. I can ponder all I want just what it might mean to have been on that stage. My name will most likely be called. My intro might even be read out. The length and lack of stimulation of the night might give me that pause of mental aggravation only to realize that I never really had a purpose in gliding like a fool to take up in my clammy hands the parchment that billions of high school graduates before me have. It is a tradition, but I suppose I have never been one for keeping with the traditional.
Walking at night, I found a yellow lily in a broken heap of dirt on the sidewalk, and I had the opportunity to take it in my hands and take it in my mind. Three of the leaves had been unmercifully bent to break into that soft and moist interior of the petals. Placing them back into their rightful place was a futile attempt at repairing yet even more damage to nature created by us. The soft center moved with my motion and its colours shifted spectrums in the changing fluorescent light above. I ran my fingers along the still solid petals. I took in every sensation; my fingers felt the colour of its soul. The cracked and splintered stem ruined the otherwise naturally blooming appearance. I would have believed that it still grew from the ground. At this point my movement along the pavement was of little importance. All that mattered was this sensation-riddled heap of cellulose.
I brought it to my face, and for one final moment loved it until the smell of this lily smashed into the receptors in my brain, and this immediately became my worst enemy. I had neglected all the painful memories that this flower had ever brought me.
I had flashback after flashback of my mother’s funeral. I saw in my mind the wreathes and garlands and bouquets lining the room. Lilies crawling up the walls, circling the casket that lay open with her sunken face inside it. These pointed and sneeringing flowers not only made their overabundance obvious through the intertwined colours that they exhuded, but the odor in the air told all that they had laid claim to this corpse bearing room. They permeated my mind with that heavy scent. My confusion, naiveté, and fear were only heightened and magnified by the presence of this wafting and overbearing scent. I wanted to vomit from the smell. I wanted to vomit from the thought. And now I wanted to vomit to forget all those flashbacks that ever brought me pain.
So I did the only thing I could think to do at the time.
I pinched the imperfect petal between my finger and I gave a gleeful tug as the silky yellow gave way with a snap and I tossed the removed portion asunder. And then I returned to that tiger-faced perfumed devil with my hand, and I tugged again, and I tugged again, and again, and each time I tossed the pieces further and in a more wild manor, and took more pride in seeing how scattered this once perfectly placed beast now looked. I came down to the stamen and I threw this piece and I dissected it with my fingers and I reveled in its destruction at my very own hands. Finally I tossed the last piece into the mess that I had strewn over the parking lot pavement and I took one final look at its dismembered remains. All that crossed my mind was:
My, I have made the murder of this beast only that much more interesting with the placement of its remains.
30 May 2003|01:17pm
And for the first time, heaven seemed insane.
Simply for taking her away from me.
27 May 2003|01:24am
There is that intrinsic beat again. It’s leading me to the throne of broken bones, and a sky painted a deep crimson to shimmer in the pale moonlight. I can’t help but be lead back here. It’s a primal kind of inkling that makes me want to strip down to the clothes that the primates wear.
Within myself there is that animal. I can be like one of them. I am not belonging to this life. Maybe I can run to the wilds where the tigress is my queen, and the branches shade me from the sun through the tropical and steamy canopy. Maybe I can get back in tough with those roots that I was born with and bred out of.
I’d like to learn to talk to snakes. I’d like to let a boa take hold of my throat and my arms and slide it’s tail about my waist and just let it constrict. What a feeling that would be. Raw power. Raw animal force. It’s not that accessable these days, not to me.
I want to be able to really fly through through the trees on the heels of my feet and inhuman and invisible speeds. I want to be able to feel the moist soil on my feet. I want to attain the knowledge that I was born and programmed to work with. I’ll have my way with the jungle.
I want to have mystic Myan temples erected in my honour. I want to have bloody alters atop pires of stone dripping with the insides of innocent virgins. I want them to be pulled to the alter screaming and kicking, and paraded in ornaments which on any other day would be concodered blasphemous. I can have my face carved in the granite walls and have my ever piercing gaze drive into the depths of all who fall within it’s gaze. I also want to be the Godess that watches from the bushes, and never supplies enough of anything unless the sacrifice is good and bloody.
Vengeful gods are the best.
My hair can become knotted with wild berries and twigs, and I can take it and cut it up to make resourceful tools. I can use pieces of bark as a means of gathering water, and learn to gather the foods I have learned to forriege. I want to forge tools and stalk an unsuspecting gazelle through the grass. I can silently manoevour myself, and with reflexes challenging that of any cat, I can strike it from the pack.
Of course, standing above it’s still warm carcass, tool in hand, blood still covering my fingers, and breath still heavy, I can scream to the sky and dance in the circles that I now have taken away from this beast. Then I can fend off the scavengers and carry the animal whole to my hideaway in the trees.
Not only do I want to be a vengeful god, but one that survives off the land. Dyana the huntress for example. To take, but give, and to know how to maintain a balance of my survival to the rest of my ecosystems prosparity.
This jungle beast in all of us should awaken and remind us of what we once were, and this living of our lives that we are all too caught up in.
I am going to make the most wonderful wrathful god.
26 May 2003|12:26am
I can't conclude if what I am trapped in is a loveless faith, or a faithless love.
It is a one-way river of denial-riddled emotion. It is a flow of outwardly exhuded lust, unbridled affection, and unspoken love. Personally, I hate it, while at the same time it's all that drives me through an otherwise thoughtless and very bleak day. It is on my mind. Not in a way because it gives me some sort of pseudo fictionesque warm fuzzy feeling; I feel this more because it's an internal sort of conflict that I just live for.
On my side, within some pit of ever dualing feelings, fights a twisted form of fear, anger, joy, amusement, stupidity, intellect, judgement, and confusion.
In his corner of this fight, the only contendor is love.
My opponent to this of course is a tag-team duo of resentment and distrust. They are such a resourceful pair, but for some reason nowhere near as strong as his lone contendor. Damn him for his naturally much stronger fighter. Even thought mine have been trained hard and trained well, his exhudes this blinding streingth with an aura nearly as softly clear as the colour of his eyes.
I can try all I want to hold these things he feels for me against him. I can use them as a means to spite myself once again in a masochistic sort of twisted perpetual damage inflicting lifestyle, and as a bonus at the same time strike down a boy that so clearly just wants to please me. It's a plan that has everyone losing just like I want them to. I get this sick sense of pleasure when I screw myself out of something that was designed to make me happy. I get to overthrow those odds.
From a scrap of paper at work:
I have lost the piece of paper that I had stolen for the purpose of expressing my thoughts.
What a shame.
At the time I had thoughts that were worth writing. Now all that thoughts that I have barely outline anything other than the fact that I have indeed misplaced my piece pf paper. Lost it somewhere here, in this store holding 8000 writhing bodies and several million items that they secretly wished that they owned. Somewhere lost between the diapers to adorn tiny humans with and the tires that drive the cars that take these tiny humans to where it is that they have to be, is lost my piece of paper.
I hardly ever grasp the fact that this building's contents are either being of supposedly higher enlightenment, or the manufactured products designed to further enlighten these already enlightened beings lives.
...oh, I just found my little piece of paper...
-end scrap paper-
In the murky depths of a greasy smelling restaurant, adorned with tacky decorations and art deco themes, we all stared at each other. We tried to drink as much of each other up as our eyes and the dimmly lit room would allow.
There was hardly enough time. It's grasp let us think that eternity was nigh, but in reality, Time allowed the night to slip away with talk of tiny people and managerial mishaps. Before the open night air claimed us to it's skies, colour and paper met in a swirl of an exchange of sort.
It was the embrace that meant the most. Those numbers and letters meant nothing compared to the long and sorrowfilled embrace that put even Time himself at bay. She held me close and let me know deeply and without words that the time in the prior years that we had spent together really and truly did mean something to her, and in turn meant more to me than her tears ever could have. Try as she might to wave them away, those salty tears of joy and sorrow began to soften her already downy exterior and a gentil woman became the incomprehensable mound of beautiful emotions. The lines on her face became highlighted as the force of her will gave way to the beauty of her inner sadness at the release of so many important people.
She was our mother. We were her children. We were her sisters. We are her sisters. And she fears more than nothing else in the world, the solitude that her departure will enevitably bring. And all I want to do is ease this pain. Ease it as a form of thanks for all that she ever eased in me.
Her smiles are eternal. You can feel what radiates frm them. Even in times of hatred and peutrid anger, the lines on her face give way to that familiar smile that I now have to face a hard and flourescant building without.
Things are going to be harder without her. I had neglected to inform myself of her exact date of departure, and how that I have not taken the time to gently absorb it, I am left like the drum to beat a sole and long note for.
So now I am without one of the mother figures in my life. To me, it seems as though many of the mother figures I choose leave me in the end. I have so many to try and fill an ovbious hole. The hole created 12 years and 8 months ago.
[don't ever think I don't count the minutes since she left me]
and these many mother figures are a single unit, and none of them are the wiser. None are aware that I rely on them so. And so they up and leave as they please never knowing they are just broadening a painful gap in my soul.
And all I can to is return the embrace, and kiss them goodbye.
Forever and again.
22 May 2003|07:01pm
I don’t really live these days.
It’s more of a tingling kind of numbness to the things that I used to find such pleasure in. I used to also feel the opposite for things I loathed. Now, the things I loathed hardly even phase me. I am just here. And they are there. And there is nothing else to that.
I also used to have some bad habits. I used to be the scary one that people feared. I used to worry many people. I used to have odd behaveor. I used to make myself bleed, and smoke too much, and do too many drugs, and eat nothing but fatty foods. I used to be hefty and throw my weight around in fights. I hissed at the preppy popular girls as they walked by. I carried things with me that made people who didn’t understand them very cautious and weary. Teachers used to write letters to home. My dad would never get them of course. I got far too much enjoyment out of reading them myself.
But I’m all better now.
People have made it much harder to cross the fields I used to play in as a kid. I used to be able to run right through, undisturbed, and now things have been caged in. There are complicated fences to avoid, and sprinklers that stick up and tell me not to step in the way. It’s like the things that were so easy for me as a child are now much more challenging as an adult, and to no fault of my own either.
Could that be some sort of symbolism to life? Hmmm…?
Throw away those dreams, little girl. You are a ‘woman’ now.
I would have waited for you, but those trees up ahead kept calling my name, and the hill just begged to be climed. So I took what I wanted, and I headed up into the wilderness that was talking to every part of me but my ears. Might have had something to due with the fact that they were still ringing. But I held my phone close in the hopes that you’d call my name, and maybe just maybe have something constructive to add to the picture. Things just go sour.
I think that my heart is conspiring againt me.
It used to be so much easier to believe that I would change. That of course what before the sun was consumed by the darkest of clouds from my mind. I have dark clouds swirling in my head, past the Subconcious seas, and around the corner from Intuition Island. Actually, it’s just north of the PMS peak on Menstruation Mountain, and the Hormonal Hillside in the Viciousbitch Valley. You know, just south of the Antisocial Alps. They are gathering there, and plotting to cause a terrential flood that would take down the entire Kingdom of sanity.
spacebarsareforpeoplewhohavethedamntimetousethem
21 May 2003|06:33pm
Smile, the ether will kick in at any moment.
21 May 2003|01:59pm
Turns out after all that this slow intrinsic beat is really what it feels like.
I would have never ever thought.
What was I to say at a moment like that? “Please, don’t ever touch me again. I fear I might vomit on our bed.” That clawing and defining moment where I really just wanted to stop. And things went deeper, and thoughts weren’t what they used to be, and all I kept thinking was:
“Piece of meat piece of meat piece of meat piece of meat piece of meat piece of meat piece...”
And then the sky opened up, and the light from above caught me, and held me, and probed me, and asked me what I thought, and all I remember being able to do in such an awe inspiring moment while being lifted from where I stood was scream with my mouth wide shut.
I faced God, and all I could do was scream. Great.
While rescue is no longer the option of those in the mind’s eye, from here on out, I can hope for that final destination that resembles those in my dreams. The ones where the road that was supposed to keep going forever, finally ends, and what’s there along that desert road is an oasis of unimaginable awe. You will never have to leave. Everything you would have ever hoped for up until the moment that your heart stopped beating would be there.
Actually, I didn’t mean that, I was lying. Please forgive me.
I saw this oasis, and was blinded by its glory. I thought myself not strong enough to surpass it’s greatness and in a fear of living forever in the shadow of the home I was about to claim I sat back into my seat, and I floored the gas pedal, and I ran every stop sign from that place to now. Those stop signs would have told me to turn back, and if I had done that, this moment might never have been achieved.
In stead, they too screamed obscenities as I passed them without looking twice. To me, something that is trying to stop me is only in the way. Of course, try reasoning this with a police officer in shiny glasses and boots with spurs, and a gun in his holster and a spark on his mind. He spoke of his children, and his wife, and once or twice his canine named Butch, but nothing of the sixteen stop signs I had run through, nor the fact that I was reaching dangerous velocities before I decided to pull to the side of the road. I suspected from his tone and demeanor that he too was one of the all too many lonely people in the world. The kind that will be lonely even in the largest of gatherings with the closest of friends.
These people simply stagger through life alone. Not that being alone makes you a lonely person, the two are so very different, but people who are unknowingly lonely, tend to make themselves alone out of a natural yearning to fulfill their felt place in the universe. You are drawn into that hole in which you dig for yourself. Of course, once you reach the proverbial bottom of said hole, you look up to the sky you left behind only to realize that you have now succeeded in digging your own grave.
That is not your job, that is the job of the gravedigger. But if this job is shifted and put out of place I wonder, who will dig the grave of the very last grave digger?
19 May 2003|02:39pm
I have recieved a letter that has genuinely and deeply touched me. I just thought I had to share it:
Laura,
As you will no doubt guess, this was a school assignment forced upon me by an unrelenting and supposedly infallible system. This admission does not take away from the sincerity of the thanks I am about to present to you. They on the other hand are brought out not by a system of unyielding obedience but by honest gratitude for the existence of another free thinking, very functional soul. To answer a possible and most likely question of why I’m writing this like the words are coming out of a robot, I honestly don’t know, I’m just weird like that. So thanks for being there when I needed someone to talk to, conspire with, laugh with, complain with, yell with, and generally plot massive amounts of insanity and hostile take-over via telepathy reception devices implanted within all the tvs manufactured between 1985 and 2003.
Sincerely and more importantly
not entirely biological or mechanical,
David
I truly hope David does not mind.
It made me feel all warm and fuzzy.
19 May 2003|01:54
On a long enough time line, everyones survival rate drops to zero.
I have sat back and upon rexamining the light given off by the universe, I have found that I am not impressed.
Each and every glittering soul adding to that radiating single beam of hope and purity and luminescant love is slowly dimming in my eyes. I am loosing faith in the sun. I am losing faith in the universe. I am losing myself in my lost faith.
A mass consumption of that sort of hope that is oozing from a beam of light, somewhere in the actual space between galaxies, far beyong our ever consuming eyes.
It’s not a loss of belief. Belief is just another ingredient to the blinding glare. It’s just an awe that being born with, I only notice now that it is leaving me. And even though perspectives are being skewed, and minds are transforming from lovely gardens to heaping rotting souls, all I can find myself wondering is: when I lose my faith, where does it go?
Energy transformation.
It never just disapears. It simply and elegantly reshapes itself.
Some times I wish I was energy.
So if my personal appeal to a blinding beam of solitude and saviorism is leaving me, I am left to wonder as to it’s final destination.
And then it hits me, my affinity for this hypothetical beam has become the beam itself. It makes only sense that a pillar of light embodying pure hope would aquire any lost hope I once had and now find myself without.
I can picture it all now. A hollywoodesque floating aparition of hope fading out of my mid-torso section and into a night sky protruding with billions of twinkling and twirling stars. Then this newly freed matter from within floats into a sky and, in some distance and time perspectively defying move, joins a single beam of light as it streaks across the sky.
And then the camera pans from the sky back to me, standing in a large and somewhat symbollically empty field, left a bitter and empty shell.
And the soundtrack plays. Something like Coldplay’s Scientist.
And then my hard and slightly twisted expression softens as, still looking to the night sky, a tear runs down my cheek. And I turn and walk through the tall grass, as the camera pulls away to a shot of me leaving said symbolically empty field, still alone.
--
end scene [soundtrack fade out]
--
Wouldn’t it be lovely if life were like the movies.
Too bad it isn’t and I am still left with a hollow feeling in my gut when I think of the universe as a whole.
Perhaps when I feel a sense of disgust at the thought of the universe, I am guilty of making the oh-so human mistake of confusing humanity with the universe.
16 May 2003|12:22pm
The reality of it is,
I attract idiots
15 May 2003|10:32pm
Dangle that thread beyond my nose.
Expect me to chase it?
Fat fucking chance.
***
My mind is numb. I am about ready to dive from a pool of nothing into a pool of murky awareness, and the clock has stopped ticking, and my already crooked spine has nothing left to do but shatter. Shallow end, here I come.
My icy mind has done nothing but bulged with dry compliance. I am nothing left but the locked up little doll that sits on the shelf that you so despirately want me to be. I am collecting dust my friend, and I have made that somewhat concencious decision that you are no longer allowed to wipe that dust from my porcelin skin whenever you please.
Your mind cant comprehend that which is presented to you. I am what I am, and you can not see that I am actually trying. I swear. You can’t breathe in what it is that I am giving to you. You can’t breathe me in, save the last few narrow breaths, you will need them.
I don’t mean to be poison any more than the arsenic in my tea does.
***
Care to join my tea party? There will be crumpets and scones and cookies. And tea, earl grey. Like how my love likes it. Hot.
Now let’s gather around the table, as it lies at knee level, and sit in my make believe seats, and gather and partake in the make believe conversation. You can have the cup of tea that I pour you. It might taste a little funny, but I am sure that you won’t mind after a few minutes. Just let it sink in.
I am going to wear a pretty dress. So I can be a real girl. I am going to wear my hair down, just like you like it. Touching my lower back, and scraping my soul through my mouth.
I can have pretty pink lips and rosy cheeks.
I can have a pale blue dress. To go with my pale green eyes. But, I forgive you for not noticing if course. You must have more important things on your mind, like nothing.
And Mr. Teddy is going to join us. He, of course, is the guest of honour, and you will be expected to raise your glass in honour of him. Otherwise, Mr. Teddy will get angry.
And you don’t want to meet Mr. Teddy when he is angry.
***
Never forget, this is another world that you have stepped into, and you never know which door leads to which part of me.
I think you chose the wrong one.
14 May 2003|09:38pm
A stolen piece of paper to write endevoured and endangered thoughts onto. Outlawed as the faces of the past.
Burning, screaming thoughts behind tinted and tainted sheets of metal glass. Catch yourself. They are falling for you. See it cleaned up, prompt, pretty, waiting for you.
And with all this perfect and unbelieveably apearingly suitably outside, it can’t outshine the fact that on the inside there appears to be nothing. Not nearly enough.
Layers that are to be unraveled aren’t there. Where is the challenge? Well, for one, it’s standing right next to the damn animal lust that is driving you.
And things are supposed to be perfect. You are supposed to be happy. So why aren’t you smiling any more? You’re shallow, that’s why. You don’t want what you need, so youll settle for what your hormone riddled eyes like to look at.
It’s kind of an awakening really. To why you’ll never be good for anyone. It’s a magnetism that is only slightly phased. Until you are close to him with his arms around your waist, until that moment you want him. But once there, it’s not really what you had in mind. Somewhat like the fast food that lures you in with it’s mouthwatering smell, and only after eating do you realise that you have to go to the bathroom.
13 May 2003|04:10pm
This world was supposed to be perfect.
Why aren’t you smiling?
11 May 2003|10:34pm
The challenge here folks is to not let your brain slowly seep out your left ear because it has turned to mush as a result of a lack of any kind of stimulation. It is called ‘work’. That is the real trick. Pretending to look busy while really doing nothing at all, not out of choice, but out of lack of challenge.
The only problem?
It can’t be done.
And so you are forced to let the grey matter that once completed the rational thoughts you had in your head trickle out of your left ear and run through the curves and down to the softer part of your neck. It’s not so bad really. It’s kind of warm and fuzzy. Like when you bleed from the outer lobe of your ear. I have been cut in many places on many occaisons in my lifetime, but none bleed quite like that of the ear when cut. Just the slightest slice to the lower portion of your lobe and it will pour warm, red, oozing blood for long intervals of time. It will just run and drip off your ear and run down your neck following the curves of your collar bone in a seemingly endless river. Now imagine this feeling with the matter in your head.
That right there is the very essence of what it is like to work in retail.
11 May 2003|01:34am
Sometimes I feel like peeling off all my skin to try and find the real me.
To know if what lies inside is really all that is improtant.
Maybe find my place in something other then the average retail job.
I really don’t care much about my appearence as of late. I don’t really care what my makeup looks like, how kept my nails are, what my hair looks like [as long as the stupid long stuff is out of my face], or what the hell I wear. It’s starting to get annoying. I’d kind of like to be one of those girls that really cares about what they look/smell/feel like. They seem like cleaner happier people. I must sound shallow for thinking this, but I don’t want to be all fat and ugly when the end of the year rolls around and I have to say goodbye to all the people I spent the last few years with, only to have then think how fat I look just before I never see them again. I’d kind if like them to remember me as a nice looking and smelling individual.
The problem is it’s just a lot of work.
And not only am I slightly more unkempt as of late, I also am much lazier. The two might directly be connected.
I’ll have to look into it later.
I am getting somewhat sick of people telling me that everything will be okay.
Because last time I checked, there are no time machines, no one can accurately predict the future, and no one really knows what the hell I really have planned.
But that was just the last time I checked. Things change on me pretty quickly, I am a relatively unaware person these days.
I spend far too much time contemplating the void, rather than thinking of the truly important things in life, like asking questions such as, “What colour socks should I wear today?”.
That’s what really matters anyways.
I think I am going to become a slut. They seem to have more fun. If I am young and have things that men want, then why the hell not reduce myself to a piece of meat and give men what they want in return for that which I need. It’s survival. And I want to be the fittest, don’t I?
So I am going to buy tight and revealing clothing, things that show off my breasts and other curves that mother nature decided to curse me with. And I can wear short skirts. Lots and lots of very short skirts. And shoes with points. And makeup stacked layers thick. And teased hair. And pushup bras. And thongs. And a tounge piercing. And thigh high stockings. And a whole bus load of STD’s.
I’ll be the best slut ever.
08 May 2003|02:25pm
I love it when the sun shines and my eyes burn to the point where I can run my finger along the single line below my eye and find a single solitary tear.
Those kind of marvelous miricals make me want to free the thoughts from my head.
There is a helix of time in my head. All reason and rational have vacated the premisies.
The rent was far too high in the first place.
Paper lanterns are floating in the water in my mind. It is a dark and sorrowfilled alleyway in a city in Japan.
When the eventual final breeze finally blows, they are taken to all which directions of the flooded basement. A man steps in, dives in the water, and seizes a lone lantern. With this, the candle burning within kisses the rice paper, and the entire alleyway erupts into flames.
And here, my mind is gone.
I was bred to be slaughtered.
07 May 2003|01:08am
we dont have to stay friends...
Richard Cory
By Edwin Arlington Robinson
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich - yes, richer than a king -
And admirably schooled in every grace;
In fine we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
- Edwin Arlington Robinson -
" The Children Of The Night "
...lets pretend to be enimies.
Allow me to cradle these flies in the back of my mouth for a while.
You must be aware as to what it is that you do to me.
05 May 2003|08:24pm
All communication lines are cut.
I never was fully aware of just how dependant on them I was until I was once again deprived of them.
When I was a kid, I didn’t have a phone. I didn’t have any real way of communicating with anyone I knew. I didn’t have any friends at the time, but if you asked me then I probably would have told you otherwise. I liked to think that, had I the means, many people that I thought were my friends would have communicated with me. This of course was a delusion, and in my solitude I slowly and quietly became aware of this. That’s the point when depression set in.
I was thirteen, and didn’t have anyone to talk to even if I wanted to. It was the worst point in my life. I know that there are other ways to communicate with people. I am, and was, fully aware of this. The world went for many many decades just fine without the ability to call up someone to arrange to hang around with. In fact, they lived even greater distances from each other and even overcame even such obsticals as wild flora and fauna and natural disasters to communicate with each other. But the sole fact that the rest of the world communicated through such technological means as the telephone, which I was deprived of, left me very much cut off from them.
I would, for many hours, engage in one way conversations with the television. I had no idea what the world outside of my television was doing. I got to the point when I just really didn’t care. I would just sit in front of it and pretend that it cared. To me at the time, it represented the world that I was cut off from. I was the observer. I got to see what a thousand productive families got to do in their times together. I didn’t really know what a family was; it was a forigen concept to me. This term and definition ‘family’ never came close to summing up what I was in. I was my own collective family with the TV as my parental source of wisdom and knowledge.
In short, the TV raised me, and it did a damnd good job if I do say so myself.
Now, when you are thirteen and you spend a good 18 to 24 hours of your day in complete solitude, it does strange things to your mind. I was a very deluded individual. I mean, I still am, but it was in a different kind of way. I was starting to go through things that I got to see TV teens go through every season. And at the end of every epesode I had watched as they tried in many anticful and whimisical ways to handle the new situations only to go to the families they had for advice and, of course, everything had worked out in the end. God, I loved those epesodes. See, I didn’t ever have that pretend family to go to, so I would soak up the advice they dispensed in their magical TV family way, and use it to my advantage. This is how I learned to deal with my first period.[thank you TV’s Busy from ‘Ready or Not’]
I can still recall the first thought that erupted through my head and out my mouth when I discovered yet another problem of me that I was to be facing all on my own,
“Oh, SHIT! Not today of all days!”
What a magical first day of Middle school.
I am still in disbelief that I managed to, at an impressionable thirteen, go into the Shoppers Drug Mart, where the mom of one of my friends worked, and buy myself a pack of ‘feminin napkins’ from that asile of HORORS. I felt like one of those people on TV. Of ocurse, I wasn’t thinking that at the time, I just wanted to get the fuck out of that store before my head exploded. My ears must have been so red. They do that when I am embarrased.
So at this early teenhood my delusions that happiness truly did exsist somewhere in the world were primally fed by the television. But I know for a fact that is not all that fed the idea that maybe it was just me that the real world’s happiness avoided.
I can say this for a fact because I learned how to buy my first bra from a teen magazine.
That had to have been far more embarassing to me than having to head for the ‘asile of horors’. There is a simple reason to this, and it was entirely my fault. I chose, in my excessive lack of any knowledge, La Senza to buy my first bra.
Any woman now knows for a fact that the worst part of La Senza is being pounced on by those hard working employees they have there. And pounce they did, like a Future Shop employee itching for a commision, they moved in. I had taken no more than three steps in the store and reached to look for the size that I was convinced was mine when they got me.
From a very resourceful Seventeen magazine that I can still recall the cover of, I learned just how to use a tape measure and, following the very mathematically confusing instructions, find my bra size. It was something to the effect of whatever the number of your rib cage size, add 5, then the bust size plus 6 and then if the total number was between this and that was an ‘A’ and this and another that was a ‘B’. When I first read it, I just about gave up on EVER wearing a bra. But those happy girls on TV were wearing bras, and I wanted to be happy too so I obliged with the mind warping magazine and I whipped out my tape measure. Can you believe it, I was thirteen and had my very own tool kit [required to fix the many things that my father couldn’t understand how to fix], but I didn’t have a bra.
The employee asked me if I knew what size I was looking for. I said I knew, and she looked at me in disbelief. I had $20 in my pocket. I was ready to buy the place out. And of course, I had never even imagined the price of a bra, and I looked at all the ones that I thought looked right, and they were all well over that price. So I took a deep breath that I can still very well recall taking and I approached the hovering sales girl and, without looking her in the eye at all, asked her if there were any bras for around twenty dollars. She almost laughed at me. And found me a couple that would me just more than I could afford until we came across a rack and she said that these ‘would be more in my price range’. I obliged and reached for the first A 34 that my eyes found.
She again asked me if I was sure that I knew what the size was, quickly adding, ‘...because we can just go to the back and measure you,’ and with this I sharply said ‘NO!’. At my age, and with as little human contact as I had to work with, the idea of a strange woman taking me to some mysterious ‘back room’ and measuring my breasts to see what size they were made me want to vomit.
I very quickly followed my loud ‘no’ with completely incomprehensable mumbling about how I had already measured and knew what size I was looking for, followed with a VERY awkward explination that this was my fisrst bra.
By this point I knew that all was not well on my expedition to purchase support.
At this point the sales girl informed me that it was best that I tried it on, just to ‘make sure’. I did so and, hazaa, it fit. I came out of the change room quite flustered and she asked ‘how it went’, as if I had just returned from a great African Safari. I informed her if my success and she was genuinely shocked. I proceeded for the counter and paid to have the woman at the counter inform me of my option of having smelling salts included with my newly purchased bra. Who the hell cares, right? I think I made the mistake of asking as to what their point was [silly little me] and she explained, but I stopped listening after the words ‘pretty smelling’, and just had her throw them in. Then she handed me the bag and smiled.
Needless to say I stormed out of there and walked to the parking lot. I was wondering why the bag they gave me was so large. It was one of those almost cardboard soft yellow folded paper bags that had the words ‘La Senza’ printed in [what I thought was] excessively large letters. Once in the parking lot, I engaged in a war with my small purse to be able to conceal this piece of evedence within it’s bowels. I couldn’t have anyone, including my father, know that I had gone to the trouble of purchasing such a blasphemous item of undergarments. I won and with a bulging purse following me, I headed for the solitude of my television riddled house. Maybe Busy knew what I did with the stupid thing now.
30 Apr 2003|10:14pm
Someone actually said to me today, "Laura, for someone who had put up with as much shit as you have in your lifetime, you are a suprisingly chipper person." I just looked at him, and said "Being fucking crazy helps."
Thanks Joel.
Now I am boarding the doomed metro to unhappiness. It's a long and lonely ride, and it's not worth the $1.80. There is a bum next to me. He is wearing a dirty and disheveled coat, and talking to me about Jesus Christ of Nasereth. I wonder why these are the people that Jesus chooses to send to me every time I have to deal with a conversation about him. What a crazy man, that Jesus. There are urine stains on the seat across from me. I can't smell it, but I am guessing that one shift in the air current could lead to it. My metro is going to reach it's stop soon. I can see it someing. I have dealt with the stop for a while now. It's not so great.
I am so tired now. I don't feel like arguing with the sky now, it fails to listen to my screams.
I am off to venture back to the halls of my gutted house. I have to rescue it's bleeding heart, and spend our last night together in blissful harmony.
I have to let it know I love it.
Shouldn't goodbyes be sweet?
29 Apr 2003|01:34pm
I am talking geek talk. And I love it. I get a sick and twisted sense that not many people let alone girls do the things that I do well. I am proud not to have a penis and do the things that I do. I like to think that I rank up there with men in the same fields. I like to try and pretend that I am not getting favor because I am a girl. Maybe the MEN who judge me as an equal just look at me and say,
“She’s pretty, and she knows her way around PhotoShop. Let’s cut her a deal and let her think she can play with the big boys.”
Being a woman is highly over rated. I’d much rather have a penis and have society let me get away with acting like a drunken, horney fool all of the time. I can be a real man if I was to act like that as a man, or I can be a slut if I act like that as a girl.
How nice.
I have revisited an old friend of mine. He is sharp, and comes to a bleeding point each time we meet. It usually takes a while for he and I to get to the point, but each and every time, we do at some point come to a lovely stinging agreement.
Fights with him are messy. They take time to heal from.
He likes to play mind games. I think I am addicted to him.
We had this affair a while back; it went on for a long time. It took me almost two years to get over the pain of having to give him up. But I am a weak and easily persuaded individual.
What am I to do when I have no one else to go to for any kind of help? Where do I turn but back to him? I know I am not the only one who fights with his type. They are tempting and evil. They are manipulative and cunning.
It is just too easy to turn to men like him. Men that leave something on your skin when they leave you. They always leave a reminder of any fights you have, any time that they show their face in general. All I can do is hope to God that he goes away. I do not need another fling with him. I do not need him back in my life. I do not want to have to deal with the withdrawal. It is almost more painful and challenging than having to deal with the fights in the relationship. I have to go on my day without him to turn to, leaving me essentially without anything at all in the world to run to when I get hurt.
The only thing he is good for is for having someone to turn to when there is nothing else to turn to; when there is no one left on Earth, he is there for you. Perhaps that is his appeal to so many people like me.
Perhaps there are just far too many weak willed people like me. What does that tell you about the world?
And so without him, my day is hollow and I have to keep my hollow feelings to myself. I have to face the world pretending that everything on the inside is all right. I got really good at it for a while.
Lately I have been letting things slip. I have been revealing how truly bleak and twisted I am on the inside. Not like it really should be of any surprise to anyone at all.
All I want is him to go away. He destroys me. And I don’t want to be destroyed by him right now. I want to leave that to me.
Does anyone want to buy oranges so that I can afford to have a nice grad dress?
28 Apr 2003|12:48am
The startings of a story that, knowing me, I won't ever get off my ass and finnish.
It's based on me as a kid, and what I used to do.
Here goes:
...nothing more than a force of nature with it’s contents spilled forth for the world to pick at.
I woke up in a pool of my own blood again this morning. Nothing new. The concrete seemed harder than usual, but that might have just been me.
I got up and looked around. Another parking lot.
I was lucky this time. Two days ago I woke up under the rear cab of a parked semi. The exhaust caused me to cough myself awake. I crawled from under to see the lot was full, and aparantly I had slept in.
But today I was alone in the pre-morning light of an empty mall parking lot. Today I had beat the morning delivery trucks. For this I felt a twisted sense of pride. I turned around to look at the ground. Sure enough, part of the contents of my circulatory system were staring back at me.
I looked at the puddle of blood for a while and tried to find a shape in it’s hollow gratitude. I wanted to see if the edges of the blood stain formed a tangable and recognizeable shape.
Last week I sat and could have sworn that the blood was a perfect and shilouetted heart shape. It was cute. I smiled at the idea that where my head had hit the pavement, it had leaked a perfect heart while I slept. It was funny in my mind.
After a good twenty minutes of staring, all I had was the odd outline of the Prime Minister and a headache. Finally I gave up and rubbing my head went on my way.
The sun, after all, was coming up.
Today was going to be another day. And I was going to try and be me.
See that was always the trickiest part of my day. Reforming who I was from what I knew.
The funniest and most select details stayed with me. Things that had happened to me a week or two past were mildly fuzzy. Things any earlier were just murky.
I could usually equate not remembering anything of myself to the bump on my skull when I woke up, but slowly, after waking, parts came back to me. Like the fact that the morning before I had the exact same idea as to how things became fuzzy. And of course next to come back was the fact that the morning before that, I again had come to that conclusion.
In fact, at about the same moment every morning for the past two weeks I had the same thought. It was the equivalent of a mental “no-Duh!”. A slow awakening to the same fact at the same time every morning.
The rest has yet to be written.
I apologize for the spelling, and the confusing and non-sensical writing.
27 Apr 2003|12:09am
Life is a broken mirror.
All you can do is pick up the pieces that look the least sharp. Because no one wants to get cut, and all you can do is stare at the other pieces wishing that you had picked up those in stead.
25 Apr 2003|01:13pm
I have failed French 12.
I have failed at many things.
I am tired of failing.
I am tired of not having my head function.
My head has failed me.
My brain has failed me.
Things are not making sense any more.
I am a failure.
My head is letting things slip.
My mind is slipping away from me.
Why is my mind slipping away from me?
I can’t recall things I used to be able to.
I can’t recall what I was doing.
WHERE IS MY FUCKING MIND?!?!
I can’t believe the things that are slipping away from me.
Dates.
Times.
People.
Names.
Promises.
Numbers.
Details.
Words.
Important things that I was supposed to be holding on to.
Like you.
I do believe I was supposed to hold on to you.
I sat in the park after we were supposed to meet last night.
I should have been thinking about what a bad girlfriend I am.
I should have been thinking about fighting to see you, to save this, and to win the battle of my heart and my mind.
But in stead, I was thinking about the over abundance of crack heads and drunks in the park I was sitting in.
I wanted to remember what such a neighborhood was like when it was safe to live in. Not that I ever lived in a nice place like that. Not that I ever am going to live in a place like that.
And when I walked back to where the failed meeting occurred, I more than likely saw you. And then I more than likely turned up the road before you could say anything to me. I don’t know if you were too drunk to see me. I don’t know if you saw me at all. You like to look through me.
You say that your mind does not function when I am near you. That is a bad thing.
It’s not a good thing.
Because to me, when your head does not work when we are together, and you struggle to make those sentences that are supposed to sum up what it is that you are feeling, to me you look like the kind of intellectually challenged person that I loathe.
You on the other hand like to make up for a lack of words with the physical side of things that I do so love.
How can I not love those things you do? It’s only natural.
From what I have seen, you do not know the first thing about me and the person that I am, and that I want to become.
Let me give you a hint:
I am mildly deranged. I an overly independent. I am somewhat anti-social. I am painfully analytical. I am slightly depressed. I am half in love with my depression. I am constantly thinking. I am extremely twisted. I am not sexual. I am terribly forgetful. I am extremely self-destructive. I am frighteningly generous to people I love. I am easily broken. I am usually disappointed. I am never at a failure for words. I am tired of the way things work. I am relatively jealous. I am overtly self-doubtful. I am always lonely. I am seldomly content. I am severely disjointed. I am too open to interpretation. I am usually too quick to take actions. I am an unhealthy level of emotional. I am compulsively artistic. I am mildly obsessive.
I am tired of thinking about me.
"going into shock as she lies down,
not yet realizing that the drugs had
separated her minds eye from reality.”
24 Apr 2003|05:53pm
I want to be what I was when I wanted to be what I am now.
Is that so wrong to hope for?
23 Apr 2003|06:03pm
My current insanity is a great start at a potentially wonderful life as a madwoman.
Things will be more interesting when I get to publically go out of my mind.
There are things that I just can't type about in my head. And all of you, every last one of you, would think me the most insane person on Earth should I ever one day choose to reveal those things. Like it would really take you by suprise. I often wonder if there are any people or any one person in the world that knows all of the important details about me. I often wonder if there is any person in the world that knows any important details about me.
Am I fooling myself? Is is truly my fault that no one knows what I'd more than likely share about me? I don't hide the things that I think. I can't say that I ever have. I keep those mad few fleeting thoughts to myself, but I never intentionally kept the details of 'Laura' from the world.
This might not be the time nor the place to reveal them.
I just need to keep that one last hoarse, gutteral sob from leaving my throat. It might in fact be the first, but I have to prevent it from clawing it's way to my tounge and escaping my lips. It's never a matter of my hand over my mouth. I often scream with my mouth closed, and my eyes wide shut. But this is a differnet and familiar cry. It might be a very blunt cry for help.
I am getting back into my old habits.
Any one who knows me at all will know what they are. Any one who knows me and is concerned for my well being will not take this lightly.
The latter are becoming few and far between, and it is more than likely again my own, rediculously stupid, doing.
I am starting to vaguely suspect the reason behind my reoccurance of these habits. I am beginning to suspect that it has something to do with the company I am now keeping, and the impressionable, and open mind that I posess. I am admiring the wrong people, like a good little fucked-up eightteen year old should.
So madness shouldn't be all that different. I plan on making it one of the more enlightening events of my life. Rather like hitting puberty, it is going to take me up, shake me around, and put me back on thee ground a different and far dizzier person.
I can't wait.
23 Apr 2003|01:32pm
I am pretty sure that there is something wrong with me.
I know that there has to be something wrong with me when I pick fights with my manic-depressive boyfriend just to see what he'll do.
Maybe it is just me.
The fact that when I close my eyes and everything goes red is pretty much the only reminder that my hears still beats.
There has got to be more to a world than this. It is just the living part that I am caught up in at the moment.
Maybe it is just me.
20 Apr 2003|01:35am
Sometimes I’m awe struck by the realization that my body is nothing more than a cage of skin and bones. My hands will be working and I’ll pass one over the other only to feel the protruding and pulsing veins and arteries in a split second of madness. It’s an overwhemling and incomprehensably huge idea to attempt to fathom. It’s a proscess of self awareness. It’s a proscess of self development.
You are a cage. You are a brilliantly designed machine, well oiled and armed to the teeth. The sheer insane brilliance of the human body makes me swoon day after day. You are bred after eons of breeding for what your mind tells you is important. The way you look and the things you think and the things that attract you are all wired in your head to make you go on breeding. To make you populate another race of ‘you’s. You exsist as the entity you are because the wires and tubes which are inside of you function exactly as they do. Any other crossed wire, misaligned beam, and unfunctioning cross-sectional fibre and bamn! you are another person all together.
Sometimes I amaze myself with how my body keeps up with me. Even after starvation, sleep depravation, many drugs, many many cuts and bangs and bruises and bumps and scars, litres of coffee, working myself to death, making myself sick, and broken bones, my poor body still has the ability to revert itself back to the functioning, healthy order that it normally works beautifully at without my even noticing.
I was struck by it’s power and determination while receiving an ultrasound some months ago. The woman held a lubricated piece of a large, grey machine close enough on my chest for the intrinsic beat in my ears and the pulsing visual representation on the screen to work together and strike me down to a speachless frame of mind. They were beautiful. They were in shilouetted harmony. The source of my beautiful blood had never before been this represented. This was the piece of muscle that kept me alive for all these years, and it was still working hard. Still taking double shifts, and working overtime, and not asking for that much more pay even for the increaced work load. It had never reared it’s head as thus and I was speachless. Nothing up until that time had ever hit me like that. Nothing since has.
I love my heart.
Is that redundant?
18 Apr 2003|12:45am
Men are asses, girls are whores, and everyone's a loser.
The fleas are crawling below my skin. They are taking control. They are itching, and scratching, and singing the music of the universe. I am spinning, and spinning, and spinning, and the world is making letters for me to read, and there they are, just the glimpse for the eye to feast upon. I am not the feast that he seeks. I want to be the bird that he wants to capture and cage, but never succeeds. I am not a caged bird. I am not a caged mouse. I am no wee mouse. The world is screaming below my feet. There is teenage angst that roars within these walls of a girl in chains. I want to be that redundant teenager that you like to think of me as. Wouldn’t it be nice to conform to what people just expect of me. Then I wouldn’t have the burden of having and getting to surprise you with the real me.
Like you know what the real me is anyways.
I am unsure about living, most of the time, the world is ugly to me. No. Silence. The world is leaving my mind. This is the nightmare of the hopeless childhood. The darkest silence is when no one is there. The silence of one living soul. There is no lying in someone to talk to. But the darkest silence is when there is no one else there. What could I cay? Silence. Now and then I find myself scared. Alles ist schwer.
It is not unnatural to want the things that I do.
There are children in my mind, they are all talking at once. There is a unified joy in them. There is a unified silence. They are giggling. Why can’t I giggle? Is that a world I want back? That little voice in me says ‘Yeah!’ and that enthusiasm makes me forget all the things that the wiser me has learned over the years. Funny how one little enthusiastic cry can make you loose all the judgement that you have worked so hard to create.
No mortals had’st saturnus ate for Gods were all he had’st been eating.
I had my fourth dimensional surge today. I let it take me over, and I forgot that I was here to enjoy the show for a while. I’ll tell you how it turned out when I die. Can I resize you?
Why is the wind howling?
Why is the clock moving at all?
Why are the stars there only for me to gaze at?
There is a grey wind blowing in. It is taking over the world. And in it’s trail, it is meaving a mess of trees, and leaves, and broken hearts.
14 Apr 2003|02:45pm
The scariest thing to happen in the midst of a class is to have your mind suddenly snapped back to reality by the noise of the teacher and the sound she makes as she clears her throat for the thousandth time in a day. It’s all unnerving. I was dreaming. I was fully dreaming, while in that concienceness where you are somewhat aware that the class is still going on, and the teacher is speaking, but the lights are off, and the whirr of the projector is like the white noise that you need to lull yourself to dream land. Everything was just right. For me to go off to another land. It’s better than French class. Anywhere is better than French class.
Hello, my name is a variable. I am going to have to repeat myself, seeing as I never seem to be able to get a point across without going insane.
It’s all a big joke. Everything is a big joke. I sure as hell am a big joke. I mean, I joke, and I laugh, and I look like I am having a jolly good time, but if you know anything about me, you’ll know that I am damn good a pretending to be anything but what I am really living as. It’s simple see… I just got fed up with people telling me that I was morbid, telling me that I am depressing and sad. So sorry, my intention was never to bring you down, but I am a depressing and morbid and extremely strange person. It’s who I am. It’s not like I do these things to make you feel awkward and uncomfortable. Please don’t think that highly of yourself. I just want to be strange. It’s nice being strange. I think I really want to find a nice boy with the last name Strange, and marry him and make him mine, and then I can have that last name. It might be expensive, but I might get a settlement out of the eventual divorce. All I really want is his last name. I can leach that off him and then drop him like a hat. Do hats drop? Either way, I think that it would be far more fun than heading on down to city hall and filling out a paper.
Ever notice that if there is a bad guy in a movie, and he sounds even the slightest bit British; it’s just that much more difficult to take him seriously. I bring this up while thinking of the bad guy from the movie Dreamcatcher. I don’t know if anyone else has seen it, but there was NO WAY in hell I was going to take that guy with the beard seriously as a bad guy when he sounded like [some actor that Shea knows the name of, he’s British and very femme sounding… John Cleese… I can’t remember.]
My problem? Well… where to begin. There are too many to list. I am not working out well. This is not working out well. I am not understanding what is going on ANYWHERE. I don’t understand. I don’t get it. What the hell are you talking about? What?! Tell me! I just can’t get it. This is ridiculous. Why can’t you hear me screaming?! WHY?!
Damn you.
Zoë and me are going to go to Club Grad night. We are going to VOLUNTARILY be locked into a SilverCity with possibly about 1000 other grads [and not just grads, but Mt. Doug and Esquimalt grads] and let loose. I had no idea what I was signing myself up for. I can’t believe I am going to go and do that. So, to ease the pain, I am going to go drunk. I am going to go and be very high. I don’t care, I am going to have to handle the 998 people there that I can’t stand. So, if I am fucked out of my mind, those hellions and dolts shall be more than tolerable. They will be my best friends. I will have 998 best friends. Wow! Now I can’t wait. I am going to see whom else I can coerce into getting fucked up. It’ll be great. Actually, it will be more than likely the most painful experience of my life, and I paid $45 for the whole thing. I thik I was under the impression that I was going to have to deal with just my school’s fools, and then I could have hid, and kept to myself, as I do every day. So, instead of that, I am going to be EVERYONES best buddy. I can’t wait.
Alcohol & calculus don't mix. Never drink & derive.
Truth that life is one big fucking joke:
The fear of big words: Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia
Such a wonderful world we live in.
13 Apr 2003|12:22pm
Ok all, so one of my very dear and very amazing friends has a site, see... and I am a fool, and don't visit evough, and so I did, and it turns out that him, in all his amazing glory, has had a link to me, and even my past site for about a year. I am such a dolt. So... I want you all to go to him, and see his amazing art, and movies and everything, and I just want to do this to try in some teeny way to make up for the fact that I am an awful friend.
11 Apr 2003|12:49pm
I fucking HATE school. I wish that you could truly hear the emphasis on that word ‘hate’. What you would have heard would not have nearly summed up the extent of my feelings.
School is dribble. It’s tripe. It’s useless. It’s nothing relevant to you or anything. It’s all about the measurement of how much of the shit that they shovel in your direction you can memorize. Then they measure what you can spout back out upon demand. It’s a ridiculous system. No one learns squat. I learned I hate school. I learned to resent the people who try and shove me full of knowledge. [those who shake the tree of learning in hopes that the odd leaflet will land square between my cranium and that mass of fat and neurons] I learned I resent those who posses that useless ability to successfully spout upon request.
I don’t want to know what the molarity of one Gold (Ag) atom. I don’t need to know how to conjugate every irregular verb in the French language. I have far more important things to do than MEMORISE FACTS. I wonder if I can use that as an excuse not to go to school?
School: “Good morning, Victoria High school, how can I direct your call?”
Me: “Hi, my name is [insert name here], I’m a student at Vic High. I’m not going to be at school today, and I wanted to call and let you know.”
School: “Okay… and your reason for not being at school today?”
Me: “Well, I woke up this morning to the realization that school in general is a total fucking waste of my time, and I’m not really at all interested in memorizing useless facts and then spouting them out for another day of my precious life. So I’ve decided it’s not worth the energy to come in today.”
School: “Erm… oh… Do you have a note from one of your parents?”
At which point, I explain the no parent thing to them for the thousandth time, and refer them to my manager at Wal Mart for confirmation that I
1) have very little free time
and
2) don’t need to waste what time I do have in chemistry class
Ron always backs me up.
I’m sure I’m not the first person to come to this conclusion, and I have to be positive that I will not be the last. It’s something like the difference between a ‘smart’ person, and an ‘intelligent’ person:
A smart person will hand the English paper in on time. An intelligent person will know that English is a relative language, and will wait until the paper is finished, no matter how long it takes to produce the highest quality work.
It’s a process of self development, self-realization, and hopefully everyone realizes it before the end of their schooling. Hopefully everyone eventually realizes it.
07 Apr 2003|02:06am
There is nothing happening between my ears. There is not a lot of movement within the walls of my skull. There is always something rattling in my head, but right now it seems to be dead. I don’t know if I hate it. I don’t know if I love it. Call this feeling another self-experement on my poor, poor body. The result of an extreme overdrive-undersleep-overdrive-undersleep cycle. That’s what it was. That’s what lead me to this half asleep form of walking. And it’s bliss. Isn’t it?
It’s an empty echo.
I’m pretending to be awake, just for you. I am pretending to know what I am talking about. I am pretending that things are wonderful, just like I used to pretend I drove a spaceship through an intergalactic forest of wild vines and three headed monkeys [I kid you not].
I thought that we didn’t pretend any more as adults. I thought that we stopped pretending when we left behind dragons, and faries and monsters for princes to rescue us from. In fact it’s just the opposite. We still pretend. It’s just a more “adult” way of pretending. I hate to use the “A” word, but it fits. We can pretend our way to happiness, just as we did in our far off lands of fantasy as children, except now this “pretend” more resembles a more perfect or idyllic form of the world in which we already inhabit. Dragons no longer make the stresses of three double-time shifts in a row go away. But pretending that we find satisfaction in helping others to find a perfect shade of blush might ease that reality.
Pretending is by no means a bad thing. It makes an otherwise mundane exsistance slightly more tolerable, and that can’t be a bad thing, right? Think of your childhood sans any kind of imagination. It would be wasted days of comtemplating and misunderstanding the reality of things.
Imagination is the greatest talent we ever have , and we fork it over in favor of adulthood.
I met the most adorable woman at work tonight. I think she told me her whole life story. I think she told me it in Spanish. I couldn’t understand a word she said.
She thought I was Italian. On the inside, I laughed long and hard as I corrected her.
30 Mar 2003|10:41pm
I walked past the man I used to lust after today. He was looking at me before I noticed him. He was looking into me, not past me like he used to pretend.
Not much had become of him since we last ran into each other.
In our past I basically pursued him to no avail. Even through several relationships, I still had him on my mind. When I would run into him, it was one of those unspoken heart-screaming-then-plummeting-to-somewhere-below-your-stomach feelings in my chest. It never was pleasant, but somehow always vaguely familiar.
And there it was, that feeling again as I looked up to see those damn eyes. Those eyes that would make my heart perform cartwheels. I secretly hated him for having those eyes which made me want to die. I secretly hated him for the things he made me feel. I know he sort of took this sick pleasure in knowing he made me feel this way.
But that whole ordeal was close to a year ago. I hadn’t felt that stomach-turning lust in close to six months. Our sightings of each other had become few and far beween without my even noticing.
He looks at me differnetly now. Perhaps due to the lack of lusting. Perhaps due to the fact that I am a good 20 pounds lighter than when I began feeling the way I did about him. I tried not to allow his presence to affect me as it did, but, you know, those damn eyes.
He aparantly was reading a flyer at the bus stop where I passed him, but his reading material must not have held his attention enough to keep his eyes from averting to my general direction.
I fought that vomitous-mushy feeling and did something I otherwise never would have, I sat down on the bench at the bus stop with him. He played our game and pretended to go back to reading, with the occaisonal glance in my direction. He never was good at playing our game.
I tried to think of something to say. I tried to think of something to sum up the extent of my emotions now that I was learning to cope without his eyes every day. There were a thousand and one things flipping through my mind. It was scanning my Rolodex of cool. Sadly, it more often than not fails me. He too was searching for words, I could hear his breathing quicken. Finally my Rolodex landed with a combination of words, and without thinking I said them aloud,
“You’re not on my mind much any more.”
I didn’t have the courage to look at him.
He didn’t have the heart to look at me.
“Oh…”
His mind had failed him for words. It does that. I know him well enough to know it does that. I sighed and finally looked at him. He again, had beat me to it. I wanted to kiss him.
My eyes shifted from his to the oncoming traffic. The number 30 pulled into the stop, and I just got up and got on the bus and pulled away.
I left him and his eyes at the bus stop.
It probably won’t be another two months until I see him again.
It’s probably for the better.
23 Mar 2003|11:44pm
At work today I was approached by a cautious young girl from behind. I was straightening shelves, as I do for a frightening majority of my day, and from behind me a vioce outspoke : “Woooow… you must have a REALLY boring job.”
I just turned and half smiled.
God, was she right. This small sized human was wise and funny beyond her years. She was, by far, the coolest person I ever got to talk to at work. Second only to possibly to the Cher impersonator that I got to hang out with and pick out makeup with. That’s another story.
That 14 year old had a very valid point. My job really is boring. Where is the challenge in straightening shelves and reassuring fat people that their blush takes almost 10 pounds off. The most challenging part of my day consists of dealing with the minefield of assholes that is the store I work in. That right there consumes a generous quantity of time in my day. And I have a lot of it to spare. Believe you-me. When I wander and straighten aisle after asile of useless junk, my mind wanders. My mind takes a full out fucking stroll. It goes for a romp in places far more interesting than the bountiful aisles of this flourescent lit hell.
Maybe that girl was a wake up call that there are far better things for me to be doing with my time. There are better things for me. If I am this bored there must be alternatives. After all, I am busy enough to be standing around and “productively” writing this. Of course, I set aside time; to give my boss a good eye-roll or two, insult various customers with evil grimacing faces behind their backs, imagine various large, and very heavy objects randomly falling on people, followed by the occaisonal mandatory writing binge. What else consumes my time? I’m not allowed to leave my stupid-smelly area of carsinogen chemical hell. So all I can do is amuse myself with the limits of my imagination and my wit. What else do I have in life?
I got a leter in the mail.
I never get letters in the mail.
It was addressed to “Dr. Laura C. Findlay”
I was extremely amused.
22 Mar 2003|03:05am
I could try and describe what it was that I saw and expierenced tonight, but that might complicate things. It is a simple fact. It is not a simple task. How am I going to sum up the sound of his voice? How should I let you know through words what the lights looked like as they highlighted a side of his face never before seen. How can those colours be expressed through words? That is not a simple fact. That whole thing is more than my little mind can describe. So, should I try, I would more than likely just complicate things, and did I not say that things were already complicated?
I am sure that this single event was not that important in the scheme of things. There is no peace in Baghdad right now. Every moment of explosion is a moment of hell for the people who are aparantly being liberated.
And we get to watch it all on live-eye-real-time. Lucky us.
Hate the government, not the people.
“Operation Iraqi Freedom” my ass.
And I am worried that I did not get my CD autographed. I am an idiot.
I am an idiot in a world of idiots in a nation of fools.
It’s the nation of cool. I get it now.
I am the shratnel from a teenage atom bomb. Elude me to make me feel special. Take the time out of your fucking lives to notice something other than yourselves. I’ve been thinking, and this is a dangerous thing, for you and for me.Take a fucking joke. Pay a little attention. Because when you sit up and take notice, finally open your eyes, I am going to be gone. I am venturing off to stalk the barren trails of the world. Because I know all that was good had died long before I was named. This is the fact of the times I live in.
On the road in front of me was a bird. This bird is still in front of me, it just no longer is. A passing car, possibly a truck, possibly an SUV, hit and splattered said bird. It’s wings are spread out, reaching out for one last grasp of the air they rode on. Those wings, now wet broken and cold, once flew. They more than likely soared. They more than likely delighted in the uplift of a warm draft. They felt the fingers if the wind as they passed in and between the feathers. That bird won’t be home any time soon. They are never going to feel the air again. They have been placed in one last ourstretch for air by a ruthless wheel of a passing car, possibly an SUV, possibly with a confrence call taking place. Possibly, this confrence call was more important than the wings of a solitary bird. These, of course, are all assumptions on my part. I could be totally wrong. It could have been a very tragic event. That bird could have been mourned after being crushed below a steel belted all weather radial. Sometimes, that’s what happens when nature and technology collide.
I think I am just tired of thinking and writing about the war. It might explain my fixation upon a squished and very dead bird in the road. It might also be something to do while waiting for the wrong bus.
17 Mar 2003|05:06pm
We are going to war on Thursday.
There is a crsis in the world, and there is no real resolution to theis chataclizmic situation as it hangs in the air above our heads. It’s shaking or hands, its greeting us as past wars greeted past heros with smiling shit grins. There are drones marching off to fight. There are rednecks who are shooting off their pistols in celebration of the ides of blowing something up. There is a mobilization getting ready.
There are still starving children. I am sure that they do not know that the leader of the most powerful nation has an itch to express his loyalty to missiles and bombs. And the truly sad part is, no matter how many web polls that are held, no matter how many surveys are handed round, and no matter how many times I sign my name, no impact will be made in any kind of way. A single signature is not going to change a leaders mind. A million signatures is not going to change a leaders mind. 6 billion signatures is not going to change a leaders mind. This single entry will not change a single mind. All the minds are made up. My mind is never made up, but everyone else’s is.
We are powerless. Indeed, we are not superheros. There is no superhero to save us from this malicious situation we are working ourselves into. It’s funny that this human in the far off nether regions away from the states is writing some little blog of a blurb about how the war is bad. It’s not supposed to involve me, right? And I can see that forigen bubbling country about to doom it’s own fate from down the street. The scary thing to me now is that the people who said leader has chosen to pick on are not going to be the same as the last few countries this has happened with. They have prooven to the world that they are more than willing to bring the war to us. Pack it up, and send it over that great blue sea.
Everyone knows it, WAR IS BAD. It’s a fact of life. I know it. You know it. That person over their knows it. The leader of the United States of America knows it. He is not as stupid as the rest of the world thinks. But this is the course of action he has chosen. People are going to die, and of course this simple southern man is most definitely going to have to live with that bloody fact on his hands for the rest of his life. Can you imagine? Fuck, no you can’t. Maybe a handful of people to ever exsist on this explosive planet can know what that is like, and the truth of it is, they are all, more than likely, dead.
What does that tell you?
16 Mar 2003|10:25pm
scrape my underbelly and see what it is that feeds the insides of my whole self. Let the pieces fall where they are and let the world stand as it is. No help needed. We are not superheroes. I am not a superhero.
remember one word.
this tangent universe holds that wave to the seldomly herd cricket of time. Remember the cricket.
occaisonally the lights dim, and the sky is blue, and the world keeps it’s flickering and it’s hollow tune playing.
listen attention show pay you I to want I everything show now you I attention
don’t be a prisoner of fear.
I have been waiting for you
“when I get bored at work, I like to deactivate sheet after sheet of those sticky security tag things just to hear that *THWAAAANGGG* noise the deactivator makes, and then mix then up with the non-deactivated ones.” – slip up number one to say at work when your boss is standing right behind you
13 Mar 2003|02:51pm
smile, the world is a wonderful place.
i want cookies.
dammit
when all this gets thrown around and i might figure it all out, but it hits me in the face, and the disorray of the insanity kicks in and melts away the sun, back to the underground where it has been hiding, along with me any my mindful, muddy, soulful friends. the ones i like to convince myself are there beyond the muddy rim of the world.
i am going to leave this bullshit one-horse town of a school. i am never going to look back. if thigs keep the way they are, i am never going to want to remember this place. and that is what i promised myself would not happen when i got here, to this all new and shiney world. the one where the lights will finally lead me to that hope that was supposed to eventually show up and take me away and make all the pain go away. there, things will be fine, and soft, and honest-to-goodness great. someone can whisper me to sleep and keep me in the right place of mind. i like to dream about this place. i really do. those dreams keep me going in the end. they keep my fingers steady. they keep my mind in place. and now they are on the side of the milk carton, so now i am reverting back to the insanity i remember that invaded my mind. i want to win the battle, i really do. but goddamit, this is the hardest and longest one of my life.
and i tend to loose thigs like battles in the end.
and take with me, all the people i wish the best for in life.
i really wish the best for you.
but don't let me and my battles take you down into the mud.
10 Mar 2003|02:42pm
I am carrying my own weight thru this exsistance, and it is taking me nowhere but back to the decisions that I was trying so hard to avoid. Where am I going? Why are circles the only option.
There is a clicking when my keys hit the fingers, but that makes no sense, now does it. Nothing makes sense. When has it ever. When has this world made more than an inkling of any kind of truth.
Walls, everywhere are the walls. And why are they not doing what walls are supposed to? Beware of floors.
I am going out of my mind.
I keep seeing the faces that I am so familiar with, but names are the real challenge. Please do not be offended if I have no idea what your name it. I will never learn it. And you know why? It is because I don’t want to have to bother with the hastle of having to learn anything about you. You are not important to me. You are another of the hundred thousand people who I run into diring a day. I see a hundred thousand faces, and none of them are any different to me, other than yours of course. Well… keep telling yourself that.
Sometimes when I am tired, I close my eyes and sit and listen to everyone else’s thoughts for a while.
Thank you joel for having a birthday party and asking me to try and join in. It was another subtle reminder that I do not fit in. My most frequently asked questions while I was there throughout the night : “Where is Shea? Why is Shea not here? What is she doing?” I yelled at Aaron for asking me that. No one noticed I was yelling, but rest assured, I was. I think I scared him. He was the 5th person to ask me that.
Zoe loves Matt Good.
In this world there is always tragedy.
And someone is always crying. I hate the amount of tragedy I have to see on the news. I want to bake cookies. I want to leave infotech class. I want to have a beautiful song sung to me. Nothing in it really. Hit the strings. I miss your singing to me. I miss you showing me how to hit those elusive srtings again, and to glide my fingers thru the strings. My value is empty.
My value is empty.
Dim me.
Does that help?
I am such a dork, a little bit of coding humor thrown into the mix of my rediculously stupid ramblings of nothing at all. What point am I really trying to get across? I often wonder that. Does it make my friends feel all awkward to see what I am really thinking? Does it make them shift in their seats? Is this really what I am thinking, seeing as I know a few of my friends might glimpse this over. This is not what I am really thinking. This is just what I am thinking. This is simply what I am thinking, not much more.
Jenny is in love. Jenny is in love with a man she can’t have, and it is silently killing her. She is a special individual. I want to see the best in the world for her. I want to see things work out for her. She is such a sweet person. And she is in love. I can relate. She wants a man that she can not ever have. But she deserves him. I know she does.
I think Jenny is cool.
07 Mar 2003|02:02pm
What would I do if I could change the way I lived in thirty minutes a day? The tv tells me I can become a whole new person. I can become a bigger person, in a smaller dress size. Would that make my world better? Why am I always bombarded with ads. I really hate ads. I am told that I meed to loose weight. According to the tv, I am fat, and will not be happy until I lose weight. And the next ad makes me aware that I do not eat enough hamburgers. I need to eat more hamburgers.
Can I rise above? Can I pass it over and be a bigger person? Only if it is in a smaller dress.
It’s 11 o’clock and your kids are on the internet. Do you know what they are looking at? Are you concerned?
I once took a ruler and measured a map. I found that I live a very far distance from where I was born.
I saw a movie once. In my home town. Everyone I knew was in it. They all had their roles. They were all the stars. There were roles to fill, plots to execute, lines to remember, and they all did it beautifully. They all pulled it off. When it was time to fill the roles of the filler, the extras there, people were lined up to take on the role and it was miraculous. The lighting was beautiful. The props were flawless. I watched and expierenced the entire thing in awe of what it was that the people I knew created. There were so many familiar faces. There was a soft lighting. There was a fariy tale ending, and the heros and the villans worked their way to a climactic storyline. And then the credits rolled, and the images that I recognised faded away to the moving letters. And the lights dimmed, and the actors left the screen, and the audience left leaving me in the theater. I was thinking. About the movie, and the people I knew.
Subtract. Divide. Give me the square root. Some kind of merciful peace of mind.
Please call me. Call me what you like, but call me.
06 mar 2003|2:49pm
They are only things. There is not really any meaning to it, or them. It’s only money. I shouldn’t let things get to me the way they do. I shouldn’t let him get to me the way he does.
I used to think that the world was flat. Now I know, the world is stupid. Then I learned that the world was round, and much like the rest of the world, I fell off the edge while trying to prove it existed, even if it did not. I loosely grasped what it was that I was looking for. I barely chose to search for it. Now I see that there was an edge, and my heart stopped when I looked over it and into the great nothing that was there. My heart more flickered. But Nothing was there. And Nothing held my hand. Sometimes I love Nothing. Nothing is always willing to listen. It’s always there to shove you out the door with a pat on the back and a reassuring kiss on the cheek that everything is going to be all right.
So venture off and let the winds of the world fill the proverbial sails of the broken boat of your body. See what it is that you can find. And when you set sail on the open ocean, what might you find, pirates, or perhaps even the edge you have been told your whole life to deny. And so what if you find it and fall over? Nothing will be there to hear you say that you actually found it. What more could you ask for?
Am I that transparent? Can you really see thru me that easily? What if I fall to the ground and cry for you. Could you see me then? Could you step down from your world for that minute to really care what is happening to me?
This is the worst week of my life
22 Feb 2003|03:25am
The off coloured sea.
I like to create these little events in my head. I like to call them the imaginary situations. I like to pretend that the things that are right in front of me aren't really happening. I like to make myself think that they will go away. I like to think that the things in my head will really happen. I like to think that there is this secret world out there where things are happening so that they make me feel good. I like to pretend that there are people and beings out there that are here to make the things in my world work out the way that they do in my head. There, things are great. There things are all wonderful.
Things shine and sparkle and glow and are radiant beyond any form of discription. There things are just for me. There I am a silly human.
I really want to think that there are things working in my favor. I just want to deny that the things that I suspect are not really true. I, of all people, should know what is really going on. Here is a time when I curse the things that I can know, the thing that just flow into my head from anothers, and along with those thoughts and images, the truth of what it is that I am denying.
Why can my denial just work out.
Why can't he love me and not her. Why can I not get the grades. Why can I not have the friends. Do you see where I am coming from? No. Of course not. You can never understand. You simply never will.
Why can't he love me and not her.
I like to think these thing so that there is an ease to the pain in my stomach when I lay my eyes upon that truth that I like to so tactfully tip-toe around. That is such a familiar feeling. A knot in that ball below my stomach. But of course I can never express this pain. Then I would not be me. I would not be this horrible, inhuman thing that I am.
Why can't he love me and not her.
What have I become? Why do I think these things? Blame it on the hormones being carried through my blood. This blackened blood. This unfeeling blood. This flawed blood. I am flawed. I am wrong. I have things too easy. I do believe that I could have a bit more life delt to me.
I never had the expierences that other teenagers did. Thinking now, I could not tell you wheather or not I would have taken them if I had the chance. But the truth of the things is I never had the chance. It was never presented to me. There was never a proverbial platter of things for me to choose from. I went from being a shut in fat ass loner, to working myself retarded just to escape home. And where did that leave me on the scale of life as a teenager, I basically never was one. Partway through this adolescence, I thought to myself that I never had a choldhood, and I resented the world for not letting me live it. Now that I think about it, I would never be the person that I am had I had these things that I wanted to expierence. Of course, anything in the past 18 years, 3 months, 2 days, and some odd hours, could have contributed any or everything to who I am. It could have been the donut I ate when I was 10, the dog that bit me when I was 12, the scar I received from my dad's girlfriend when I was 8, the kiss I was given when I was 17. Without a single one of these things in my life, I could have ended up as a Tommy sporting alcoholic white trash trailer park whore. Or a peace loving, pot smoking, protest holding, freedom fighting, hippie. The world shall never know.
But here I am, this living, breathing, thinking [always thinking], crying [yes, crying], hating, loving, painting, fighting, bleeding specimen of a human being. And where has that got me?
In the scheme of things, where will being who I am truly get me?
In the game of life, how many points do I get for being the lone [so very lone] individual that I am ?
21 Feb 2003|05:47pm
no one really reads what i write.
no one ever calls.
the phone never rings.
the time is always passing.
there is always a clock ticking somewhere.
somewhere is a whisper of hope.
somewhere is a deaf ear.
there is never a soft touch.
there is never a dull moment.
in my empty house.
21 Feb 2003|01:00am
Where do these people find me?
What is the appeal to what I write. I just want to get what is in my head onto some sort of plane which might be within the grasp of others, somewhere they can reach it too. Is that so wrong? In the past WEEK I seem to have become a magnet for comments on what I write. Why is this, I wonder. I never get comments like this on what I create in my art. What is so special and controvesial about what it is that I write?? I apologise to those who find what I write to be untasteful and untalented and irritating to read and a bore and a big pile of hypocracy. If you don't like what I write, don't read it. I am not forcing you. You have no smoking gun to your head. Turn those eyes away from my sans-serif little ideas and put your mind to rest. I just want to be able to write what it is that I have locked in my head. Who is it that I have to share this with in my life? None of my friends seem to grasp what it is that I feel when I want to emote myself. I don't blame them for that or hold it agains them as people. Not everyone likes to try and understand how it is that other people like to think. That is why there are people who get paid $100 per hour to pretend they do this. It is what makes us think we are receiving help for being asked: "mmhmm? and how does that make you FEEL?"
I just have all these words exploding from every crevace and cell of my mind and body. I have to get them out before they make my mind implode. Then I might not look so good.
I get a pile of different comments upon what it is I write. I have no idea what it is that people think about what I write. As far as I know, no one reads what I write. But aparantly, I also seem to irritate the odd passer by.
Forgive me if my image is not what you, in your infinant glory, believe it should be. I can't change what I think any easier than you can. My looks have to reflect what I feel like on the inside, otherwise, I might be reduced to a walking, painted, shell of a person. I look the way I do out of a personal choice. I do not need the following advice from people who believe that in their infinantly more compelling years they have earned the right to dispense such:
"Simply put its that the pseudo angst and depression thing has got to go and learn to worry and care about those things that REALLY matter." - [Unknown: aka Aaron Strating date: Wednesday, February 19th 2003 - 03:05:20 PM] left on my old website's guestbook.
Thanks Aaron. I am glad that now my world makes sense and I will forever write about only the relevant things to the world. I shall shed these layers of black clothes and become a new and wonderfully productive person for the world to sink it's claws into. Sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm
"everybody knows high school kids and experience are so far from significant in the real world that it isnt even worth thinking twice about." - [Unknown: aka Aaron Strating date: Wednesday, February 19th 2003 - 03:05:20 PM] left on my old website's guestbook.
You are right, what I write about has no relevance. I am so glad to FINALLY see this. What was I thinking! sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm
"I thought you looked smart but thought you had that look like you know what it means to have a hard life." - [Dave L date: Thursday, February 20th 2003 - 11:36:20 PM] sent to me via anonymous email
Wow, Dave, I do so love being judged upon my looks. It makes me feel? oh, I don't know, special. sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm
"?MOST of the people who are more 'dark' are teenagers rather than mature adults who have come to terms with life." - [you know who again : Unknown]
That is right, what do I know about life, seeing as I have had nothing like it. What do you know about my life? Where do you get off thinking that there is anything like me on this twisted thing known as the Internet?
"and you aren't fooling me with your observations." - [Frances : anonymous post on Diaryland Guestbook date: 4:13 am - Saturday,February 15, 2003]
Good to know you are too smart for what I write, Frances. I always knew there had to be someone smart enough to see through those oh-so confusing words I like to throw at you innocent bystandards.
"Don't waste your breath trying to tactfully observe the world around you, when in an attempt to be seen,?it just comes across as a preachy exercise by someone who does not know what she is taking about." - [Frances : anonymous post on Diaryland Guestbook date: 4:13 am - Saturday,February 15, 2003]
Gee? thank you oh so much for opening my eyes to what a downright ass I have been wasting my time and risking carpol-tunnel-syndrome just in a rediculous attempt to try and emote my very own thoughts. What in God's name was I thinking???sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm sarcasm
What I write, it is simply what I think. If what I think makes you feel ill, then, "simply put", fuck off.
I want to remind the people putting all this effort into insulting me and my work and whatever else you wish, you need to get a life and stop harassing random people on the internet [This one goes especially to Frances]!
If you like what I write [God know's why you would] then try not to chime in with tips that would "improve me" as a human being.
so sorry
18 Feb 2003|05:32pm
Things seem to have lost all the effects that they are supposed to hold as of late. There is an overall dulling to everything I feel and expierence. There is no longer any kind of emotion to the world. There is nothing that can excite me.
Nothing moves me.
Nothing inspires me.
Nothing is real.
Where is the reality?
Where is the "joie de vive?"
It seems to have been swept away into the nether-reigons of some immortal land. Perhaps lost, like so many of my socks, in the dryer. Perhaps driven to madness within the wardrobe protal to Narnia?
How I long for the excitement of having an adventure such as narnia. That might make things seem more vibrant. It might make things seem less real, while more lively, but if it can waken these dulled senses, anything should be called upon.
I want to feel some sort of electric emotion while living, otherwise, what point is there? If life becomes a chore, a bore, a day in day out survival challenge, then why bother? I'm not saying that I want to end my life, but there has to be a way to make things feel like I am living it.
I could change how I look. Become a new person each and every week and then be reduced to an image and an ideal and nothing more. I could dye my hair until it falls out. I could get piercings all over my body, just to impress people I have never met. I could spend all my money frivolously on clothes and have a GREAT wardrobe. I could sell off my brain to a research company so that I could have more money for clothes, seeing as I won't be needing it any longer. Ah, a full frontal lobotomy! What a nice way to live.
I could formulate multiple personalities, one minute a casual high school student, the next, an excentric-chain-smoking-French-Canadian middle aged man, and later on, a Finnish-alchoholic-chain-smoking-super-group-rock-star, and perhaps a 11-year-old-Islandic-only-child. There are just so many different combinations that I could experiment with. I could be sitting in french class and begin whining in Islandic about how everything I touch is m ine. Or suddenly in Information Technology jump up and begin shouting out Finnish songs, while fiercely drinking strong Finnish alcohol, and dancing on the counters. That would be silly seeing as there would be no backup band. Either way that is another way I could make life more living.
I could start to randomly have sex with strangers. That might be another way. As a human, my standards might go thru the floor, but that wouldn't matter seeing as I would be having so much fun being reduced to a piece of meat over and over and over again. I love feeling like veal is worth more per pound than I am.
Things seem more complicated while staying so complacent and uninteresting. I want change, but assume that all change that happens to me is in the BAD category, and likes to skip over the "good" or even the "interesting" categories and sets it's curved talons onto BAD. Just plain bad change.
Damn.
Can learning how to repair an airplane thru the TV really make me feel like a qualified technitian? If I knew that the person repairing the large hunk of metal that I am about to put myself on, in the hopes that while 36 000 feet in the air said hunk of metal does not decide that it is time to fail and plummet, was trained thru a mail order catologue, I might just find myself doubting the qualification of this woman/man. Can you truly earn an adequete education from the mail? I just don't see it's quality. If I were a potential employer and choosing between two people for an air technitian position, and my choices were: a peson who had attended air technitian school and passed, or someone who's diploma says "AS SEEN ON T.V.!" , I might have the decision made up ahead of time.
I can't believe the things they like to sell on TV? I hate TV.
14:34 02|13|03
You want to die. You have a gun. What are you going to do now?
*flash*
Let me try that again. You are dead. What are you going to do now?
I keep forgetting that I am the only one here. I keep hoping that I am not the only one. I can’t believe that I am the dear friend to someone.
Someday your head is going to turn when you realise I am gone.
There is that clicking again. Where is it coming from. There is another room in this house, but no one goes into it. Behind it are starving children and the things that starving children do. I can picture it now. A room full to the brim with Hondouran children, none of which have had anything to eat in a week. And all of them are blinking in unicince. Because that is what starving Hondouran children do. And all of them, every last one of them, is making a clicking noise. Now, toss a home-mixed party drug into the group, and see where it takes them, or you. Wherever, it should proove amusing.
There is nothing left for me to say. There is nothing left for me to do. I want to have this out of my head. But the last time I did, it almost killed me.
There is no such thing as being honest. Not to anyone. Not to myself. Do you think that you can handle that? What does it matter. Who gives a fuck any more. I just want to be alone. I want to be forgotten. I want things to be normal, but there is no normal, there is nothing I have to do, nothing I can do to change the things that are all around me, I just want sonething. God, I just want you to touch me. I don’t want to be that person who is the freak for life. I want to be one of the normal girls. I want things to be much simpler that the way they are. I want to have what I am change. I want to change. Maybe I can be like Shea. I can be that kind of person I hate. I want people to like me as much as her. I can admit to that. I am that shallow. I am that fucking shallow. I cant believe that I am that fucking shallow. But I can admit it to myself. Is that being honest to me? It might be. I can’t tell. Where is a karioki machine when you need one. I can get up and dance and sing and preech to the world, “I am that shallow!” Joy. Is there anything else I can do for you? Humming, that constant noise, it is more of a humming. That is it. Now, if I could figure out where it was coming from. Cover your eyes. Forever.
-over
17:26 feb 13, 2003
Beautiful people are herded like the cattle that they are. They are reduced to nothing more than numbers, just like us all.
9 point-fucking-five! We are all numbers. None of us are beautiful. None of us are beautiful enough for FOX. There are ribs poking thru all of the skin drawn over those empty baskets of life. There is nothing behind those eyes except the glaze of the opium high. There is no substance. These are the soft drinks of the world. They are all filler. They are all bubbly brown sugar water that no one can resist. They are not sexy. They are not lovely. They are the silicone pumped candy for the eyes. There is nothing else there. They rot the teeth. And no one can see thru these walking masses of perscriptions. There is nothing to hide these people. They are covered in tiny pieces of cloth. This is how they like to show their personality. This can speak to the world. There is nothing more to us. We are apes. This is what drives us.
Darling, you should loose that extra 15 pounds. Then, and only then you will be beautiful. Plastic surgery is your savior. Matching the plastic personality. Everything must match. You must match. You have to be more plastic. You need to stand still. You need to have bigger breasts. You need to have smaller pecs. We are never satisfied. You should never be satisfied. You need to work out. You need to throw up more. You need to eat less. You need to drink more. You make me want to sterilize the entire race.
I am still searching for beauty. I will not find it on FOX. I will not find it on the internet. I will not find it in a bilboard, in a magazine, on a silver screen. There, you can never see any beauty. Don’t be a fool and think otherwise. You will find beauty in nature. You will find beauty in a pattern. You will find beauty in the inner depths of another tortured soul. You won’t find it for $3.99 a minute. That is not beauty. That is skin and bones. That is silicone. That is unnatural. That makes me ill.
Why are we as shallow as we are. Why are there so many people with their preconceived morales. I want to see a world where everyone is not blinded by their sight. I want to see you for who you are. I hate the idea that what you look like suddenly changes who you are. Why is it acceptable? Why is it to be expected. Who the fuck are you? And why should I care what you look like and who you are? Occaisonally, I like to think of myself as a slightly higher evolved being than the people who like to decide who is “hot” [not me aparantly]. I want to believe that there is more to me than a heap of bones and muscles and hormones which drive me to lust after the same standard as everyone else. Want to make me think you are beautiful? Show me without taking your shirt off. Proove to me that you are above all that. Then you will be the most beautiful being to me.
So what will win in the battle for the proof of our true standards. Will we go on as the fabulously shallow species that we are? Or will there be that flickering of the idea that appearance might not be everything. Why do we value beauty so much. The most expensive things are beautiful [well, the most expensive are the beautiful and the rare] and those that seem not to meet up to the standards of our minds are dismissed as the digusting fluke creations of a nature that we are shallow enough to believe values the same ideals that we do. That is a lie. We are not the inteligent things that we like to believe we are. We are fools. Have I said that already?
february something : 13:44
However far you think that you have come, i do believe that in the nose of the real world,
that is not nearly as far as you need to come. it's the way that the world likes to fuck
with you. but i differ, don't let that get you down in any way.
First of all, you
are fat. You are ugly. Your breath stinks. You are unpopular. Your car sucks. Your house
sucks. Your life sucks.
You are not witty.
You are not smart. You are ignorant. You are stupid. You will never make it in this world.
You are unpopular. You will never amount to anything. You are nothing.
Your diet is poor.
You have low self-esteem. You have cellulite. You have ugly toenails. You have blackheads.
You have body hair where it just shouldn't be. Your eyeballs are not white enough. Your
teeth are not white enough. You are not white enough. Secondly, you are fat. You should go
on a diet. You should eat more hamburgers. Your tits are not big enough. Your tits are too
small. Your tits aren't small enough or big enough. Your dick is too small. Your nose
isn't right. Your ass is too big. You should make yourself sick. You should eat more
hamburgers.
Your dress sense
sucks. You have no style. You are one of the crowd. You are a follower. You are a freak.
You don't fit in. You are a lah-hoo-ser. You have no charisma. You are not sexy enough.
Your favorite band sucks. Your favorite brand sucks. Your clothes suck. Your shoes suck.
You are retarded.
You don't have
enough money. You should work harder. You don't have enough things. You are unhappy. You
need more. You are unsatisfied. You are not moving forward. You are not keeping up the
pace. You are lagging behind. You are one step behind the rest.
You are doing it
all wrong. You need to change. You need to see that change is good. You need to follow us.
You need to be individual. You need to fit in. You need to think outside the square. You
need to stand out. You need to know the rules. You need to know the secrets. You should be
yourself.
Thirdly, you are
fat. Your legs wobble too much. Your teeth are crooked. Your face is wrong. You are not
thin enough. You are too thin. You need to eat more hamburgers. You are lactose
intolerant. You are iron deficient. Your cholesterol is too high. Your calcium level is
too low. Your blood pressure is too high. Your iron level is too low. You need to get
liposuction. You need to lose weight. You suffer from premature ejaculation. You are far
too dependant on drugs. You need to buy more drugs.
You are bipolar.
You have attention deficit hyperactive disorder. You have post-traumatic stress disorder.
You suffer from depression. You are manic. You are not happy enough. You suffer from road
rage. You suffer split-personality disorders. You suffer marriage problems. You are not
right. You need to buy more drugs.
You should stop
smoking. You should buy more cigarettes. You should stop smoking. You will get cancer. You
will die anyway. You should have fun. You shouldn't have fun. You should be fashionable.
You should keep ahead. You are lagging behind. You should be individual. You shouldn't
care about what you do. You are free. You should go your own way. You should follow us.
You watch too much
television. You need to stay tuned. You are fat because you watch too much television. You
should watch more television. You should be individual. You are going to be a star one
day. You are nothing. You should eat more hamburgers. You should drink more syrup. You are
too fat.
You should not be
who you are. You have to change.
My name is
Marketing.
Now buy my fucking
product.
february something : 14:57:
book to recomend : House of Leaves by: Mark Z. Danielewski
Ten years from now I intend to be dead. No question
there. I will no longer exist. Of course, I have it planned just how I will achieve this
aspiring goal. After graduating from Vic High with slightly above average grades and a
lust for life only held by those naive creatures which are the product of the public high
schools in Canada, I will apply to Emily Carr Institute of Design. It will be my second
attempt at getting into the school of my dreams and I will subsequently fail. Taking this
as a direct blow to my ego, I will, in my infinant stubbornness, refuse to apply anywhere
else for a post secondary education. In stead I will remain in my two remedial jobs, one
of which I find only the slightest bit stimulating. I will continue to make barely more
than minimum wage and survive by mooching off my friends and parents. In this lack of
funding, I give the lifestyle of starving artist a try but quickly realize that if you are
a starving artist, no one gives a shit about your work until you are dead. Also, the
realization that it is hard to starve with two jobs and a family that supports you.
Dammit! Once the starving artist phase has passed, I will move out on my own leaving my
partially senile father to fend for himself. In moving out of my home, I have no concerns
about surviving by myself, but my father on the other hand would never make it past a
month on his own. He is to die within ten years as well, but I haven't figured out if it
will be the weight of the world or the weight of walking it which will kill him. After
facing the decision of placing my father in a mental home, I myself will move into a hell
hole of an apartment which is barely habitable in light of two rather perplexing
roommates. They will remain, not as a financial crutch but as a reminder of my looming
fear of having to be one hundred percent alone in life. Relationships and steamy one night
stands will come and go but marriage is never an option for me in my life, not being able
to keep anything resembling a commitment longer than three weeks. I intend to become
bitter and hostile for the rest of my existence after one day counting the number of
failed relationships in my life. After working up the nerve and the portfolio to re-apply
and be re-rejected from Emily Carr Institute, I will give up any hope as art as a career
or a way of life. Much like with many things in my life, when it doesn't work out after
many years of trying, give it up! Having Dealt with one too many rejections in BC, my
favorite option is to go back to Montreal to try not to fail so much there. I will resume
the normality of living in a smelly, overpriced apartment but now have the joy of sharing
it with two surly French-speaking Quebecois. The nine to five life hunts me down and finds
me even in Quebec and misery reaches a new height in my life as the pointlessness
snowballs. The depression fed stress of life will catch up to me finally in the end. It is
only a matter of time. Despite promotions in a job I find only slightly interesting, I
will seek a more permanent means of relieving my stress, and misery. At 28 years old, the
paramedics will find me on the bathroom floor in a puddle of blood. I won't blame them for
not saving me. The cuts will be too deep and any will to keep living will be gone. There
will be nothing they can do, and I know that they will try their very best. So will end
the story that was my life. Mostly failures and tragedy ending too soon in the opinion of
some, far too late in my own. |
