Poi-g-na-nt-less

I refuse to entertain the idea that lives are pointless. Especially the lives of those individuals who mean something to me, who have opened their insides to me, who have scored my consciousness with their little quirks and thought-caches. I will absolutely rail [revile, vituperate, maim] against those who seek the opposite argument; life is not pointless. People are not pointless. Unless one makes it so, no activity or lack thereof is pointless.

Oh, the things people say to hurt one another -- whether intentional or accidental -- are enough to make me vomit. Just like collections of fleshbags. You see why I'm anti-sentient-dunderheads?

You, most importantly, are not pointless.

Love who you are, who you have become, what you have molded yourself into. Eat, drink, and make merry. To live as one wishes is the only key that fits the door of pleasure. Remember...

I'm still maintaining my exceptionally good mood. You see how logical and makes-sense I've become? If you're mourning the loss of random vine-feeling-though-things, spare yourself the despair. When I'm musing and lost...they'll claw their way out of my sticky-on-the-inside skull. I promise. For now...I want to come across as bitingly intelligent, sharp, sarcastic...and silly. Always silly. What is life without a little silliness? A fucking shame, I must postulate.

I think I'll leave a remnant of silliness. And by the way...no, that's not my Orlando Bloom calendar. Har har.

"Amor E Morte..."

"In this hole that is me, the dead are rolling over."

Things done on whims are incredible inner-self picker-uppers..

My nose is a little tender. On a joyride to Madison (and just hours after Shandra got her first tattoo), I decided that some little bit of metal protruding from my flesh would be an interesting way to alter incoming perceptions.

So after a short shopping stint (I actually found a HIM 'Poison Girl' shirt -- imagine that), I half-emptied the contents of my pitiful savings account and we drove down to 'Steve's Tattoo and Piercing.'

The parlor itself was amazing. The floors were brilliant white tile, the counters and chairs were bright red, and the walls were completely covered in incredibly-colored tattoo designs and hand-created signs. Michael, my piercer, had a lion's mane of blonde dreadlocks, a thick silver septum ring, and enormous spacers in his ears -- he met us at the counter, and he was adorable. After some deliberation (what to get done?) and the required form-signing, he took us back (Shandra wanted to go with me and watch) and I climbed up onto the piercing table. I was too short -- my feet dangled above the step, so I had to brace myself with my hands...but I found out that it didn't hurt...at least as much as I thought it might.

"I should kiss your dirty lips for bringing me my clarity..."

He swabbed my little nose with alcohol, dotted the flesh where he'd be stabbing me, and then gave me a mirror so that I could approve (or ask him to redraw). After the preliminaries, he explained to me exactly what he was doing -- and those tiny pieces of information were absolutely fascinating...and calming. He put a hollow tube slightly thinner than a pinky finger into my nose to catch the needle after it'd gone through (so it didn't stab me anywhere it wasn't supposed to), and then told me to take a deep breath. After I had, he told me to breathe out -- and very deftly pierced my right nostril with a surprisingly thick needle. He left the needle, sticking in one side of my nose and out the other, so he could get my tiny piece of metal-glitter, and Shandra joked about how hot I looked at the moment...blood welling around this massive stick in my nose, tears welling in my right eye, legs swinging to the music. It was hilarious. And you know what? It didn't hurt very much. I actually enjoyed the sensations. So much so that as soon as I get this next paycheck, I'm going in to get something else done.

Now I have this glorious little glittering thing in my nose, and I absolutely adore it. I have to clean it twice a day with the soap Michael gave me, and I have to soak it with sea salt once daily. I have these incredibly long armwarmers that completely cover everything to my biceps and a new HIM shirt (a red heartagram that's sprouted wings on the front, the words "Just me and my poison girl...I did it all just for her..." on the back in red), a new Jack Skellington scarf (spoils of war and former property of punched-in-the-teeth), and lordy am I in a wonderful mood! I've got to work tonight and tomorrow -- get my bigger-than-normal check and get some other part of me stabbed and glitter-fied.

"Woman is the devil. God is a fraud."

I think I'm addicted...

"She's fading away...
Away from this world;
Drifting like a feather,
She's not like the other girls.
She lives in the clouds,
She talks to the birds --
Hopeless little one...
She's not like the other girls I know..."

I know what song that was, Mister.

By the way -- www.stevestattoo.com

Right-Round-Vague

"We let the candy-man fill us with his contraband..."

I feel absolutely weightless. If eyes were ink and fingers more nimble, I have this sneaking suspicion that I would write every breath that squiggled its way out of my mouth.

Like my spider? I found him in the basement and carried him to the front door. Scrabbly-legged bugs make my insides go numb. Spiders are a different sort of story. Remember...all people are stories.

I'm in an exceedingly good mood. My head's cloudy. I need to get these thought-things out of this big brain before I dissolve into a fleshbag-puddle.

"I swear I never meant for this -- don't look at me that way. It was an honest mistake..."

[twelve-fifty-eight-a.m]

"...I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle,
Infinitely suffering thing."

I dislike people, generally speaking. Does that make me 'antisocial?' I am reluctant to use such a meaning-designation. It's so very dull and over-used. I prefer anti-sentient-dunderheads, if it's no trouble to remember. Stinking pink bags of flesh who need to feel a belongingness to a large collection of other stinking pink bags of flesh produces in me a feeling of needing to vomit.

I'd be willing to bet that vomiting would somehow offend that large collection of dunderheads.

With all of our big brains and big ideas, you'd think that this blockheaded species [human flesh-bags, like I said] would find something really worth doing. Something really worth talking about. Something really worth...the time it takes for synapses and neurons and thought-processes to do their business in these time-wasting big brains of ours.

I need conversation tonight like a drug. A little chemical insertion to release all these buzzing insects from inside this big brain of mine.

Thinking that I've gone over this before, I am reluctant to restate that I aren't-truth often to people who mean very little, I half-truth as much as called for, and I bluntly-honest to those who register at the pink-poppies-and-thunderstorms end of my adoration spectrum. I, myself, haven't gone through the disappointing annals of poetry I've used to congest the gallery given to me a year ago. How very interesting that someone else should. How very intriguing...and delightful.

"You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted..."

I often wonder about things and topics and ideas with no head nor tail. That is to say, they all run together like muddy snow melting off the tip of a de-gunked iceberg. I cannot -- for the life of me -- recall where one image ended and another began; is this a problem? I am a rambling, long-winded, convoluted, and contradictory sort of story, to be honest. All people are stories. Do their brain-pictures have definite heads and tails? Mine don't. Wait. Is that even a good thing?

I love being convoluted. It makes it easier to surprise myself.

There is lightning storm I'd like to attend. Sizzling together at it's apex sounds so enticing. I'll wait very patiently for a thorny flower all sooty-colored and shining. It's a little known fact that I like flowers. They're rather pretty.

I punched someone in the teeth today. It was very satisfying.

These silly attempts at one-person-discussion have taken some pressure off my big brain tonight. It's a shame no one's paying any sort of attention to me. I need conversation like a drug, you know. "Tying yourself to me...stitch up my emptiness..." I don't have to change unless I feel like being chameleon-face. I'll never switch my skin on you, darling. Please believe me. Stables of people constantly surrounding are like clouds of insects constantly needling, wheedling, biting-and-stinging. It's too silly. I am anti-sentient-dunderheads. I am your i f r a r p u e.

And I am a puzzle piece, too.

[two-thirty-seven-a.m]

My fingers hurt. It was sheer stupidity on my part. I guess that's what lack of oxygen does.

I am very suddenly lonely. I should have stayed and slept with you. I was in no condition to drive, anyway.

I feel disconnected rather than disoriented. Like we should have said things more meaningful than 'I'll get the others,' and 'I love this CD.' Last night had slightly more depth. I wish we wouldn't have went through that box so fast.

I wish you were here, or I was there.

I can't sleep now for the life of me, though that's all I wanted to do an hour ago. Two days in row and this lack of dominoes has me disappointed. Utterly. Don't get so sleepy. Come and play with me this instant...or very, very soon.

At least I don't feel sick anymore. The cold-burn stings a little, but that's what you get from trying to strangle your senses too quickly. And in rapid succession. Silly me.

Sober thoughts and dominoes. As soon as humanly possible. Now go...

Not supposed to know, anyway...

There is always something uniquely thrilling about being watched.

"Tying yourself to me, stitch up my emptiness...'cause you're the death of me. So precious -- loving the thrill."

Uniquely thrilling about someone's eyes.

"I mean that fucking you is strange and adored by me throughout."

Recoiling at that word is silly and inane, you know. I adore the shock-factor that comes when 'fuck' slithers out of an open mouth. It is, I think, the word-embodiment of what I want to be. Surprising, vulgar, obscene, dirty...a piece to the language-culture-world puzzle. Yes. That makes sense. Doesn't it?

Saw 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory' again. Tim Burton is the pinnacle of human creativity. Johnny Depp is a beautiful clay-man.

I can't get over this addiction. To you.

"Tying yourself to me..."

Loving the thrill. Ultimately...loving the thrill. 'Do you know how good it feels to know that you are loved by someone that you absolutely adore?'

Yes? Of course you do. How silly of me.

Allow me to decipher just what, exactly, these things are that burrow into my brain. Just what, exactly, makes me write things like 'In the Attic' and makes me commit skinicide and makes me makes me makes...me. What makes me? This is getting convoluted and nonsensical. I think, perhaps, that I think too much. 'Cogito ergo sum' means little at this point.

I want you right now. Dominoes in the humid-grey-afternoon.

"So precious, loving the thrill..."

Svefn-g-englar

"Don't look at me that way. It was an honest mistake."

The sky is spectacular. Now. Like a well-dressed wraith sporting tinsel and tin foil. The moon is yellow fleshy-celestial; it reminds me of paint smears on masonite. I would stay outside all night, if I could. Find little froggies like last time and follow the skin-prickling paths of fireflies with eyes half-mast and dreaming. If I could. I'd like to breathe in the humidity and inhale through my skin a thousand different nocturnal sounds; I'd like to wrap myself in night and bind myself with music and throw away this current span of consciousness that I'm playing at. I adore music. I live because of random note arrangements and melodies and sounds and lyrics sung in interesting voices. Wait. Oh, wait. 'Ruby wounds ope hollow jaws.'

"You discover that the monster you were running from is the monster in you..."

Particularly lovely was last night. Particularly lovely was the company I kept, the activities I indulged in, the new experiences I partook of. Particularly, particularly lovely. It was heart-snapping. It was hot needle-y sensations like a sea worth sleeping in. I've never felt so...glass-limbed and perfect. When I was on the bridge and breathing into you...hmm. More than I've ever felt. Mad scientist. More than I've ever, ever felt. Breathing into you and falling back.

"Never want to come down."

Interesting is the way my mood flucuates. Violently, I should think. Seems a very, very good adjective. Dolly's asleep for the most part tonight. Her little fingers put me back into the orange bottle recommended for whole-ness. And no one knows what I mean, yet. I haven't told a soul, yet. I think it'll stay that way for a while. Or maybe I'll tell. Who knows?

I want to have discussions again. In the dark, feeling summer-sultry-open and talking about...everything that comes to mind. It's what astounds me, all those conversations with you.

"Jumped into the river and what did I see...?"

Time for Canon in D. Feeling supremely human and hurt-able and heavy. 'Can you talk to me? Just talk to me. Please?' I didn't mind being vulnerable then. Only time in my nineteen-rotten-toothy-years that I was vulnerable enough to admit that I needed something. Someone. To keep me in the frame and away from the image-edge. "In the blink of an eye there was no one attending." I got a hole in one during mini-golf, once. Put a hole-in-one-in-me soon. Now that's a little trite. A little devious and sad. "...boulevard of broken dreams to find the key to Gramercy Park." Huh. Now that it's not an option, I see how much it helped to talk instead of tear.

"Where did everybody go? I need them now to save me."

Need to go to that little castle off the coast of Italy and wander and wander and wander. Maybe? Go with me.

Sillystring

Why can't I find stability in a mise-en-scene created solely from feeling? It is wholly up to human nature and that part of a mortal being that woos the cognitive self into certain emotional states, I think. As such, the facet that dictates what is and isn't 'human nature' in this body has been permanently altered by situations largely uncontrolled by both rationale and common sense. I never was one for reason, I suppose; I never was completely convinced that the brain is the only organ that factors in on opinions, decisions, and ideas. Is it because I abhor a thing entitled 'common sense' that I search fruitlessly for fragile vindication? That I lack what little strength it takes to stop myself from spiraling into a place too overwhelmingly bleak to mention is proof enough of the void left by self-efficacy. I can't bring about change as easily as it would seem...as easily as I would like.

I've been turning over and over in that bleak place for some time, to be honest. I've gone off what was prescribed to keep me whole, to be honest. I'm walking up and down this cavernous, self-constructed hallway in the dark; I'm too afraid to switch on the light, and I'm too afraid to open the door for you. You're a god, and I'm not...and I just thought that you should know. Chemical imbibitions, astounding intelligence, Brian-Eno-songs -- all of it meshes together into something that I could never know. Into something that discomposes me. Into someone that I love. You're a god, and I'm not. I just thought that you should know.

"Precious, watch yourself. Be careful. Precious! You're going to feel icky again..."

Drops-all-warm-and-thick-skinicide-makes-scissors-stick.

It's going to take some time to rock myself to sleep tonight. Blissfully long time since that's happened, and now there's no lifeline to call. That's the way the world turns, I suppose. 'Watch me maim what little self-efficiency I have by saying that I miss you.'

"Somewhere there's speaking...
It's already coming in.
Oh, and it's rising at the back of your mind.
You never could get it
Unless you were fed it,
Now you're here and you don't know why.

But under skinned knees and the skid marks,
Past the places where you used to learn,
You howl and listen,
Listen and wait for the
Echoes of angels who won't return.

He's everything you want,
He's everything you need,
He's everything inside of you
That you wish you could be...
He says all the right things
At exactly the right time,
But he means nothing to you
And you don't know why.

You're waiting for someone
To put you together,
You're waiting for someone to push you away;
There's always another wound to discover,
There's always something more you wish he'd say...

He's everything you want,
He's everything you need,
He's everything inside of you
That you wish you could be.
He says all the right things
At exactly the right time,
But he means nothing to you
And you don't know why...

But you'll just sit tight
And watch it unwind;
It's only what you're asking for --
And you'll be just fine
With all of your time;
It's only what you're waiting for...

Out of the island,
Into the highway,
Past the places where you might have turned.
You never did notice,
But you still hide away...
The anger of angels who won't return.

He's everything you want,
He's everything you need,
He's everything inside of you
That you wish you could be;
He says all the right things
At exactly the right time,
But he means nothing to you
And you don't know why...

I am everything you want,
I am everything you need,
I am everything inside of you
That you wish you could be...
I say all the right things
At exactly the right time,
But I mean nothing to you and I don't know why.
And I don't know why.
Why...?
I don't know."

"Your best nightmare..."

"I've knelt at your altar,
I've cut out my heart;
I've lived in your ruins,
My pain is your art..."

Know that things are breaking, now. Know that they're cold and crumbling.

"...I've never been so alone than with you,
I've never been scared to dream until now,
I can't close my eyes -- I'll carry on screaming..."

"She went off her medication, precious. Said she wouldn't, but she lied to dolly." Little button eyes scrutinized the window...and tiny cloth fingers rose to roll the flower petals into wet smears of red-and-yellow.

'Ruby wounds ope hollow jaws and scream unceasing, silently.' No. That doesn't work there. Does it? 'Slave to sad ex-sanguination' fit in somewhere, I believe. Scrawl-y letters sort of sepia-toned moved in flitters across my face. In this hole that is me, the dead are rolling over. You know what words to say -- but lately they've rung hollow. Chilly. Like nitrous? Like fallen-over dominoes? Are the vine-feelings eating this happiness, too? Are they growing in you? Question marks like puzzle pieces make me more than flesh does.

I can't express this. I can't ask for the things that I want to hear. Know that it's slipping down. Know that it's getting darker. Drops-all-warm-and-thick, skinicide-makes-scissors-stick. I needneedneed a diversion...but it's all 'Synesthesia' and ceiling-fan-shadows.

"Precious, you lied to dolly. Precious, you said you'd behave and do as asked. Precious! Now you're feeling icky, and it's your own fault..."

Lost the battle this time. Back at the orange bottle, and maybe I'll win the war.

Eat-able Human

So, I saw 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.' The marvelous team of Tim Burton and Johnny Depp, compounded once again with the music of Danny Elfman, conspired to take the breath away. It was, in the most general of terms, an incredible movie backed by an incredible cast set against an incredible backdrop (mind-shocking colors and whimsical sets twisted my heart like hot taffy)...and, of course, Johnny absolutely lost himself in his character -- he developed Willy Wonka into a thousand dimensions -- some of which Gene Wilder himself failed to achieve. Me and my two fiend-accomplices smuggled Wonka candy (oh, how long it's been since I've tasted Laffy Taffy and Pixie Stix) into the theater and proceeded to send our blood sugar levels through the roof...all while enjoying the miracle that is a children's book brought to life by a cinematic genius.

Mr. Burton, it seems, did his homework. Exceedingly well. This version of the Roald Dahl masterpiece was much, much closer to the original book. In-depth journeys into the history of the Oompa-Loompas [and Wonka himself] add an intriguing twist, the ending is much more like that of the book's, and the entire film...reminds me of a counter-culture creature with neon lights for vein-juice.

What? Personification for a silver-screen creation? Oh, it warrants such a tool. It really, really does.

I suppose this is shocking, me writing in intelligible sentences. I'm feeling incredibly cynical and sarcastic, so the silly word-poetry is stuffed away for now. I don't want to hurt myself with myself...I'm assuming such stupidity could only produce a phobia of self-judging in the case of this unsure, sorry, on-tenterhooks-tonight girl. "Call it aftermath, she's turning blue...such a lovely color for you." Oh. Yeah. He's back, I'm bored, will this internal nightmare never end? Then again...peel me from the rind. Skin me from the bone. My irises bleed color onto the backs of my hands, if it's imperative that you know.

Muse, muse, muse. Seal upon thinethinethine.

More I ----. More I ----. I do. Most honestly.

Brain-morass

Venus. Call me fly-trap. I snare the XY's and fashion them in an under-image. It's not my fault. Blame your best nightmare. I'll steal the scene with a silver scream and shatter the world in the blink of an eye. If I could just find a way to sugar-coat the words that march out of my mouth, I'd become like all the rest -- but plasticity and doll-faces are what make me gag; I attempt to remain upon the same stage across which I've always played, but at times the make-up fades and I'm left with a dusty imprint of 'you-don't-know-who-I-am.' Funny. I don't, either.

To me:

"You're telling me
That I'm the most important thing to you...
But can't you see?
You're killing me with all the things you do --
And I really want to believe it's impossible,
I really want to believe it's all a dream...
But I just can't seem to wake up...
I just can't seem to turn on the light.

One step off the edge
And the world will seem all right.
You did it again --
Yes, you in the mirror;
You put your faith in a cruel world...
All my dead friends come to haunt, harm, and hinder,
Never letting go, here to drag me down to hell.
Just say goodbye...

Just answer me,
What was the point of all that treachery?
And soon we'll see the truth behind all of your blasphemy,
No, never again...
I'll never trust anyone again;
I'd sooner slit my wrists and risk discovery of hell,
Than stay another moment here where certain devils dwell..."

Dreams may come and dreams may fade -- nothing I love will stay the same. Nothing under heaven stays the same. Or...so said Letter-To-God. Did you find it, muse? You've got me on a darling-darling-Lestat kick, now.

"I don't like myself, you know. I love myself, of course. I'm devoted to myself till my dying day. But I don't like myself."

How true that rings. This is the taste of my miseryhead. I adore that phrase, Mr. Lioncourt. If only you'd emerge from the evening, dripping darkness like wet feathers...and spirit the maiden [insides-cold] to a place where the air is clean and the rain never stops. Oh, if only. If only.

'Just Like Heaven' again. Again, silly. AFI is heart-wrenchingly lovely. I dreamed about Davey last night, but it's wreathed in waking-fog...I can't recall for the life of me how his pen-stroke lashes looked against white cheeks. Disappointing myself again. Where did you go, muse? I need you now to save me...

This entry doesn't hold a single thing worth knowing, now does it? I felt like spilling a little of the me-bottle into someone else's head. There. "You...lost and lonely. You...strange as angels." That's who-what I'm thinking about now. "Why won't you ever know that I'm..." Pieces of the song keep burrowing under my skin and eating through to the other side. I've left Canon in D for another time -- when I feel supremely pained and human...when I'll allow myself to be cocooned in music and instrument-kisses and shattered notes that rise like warm water to take up the space in my brain reserved for the things that make me smile, crumble, and leak tears in one deftly-felling moment.

Head...ache

"...I've never been so alone than with you,
I've never been scared to dream until now,
I can't close my eyes -- I'll carry on screaming;
Your words are like ice, they melt in the heat...
The cold and the pain which you seem to breed
Have become what you are and left your ruins empty..."

Nothing special to impart tonight. Concern over certain issues eating me from the inside out, but the spike-eyed serpents only surface when I'm alone and contemplating. If worse comes to worse, I suppose I'll do what needs to be done -- only because I've become rather fond of this body and the collection of exhalation adjectives that it's become.

I have pearls for opinions; when the sea swallows me completely, the nacreous sin-baubles will rise like ascending dollops of fugitive mirth.

Selected scenes from the end of the world: imbibed by the slick-tongued storm that sought to consummate a promise made on windy half-nights, she opened her umbrella and shed words ephemerally. Run for water and in the end you'll get a rust-bucket mouth only half-full of twinkles; sage nod, and then it was over. She was quiet, plastic...still-life drawn on the face of an apron.

Find "Letter to God" by London After Midnight, muse. It makes me think of your interesting-ness.

I think a lot, to be perfectly honest. This is the sound of my miseryhead. I lap it up like golden sap and in the end I think I'll fall. Am I making sense to anyone? Mad scientist is away for three days at a chemical-music-I-don't-know-what fest, and it's already driving me crazy. And then there was muse. You. Oh, you. Cane-toting silver-tongued evil-genius has-me-by-strings. That's it. Correct answer gives her six points.

And baby, more I l--- you. More I l--- you.


"All my nerves are naked wires
Tender to the touch...
Sometimes super-sensitive --
But who can care too much?
I get this feeling...

Scars of pleasure,
Scars of pain,
Atmospheric changes
Make them sensitive again.

Each emotional injury
Leaves behind its mark...
Sometimes they come tumbling out
Like shadows in the dark.
I get this feeling...

When I think about all I have seen
And all I'll never see,
When I think about the people
Who have opened up to me,
I get this feeling...

Pleasure leaves a fingerprint
As surely as mortal pain;
In memories they resonate
And echo back again...

Scars of pleasure,
Scars of pain,
Atmospheric changes
Make them sensitive again."

'Eating seeds is a past-time activity.' Ever wonder about the meaning? Eating seeds -- seeds of joy, ambition, hope, courage -- is a past-time activity. Of this completely turned-over-up-around society we've managed to stick ourselves to. We ruin the glowing seeds of what-could-be...good-things-could-take-root. My take on the hopelessly lovely song, anyway.

I misinterpret all the time. Misanthropic misinterpreter. Socialphobic silly girl, rushing headlong into the arms of life at its behest.

Word-alchemist

"I want you to make me bleed."

Single most alluring phrase I have ever heard. Maybe. Good lord! Sensuality full-blown. Still reeling, reeling...allow me to pull myself upright.

"Let's all go in the river...
A mirror for my disguise.
She is tongue-tied, she won't make a sound;
To look at her makes me shiver --
I can see right through her eyes...in her mind,
And she believes she can only hide when I turn away."

'Alchemist with words', or so He said. Oh, I love that idea. He coined a new term that I absolutely adore. It's enough to make me blush, but all my blood has rushed elsewhere this evening. It's time to tell me what you saw -- in me, around me, through the colors that dribbled from my lips. What didn't you say when words weren't enough? 'Never close your lips to those to whom you have opened your heart,' warned Mr. Dickens. Remember, I grin, wagging a warning finger.

Where good girls go to die...that's where I'll be waiting, with my heart tacked to my sleeve.

Tell me -- now how should I feel?

Oh, Pachebel's 'Canon in D.' Full orchestra. I'm swimming in and out of it, watching fireflies after grey rainstorms blink like yellow-green pinpoints of summer essence. These notes, this melody, this harmonic flow, oh. Oh, oh, oh. I want to drop tears of delectable symphony-sound into someone else's soul-windows. Moving beauty. I envy those old composers so capable of making me hurt with little notes and beats and instrument-kisses.

Instrument kisses.

Oh, god. Here we go again. The crescendo...and I'm loosening resolve, unsticking an image, allowing myself to feelfeel the way it makes me want to lie down and breathe sound. Set me as a seal upon thine heart, muse, so that someday you can feel Canon-in-D on the inside. It really is a strange, silly, pretty sort of thing. Very human-inducing.

Very. Me.

Story

For a moment, the world turned its back. Pearly illusions of people-faces swept past in ever-widening waves of white there-and-gone flames; the darkness was rich and full [like black crayon wax on butterfly wings] against my arms and against the soft-sooty-shameless eye-blinking I indulged in whenever the scent of your words created in me that special sensation like falling off a too-high bridge in the middle of a tinfoil storm. I was fragile inside. Signpost spit rained against the windows of my brain with dizzying familiarity...and all at once, I let go. Dark as Heathcliffe on the moors when left without shelter, poor gypsy-boy he was, I ran helter-skelter into you, into what I thought you were but could never know for sure; I tumbled heedlessly through halls of glass, halls of never-should-have-entered ice and secret loathing. This was all before I encountered my muse on a wispy strand of ethernet thought. Funny how things work out like that--how the dead speak before spoken to, counter to better-behave table manners that never really stick inside your face. Not for lack of trying, understand. Never for lack of trying. Tell me again how I've failed to overcome my fears [signpost spit's raining hard again. better open the umbrella, harry] and I'll tell you how I only ever tried for one-person-you. Silly twit. It was clear that they couldn't go on...so don't fear the Reaper. Let Gentleman V.H.V tell you in his shiver-singsong voice.

I don't even want to let on to what I'm feeling. I wrote a story. It's convoluted and pretty. I'd imagine that anyone could interpret it. Like they interpret me. Funny how funny I'm feeling. I'm going to giggle here.

There.

In a not-too-bad mood. I swear I was going to write in routine English, just like in all my journal entries before the month of June. Buuut...you see, I couldn't. It's just too sweet to see the way the words run together in sentences of make-believe importance. Word-paintings is what I create when I let my thoughts go...just go.

Listening to? "Beautiful" by HIM. Reading? "Timequake" by Kurt Vonnegut. Watching? Nothing, thanks. Feeling? Unassorted box of colors. Eating? Anything to help the substitute-nitrofur pills go down easier. What a life it's been. What a summer ride worth writing about when the passions inflicted aren't so raw.

Set me as a seal upon thine heart. As a seal upon thine arm. Find the song. Look up those lines. Fits. Like the tragedy I find myself wallowing in, like the tragedy we talk of when all else fails to convey any meaning, when it's a boring can't-find-a-momentum moment and I want to make you understand but can't, really.

"Oh, I'm doing fine. Worrying about a lot of things, really, but pushing away thoughts of skin-icide and trips to the detox-center," she said in a plastic voice.

Under the cold water tapped into by means of screams, I let my legs dangle. Little did I know your leech-mouth was there to catch what I didn't see. Silly myself, I suppose. Then the white-flame-faces went out, and the insects moved on to flowering fields.

The end.


In addition:
Hours later, and I have the overwhelming urge to convey ideas again. I'm addicted to words. Addicted painfully to spelling out sentiments and aches and misgivings and fears and, and, and all those sillydisgusting things that unfurl like kitty-claws in my middle. Tangential subject -- I always seem to make someone angry. Unintentionally. If you're nothing but a lust-receptacle, I would be nothing but a lust-dispenser. It's not on target. It wasn't about you. Believe me. Swear it on all the things I told you. You always know just where to prick to make me hurt. I'm sorry for hurting. I am. Don't mean to [pause for Davey's voice in 'Just Like Heaven' again. makes me feel better. miss my muse] be so weak.

I'm sorry.

Youcan'tseeme

The Cure. Lord.

Here.

"Show me how you do that trick...
The one that makes me scream" she said,
"The one that makes me laugh" she said,
And threw her arms around my neck.
"Show me how you do it and I promise you,
I promise that I'll run away with you...
I'll run away with you"

Spinning on that dizzy edge,
I kissed her face and kissed her head,
And dreamed of all the different ways I had
To make her glow.
"Why are you so far away?" she said,
"Why won't you ever know that I'm in love with you?
That I'm in love with you?"

You...
Soft and only.
You...
Lost and lonely.
You...
Strange as angels.

Dancing in the deepest oceans,
Twisting in the water;
You're just like a dream...

Daylight licked me into shape.
I must have been asleep for days,
And moving lips to breathe her name,
I opened up my eyes
And found myself alone...
Alone.
Alone above a raging sea
That stole the only girl I loved
And drowned her deep inside of me.

You...
Soft and only.
You...
Lost and lonely.
You...

Just like heaven.

There.

Read between the lines. Do you know me well enough? A product of too-much-thought; for my muse, maybe. God, I love that AFI covered this beautiful piece of Robert-Smith-genius. I love this song. I adore it. In Davey's tenor/sometimesfalsetto voice...it's heart-rending. It's incredible. I love it.

Someone needs to hang me. String me up, babies. String me up. I asked first. Remember.

Ohne Dich

I am me.

Take it or leave it.

[Breaking apart. Watch. Watch. Wait...]

Want to know?

In one sweeping generalization, I must admit that I'm fond of the shape I've molded myself into. Despite those little storms that sweep over me, despite the imprints little lost feet leave on my insides, despite the weeping sores still unhealed, I am happy with who I've painted myself up to be. With the player I've made sweep across the stage. "All the world's a stage," after all. Remember?

I'll tell you.

So what if I choose to wear my greasepaint home?

[Fall into sleep. I want to assuage your fear. Cut your demons loose. Give me the reigns.]

Here. Now turn me on...

"Aus der Bohne und in das Licht
ein Wesen mich zu gehen drangt
fur die selbe Sache und das alte Leid
meine Tranen mit Gelachter fangt
und auf der Matte fault ein junger Leib
wo das Schicksal seine Puppen lenkt
fur die selbe Sache und das alte Leid
weiss ich endlich hier wird nichts verschenkt...

Aus der Bohne und in das Nichts
weiss jeder was am Ende bleibt
dieselbe Sache und das alte Leid
mich so langsam in den Wahnsinn treibt
und auf der Matte tobt derselbe Krieg
mir immer noch das Herz versengt
dieselbe Sache und das alte Leid
weiss ich endlich...

Ich will ficken
Nie mehr das alte Leid."


Androgyny, chewed-on lips, bloody mouths, a perpetually damaged psyche, your clothes on my floor, obscure intelligence far superior to anything I pretend to know, curious airs of mystique, aching, the word 'fuck,' nails on skin, reciting deliciously-intriguing lyrics, being relentlessly pursued for nothing but sins of the flesh, bondage...unbridled lust coupled with rage.

You all make me giggle. Am I here for a reason? Poor believers. Come and nestle in my heretic-arms. Do I seem okay? I really am. I promise. I'm strangely cheerful at the moment. In the blink of an eye, there was no one attending. It doesn't really matter where it all began...all I know, I got covered in darkness. Covered in darkness. I want to shriek that! I'm ready for our lightning storm, boy! I am. Oh, I am. My eyes are a little sticky. Crying. Maybe. I miss my sissy. Miss my other half. Horrendously. Turning pages over...run away to nowhere. Miss my sissy. Uh-oh. Making myself sad again. Look. Another night and still I'm trying to write half-legible things. Voila. For you.

You.

Oh, you.

Lost

She's gone. Gonegonegone.

She's on her way to some new department in life. Some new avenue-offshoot-footpath that will ultimately enrich her further. Further. Further from the truth. I told her I wouldn't cry. Nothing could be further from the truth. I miss her so much. So, so, so, so [repeat that two-letter word fifteen-hundred times] much.

I feel like I'm missing half of me. Half of what makes me happy, human, whole. Half of me. My sissy is gone. My best friend is gone. My partner in crime is gone.

I'm a mess.

Blasphemer

In addition...

Why is that I feel as if I've been saddled with a constant feeling of excruciating loneliness? With the sensation that I'm lost...? That I've been deserted by and made a slave to the euphoria that comes with the release of tension through the explicit-particular-delicious-alwaysalwaysalwaysaddictive infliction of pain? Less and less wavering I become as time passes [as a buffer] between my church visit and who-I-am-presentmoment. God does not exist. I won't allow myself to fall into a velvet-cushioned coffer full of lies. You won't have to follow me, boy. I know you can't. I won't leave you. 'Banish the thought,' I think, is the term best applied. "Still feel you on the inside, biting through and stinging...will I ever forget to remember?"


Romans 3:23

"For all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God."

I went to church this morning. I sat through the service, I sang the hymns, I took communion.

I felt bitter inside.

Someone sang a song for the 'enjoyment' of the congregation; one of the lines struck me as both hilarious and outrageous: "He alone can grant wishes and make dreams come true."

Make dreams come true? What about those thousands upon thousands of individuals who suffer everyday? Do their dreams become audible to a lofty God, or are they 'misplaced?' Why did no miraculous sign come from God when I, a frightened girl with shattered faith, returned to the church of her childhood? When I took communion, I half-expected the bread to turn to ash in my mouth.

Let me say this again with half-wavering conviction: there is no God.

How do we know what to believe, though? How could ANYONE living on this blue ball of misjudgment and wasted chance know what, exactly, to believe? How did human beings come to be? Where do we go when we die? What happens when someone "sees the light?" Do people really die, or do the vessels that house their souls simply tire of their years' experiences on Earth and close their eyes? I don't know. I don't know. I don'tdon'tdon't know. Anything.

I'm completely lost. Going to church wasn't my choice. It's hurt me on the inside. It's wrecked my self-possession again. Our father who art in Heaven hallowed be thy name thy kingdom come thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors and lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil for thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever amen.

See how I've been branded...on that pulsating muscle trapped in my chest? Those words came up without thought, from memory, accompanying unshed tears. I've got scores of verses. Want to hear the Apostle's Creed? The Twenty-Third Psalm, maybe? Every time I think about it, think about the lies drilled into me by way of verse-and-song, I want to drill them back out again.

Now. Now now now. Ow. Ouch. I've articulated as best I can the futile things I felt while sitting on a wooden pew with a Bible in my lap. How about rambling thought-things? I'm so very sorry.

Poison in my head that led (most likely) to my coming undone by the light that shone through reds and oranges and blues...framed and lined and twined with grey lead (not supposed to speak, not supposed to hear...only pay attention like a plastic-eyed dolly). Oh. Sea-billows wave like prayer-pillows the tinsel-y glitter accumulating in my head since I've set myself free, free, freedom, kingdom [of His, of Heaven], mischancedom than made me want to sing and cry and absolutely throw up the weights that were placed by pats-on-the-head (such a good girl, smart girl, learned that verse overnight right!). He is love, He is faith, He made you make me learn Him a lesson. Do unto others so that My will be done regardless of your will; put your coins in the plate and know that My children are blessed because they have enough to feed themselves and keep the church in wafers and wine for ages. Ages. Ages to come, ages that were, He is love, He is faith, He is the reason I'm coming undone and unwound and hurthurtHURTING because I've realized (only now...only now...maybe I'll keep my mask up on a stick) that He doesn't exist. You don't exist. You don't! I'm SERIOUS!

What have you ever done for me, anyway? You couldn't even comfort me in my crying jags when I needed a father. My daddy is a pathological liar and a thief. Both are. I give up on you. I give up on everything. Give up. Give up. I need a hand. I need a shoulder. But beware my teeth.

Bottom of a bottle

The song '45' [by Shinedown] is excruciating beautiful. I know it's on the radio -- I've heard it. I know it's slightly overplayed -- I've heard it. I don't care that so many other people have listened to it, have sung along off-key, have shrugged it off as just another contemporary tune. When he sings the chorus, it makes me want to shiver; the voice is so full, so rich, so completely imbued with a quality I can't describe. "What ever happened to the young man's heart? Swallowed by pain as he slowly fell apart...and now I'm staring down the barrel of a .45, swimming through the ashes of another life..." He hits the crescendo -- and I fall apart. It's like a series of waves, going up...then coming downdowndown...and leaving me breathless all the while. Oh god, is it tear-jerkingly gorgeous.

"I laugh until my head comes off..."

I've really got nothing to say. I'm in a little pain right now, but I suppose I could remedy that with even more synthetic little packages sliding down my throat. Hah. That sounds so silly, but it's what happens, isn't it? What did he call it...acetaminophen? 'Do not take with alcohol.' Oops. "I laugh until my head comes off."

Go out and dream extraordinary things! Go and pave your own path. Live your own life. Do what makes you happy regardless of others. Love who you want to love, groom your hate like a pedigreed creature and allow it out only when appropriate, be the good Samaritan when situations call for it -- and never, never regret anything that you've done unless it's ended in loss of limb, loss of life, or loss of brain-matter.