Elegeia

Miseryhead III

2007-04-21T16:13:00.000-07:00

Oh, my god.

If I listen to Jimmy Gnecco sing one more note in that lush, clear, and brilliant voice of his...I think I'll rip my fucking heart out.

That's how much emotion he's able to wring from from me -- stupid Gnecco, with his barbed ropes of poetry and mournful tone.

Christ!

If you haven't yet, check out "Distorted Lullabies" by Ours. Too multi-faceted, depthless, dark, pretty, and diseased to -not- listen to.

Schism

2007-04-17T22:25:00.000-07:00

"I know the pieces fit 'cause I watched them fall away,
Mildewed and smoldering. Fundamental differing...
Pure intention juxtaposed will set two lovers' souls in motion,
Disintegrating as it goes, testing our communication.
The light that fueled our fire, then, has burned a hole between us so
We cannot see to reach an end, crippling our communication."

I know the pieces fit 'cause I watched them tumble down --
No fault, none to blame...it doesn't mean I don't desire to
Point the finger, blame the other, watch the temple topple over.
To bring the pieces back together, rediscover communication.

The poetry that comes from the squaring off between,
And the circling, is worth it.
Finding beauty in the dissonance.

There was a time that the pieces fit, but I watched them fall away.
Mildewed and smoldering, strangled by our coveting;
I've done the math enough to know the dangers of our second guessing --
Doomed to crumble unless we grow, and strengthen our communication.

Cold silence has a tendency to atrophy any
Sense of compassion
Between supposed lovers/brothers."

I'm back. I don't know for how long. Nor why.

Oh, christ. I need to write again. I need to wonder and ramble and write terrible things unsuited even for myself in my blackest, most poisonous mood.

Love me now, because here I am.

accidentinautonomy

2006-03-01T23:08:00.000-08:00

"I'm a monster singing through the side of a left eye."

Have you ever hung your insubstantial self on the hook jutting from Solitude's spine?

Have you ever kissed the coy mouth of ruinous Temptation?

"This is the sound of my miseryhead..."

I am well beyond the borders of self-control now.

Skirting the cemetary of sentience and laying bare my back for plastic-cast lashes (like the words from your too-labored lips!), I tiptoed along the track where the needle bites and sings. I hurthurthurthurthurt so like spit through silk, inaffluent wax words bleed "she needs." Ineffible effusion, here!

"We've taken medication so we can run away from another day..."

Meet me in the tower where along the ocean's bottom sliver-slaver slate plates lined in legs wait for a date with one who's how-can-I-have-really-died?

Losing the battle, now. Losing the battle. Losing the battle. Losing the battle. Losing!

Lost it.

She's lost it.

In tinsel screams allow me to proclaim the means for my escape...

"Back into curling wick through shells of self and skinicide."

Now I don't believe

2006-02-27T17:30:00.000-08:00

I wish to be left alone, though "left alone" is not what I'll be.

All of muse's intimations are gone, leaving me as one made from bone and dried spit.

I often find myself this way.

Can you see how I've been made autumn-brown and dilatory?

I feel phlegmatic -- and I've never found occasion to use that word before.

I feel also as if I've set myself on a perpetual, self-inaugurative cycle of suffering. I often shortchange myself in order to shield others from things repellent.
"I am trapped in this world, lonely and fading..."

Is that an ugly, ungainly attempt at conveying angst?

I feel pathetically inadequate at expression right now...

She's in to superstition...

2006-02-22T18:12:00.000-08:00

I am sorely bereft of things once pleasing to me. I am losing my mind. I ravenous, dark-lipped, and mutinous.

Did you know? I am poisonous. Not myself. It's thrilling. Liberating. Dirty.

Precisely how I intend to be this weekend. Not myself. Liberated. Dirty.

Are you taking notes?

Indulge my appetite.

"Lie down and stretch upon the sea..."

2006-02-20T21:38:00.000-08:00

"Wake me up (wise) by morning --
I want to breath the day.
This is my final warning:
Keep all the clouds away...

We've taken medication
So we can run away from
Another day...

I feel alive -- I'm falling;
We dance until the morning closed our eyes.
I would love to stay here and never have to go,
And no one in the world would ever know.

We will never, never know...never know;
I feel the dream is real, watch it go -- go.
I blink and then another day is gone...
I feel the dream that we've been hiding from.

We've taken medication
So we can run away from
The things that pain us...pain."

There are tinfoil threads unraveling (to knit together internal wounds inflicted by an unsteady hand) and there are crumpled lip-leaves whirling (to form a hyperbolic mask worth wearing) and there are a thousand little eyes boring holes into my head.

"How can I have really died?"

To be is all that she desired. "But they didn't love you in our time -- nobody wants you in your life..." Bleed and they'll serve you...

True? No. Question -- idea!

I put my hands to the sky...and watched them burn for want of tender touch. If I fail to dam the flow of self-destruction issuing forth from a brain half-poisoned, is it entirely my fault?

I am poisonous. I am not myself.

I am worried beyond all reason, tired of the horror inflicted upon my mother, and wanting above all to comfort the only individual who's loved me unconditionally my whole life.

"If we beat him down, will he stay? He's a little dizzy, and I feel it starting to take me. Where did everybody go...?"

"How come we hurt the ones we need?"

None

2006-02-16T21:25:00.000-08:00

Dead things dead things dead things dead things dead things dead things dead things dead thing dead things dead things dead things dead things dead things dead things dead things dead things dead things dead things dead things dead things dead things...

Dead things.

Dead things.

Dead things.

My mother has cancer again.

I will destroy

2006-02-13T20:40:00.000-08:00

For the love of Christ, let's end her.

"It's when hate turns to love (and love to hate),
Fate to doubt (and doubt to fate)..."

She's beyond redemption, children.

I'm in the mood to strangle something. To break something. To hurt something. I am in the mood, my darlings, to tell you a story horrifically riveting...because I am forbidden from acting out said story lest it fuel an emotionally-saturated diatribe from certain, beloved individuals.

Listen to me. Are you paying attention?

I have been waging a gruesome war for ten years. I have been commanding soldiers, crafting strategies, and guessing the enemy's tactics for a decade. One-tenth of a century. Half of my life. It's not been easy, it certainly hasn't been enjoyable, and it hasn't done much.

I've been waging a war against myself in the arena of self-mutilation. I have been slicing open flesh and finger-painting with rust-juice and sighing in something akin to ecstasy every time the rush of pain hits me. An endorphin junkie, maybe? Oh, now that's too comical to imagine. Listen to me, all of you bleeding-heart do-gooders. Pay attention, all of you 'panacea theory' toting idiots. I like the sensation of being carved apart. I like the sting, the twinge, and the tingle a pair of scissors (an oversized safety pin, a sliver of glass) can impart. I adore the way wine-colored scars look when criss-crossing a previously unmarred tract of skin. Am I sick? Oh, lord, how some have tried to convince me. Am I an anomaly to that social construct that simpers "pain is not the answer" -- to that metal-toothed mouthpiece that bleats unceasingly coy copies of mass-minded mantras? Who knows.

"If you want to save her, then first you have to save yourself.
If you want to free her from the hurt, don't do it with your pain."

Does that make any sense? Is it ringing any "realization suddenly" bells?

No, I thought not.

Often I imagine that perhaps it is due to my alexythmiac predilections (and a dictionary to you, sneering reader) that I turn to self-mutilation as a means of expression. Some are incredulous at the fact that I often scream "there is no other way!" -- that I run face-down into myself in order to bask in the comfort supplied so readily. I am of the opinion that if something works, one should continue to do it until it works no longer. Scarring and social ostracization (I believe I just made up a word) aside, this self-injuring works. It works, darlings. It takes away the inside-hurt. It makes the whirlwind in my head stop. It allows me to safely bottle all bad feelings until such a time as I am able to cope with them more readily. Let's reread that sentence, shall we? It's so important in the understanding of self-mutilation. It's so key to understanding me.

"It allows me to safely bottle all bad feelings until such a time as I am able to cope with them more readily."

There we have it. So maybe I don't always enjoy hurting myself; I certainly don't when I realize (through that fog of "only my alleviation of agony matters") that this tendency hurts...no, that this tendency tyrannizes those I love. Is that an accurate description of what it does when I ask one to recall past wounds and words? As I write this paragraph, I realize the sometimes-insensitive air this entire entry has taken on. I'm unsure as to whether I should apologize -- after all, passionate pieces are best turned out when real passion exists...and the amount of time I've spent deliberating on this topic is enough to spark in the even the coldest breast a tongue of passion too insatiable to be ignored. Where am I left? Somewhere "between a rock and a hard place," so to speak. Allow me to reiterate, clarify, and confuse once more.

"It's all I have as I stumble in and out of grace."

Here it is. My bare-boned summary. Oh, to be concise and raw-worded when the situation calls for it! Long-winded commentary on self-mutilation from peers and professionals alike have awakened an oft-smouldering anger in me recently; I spend a majority of my time believing that self-mutilation aids me in expressing emotions when other avenues seem horrifyingly inadept; this inability to express feelings has created in me an anguish that seems physically nauseating at times; often I see that self-mutilation torments those I love most, and an alternative to this destruction of self seems tantalizingly close -- and unbelievably better.

Oh, and the rest of my thoughts lay in complete disarray. I've confused myself once more.

"So close to the flame..."

"It's years since you've been there..."

2006-02-03T10:49:00.000-08:00

"Hell's devoid of teeth and sin
And I've been splitting skin again..."

I was again recalling those times when the world seemed a great, closed eye. When I felt nothing, thought nothing, saw nothing but an endless grey expanse too vast and depthless and penetrating. I was again recalling cold eyes and a granite mouth and the whip-flicker things that slipped from between streetlamp lips. The lacrim river failed to erode an I-thought-you-thought, tiny sighs were whispered under a failing-strength pretense, and "at the tick-tock of the flesh clock" one surmised mechanisms with which to remedy a human's wellness potential.

"Red-edged and listless, scissor-spined and blissless..."

At once and never can I find the means through which these torturous musings might escape. Insolent thought-things. This is what's scraping at my skull-base now. This is what has no words and these sentences I'll craft mean nothing; metaphor? Maybe. There:

Steel-fingered umbrella skeletonless and all amiss and absolutely beautiful despite an inner maxim that remarked "One for two and none for one, all your work's unwrought (undone!); worth nothing -- dust, and little more...unlovable, surely, to your core." Wrong! Oh, wrong! Adored even when it hurt, these window-lids bruised and bloodless. Moving under a spitstorm of the finest form, she recreated an attempt at amnesty and now there's nothing left to fall back upon in the event of an indisposable pain-demic shooting through pulpy pulsations...

Chrysanthemums

2006-02-01T18:58:00.000-08:00

"You were pulled from the wreckage of your silent reverie..."

The fount for this brain-poison remains a mystery. Still I have trouble sleeping; still I grapple with waking reality and those challenges posed -- once as easy hurdles, now as Titan-wrought rock ranges -- in ways that make me want to sob. Still I find that words escape me like so many rarified and fluttering things. Perhaps I've lost my muse. Perhaps I've lost any semblance of talent I once had.

"I am destroyed by the inside.
I disassociate.
I hope to destroy the ouside...
It will alleviate and elevate me."

What about the panacea...the cure? Does one exist for something so nebulous, so unsubstantial? And what about notions just like heaven? I can't find a phrase that would quench an unsettled maw's thirst for what-once-was...

Always losing something...

2006-01-30T10:37:00.000-08:00

I can't figure myself out. I can't figure yourself out. You can't figure myself out. You can't figure yourself out.

It's enough to make one insane.

I don't often need lectures on how to fix these little emotional problems. I don't often look for you to fix them.

I often need soothing little noises and an "I love you" in place of "why do you do this?" and "here's why you don't feel well..."

I often need you to be there. I often need to feel loved...just loved. It happens when we're sharing air -- so why is there an obvious void when we're miles apart? I don't understand.

Am I adored because of convenience and a lack of alternate entertainment?

I did very well in the last month and half. If I fall a little now, will you help me...or will you continue to show me contempt?

I am hurting very much.

2006-01-27T13:50:00.000-08:00

This morning I realized that you have contempt for me.

"Sticks and stones are hard on bones
Aimed with angry art;
Words can sting like anything
But silence breaks the heart."

Eraser-face

2006-01-24T18:43:00.000-08:00

Dear Jessi,

"My shadow's

Shedding skin and
I've been picking
Scabs again.
I'm down
Digging through
My old muscles
Looking for a clue.

I've been crawling on my belly
Clearing out what could've been.
I've been wallowing in my own confused
And insecure delusions
For a piece to cross me over
Or a word to guide me in.
I wanna feel the changes coming down.
I wanna know what I've been hiding in

My shadow.
Change is coming through my shadow.
My shadow's shedding skin
I've been picking
My scabs again.

I've been crawling on my belly
Clearing out what could've been.
I've been wallowing in my own chaotic
And insecure delusions.

I wanna feel the change consume me,
Feel the outside turning in.
I wanna feel the metamorphosis and
Cleansing I've endured within

My shadow
Change is coming.
Now is my time.
Listen to my muscle memory.
Contemplate what I've been clinging to.
Forty-six and two ahead of me.

I choose to live and to
Grow, take and give and to
Move, learn and love and to
Cry, kill and die and to
Be paranoid and to
Lie, hate and fear and to
Do what it takes to move through.

I choose to live and to
Lie, kill and give and to
Die, learn and love and to
Do what it takes to step through.

See my shadow changing,
Stretching up and over me.
Soften this old armor.
Hoping I can clear the way
By stepping through my shadow,
Coming out the other side.
Step into the shadow.
Forty six and two are just ahead of me."

Sincerely, Jessi.

Undrafted

2006-01-09T11:07:00.000-08:00

Protect me from what I want.

Protege moi.

Mismatched bottle-gaze

2006-01-03T22:03:00.000-08:00

Push me under. Pull me further.

There's nothing left for me to do but snap at phantoms and etch (with needle-y fingers) a thousand vitiating hymns into granitized guilt-trips. There's nothing left for me to do but weave into smoke haloes the subtle threads of a paean decaying.

On the inside, umbrella-eyes opened under a mendacious mass of tears shed for love lost through labyrinthine miscommunications.

"And I've been waiting for so long..."

Tinkerbell smile

2006-01-01T13:59:00.000-08:00

I'd like to say something, finally, that is beautiful and eloquent and lyrical. I'd like to be able to craft sentences like spun gold, to hone my delivery with a knife-sharp precision -- I'd like to feel content in the knowledge that I'd added another glass bauble to the exquisite string of jewels that constitutes "being." I'd like to be able to wring such emotion from individuals so as to leave them speechless; I'd like to be able to soothe ache, to cure sorrow, to seed solace. I would like, above all things, to evoke in other minds the imagery that constantly taunts me with indescribable qualities.

How utterly horrid it is to feel nebulous, indefinite feelings that flash silver underbellies in the dark -- and then disappear when language attempts to make of them sensible descriptions! How alone it makes one feel to know that there are emotions roiling beneath the thick surface of a self-imposed silence...and that there are no words (nor were there ever) poignant enough to describe the strangeness. And such strangeness it is! This strangeness continues to make me think -- continues to make me feel -- that I am slowly, gradually, hopelessly losing my mind. I am ever and always the complacent, suffering victim. I am ever and always a prisoner of myself.

Don't talk to me anymore of absolutes and strength. Don't talk to me anymore of a principle duality. I'm so tired of attempting to fix myself; I'm so tired of attempting to rouse the old and buried qualities that I once possessed. This me that I have allowed myself to erect, erstwhile unknown (and never dreamed of), has quickly and completely taken over the blue-eyed cocoon. Don't talk to me like I'm a child. Don't tell me that I am needed and adored -- daily conversation is a dreamt up thing and I am loved only when the contours of my face are bathed in your little lamplight.

I am losing my mind. It's a perpetual drowning. A numbing procession.

My sister's left again. I am alone again. The high and low record sounds (with their bodiless discussions) invade my solitude again.

How warm and secure and content I felt while she was here! She calls us twins...she calls us "bound souls." I call us matching pieces to life's puzzle. There is no one on this earth with whom I would discuss the intricacies of pain and pride -- no one except for Amanda. And now she's back in Texas, and now I sit in my room with a book and a broken bottle, and now I confide my secrets to the dark air surrounding a disheveled bed. I am a doll with yarn hair and glass eyes; I am a sweet and plastic-limbed thing; I am guilty, I am purposeless, and I am unnecessary.

I am losing my mind. Bet you didn't know. Ting-a-ling.

Ufio har

2005-12-23T22:03:00.000-08:00

"Guilty by design -- she's nothing more than fiction."

[I contemplated my semester success in this space, and then decided that when held up ("in the light," so to speak) with those other things I'm thinking about, it seemed too trivial and forced.]

Ting-a-ling.

"He's everything you want. He's everything you need. He's everything inside of you that you wish you could be..."

I have, in these last few days, mused on an astounding number of things. Some have made me incredibly uncomfortable. Some have made me angry. Some have made me frustrated and irritated and...some have moved me to tears. At the moment, I'm actually quite worried. We'll see how those things that have triggered this particular emotion pan out -- it's like roulette with me. I'm perpetually unhinged and subconsciously loving every minute of it.

"...So please, stop explaining. Don't tell me...'cause it hurts."

Lately I've been reliving those moments that caused the greatest pain in my life. I've been reliving blood and flesh-gouged and death after death and my-fault-desertion and cruelty weathered for hope of love and unwanted stretches of solitude and massive doses of guilt and tears that I've caused and self-destructive behaviors and...everything. Such thoughts came creeping in a week ago, and only hit fever pitch last night. I wish I hadn't heard those strains through the floorboards. I wish I could have been held and taken care of after a cold, dark, notion-flooded drive home. "We fell through the ice when we tried not to slip." Won't be held responsible -- she was touching her face! For the life of me...

Oh, lord.

If she tries to remedy as she's said she would, does it matter if she fails on nights when no light shines?

"Og hér ert þú...
Fannst mér...
Og hér ert þú Glósóli...
Og hér ert þú Glósóli...
Og hér ert þú Glósóli...
Og hér ert þú."

"To the gravity and the unknown..."

2005-12-19T12:17:00.000-08:00

"It was exhilarating and draining. The emotional effect of saving and being saved was addicting to both of us. And that, as much as anything we ever did in bed, was how we made love to each other: conjoined where [our] weaknesses needed protection."

-- Amy Tan, "Half and Half"

2005-12-15T18:09:00.000-08:00

"Just how much you..."

Don't know.

Onyranidroevol

2005-12-13T12:34:00.000-08:00

There have been far too many scrabbling, institutionalized fingers picking at me these past few weeks. There have been too many deadlines, too many exams (storm clouds threatening on the horizon), too many 'important' decisions heaped upon me like so much dead weight...too much stress accumulating as a result. Hold on -- just a moment. Am I speaking in absolutes again? Am I categorizing things too strictly...subscribing to a dualism that has, at its worst, managed to cripple me time and time again? If I begin to suffer from a self-inflicted insanity, what means could I employ in order to regain some semblance of mental stability? What, exactly, is 'justifiable punishment' within the sphere of self-motivation?

Because this stress is such a massive force right now, I have begun to think that the accompanying depression and anxiety are...disgustingly prevalent. I have a hard time believing that anyone wants to be apart of this process -- that anyone feels the need to bear the brunt of my venting, to help me weather these academics-seeded tempests...to help me. I don't feel that my reasons for being so "mentally fragile" are verifiable -- but some times (usually at night, when the darkness makes this room seem so shrunken and dead) I imagine that they are utterly well-founded and true. It's hard for me to judge the extent of change this stress has worked in me, and only now am I beginning to realize that by clinging so tenaciously to one side of the issue, I am (in effect) creating more vexation.

It's this dualism that I create and believe in that has so altered my temper and my coping abilities. It's my refusal to "flow" -- simply and with the current -- that has helped to make this stress so difficult to manage. One of the few things I have working for me (at the moment) is a recently-made promise to 'open up,' to continue talking even when the fear of being seen as-is (and mentally thrown open) threatens to shut me down. I can't begin to describe how absolutely relieving and freeing this is to someone who's been intensely private, oppressively guarded, and silently defensive for two decades. It's a wonderful thing, I think, and I'm utterly grateful that I have been made to experience the amazingly nebulous qualities of love. Though still in its infancy, this love has bounded over and across all parameters previously subscribed to...indeed, nothing ever turns out as it's expected in this relationship -- and it is this constant newness, this constant shifting and creating, that really baffles me...in a good way (to be sure).

Since I've made that decision to cease the 'snapping shut,' I find it hard to not express myself. Granted, I only feel comfortable expressing myself to a single person (for the time being) -- but at least that's something, right? In the last week, we've covered so many different topics...most of which have occupied a substantial thought niche in my brain. I have the urge to talk right now -- to discuss something in depth that's only just occured to me this minute (in relation to something that happened last weekend). I won't though; I can't. I need to take a nap, to get started on homework and a lengthy paper and about a thousand other things all directly related to my success as a student and as a human being.

"So many things that keep...that keep me underground;
So many words that I...that I can never find.
If you give up on me now I'll be gutted like I've never been before..."

insectbrainpressedanagainst

2005-12-09T23:42:00.000-08:00

Interesting, the way the human mind (after an emotional blow) redoubles its efforts to live and to learn. Interesting, the strength of the urge I have to change externally...oh, chameleon-face's returned.

Interesting, a thousand different things I've been thinking about recently.

This weekend I procured for myself a massive collection of new music (because the Internet connection at my house is so lovely and fast I could cry) -- including Deerhoof, The Decemberists, Portishead, Mogwai, The Arcade Fire, Iron and Wine, Itzhak Perlman, Guided By Voices, Wintersleep, The Magentic Fields, Godspeed You Black Emperor, and The Beta Band. Of course, I couldn't waste an idle minute...so I also got a bunch more stuff by The Cure, Depeche Mode, Switchblade Symphony, Lycia, Coal Chamber, Siouxsie and the Banshees, and -- oh lord -- a trillion more songs not classifiable by artist. It's been a perfectly wonderful weekend, as far as getting interesting material with which to treat my ears.

Right now I've given in to the beautifully campy side in me -- I'm listening to Rob Zombie's "Sinister Urge," a CD that I haven't savored in a long, long time. I'd almost forgotten how flawlessly the man manages to blend B-movie horror stuff and silly thematics. Lord, how boring the world would be without people like Zombie...

As an aside, I dyed my hair. Darker. I love it.

It snowed yesterday afternoon. The sky was steel-grey, the world was muted, and the entire scenescape looked like it was encapsuled in a white fog. Everything was quiet, and the trees thrust up branches like black skeleton fingers; I walked through it, thought through it, marveled at the silent, ghostly beauty...

And now, after a five-hour break from this entry...I feel the need to lash out at something. At someone. You know what? I matter, too. More so than what's been given me thus far. I mattermattermatter -- maybe. Oh, I'm making myself sick...

'Nonetheless something for it.'

2005-11-23T20:18:00.000-08:00

"Two times in!
I've been struck dumb by a voice that speaks
From deep beneath the endless waters.
It's twice as clear as heaven
And twice as loud as reason.
It's deep and rich like silt on a riverbed,
And just as neverending.
The current's mouth below me
Opens up around me --
Suggests and beckons all while swallowing.
It surrounds and drowns and sweeps me away.
But I'm so comfortable...so comfortable.
Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up.
You're saturating me.
How could I let this bring me back to my knees?"

If love is just a chemical reaction triggered by sensory receptors in the human brain, then what happens to those theories regarding the true and nonbiological basis of emotions? Do they then translate into tangential symptoms, perhaps?

I want to experience the complete and corporeal physicality of the human body tonight. I want to be loud and brash and dark and numb and crumbling and violent. I want to stomp on fingers poised precariously on concrete curbs. I want to kick street signs and handle dexterously panes of cold glass -- and then shatter them on an abandoned avenue.

I want to be dirty. And raw. And utterly obscene.

I want to smell the overpowering odor of cold leather and leaves and a worn car's interior. I want to drink until I'm stupid and get...completely fucked up.

And I don't care. I don't care. I don't care much for judgments, perceptions, or what people think! Of me! Don't care.

Hemorrhaging

2005-11-22T23:32:00.000-08:00

"I hope that now I feel contagious; am I the only place that you've left to go?"

That phase in this relationship marked by an overwhelming attempt at intimate comprehension is over. I'd rather take a bottle and undo my oath than take that which has sprung up so suddenly in mind's eye.

Alexithymiatic predilections are no easier to navigate now than when first we met, and still you expect that the pseudo-strides I've taken make up for the terrorestrial patches I've traversed. I don't know where to go now. I don't know how to preface what I'm feeling with words adequate enough to make you see that certain situations are too important for me to simply "get over." I don't know how to breach a sudden silence created by your frustration and my unwillingness to open. I don't know what's happened to the ease with which I use to speak when conversation between us was remarkably, deliciously feasible. I remain unmoving lest the silent eyes of that frustration turn on me.

You have to know that things are not the same. You have to know that the exquisite "dusty luster" of our relationship is now tinged with things unfamiliar to that of the original. I don't know how to explain the tiny and cacophanous ideas that whirl behind grey eyes when the face seems asleep. I don't know how to tell you that I'm infinitely tired of the dualism tenderness has taken on, of the shortening of fuses at both ends, of the uncomfortable pauses I weather when attempting to draw you into discussion. I don't know how to tell you that I don't know where to go anymore.

The only times that I am completely sure of your feelings are when I'm with you, and even then I'm drawn away from the current occurences by tingling thought-threads looping en mass. The only times when I am not confused are when your arms, eyes, and (partial) attention hold me; if I can't trust anyone else around me, I'd like to be able to trust you...

But who am I to talk about trust? I shattered yours because I was unwillingly to put myself in a position that would cause a moderate amount of discomfort and disconcertion. I am, a this very moment, disconcerted. But really -- who cares?

I am looking for something to make me [never mind]. Get that? Riddles flower with vine-feelings, and I haven't grown any of those in so long. I am shortening more thought-things so that I don't disclose anything else worthy of a scrutinous poring-over.

We're done here.

"Over and over and over again she cries, "don't fall away and leave me to myself"..." Oh, but I'll be the first to tell you that I am left to myself and I enjoy the solitude only she can afford me.

I said...we're done here.

eratnaC

2005-11-19T15:03:00.000-08:00

"So douse yourself in cheap perfume -- it's so fitting for the way you are.

You can't cover it up..."

--to half

2005-11-19T00:30:00.000-08:00

"She cries her life is like some movie, black and white."

I seem to fluctuate rapidly (and violently) between a high level of self-disclosure and a perilously low degree of social 'need.' There are times when I feel intensely private, profoundly apart, and completely content with my position as an emotional lockbox. There have been a rare few times when, moved by an internal need to feel 'understood,' I've gone out and confided completely in an individual. Precious few people have I ever actually spoke to at length -- and with painful, strange sincerity. This sincerity has escaped me just this moment; I am suddenly left with the bitter suggestion that perhaps I should stay here, in this room, all weekend. Unmoved by both my own current longing for deep conversation and the fact that sleep, despite its overwhelming appeal, seems far off, I've a notion to remain here...shaking my head from side to side so that my hair covers my face.

I've thoroughly throttled that disgusting mass of depression that launched itself at me some days ago; this is in no a way a repeat of that situation. I most certainly am not hindered by despair tonight -- I am not re-associating myself with any feelings lower than a certain dull unsettledness. It's creeping through the very pores of my body, but I've settled into a cohabitation, of sorts, with such inexplicable moods. I like them, actually. They're very much a part of me...and really, where would one be left without a little inner enigma? The only time an actual problem arises from this cohabitation is when something -- some bit of bad news or a doubly-high dose of that 'residual depression' -- pushes my ability to cope over a self-possessive edge. It then becomes both frustrating and debilitating when I undertake the task of stating my feelings; they're never explained as they are inside, the situation itself spirals out of control until a crying jag takes the place of discussion, and ultimately I am left feeling more alienated, more misunderstood, and more alone than when first I attempted to speak. I am told, constantly and clearly, that when such a thing happens, I just have to stop it. I simply have to pick myself up ("by the bootstraps," as it were), brush myself off, and dry my own tears.

I cannot begin to explain how exquisitely exasperating this is. I refuse to play the "but I have clinical depression" card, because such a move (in my opinion) is fit only for those who give up at the 'starting line,' who constantly look for the easy way out of troubling, difficult, or foreign situations. I used to look for an easy way out of things -- most certainly, I did. It resulted in the loss of a beautiful and vitalizing experience; thus, alongside my search for 'happiness in the moment,' I took up the duty of banishing all tendencies towards taking the path of least resistance. I am nowhere near the end of this endeavor, of course -- but I believe I've made progress, and that's the only evidence I need to continue on with the struggle. I know that I have the ability to "just stop it;" I am very much aware that I have the option -- but that capability hasn't fully flowered yet. Realize that I still need help...I still need help. Self-possession alone simply will not suffice at this point.

This isn't to say that I have some grand store of self-possession, either; rather, I am of the opinion that I lack somewhat in that department. My domino fiend, on the other hand, is to me an interesting example of an aplomb-bearing individual -- that is to say, he does command a certain amount of self-possession...though whether this comes from philosophies he's adopted or from some internal well I've not ascertained. I haven't asked him...or, rather, it's never come up in conversation. Though not unprosaic at times, conversations with him are of the general relationship stock -- except when I get on a 'disclosure kick;' when I feel exceedingly open, he's wonderfully responsive and, like last weekend, we can go on for hours. Those are the times I love most -- those are the times when I feel content, clarity-sated, and willing to let him inside the shell I've constructed to keep others away.

That shell is there, to be sure -- and for reasons good enough. I have been left behind so many times in my life that I am (as of yet) still unsure as to who now will remain and who will go. While this may seem a little girl's fear of desertion, it has grown significantly in this last decade; it has branched out to encompass different avenues, different threads of thought, and different occurences. There is no one way of explaining away this irrational fear, as most psychologically-related phobias (and I guess I would go so far as to call it that -- a mild phobia, of sorts) are too complex and too interrelated with other mental aspects to be simply "explained away." Oh, well. This little phobia, when joined by other fears and insecurities -- a fear of people's scrunity [yes, I did say I'd gotten over that -- for the most part], a fear of being laid too open to someone, an insecurity about my intrinsic worth, etc, -- conspires to harden that shell lest I become what I've always despised...lest I become a bleeding heart whom everyone knows everything about.

When everyone knows everything, one is liable to get hurt. When even someone knows a little about everything, one is liable to get hurt. I will not be hurt again.

"You were fashionably sensitive but too cool to care."

I really should start limiting these miniature dissertations. They're outlining too much of me for comfort. I think, though, that they're allowing me to sit back and look in on myself after I've finished -- hardly a bad thing.

Vivo!

2005-11-17T14:51:00.000-08:00

New thought: I love life.

New thought: I revel in the movements my body is capable of, the joy I can bring myself, and the fact that I have the option of waking up every morning with a new lease on a new day.

We're all dust. Of course! I'm a beautiful, intelligent, deep-thinking part of that dust. Hallelujah!

"Dance, dance..."

"Building a mystery..."

2005-11-17T12:41:00.000-08:00

"Can you help me remember how to smile -- make it somehow all seem worthwhile? How on earth did I get so jaded? Life's mysteries seem so faded..."

Sometimes it lifts. Sometimes it lowers. Always it is choking.

There is something that invariably hovers at the base of my skull -- beyond (or, perhaps, beneath) consciousness, reason, and rationale. There is something there that refuses to leave, no matter how many times I attempt to banish it; there is something there that inexplicably burrows into my body and afflicts it with the most grey and heaviest of feelings. I am slow to term it "depression," because although I was diagnosed with that complex 'illness' more than half a year ago, I like to think that I've overcome those particular hurdles. Perhaps it's a sort of residue; a loose heap of mental detritus, maybe, cemented to the inside of my brain.

Try as I might, I cannot lift this from myself. And I have tried -- really, I have -- time and time again. The best outcome these efforts have yielded is something akin to ignorance; that is to say, I gain the strength (through various inner sources) to push aside the threat of these "grey feelings" so that I might enjoy a few days of existence unshadowed. While this is enough to lead me "by the nose," so to speak, through these days and weeks and months of mine, I'm always left wondering -- what is this thing? And why won't it leave...?

After I was tossed aside and inevitably left to my own devices (some time ago), I sought out that shifty concept of 'happiness in the moment.' I sought out certain instances of beauty, certain key occurences that would surprise me with an instantaneous joy, certain bits of natural appeal and childlike delight -- and I was left with the impression that "this is enough;" I was then of the opinion that this grey thing would lift. I was bolstered by my surety, by the sudden thoughts that occured to me inside that contemplative period; I learned to wave aside my fear of others' judgement, to stride past the intense terror that others' scrutiny lit in me (like a monstrous, perpetually-afire matchhead). I learned to stop slicing the very skin on my body -- because, really, what good did it do me? Though there was no immediate pain transferred to me through this self-mutilating act, a great deal of hurt was heaped upon those that loved me...and especially on one 'someone' in particular.

That, of course, is another tangential thread altogether. While I'd love to discuss the intricacies and supposed 'value' of self-mutilation, I'm not sure I feel entirely up to it. Let's have a stab at it, however -- a solid try may do me good.

When hysterics brush against my insides (as they sometimes do), the aforesaid "what good" statement becomes lost amidst the waves of "I need an outlet." For a majority of sufferers, it feels good when first the body is harmed; biologically, there is sound proof of this -- upon infliction (and after pain has built up to a significant level), endorphins are released and circulated throughout the system. When one becomes addicted to this endorphin rush, to the "good feelings" that typically (and erroneously) become associated with harming oneself, self-mutilation then advances past the 'rare and irregular' phase of usage. At times this becomes overwhelming; the self-mutilator deceives themself into believing that the source of these "good feelings" is solely and irrevocably linked with the amount of harm they cause themselves. I know this to be true -- I've felt the same things. I've believed that the more pain I inflicted upon myself, the better the "release." And I did feel better after one of these episodes; the initial emotion-storm that first triggered thoughts of self-mutilation would fade into the background, and I would be left with the sweet, delicious throbbing of a dozen bleeding wounds.

Look at that sentence -- I would be left with the sweet, delicious throbbing of a dozen bleeding wounds. Doesn't that seem unsettling, now, when it's placed alongside thoughts more rational and routine? The raw and horrifying truth is that I liked it -- is that I still like it, despite the fact that I no longer feel compelled to continue such 'episodes' in my search for a release. Three times now since I officially, intentionally, willfully quit have I given in to the urge; three times have I regressed to a primitive mindset...three times have I stopped halfway, reluctant to throw myself passionately back into the safe, comfortable, compelling pool of self-mutilation. I nearly gave in again, but I was stopped by the realization that although it didn't seem to hurt me, it undoubtedly hurt the boy I loved. And although I am loathe to say that he stopped me (after all, I like to think that I stop me), the thought of harming him became almost unbearable.

Thus, I've resolved to give up completely. On self-mutilation, that is. I did give up on it months ago, of course -- but this time, I believe, is fortified with the knowledge that I am not alone any longer. While my convictions regarding the other revelations swell and fade from time to time, this one will remain in place despite certain concerted efforts to raze it to the ground. I'll always feel pulls towards self-mutilation -- I have known and accepted this -- but I'm tired of playing the prey to my own predator. And there are now other avenues of thought to peruse, other experiences to revel in, and self-mutilation has no place among them.

Returning to those ideas discussed some paragraphs ago, I believe that those other strength-lending discoveries have not left me -- but neither has the grey thing. A month after imbuing myself with additional ideals that served as a ladder out of that pit I'd fallen into, I again realized that the irrational and sourceless weight of the 'residual despair' was still with me. I was, of course, sickened by the this sudden, hopeless discovery; what more did those imaginary forces want of me? I've been dwelling on this ever since that damnable day, and I have to admit that I am no closer to an answer than I was before the contemplation began. I am no closer towards banishing this grey goddamn thing than I was before I was kicked out onto the street and forced to scrutinize myself and my actions.

It's perfectly alright, though. I don't think I'll ever find the answer that I'm looking for, the source of the greyness that I obsessively search out, the truth behind a thousand different mysteries I'm hung up on solving. And maybe I'm supposed to have this residual depression; perhaps it's a part of who I am -- a part of my identity so like Edna Pontellier's in Chopin's "The Awakening." I believe I've resigned myself half-cheerfully to the pushing of a stone up an ever-growing hill. You'd better kiss me, though, when we reach the top. You'd better, buddy...

"You're a beautiful, fucked-up man --
You're setting up your razor-wire shrine...

You're so beautiful, with an edge and charm...
But so careful when I'm in your arms..."

"This is my..."

2005-11-16T01:05:00.000-08:00

It seems no one can help me now. I'm in too deep -- there's no way out. This time I have really led myself astray.

It seems no one can help me now. I'm in too deep -- there's no way out. This time I have really led myself astray.

It seems no one can help me now. I'm in too deep -- there's NO way OUT. This time I have really led myself astray.

It seems no one can help me now. I'm in too deep -- there's no way out. This time I have really led myself astray.

It's only to be understood that this is what afflicts the minds most susceptible to romantic ideals.

It's only to be understood that existence, admittedly a wretchedly confusing idea, is absolutely intolerable to those individuals imbued with more than a cursory knowledge of that which permeates their environment.

"...[M]an enters a totally meaningless world, makes it habitable through his consciousness, confers meaning on it through his free choice, and is overawed by the dreadful freedom which makes him responsible for his situation and his life."

"To suffer and to be are one and the same...[.]"

If suffering constitutes being, and being constitutes the conscious application of man to a collection of experiences (essentially and habitually termed "life"), then what becomes of those experiences -- those splintery bits of "life" -- that are not related to suffering?

What of the times I spend, yielding myself both spiritually and bodily, in the arms of someone who cares for me beyond the self-imposed limits of comprehension? Is that not "life?" And if it is, why am I not inundated by more of these experiences? I think that in order to have a "life" of any determinable span, a wealth of weekend-length situations unrelated to both suffering and pain should be at my disposal.

I am finally ready to admit that I need someone other than myself. Though at times ashamed to announce this silently, I have finally concluded that this needing is perfectly sane, perfectly rational, perfectly normal. I have finally come to understand what so many others have already figured out -- I need someone. And, rest assured, it feels good to know that someone else needs me, too.

However, this needing doesn't always translate into understanding. I am lost for words, sometimes, in relation to what I'm feeling -- and often it seems like I'm simply re-wording emotions and ideas that I've stated a thousand times already. Tonight I was lost for words while on the phone, and so I covered the mouthpiece while sobbing through clenched teeth. Isn't that a particularly pathetic image? When voices break and falter -- when unshed tears well at the surface and unsaid feelings roil beneath the skin -- that, and that alone, seems the most delicate of moments. I'll not say how this night's moment was handled, because I'm not entirely sure myself; I'm left wondering if I'll be able to sleep tonight, if I made that hands' host angry, if I said too much on the same tired topic, perhaps...but I'll not say how it went. I can't be sure.

"And I'd give it all away just to have somewhere to go to -- give it all away to have someone to come home to."

I feel rather forlorn. Lost. Hurt. Snow-covered -- bleak like an empty field caught fast in winter's grip. Now contemplating, I don't feel understood at all. I feel bottled up and pushed aside -- but such is the lot of those imbued with romantic ideals, you know.

Key Blame Suffer Lose

2005-11-13T20:03:00.000-08:00

I have decided that I deliberately make myself difficult to love. I bristle when there's little need for anger, I find myself upset when there's little need for tears (though I do enjoy weeping for no other reason but weeping) and quite often a certain despair visits me for no particular reason -- though that feeling, I suspect, has genuine causes that outnumber those of the other "false" feelings.

An example of this intricate and convoluted personal quirk? This past weekend was both an exceedingly wonderful retreat and a simmering, seething hell -- a duplicity brought on, no doubt, by that certain knack I have for refusing to believe that things are "all right" when, in fact, they generally are. It's overwhelmingly frustrating, sometimes, when through the brain-made fog there shines the light of unbiased self-inspection and I see what I'm doing. I see the pointless anger, I see the irrational grief, I see the illogically-magnified fear...and I grow completely disgusted with myself. Oh! This in turn, I think, brings on more of these nonsensical emotions -- and then the entire psychological situation turns cyclical. Snake eating its own tail, yes? Oh...I'm Ouroboros. I am!

How much sense this all makes! And so suddenly!

This is what undoubtedly colored my weekend. This cerebral, intangible morass of terrifyingly unidentifiable origins. I shouldn't have flung the cursory remarks that I wielded like stones this weekend. I shouldn't have ignored you for so long, though the books were wonderful. I shouldn't have gotten so mad over a situation that wasn't worth much in the way of anger. I shouldn't have done so many things! Oh, I was absolutely terrible for nearly three days; I was nowhere near approachable...nowhere near civil to those I love most. How completely beastly of me. How sickening I am.

In the most quavering and heart-breaking of voices: "Let all the hurt inside of you die."

There are more things to impart, more indelible marks of comfort and glittering slices of security and brilliant fragments of happiness that I experienced this weekend...but I suppose that should wait. A warm room lit by yellow light while wind whistles and house shakes and psyche-barriers break reminds me that I have amends to make and love to assure.

"Conflict-theories then exhumed..."

2005-11-07T23:12:00.000-08:00

Introduction:

"Nothing's so loud as hearing when we lie; the truth is not kind -- and you've said neither am I...but the air outside (so soft) is saying everything..."

Story:

On the fifth day of a surprisingly gentle November, steel-wool clouds broke open like too-ripe fruit and spewed forth cold rain (melted ice borne on blusters) that pattered noiselessly to the half-frozen earth below. The stout and black-skinned tree that for so long boasted sun-splashed boughs and green finery spit gold leaves (curled in around themselves child's fist-like), ruffled stout-dark-body with an unmelodious mutter, and abandoned all hope of sweet summer succor; on top of the tree-talk and inside the rain whispers, arms thought lost encircled not-think-but-feel. "What's the worst thing I could say" metamorphed into "words like violence break the silence" -- and lovelovelove grew tenfold.

We're falling apart to half-time.

End:

On the fifth night of a surprisingly gentle November, steel-wool clouds continued to pour cold contents libation-like while inside a concrete cubicle red-and-yellow lights burned with the intensity of a silver chair's sism oyu olve. And she still didn't know what to do, and the tree still muttered and shook, and the yellow leaves still fell with the rain.

Analysis:

"Wrong way on a one way track...seems like I should be getting somewhere -- but somehow I'm neither here nor there."

Knows a little unsurety creepycreepy like teasing vine-feelings (despite the lack of yellow wallpaper) and little thorns uncurling between the teeth at the slightest hint nothing's okay. Oy. What more is wanted? I'm tired of doing things on my own but if I don't think about the journey then the destination doesn't seem so hard to reach and this time you said I wasn't on my own and I swear I'm making things fine on the inside so that I'll be okay on the outside but it's hard to do with all of this insecurity even though I had none this weekend and --

STOP IT!

"You only see what your eyes want to see --
How can life be what you want it to be
(You're frozen)
When your heart's not open?

Now there's no point in placing the blame,
And you should know I suffer the same...
If I lose you
My heart will be broken."

In addition: "No nourishment, I swear to god!" a querulous cry and then: "for all have sinned and I the worst. Independent, watch me fail; you sleep, I'll weep, and nothingnothingnothingnothingnothingnothingnothing NOTHING nothing nothing NOTHING! Nothing's okay! NOTHING'S not unfine."

Bubbles and Green

2005-11-01T14:24:00.000-08:00

"Words confessed from a memory,
I feel them at last when I sing of what used to be...
And I sing along like a choir.
If I say good-bye to love...

...Will it go away?"

How is it that the 'being' part of the term 'human being' interests me so much? Why is it that I feel a need to explore the causes behind every emotional fluctuation I experience? If I push hard enough at the theoretical "boundaries" of my psyche, will they finally bow...and then break?

It interests me to no end, the ways in which I allow myself to be overcome by sentiments only half-caused by sources outside myself. Violent swings in my mood are both astonishing and irritating -- and their underpinnings are rooted deep within me. Their foundation was built upon that part of me which dictates what and when I experience certain emotions. Imagine that! Outside sources affect my mood with varying degrees of efficiency...but in the end, it is me that decides to smile, to sob, to laugh, or to bristle.

Ting-a-ling...that's the way the cookie crumbles.

As it stands now, I've allowed myself to sink into a funky little morass of curiosity and fear. "I'm more than just a little curious how you're planning to go about making your amends...to the dead." I promised I wouldn't break him, and now that I know exactly what the "breaking" process entails, I'm worried that I'll be just careless enough to crack the too-delicate exterior. And god, what if he breaks me? I've heard too many flat voices this weekend; I've seen too many colors in too many eyes and I've experienced too much joy and too much unsurety. Things are not back to normal, much to my dismay. Sometimes conversation seems strained -- is this the way it's going to be? Are things going to be delicious face-to-face, but will it/you/I fade when distance prevents spontaneity and touch?

Drama creates in me a desire to lash out. I'm doing my best to stifle the stinging remarks, the indignant silences, and the obstinateness I am sometimes prey to. Let me do an experiment; here -- my thoughts unbridled by chemicals: ...I failed.

No. Too revealing. It was an interesting experience, however, attempting to weave my way between two desks and a couch in order to get back to this computer in time to utilize the lack of inhibitions. Why is this radio station playing nothing that I know? If I hide behind the music, no one will realize that I am terrified, bare, and wounded. "Scar tissue that I wish you saw." I'm adept at hiding it. Pick me up-up-up because I can't go any further with this thing weighting every step; pick me up and brush the leaves out of my hair and make me see that...oh. I found out why your eyes were cold. Oh. Oh, oh, oh. That was brain-blowing.

Could you be everything to me if I asked? No, not "enough" or "not enough," because you're too much. You can't hurt what's already scarred over. Oh, yes you can. That's a lie. Thought I'd move on? Can't. Can't get over you not getting over me. 'People's Court' playing in the background and Cranberries on the computer and "you're a dream to me" if dreams had spines and made you ache, bruise, bleed, and tingle all at once.

Now she's not making any sense. Now she is what she is when she's alone.

Adolescence (Again)

2005-10-29T10:49:00.000-07:00

I have a cold.

"It's a funny 'ol world, inn't?"

I managed to crawl into bed around eleven -- and I fell asleep just a few minutes after. I've been so tired from all the recent health woes that I just can't go out and piss around all night like I used to. I guess it was a godsend that I couldn't find anything remotely interesting to do last night; I left my little moon-and-stars light on (like I used to do in the summer) and I set "Thirteenth Step" and "Sing the Sorrow" on perpetual loop...and then I slithered under the covers. And died. Well, it was close in approximation -- I listened to those albums I knew the best (and whose lyrics managed to describe in disgusting detail my position), I watched the shadows quiver on the walls of the room I knew best, and I huddled under blankets that (strangely) hold more memories for me than photographs.

I got a haircut yesterday, too. Hallelujah. I look different, now. I look sleeker, now. I like how I look, now. In fact, screw modesty. I look studly, now. Studly! Har har! Oh, don't let the cheery pirate facade fool you. I'm wondering what to do today, hoping that I'll sleep easier tonight (as me and Mom are apparently taking a shopping trip tomorrow morning), and wishing that this convoluted and painful situation I so suddenly find myself in (what happened this week? I'm so bewildered...) will resolve itself before too long. I start a new job Monday, I have doctors' appointments coming up...and I want to be held. Heldheldheldheld.

"I cannot leave here, I cannot stay;
Forever haunted, more than afraid.
Asphyxiate on words I would say,
I'm drawn to a blackened sky as I turn blue.

There are no flowers, no not this time,
There'll be no angels gracing the lines,
Just these stark words I find.
I'd show a smile, but I'm too weak,
I'd share with you could I only speak,
Just how much this hurts me.

I cannot stay here, I cannot leave;
Just like all I loved, I make believe.
Imagine heart, I disappear...seems
No one will appear here and make me real.

There are no flowers, no not this time,
There'll be no angels gracing the lines,
Just these stark words I find.
I'd show a smile, but I'm too weak,
I'd share with you could I only speak,
Just how much this hurts me.
I'd tell you how it haunts me,
I'd tell you how it haunts me,
(Cuts through my day and sinks into my dreams.)
I'd tell you how it haunts me...
(Cuts through my day and sinks into my dreams.)
You don't care that it haunts me.

Oh,
There are no flowers, no not this time;
There'll be no angels gracing the lines...
Just these stark words I find.
I'd show a smile, but I'm too weak,
I'd share with you could I only speak,
Just how much this hurts me.
Just how much this hurts me.
Just how much you..."

Leadshot Variations

2005-10-26T22:25:00.000-07:00

Dear Jessica:

"Recall the deeds as if they're all
Someone else's atrocious stories.

Now you stand reborn before us all --
So glad to see you well.

And not to pull your halo down
Around your neck and tug you to the ground,
But I'm more than just a little curious
How you're planning to go about
Making your amends...to the dead."

Yours,
Jessica.

Though you've assured me that you are not dead to me, I'm unsure of my own position on the checkerboard. I feel like I'm teetering on a precarious edge. I feel like I'm a plastic pawn in some game you've devised in order to teach me a lesson -- or worse, to instill in me the feelings I burdened you with a month ago. I'm not sure where to go, what to say, or how to do the things I desperately need to finish. I'm attempting to figure out the parameters of you-and-I, though I'm not entirely sure there is a you-and-I, and I'm struggling to keep my head above waters completely devoid of self-possession. How do I make someone who's not "got it all figured out" speak on that same incomplete-puzzle subject?

This is not an entry grossly vague and inexact. This is precisely the type of contemplative swamp I labored through when I left your house Friday afternoon. I nearly gave up on coming over Saturday; it was too sudden a liason, though I'd wanted it more than anything. Your words after "peg me up and tear me down" were too shocking, too wanted, too heart-seizuringly surprising for me to adequately digest. I'm still having trouble accepting as fact that you still love me; I thought you too much like stone, in all honesty. The last thing I expected you to say was the word "love," and when you uttered it -- I was both terrified and thrilled. It was almost as shocking as the first time you told me, though summer has now passed and we weren't standing in front of a sleeping apartment complex.

Where does this leave me, then? I want to me there, in your room and in your arms. God, do I want to be there now. I think I do, at least. But what good would it do? If you're not sure whether you can trust me again, and if you're not sure what, exactly, comes next -- where does that leave us? I have...backed up a dozen steps and retreated into my shell. I have withdrawn the ease with which I used to call, with which I used to talk, with which I used to behave. It's absurdly late for me to be up on a Wednesday night, and yet here I remain...typing useless, voiceless, maybe invisible questions...in a manner entirely too weak for my tastes. That's how I feel, however -- "we've taken medication so we can run away from another day." I want to call you, solve something, put an end to this unsurety that, like the fish in the tank at eye-level now, continues to wriggle no matter the pressure put on it to stop. But I won't, because I have nothing to say. I have nothing new to add to the equation, really. How far can "I love you" take a conversation?

In addition: Apparently, nothing I've managed to say can take a conversation very far. I didn't call for pleasantries, I didn't call for the pathetic lump of exchanges born into existence five minutes ago, I didn't call to see how you were doing. I called because I want to put an end to the sadly juvenile way in which both you and I are handling this. Both of us have not the slightest clue as to how to handle this, that, anything. Anything! You cannot possibly fathom how utterly confused I am right now -- and it's my fault as well as yours. Though your terseness and avoidance of the subject calls into question the validity of your admission, my unwillingness to say the things I want to say doesn't speak much for my side of things, either. How do I say, "tell me what you want from me" and "tell me what I want to hear" simultaenously and in ways you'll understand? How do I admit that I only want you to love me -- but that I only ever really wanted it after you told me? How do I tell you that I wanted to forget you then as badly as I want to forget you now? You can't do this again; you can't bat me around like you used to -- the "does he really like me?" versus the "I can't stand the boy" cannot coincide in me again. Not again. I thought we'd passed all that when things grew serious...when things grew to the point of emotional maturity people our age aren't even supposed to possess yet. "We vaulted over the bullshit," remember? Now we're stuck in it. Tell me what I'm supposed to do, and what you're supposed to do, and that you really meant what you said.

"I was just kidding all the time. How can I have really died...?

Put my hands to the sky and pray for a sign if I believed in a god."

Ecstasy-induced death...

2005-10-24T17:06:00.000-07:00

I saw HIM last night. Live.

I just finished writing a massive narrative recounting (detail by detail) the entire experience. When I get the drive, I'll post it here.

It was too intense, too beautiful, too spine-tingling for words.

As was this whole weekend.

"What a wicked thing to say...to make me feel this way. What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you..."

Sign out

2005-10-22T19:45:00.000-07:00

(Warning: the contents of this message were constructed while said creator was doped up on a triple-shot of prescription medications.)

"I'm two quarters and a heart down, and I don't want to forget how your voice sounds...dance, dance, we're falling apart to half time..."

"So give me all your poison, and give me all your pills, and give me all your hopeless hearts, and make me ill. You're running after something that you'll never kill -- if this is what you want, then fire at will."

Tripe! Yes! I know! But such good tripe, the likes of which no other tripe-finder has ever found before!

I'm excited. Is it obvious? This weekend was so very far from what I expected...I simply don't know how to deal with it yet. I'm cautiously ecstatic, I think. Worriedly blissful. Getting over this illness with a sudden, whopping dose of wonderful-surprise is...too, too lovely.

I'M GOING TO SEE HIM TOMORROW! *Dies* I'm going to see Ville live. LIIIIVE! Oh my LORD, I'm going to see that darling Finnish band live and I can't WAIT! I'm spazzing now...so I wonder how bad it's going to be tomorrow. I even bought a new dress and earrings to wear...I don't know why. Because I had to signify this life-changing experience with new clothes? Maybe? I love clothes. I love HIM. Perhaps the two go hand in hand. Mwuahaha. HIM! LIVE! WOOP!

Autumnal agonies

2005-10-20T00:10:00.000-07:00

"Somewhere inside my evolution,
Karmically I seek retribution,
Looking for love in physical beauty...
Desire is the drug of the bourgeoisie;
And now I try to intellectualize,
Like a glimmer of good in a bad man's eyes,
I am consumed by the flesh haunting me,
I know temptation taunts the empty..."

I'm beginning to wonder if perhaps I am empty -- if I'm nothing more than a skinbag topped off with disease, infection, and a pretty image of who-I-want-to-be. Alright, just a minute -- that last sentence absolutely reeked of self-pity; allow me to reiterate in a less abrasive manner:

My doctor called this morning with the lab results of last week. The end diagnosis was something of a shock (an unpleasant surprise wrapped in the trappings of a cold, silent house), and I'm still reeling...just a little. Apparently I have infectious mononucleosis, complicated by acute viral hepatitis and dusted with some of the most severe symptoms a patient suffering from aforesaid illness could have. Oh, yes -- I'm not kidding. I have mononucleosis and hepatitis all at once...and I'm ready to close my eyes and go to sleep for a long, long time. Is there going to be an end to all of these sicknesses? In all honesty -- are they ever going to end? Am I going to be perpetually sick for the rest of my life? If this is a "rough patch," I'd rather dip down into a comatose state than weather whatever else is in store for me.

"...So douse yourself in cheap perfume, it's so fitting of the way you are -- you can't cover it up."

Oh, yes. I know. In a few months, I'll probably look back on this and wonder why I allowed myself to get so upset. However...when one itches all over their entire body, loses ten pounds due to intense nausea, and watches her store of energy trip out the door...well, it does a number on sanity. At least I'm not skinning myself alive, I suppose -- though this itching is making said option look more and more enticing. And at least I'm not leaving lyrics from "I'm Not Okay (I Promise)" on my away messages, along with cryptic half-phrases suggesting I'm out to kill myself ("fer reel ths tyme!").

I love life a little too much to go and do away with myself, I think. "I'm two quarters and a heart down...and I don't want to forget how your voice sounds." Dr. Ahmed recommended that I start taking over-the-counter Benadryl in conjunction with the prescriptions I'm already taking. Well, he didn't specifically tell me to keep taking the medicines he prescribed last week...but he didn't tell me to stop taking them, so I'm assuming I'll be okay taking both. If not, I suppose we'll just have to wait and see what this medical venture does to me. It had better be a hell of a lot more interesting than what I'm shouldering now, or I'm going to go absolutely insane.

"...So give me all your poison,
And give me all your pills,
And give me all your hopeless hearts,
And make me ill.
You're running after something
That you'll never kill...
If this is what you want,
Then fire at will.

Preach all you want -- but who's gonna save me?
I keep a gun on the book you gave me (hallelujah), lock and load...
Black is the kiss, the touch of the serpent son --
It ain't the mark or the scar that makes you one...

You'll never make me leave,
I wear this on my sleeve,
Give me a reason to believe."

"Serpent yellow deadly lemon"

2005-10-12T13:32:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wonder, in no particular terms and for no particular reason, why I was blessed with you. Sometimes I wonder, under no particular circumstances and during no particular instance, why I dwell on my trangressions, my loss (of you), and the things I did afterward that soothed (partially) the pain self-inflicted and perpetuated through the "I was wrong, and you won't forgive me" line of reasoning.

Sometimes I wonder why I remember. Sometimes I remember why it hurts to visualize the lines of your face, the timbre of your laugh, the deadpan style with which you speak. Sometimes I recall that I still love you. Sometimes it aches, the void left by no-arms-around-me, no-eyes-on-me, no-you-with-me, no-domino-fiend-for-me.

Sometimes.

And then there are times when I realize that I can apologize forever (and perhaps I should), but you won't change your mind. There are times when I realize the horror of my actions, the hurt it caused you, and the things I destroyed because I wanted the path of least resistance; there are times when I remember these things, and I shake. And I close my eyes. And I burrow beneath the blankets.

Sometimes.

There are times, too, when I understand that humans are human -- that errors are made despite best intentions and in opposition to rational thought -- and I sigh. I sigh and I breathe and I realize that although I've made it so that we cannot be the "greatest things to happen to each other," I will learn, and I will grow, and I will change. The journey back to the top of this pit that I've fallen into is treacherous...it's deep, and slippery, and lined with a thousand razor-lipped whispers that threaten to bring me down, step by struggling step.

But it won't happen.

I've been gifted with forgiveness and a persevering love from the only friend who's stood with me for a decade. I've been gifted with the realization that my sister (my best friend, my confidante, my hero) has far more strength and wisdom that first I thought. I have been gifted by a once-caged darling (watching for Venus) who now has more wit and life than I do, by a family who cares for me unlike any other, and by a new spirit that has slowly (but surely) mended itself in the absence of self-destruction. I am healing, growing, learning, loving...slipping back into a glittering skin that, before my fall, had sloughed off and slithered out of reach.

I am becoming me again, and I am thrilled. I am trudging through health problems without the aid of self-medication, self-mutilation, self-inflicted sorrow -- and I am winning. I no longer dwell on death, no longer writhe in that dew-damp yard and cry for an end, no longer whisper to you that I want it all to stop, and that I'll make it better...swiftly, violently, shockingly.

I love you. When you surprised me that night, I thought it over -- and when I told you, I meant it. Narcissist, hypocrite, sophist...yes, I am. But that's who loved you, and that's who you loved.

And it's okay. And I care. And I'm living life just fine...

Treefingers

2005-10-08T08:16:00.000-07:00

It's eight o'clock in the morning, and I am alone again in an empty apartment...killing time and killing thoughts and killing aches that refuse to leave without substantial medication. I can't sleep. Again. I am not happy. I am not "if this isn't nice, what is?" -- I am not, contrary to popular belief, without fear or doubt at this odd hour of the morning.

"You're the lord,
Feel desire;
Feel the lord,
Use desire.
See your lord,
Take you higher;
Steal my soul,
His eyes caught fire."

Everyone in this entire apartment complex must still be sleeping. I don't hear a single murmur, a single thudding footstep, the echo of a door swinging shut. Usually these noises all come together to form a single symphony of astounding domestic proportions. Now nothing intrudes on this eerie peace that blankets the five-room cluster. Nothing cuts the clicking of the keyboard. Nothing reverberates, fades, swells, or snaps. I am alone. My hand's bleeding. And where were you when the world went down in flames?

"Disaster in a halo.

Nothing even matters,
Nothing even matters,
Nothing even matters,
Nothing even matters,
Nothing even matters,
Nothing even matters,

Somewhere there’s a girl with thoughts of him --
She makes wishes in a well, then fears them caving in on her..."

I tried writing again. I can't. Even the product of last time was half-forcd near the end. I can't do it anymore, I think. Nothing ever comes out the way I want it to. It started out, "Red-squilled lips and taffeta slips like dusty-aphanous days of summer-gone.../Press-powdered countenance [porcelainpicture] painted all brassy-lights and brilliant-fights and --" And? And then it stopped. I scribbled out a dozen lines that came after, sitting on a bench with yellow leaves falling in my lap. It was supposed to be one of those love poems, even. I'm bad at writing love poems. Does that look like a love poem? It seems suspiciously like a tragedian's attempt at a journal entry. "Still feel you on the inside, biting through and stinging -- will I ever forget to remember?" It's hard to say. I don't think I can do it anymore. Nothing ever comes out the way I want it to.

Maybe sleep will visit now. Maybe. I'm tired from just looking at all the stuff that's spilled from my head.

Non sequitur

2005-10-04T15:32:00.000-07:00

"I see the seasons changing,
And in the heart of this autumn I fall...
With the leaves from the trees.

I see the reasons changing,
And in the warmth of the past I crawl --
Scorched by the shame...

I play dead to hide my heart
Until the world (gone dark) fades away..."

I was exceedingly impressed with the new HIM album. It was everything I'd hoped for, actually -- cryptic, emotional, and written from that certain vantage point that I've come to love Ville for. Especially poignant was "In the Nightside of Eden;" I've not heard a song like that from this gorgeous Finnish band before...and I've not heard those certain notes that Ville hits on any other song. Yes, it's on constant loop in my computer -- and yes, it will probably stay that way for months. I love to pore over lyrics, dissect meanings, and ultimately drown myself in the whole album. "Dark Light" is perfect for that...

It's unseasonably hot here. It was 87 degrees yesterday, I believe -- and for this reason and more, Amy and I have locked ourselves in our room. No cemetary treks, no wood walks, no socializing outside the confines of this two-fan-cooled cement cubicle. Instead, I happily subscribe to nights spent studying, playing "Donkey Kong 2," and reading an anthology of short stories that Amy gave me. The book really is wonderful, and I so kick as at Donkey Kong -- except for the bee boss...but Amy took care of that for me. Ph33r mY madd skilzz.

I've stopped punishing myself for becoming a detestable human being in these last few weeks. I've stopped whispering aloud the details of my transgressions, stopped mourning the loss of a beloved boy (though I'll always, always miss him), and I've stopped worrying about making up for lost time in other areas of my life. I'm surrounded by kind and caring people, by a loving and always-loyal family, and now by the only person in the entire world I've entrusted my whole heart to. Life is too full of beautiful opportunities...too full of great and pleasurable things...too full of blissful moments for me to linger in a place full of hurt and anger.

It's a present-tense thing, DF. Get over it -- I'll always adore you. Always love you. No amount of sarcastic, acidic speech will change that. Nyah-nyah, darling.

It's an awe-inspiring thing, Meanie-pants. The depth of forgiveness and the depth of love you've shown can never, ever be forgotten. We're going to be those half-delusional eighth graders for the rest of our lives, you know -- we're going to giggle over Cheese Whiz and old notebooks even when we're wheeling each other down the cavernous, white-tiled hall of some old folks' home.

It's a whole-soul thing, Alandor. You and I have philosophy, pink triangles, six years in obscurity, and that lightning storm in a cemetary. Oh, and that four-letter monstrosity you're still terrified of. I'm listening to 90s songs again and dancing with Amy; remember the Pretenders' "I'll Stand By You?"

Today is beautiful. I bought a giant jade tree and a spiky, darling little plant with white rings around its blades at the campus Plant Sale this afternoon. I've already got a jade tree -- his name's Merton and he's about five inches tall (above the soil); my newest addition, whom I've decided to name Methuselah (har har) is a foot and a half tall. The little spiky darling (who has no legible label) is Nicodemus; Amy bought one, too -- we named it Naga the White. Amy also bought a dracaena plant...who's name is now Malysstrix the Red. YES, we name our plants. YES, we're massive geeks. You adore us for it...admit it. Naga, Nicodemus, Malysstrix, Merton, and Methuselah will one day rule this human world...

Lord, I love life...

Rain-smell

2005-09-28T13:28:00.000-07:00

"When you were here before,
Couldn't look you in the eye...
You're just like an angel --
Your skin makes me cry.
You float like a feather
In a beautiful world;
I wish I was special...
You're so fucking special.

I don't care if it hurts.
I want to have control.
I want a perfect body --
I want a perfect soul.
I want you to notice when I'm not around...
You're so fucking special;
I wish I was special..."

These last fews days have been gloriously overcast. The weather's turned chilly and still. I've traipsed through Greenwood lots of times...taking pictures and writing all sprawled-out on the grass. Reflections like falling leaves touch me now and again -- urging me up on this return from rock-bottom. I dwell sometimes on difficult ideas, delicate situations, and unfading recollections...I'm growing to enjoy this personal and painful re-education.

The self-destruction has ceased entirely. The numbing of one pain through the infliction of another seems now, at best, a temporary stage of indecision (what to do with aches that won't go away with a pill?). It ended, glossed over, and painted up the torment [undeniably] for a short period of time. It aided me sometimes; it kept me from indulging in activities that might have altered me permanently. This isn't to say that I didn't flounce down such paths at times...because I most certainly did. Now, however, I stifle these thoughts because I was asked to. I was asked to stop, and I wanted to stop. I respected that request's source too much to deny it, and I have enough faith in myself to know that I am worth far more than self-inflicted agony. No more the angry, swollen grids of red on my legs. No more the sleep-rocking. No more the acetaminophen overdoses. No more the hurt.

No more the self-destruction.

I'm worth far more.

I deserve to be happy. Being happy isn't wrong -- it isn't an affliction brought down upon me for the sole purpose of making me uncomfortable. Being afraid isn't wrong, either. Fear is completely and utterly acceptable, as long as I choose to do something about it. I cannot now, for any reason, allow myself to creep back down towards that place I found myself in months and months and years ago. I cannot allow myself to fear others' judgement (what does it matter to me?), I will not fear the consequences of momentous (momentary) bliss, and I will not give up on something (without hope of renewal) once I've started it. No more this "ashes to ashes" business. I'm finding new strength in myself daily...and I'm sometimes glad that I hit the bottom. I couldn't climb back up if I didn't.

"Time is never time at all;
You can never ever leave without leaving a piece of youth,
And our lives are forever changed...
We will never be the same.
The more you change the less you feel --
Believe, believe in me, believe
That life can change, that you're not stuck in vain;
We're not the same, we're different tonight...
Tonight, so bright,
Tonight.

And you know you're never sure,
But your sure you could be right
If you held yourself up to the light
And the embers never fade in your city by the lake --
The place where you were born;
Believe, believe in me, believe
In the resolute urgency of now...
And if you believe there's not a chance tonight,
Tonight, so bright,
Tonight...

We'll crucify the insincere tonight;
We'll make things right, we'll feel it all tonight.
We'll find a way to offer up the night tonight --
The indescribable moments of your life tonight,
The impossible is possible tonight.
Believe in me as I believe in you, tonight..."

"Of chambers as the cedars -- "

2005-09-27T01:51:00.000-07:00

In this moment (room's quiet, darkness puncuated by red lights like oozing sanguine stains), I am very suddenly able to sleep. Happy this minute, and nothing's going to take it away. Content now, for a while. Content, and calm, and able to sleep. Maybe smiling...

"I'd kill to share your pain...
(And carry the shame)
And sell my soul just to hear you say:

I dream what you're dreaming,
And feel what you're feeling..."

"Hold me...
Like you held onto life
When all fears came alive and entombed me..."

Collection

2005-09-25T13:32:00.000-07:00

"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."

'She was quiet, plastic...still-life drawn on the face of an apron.'

(Months ago, I wondered:)

'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 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.'

(This time she thinks:)

"Never close your lips to those to whom you have opened your heart."

Sophocles' "Antigone" for World Civilization was a wonderful transition from summer to present-moment-maybe-hell. Silly little wonderful play. '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.' Could I ever make you understand again? Growing is key, now...growing and learning and being absolutely and completely happy...because this one doesn't believe now that being happy is wrong, nor that depression is a life-sentence used to punish the weak. I am strong. I am capable. I am human and I make mistakes...some more grievous than others, but mistakes nonetheless. And it's okay. Unexcusable are the ways in which I make others hurt, but if I learn to forgive myself for such things, forgiveness from others will burn brighter, sweeter, and infinitely longer.

In those liberating experiences that have colored like sin-crayons these past few days, I've slept very little. Latticed throughout what little sleep did visit, dreams of creatures (mad scientists and muses) set me on edge. A treacherous dream curled my toes this morning, and touched me with a horrendous hurt I thought I'd suppressed. It was about a hair-pulling domino-fiend, and it stung the insides of my eyelids upon waking. I was going to call, and I was going to explain that I thought I'd gotten over it...that now I suppose I haven't, and that I won't. It's still a present-tense word, even after all the cold-eyes and indifferent-words. I know that it's real, that I knew what it meant a long time ago, and that I still need the love in the violence. Cautiously. I need it, I miss it, I'll never fade past-tense to zero.

Linger-regniL

2005-09-22T19:12:00.000-07:00

Peace-inducing skies all grey and blustery, a writhing sea of trees buffeted by rain and wind, this tiny room lit by warm red lights and the faint silvery-dark of a stormy horizon -- these things are mine tonight...

These things are enough tonight...

These things fill me with a sense of contentment -- these things make me marvel at the intense, unadulterated, ferocious beauty that constantly shifts and swirls around us. You need only to look to find it, you know.

I wandered through Greenwood yesterday evening. There was no one else in the entire cemetary -- except for those glorious, colossal crows (that cawed in unison whenever I approached the trees they fluttered in). Sometimes I sprawled in the grass and watched late-day clouds drift lazily across a deepening sky of faded blue. Sometimes I stood beneath the aforementioned oak trees and gazed dreamily up at those black, stately (arrogant) birds. Sometimes I just wandered off the winding, blacktopped path and lost myself among the too-pretty tombstones -- some new, some weathered, and some completely unreadable. I leaned against both of the mausoleums and peered in through the iron-grated windows...I threw myself down on the lawn when memories became a little too much. I recovered though, as now I am wont to do, and drank in the most absolutely calming sunset as I walked home.

Ashes to ashes, you know.

I've only now just inspired myself to write a little. Surprise. I want to share a picture, though -- a tiny daisy near a tiny tombstone (I think it was an ancient child's marker)...and it was the only real flower on the entire grounds. It was particular, striking, and sadly pretty.

Automatic dishwasher

2005-09-20T15:03:00.000-07:00

(Mission in morning light was a sensory gift from times past to a wide-eyed, wild-eyed girl. Lucky me to have chemically-captured said gift.)

"To be is all that she desired."

The view from my window is exceedingly pretty today. Yellow-gold fingers of sunshine splay out against absolutely everything -- delicate bunches of leaves flaunting the last yellow-greens of summer, too-worn pavement paths that wind like autophagic snakes, untended flower gardens overrun with gorgeously-patterned weeds...and though I keep twisting my neck to see the same images, I haven't yet grown bored. There's a crow now perched just feet from the ledge; he's simply brilliant...massive, regal, inky-black and bold. He keeps cawing -- eyeing me when I move to the window to watch him and then turning to peer into the recesses of the tree he's in. I think someday I'd like to be crow -- or have a crow. Is Hitchcock a suitable name? It's the moniker that currently belongs to the human skull replica sitting next to me on the desk.

I love you, Hitchcock.

Here's the thing: I am very content. Very calm. Very...peaceful.

"I'd pray for a sign if I believed in a god."

Aren't little lyric fragments like that deliciously cryptic? 'Distorted Lullabies' has been on loop for days now, and it never ceases to wring from me contemplative thought and, on occasion, fading recollections. A room hung with Leatherface lights and warm Christmas bulbs now only makes me smile. A room empty save for a mattress and framed pictures now only stings a little. A room with blue walls, a blue blanket, and candles continues to call me home. A room wreathed in incense smoke and thought-it-was-forever essence flares dully in the furthest corner of my big-brain.

And it's okay. I'm a little melancholy, but I'm at peace. I'm a little lonely, but I'm mending. I'm a little restless, but I'm learning strength and self-esteem.

In an aching falsetto voice: "I've finally stabilized. I've finally stabilized. Everyone will see...everyone will see."

Will I ever be able to put it into the ground? After I watched the way sunshine reflected off the beautiful red-brown hair of the girl I walked behind (it was gorgeous and strange, and in that fleeting instant I was happy, too), I saw preparations being made for a funeral -- in the cemetary that sits in the middle of campus (Greenwood, how I adore thee). "Tell everyone 'don't be afraid to die'..." There was a small blue awning, a few blue chairs, and that morbidly interesting device that lowers the coffin into the grave. Though the little celebration-place of death made me smile, I wondered if I would ever be able to put the things I've experienced in the last three or four months into the loving, oft-deified, embraceable earth.

Know what?

I can't. I don't want to. I will carry the present-tense word and wonder if you think about me. I will play idly with Hitchcock, read Vonnegut and Shakespeare, and remember the wonderful and make-me-giddy-inside times we shared. I'll wish we were still making said times...but ashes to ashes, you know. Ashes to ashes, Hair-Pulling Domino Fiend. Being happy in this moment, without fear of how it will affect the future or paint the past, is turning out to be one of the most liberating discoveries you have ever pointed me towards.

Symphony No. 9

2005-09-18T09:54:00.000-07:00

("In a letter that won't be sent, she said...")

We are not guaranteed a tomorrow.

We are not guaranteed another twelve hours of sunshine, another twelve hours of darkness, nor the warm sensation of waking to a new and unblemished set of hours.

We are guaranteed nothing. We enter this world with nothing and we are shaped (for better or for worse) by the situations that inevitably and indelibly mark us, by the people surrounding us, by the costumes we wear for life's acts, and by the parts we choose to play in such scenes.

I am not guaranteed a tomorrow. Nor are you. I am not guaranteed another chance at anything...and nor are you. I am, however, learning that each day -- in and of itself -- is a gift. Tomorrow is a gift. The weather it brings, the moments of contentment it heralds, the faces and the friends it ushers along, the fleeting moments of ignorant joy it brings -- these are all gifts, regardless of length and staying power.

I am content with this upward struggle because I see no use in allowing it to expire -- in allowing another chance at bliss to die. I cannot (in good faith) give up, because I am aware now of the pain I've caused, of the heart I've broken, of the once-glorious things I've tarnished. There are more glorious things to make, however. There are aches to heal, and there is a heart to mend.

I refuse to give up. If I know what love is, then you do, too. If I know that what I felt was real and all-encompassing, then you do, too. I am Jack's unmissed, unkissed hands. I am Jack's cold face. I am Jack's indignant refusal. I'm going to call you, despite tiny worries that whisper to me that I shouldn't. I'm going to do things to make you realize how much and to what degree you mean to me -- because you are too...deeply ingrained in this head and heart to lose.

things

2005-09-14T23:24:00.000-07:00

Last-time conversations echo, and they hurt. Little voice inflections like withering passion in the eyes reverberate -- then die. "Why can't you learn to be happy? When is this going to be enough?" echoes, and it hurts. Tears-to-no-avail make pillowcases useless -- then, sleep-ended, die. Fading jazz in the library-room echoes, and it breaks something off. On the inside. Like the acrimonious letter-puzzles she brought upon herself.

It hurts.

Haven't you learned a lesson yet? There are things dying inside you, girl.

I thought love conquered all. A blithe and fallacious thing, that phrase. "In three days a heart can..." Why wasn't it enough to save the greatest and most dearest thing? Why wasn't it enough to keep me in those arms and in that place? Why was I forgiven when pain still lurked beneath your smell-good surface? Why do I still freeze at the sound of "cast the calming apple?" Be careful, girl. Be stoic, girl. Be silent, girl. There are things dying inside you, girl.

If I could have made you love me more...

Stop that sentence. Here's the thing: ting-a-ling.

Three down on the burn + peel...questions cover us all.

(+/-) 11%

2005-09-11T18:32:00.000-07:00

I wrote for you, but you'll never see it. I needed you, but you'll never know. All that talk of airflow and exhalations gilded something deeper, covered in talk-tissue things I want to say. Over and over again.

I am not well. Can't you tell? This thing has got a hold on me.

Bipolar tendencies, indeed. I'll never be able to let go. I'll never be able to give up hope of appearing adjusted, eloquent, pulled-together. I want to be pulled-together. I want to be the high-end, witty, calm-and-collected girl you've always wanted to love. And while you're performing constant acts of self-improvement, I'm hovering (slit-eyed moth) somewhere between sanity and the crumbling-point...not caring whether said superificial vessel becomes overgrown with inactivity and loss of sleekness, or whether such inactivity is ripping holes in self-esteem's paper-thin skin.

Hypocritical, yes I am. Despondent most days, yes I am. Hungering for a chance to see your Eno-eyes one more time? Luck providing, yes I am. You don't need me! Just look to yourself. Sobs catching in my throat, listen: you don't need me. I don't need me. I am detrimental to your evolution now that the imbibation of chemicals has stopped. I am a roadblock, plain and simple. I need you. You don't need me. Such is the way of things.

Ashes to ashes.

"Never meant to be so cold..."

2005-09-08T14:48:00.000-07:00

I'm exceedingly tired. And broke. And wit-depleted. College has managed to, in the course of a few days, turn my big brain into a mashed potato-esque substance not designed to deal with mass amounts of stress and pressure. I suppose I'll eventually evolve (as all things are wont to do), I suppose I'll adjust, and ultimately...I suppose I'll survive. It's the fluctuating emotions and the dizzying bouts of paranoia and apprehension that concern me the most. I was driven deep into depression last year -- I was dragged bodily into a raging sea of black things...trampled underfoot by colassal fits of anxiety...stabbed and pricked again and again by feelings of worthlessness and doubt. Though such things don't affect me much at this time...I'm worried that I'll again sink to the bottom of the pool, and I'm worried that I'll breathe too deeply once settled there.

Ashes to ashes, though. Ashes to ashes.

My classes this year are interesting, to say the least. What once I thought a hard-to-swallow Spanish class is slowly looking lighter. I can't be sure if this impression will remain optimistic, but I can only hope. My dorm buddy is also loads better than last year. I went to high school with Amy, and she's the girlfriend of one of my best friends. Amy and I get along so well it's scary...we joke all the time, we're both sick and twisted (to the best degree), and we'e both so happy that we found each other...because neither she nor I can stand the catty-ness, the prissy-ness, the voluntary stupidity, and the materialistic qualities of other girls.

Here's the thing: ting-a-ling.

Wheeling off on a tangent designed to trigger a smile (in myself), I miss you. I miss you more than I thought I would. I miss talking about random subjects with you...cheshire grin: and I miss playing with you. Like I said before...you'd better finish that book. I wantwantwant it. And it would be in your best interest to give it to me. (Insert ominous, half-giggling laugh).

"Every time we touch we get closer to Heaven...
And with every sunrise our sins are forgiven;
You on my skin -- this must be the end.
The only way you could love me is to hurt me again
And again and again and again..."

w.a.s.t.e.d

2005-09-03T11:57:00.000-07:00

"There are times when I'm just a shell...
When I do not feel anything for anyone;
All I feel is hollow and bruised,
Used up and misused,
Forced to be someone I don't want to be.
Have I failed somehow or some way?
Will the weight of today finally pull me down to drown
In the depths of despair...
Where I am alone
Except for my rage?"

I moved through cycles and cycles of self-destruction last night. I wallowed in guilt, choked on depression, drowned in despair...and now these phrases I've just written seem completely saturated with self-pity and patheticism. I was up until five in the morning. I got up four hours later...this same morning.

I got up four hours later because I had to go to the bank. I got up to go to the bank because I don't have enough money to go to school this year. I don't have enough money to go to school this year because the national financial aid services have declared my family "not needy enough" to receive more than one loan. My loan this year is $1,750 a semester. Tuition is $4,907 a semester.

You see where the dilemma lays?

My grandparents, who assured both me and my mother that they'd help out with "anything the bank [didn't] cover" have suddenly (and conveniently) forgotten this discussion. My dirtbag father, who last year claimed he couldn't send any money to help me because he "couldn't find stamps" to send it, hasn't said a word to me in weeks. I don't want to talk to him anymore, I think. He makes me sick -- pathological liar and cheapskate parent of mine. This little girl has never had her daddy...and it doesn't seem like I'll be able to count on him now. I need to come up with $1,700 in ten days; the first one-third of tuition is due in a week and a half...and I don't know where we're going to get it.

Ashes to ashes.

Here's the thing: my best friend loathes me. Here's the thing: my sister is grappling with depression in Texas, and I can't do anything -- at all -- to make it go away. Here's the thing: I have no money to go to college, and I'm not sure how long I'll be able to stay there. I didn't want to be an English professor that bad anyway, I guess. Here's the thing: medical bills from my mom's third bout with cancer are piling up, and my stepdad doesn't even know how we're going to heat the house this winter. Here's the thing: ting-a-ling. Here's the thing: I can't tell if this sickness I'm experiencing is real or just a product of fear and past experiences. Here's the thing: if it's real, we can't go to the doctor...in the off-chance that it's something small, we can't afford a slew of tests "for nothing."

You see where the dilemma lays?

"A darkness grows inside me in fading shades of gray;
All the colors of the world are slowly sucked away.
I'm sinking ever deeper to a place that's cold and black --
I can't believe I've lost [me]...
And [I'm]... never coming back."

markedasinfernal

2005-09-01T10:03:00.000-07:00

No, you don't know.

You don't. Don't! No one does. Thorns uncurling like eights and landscapes of static wreathing a still-warm head and "I will let you down, I'll let you down, I'll...when you finally trust me, finally believe in me." I feel like days-old peanut butter stuck to the roof of a salient mouth, abyssal creatures with the abyssal eyes. "Never want to come down." I shouldn't have let you do those things to me, because now I'm going to be sick. I thought I was something special and there (there!) you go telling me I'll be fine if I'd just let you...

God damn it! I'm foolish and fallacious and witless and weak-minded, irrational, laughable, imbecilic, hurt, damaged, and grieving. I am soft on the inside and pretended-strength on the ouside. I'm not what you think I can be. No, you don't. You don't. It was wrong of me to make conjectures. "Now it seems I'm fading. All my dreams are not worth saving. Done my share of waiting...and I've still got nowhere else to go...so I wait for you to take me all the way...take me all the way."

I've felt like this a thousand times, only now it's abominably worse. "So real these voices in my head." The company would be appreciated! I'm not the same thing I was when I woke up. Infinitely more deflated and upset. Take me all the way. "Push me under, pull me further...take me all the way." The long unsober binge yesterday was amazing. Absolutely lovely.

To the three meaning-most:

Abandoned little hypocrite (I am), I don't blame you for your silence. I didn't put in the right amount of effort, and you gave up on me. I still love you. I told you. And I'm sorry for my absence.

Pinned and writhing insect (I am), I have never been good at this. I have never been able to write worth a damn. Your words were like something-that-kept-me-going, made me feel poet-like even if I wasn't. And then you told me something else, and I'll only die after our city is built.

Confused, stitched-up dolly (I am), "it took so long to say...you walked away from me when I needed you;" why didn't you protect me from you? Why was it alright to just-let-me when it could result in pain? My sickness? I thought...never mind what I thought.

"Inside a crumbling effigy...but you promised; so dies all innocence -- but you promised...me."

I swear to god I'm going down. I swear to god I'm drowning. I swear to god.

"I lay strewn across the floor, can't solve this puzzle --
Every day another small piece can't be found;
I lay strewn across the floor, pieced up in sorrow...
The pieces are lost, these pieces don't fit,
Pieced together incomplete and empty..."

Walked away, heard them say "poison hearts will never change."

You know? You don't.

Essex

2005-08-30T15:04:00.000-07:00

"But they're all love songs when I'm with you..."

Romeo and Juliet are together in eternity.

I am now gripped by feelings exuding something akin to precious, precious comfort. Precious warmth, precious safety, precious I-am-adored. I am not afraid of being judged. I am not afraid of picking at the scabs of wounds long healed but incorrectly patched. The sighs keep issuing from this throat, my eyelids like fish scales continue to glitter and snap. Serpentine the way music continues to slide through me, across me, into me...serpentine the way these fingers slither up and down.

Dark, secret love. Set me as a seal.

For a moment the world turned its back. I smell the acrid stench of burning things. Up the street, a house is on fire and massive red trucks attempt to quell the hunger of the hot-and-hissing. I'm tired. Worn out. Wishing I could bury myself under fifteen pounds of cotton comforter and sleep through the week. With you. Gone with the sin, my darling...and beautiful you are. I'm hurting again -- why and how and I don't want to. "Swimming through the ashes of another life..."

You know? You know.

Sealed(up)tight

2005-08-29T13:48:00.000-07:00

[I took that picture. Eighteenth-century Franciscan mission. I feel like that sometimes.]

"Do you realize we're floating in space?"

Cautious of experiences I've never known (toes in the water). Cautious of feeling things I've never felt. Too cautious for any good reason. Despair and I had it out; hair was wet with blood and knees were bruised from thought-wallopings. My god, this heart! My god, these eyes! My god, full of spidery-vine-feelings that won't be killed by a great cutting-out nor a colossal poison-storm.

"I hear voices in tin lunchboxes and snap at
Forget-me-nots as they trip (whirly-eyed)
Through teeth like spun glass. Vicious velvet
Streaks (but too lovely your tongue) reel me
In -- stars of a shared sky prick imagined eyes
And shatter swiftly like millpond water once
Electronically-conduit fingers cease their
Deceptively-sweet snaking.

Still paper tears corrode the film.

How much (per pound) does redemption cost?
A darling devil decreed "just a heart a gram,"
Though his forked speech was enough to buy me.
Buy me -- by me, through me, in me do supposed
Sins [monocles and tophats] swim like little
Soaked sponges ablaze with curiosity and the pain
Painted with brushes made of my flayed flesh.

Glass apples and genuine kisses for you..."

Why is it that words (never failed me before) so suddenly seem trite? Why is it that I've resigned myself to speechlessness when it comes to conversations with black-bearded mystery? "Now we're guilt-stricken...sobbing...with our heads on the floor. We fell through the ice when we tried not to slip." I won't be held responsible. She fell in love in the first place. Deadly-word, there it is. In all its sometimes-terrifying glory. I'm not afraid anymore. "Fear is the little death." Remember? Live life as you see fit, love who you want to love, do what you want to do...never hesitate when it comes to making yourself happy. All the make-believe mantras were right; I am a labryrinthine, complicated, complex, full-of-words-and-thoughts thing too witty and sarcastic and brilliant for a sky devoid of light. Like it is here. We're the same kind of beast, and I adore you. I'm not going anywhere -- I'll stay in the sky devoid of light.

"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."

Quit being so afraid of life and the things it gifts you with. "Better to hold on to love..."

"She's nothing more than fiction."

2005-08-28T00:08:00.000-07:00

In addition: I'm not sure what it is, exactly, that I just experienced. I'm not sure what forced my hand to cover my mouth, what made my eyes reread the same sentence fifteen times, what filled me with the only sensation I've ever wished desperately for without realizing that I actually wished desperately for it. "All we have is now." What just rolled through me like waves of an untempered something? What just forced me to sit back and settle my chin on the desk, eyes closed and silly images dancing there?

Why do I feel like curling up to the strangled notes of a far-away do-you-realize? Do you realize? Do you realize that happiness makes you cry?

Here's the thing: I'm no longer at the end of my rope.

Here's the thing: ...

I'm not afraid to be weak, now.

I love you.

"She's lost in coma where it's beautiful,
Intoxicated from the deep sleep...deep sleep;
Do you wonder what it's like
Living in a permanent imagination?
Sleeping to escape reality...but you like it like that.

Guilty by design -- she's nothing more than fiction.
She dreams in digital, 'cause it's better than nothing.
Now that control is gone, it seems unreal...
She's dreaming in digital.
She dreams in digital..."

Sometimes it's hard to breathe and dream at the same time. Sometimes it's hard to watch your big-brain paint pictures on the front side of your skull and know that perhaps (oh, maybe) those images will never, ever be realized in full. Sometimes the shiny globules of paint stick to my eyes and dry there...fixing with permanent, perfect loquaciousness all the reasons I'll never be able to be completely honest, endlessly raw, doubtlessly and wantonly emotional. I let the candyman fill me with his contraband, and now in the sterile white-ness I'm dreaming in digital. Perfectly something, the way I feel when speaking with you; perfectly nothing, the way I feel when attempting to put into written words what it is, exactly, that I feel.

Ashes to ashes.

"You're a god and I am not...and I just thought that you should know."

I've been listening to a chorus comprised of "do you realize" over and over again. I've been curled up on this pretty blue chair for an hour now in the dark. I've been toying with this little stumpy white candle for a long time, I've been contemplating the depth and details of certain sentiments that have been trickling through my veins like cold stars for even longer, and still the pathetic barbs of perpetual alone-ness stick me in a thousand places. Do you realize that everyone you know someday will die? Do I muse about death too often? Am I considerably more enthralled with the topic than what is normal? Is the phrase "romantic tragedian" too complex a title for me? We're the same kind of beast, boy. What do you think? "It's not our fault death's in love with us."

"This road goes on, in my misery, not knowing what comes.
A dying world, my life is fragile, and all I have left is you."

A tiny excerpt from the most heart-wrenching thing I have ever been fortunate enough to read. "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." Oh, lord. Why am I still awake, again?

"Each petal peeled back leads me deeper..."

Oh. That's why.

Samael

2005-08-26T13:01:00.000-07:00

While struggling under a particularly pathetic wave of self-pity and sorrow last night, I collapsed in my inner sanctum lined with ceiling-fan shadows and infrequent breezes like sighs. While attempting to reach the surface of a particularly dark sea of guilt and self-inflicted hurt, I realized that I was crying. For no known reason, caused by no single discernable thought. My great dark eyes leaked great glass tears, and the great dark night offered little solace to the little girl cowering inside my bruised and blanketed body.

Me! Crying without reason. How absolutely unfathomable. I was sobbing beneath the misty glaze of orange streetlights that filter nightly into my blue-walled jail-of-secrets. It was slightly terrifying, this big brain of mine, when it snapped back to the present and, without hesitation, bellowed out the coordinates of my emotions. Sneered at my sudden fondness for weeping.

"I like to weep," Lestat countered.

I sit and dream of togetherness. Yes. You've figured me out, I postulate. With little effort, though I've been told of my labrythine qualities. Faith is my middle name, you know. Honestly. I was born 'Jessica Faith,' and the irony of that has nipped at my heels since I was old enough to tote a dictionary. Since I was old enough to realize what 'faith' and 'irony' meant. "Do you realize that you have the most beautiful face? Do you realize we're floating in space...? Do you realize that happiness makes you cry?" It's a beautiful song.

"Feel.
Feel.
Feel.
I feel that you should know
I have an empty soul;
It's a warning, it's a warning --
If you lead, if you lead,
I will follow, I will follow.

What am I? What am I?
And they are stomping on the switches.
Take my back roads,
Round my fences
To an empty view.
If you lead, if you lead,
I will follow, I will follow.
What am I? What am I?
And they are stomping on the switches.

Climb the ladder
Straight to heaven
Where the creatures multiply --
Gods and devils.
Take their pillows,
Get in position
To multiply.
Surprise,
Suprise...

It's a warning, it's a warning, it's a warning...
If you lead, if you lead,
I will follow, I will follow.
If you lead, if you lead,
I will follow, I will follow.
And they are stomping on the switches..."

I miss you.

PausedPalpitations

2005-08-25T14:49:00.000-07:00

Cold and dark the place in which
I roll, feet out and heart flayed
Like a dissection specimen formaldehyde-fresh
And dripping. Wax mouths hiss warning
Yellow and sweat pearly beads of secret
Aches...secret breaks...
Secret-swift with treacherous eyes, the stiffness
Of this mattress if combatted by lonely arias
And the violent whine of violins. Who's the villain
When what was killed is never missed?

Hot orange the longing inside, like an electric
Burner left on for days and then deserted;
My hands are branded counterfeit by this
Heavy-lidded stove and her sloping brow
decisions, amalg-emissions, unambitious
Ambitions. Equalize the pressure -- it's all
Too much. She'll crack before the needle stops
Its frantic white-plastic paneled dance, before
The spiraling plumes of personified terror stretch
Cat-like and uncurl inside the white whale's belly.

If I'm turned and shook so that the colors show,
Would they bleed back into the see-through spine
And all her tell-tale children? The progeny of poorest
Thought-I-felts and eager angry salivations dictate
With a solemn whisper: you may get through should
The old accusations of soul versus soul evolve
Narration-like into lovely claims of mismelancholia
And numbing cold.

My vacation was less than exciting. Although I relished having Manda around again, and although we both cherished the time we had together before she transferred to another base in Wichita Falls...it was all over too quickly. Distant now are the memory-makers and the blue-black velvet skies of Texan nights. Faded now are the piles of clouds like sooty snow that I witnessed while flying for the very first time. Withered now are the hopes of laughing beneath the blankets while Frodo and Samwise traipse across a hotel-issued television screen.

Oh, but in the end it all falls down.

"Ashes to ashes," isn't it?

Holding myself captive for a week without outside intervention proved interesting. The capacity I exhibited for melancholy thoughts was surprising; even more shocking was the fact that I managed to find pretty the intertwining concrete streets, the hulking overpasses, and the desolate buildings of abandoned strips that line San Antonio like a second skin. Sea World and touching dolphins paled in comparison to writing beneath an enormous moon beside a still and lonely hotel pool. I was on my own for much of the time. I was in love with myself for none of the time. I'm tanner now (oh, so brown), blonder now (just a little -- chlorine and too much sun tend to wreak havoc on helpless hair follicles), and a little hardened when it comes to support for our country's military.

Have I mentioned that I loathe our president? Have I posted pictures of my dorm door turned anti-government bulletin board? Have I said, choking down half-hot tears, that the Air Force instills ridiculous propriety and corrupting, unnatural, pointless, badbadbad mannerisms in its trainees?

Ashes to ashes.

Off on a tangent that doesn't wring from me so much sorrow: I thought of you so many, many times while languishing in the southern sun. I dreamt about tornadoes, guilt, black skies, and you. I wondered if you'd like the way the far-away stars reflected in my eyes when I stood outside the reception hall and blinked back angry sentiments like shadows. I missed you more than is self-respectably allowed. Silly grin: I was wondering if you'd ever make use of those digits...but in the end I realized it was I who needed conversation, and not you. And in the end. And in the endendend I stood up, breathed in, and put away the little tools that rend and cleave.

"Samael and Lilith, sitting in a tree..."

Oh, I'm too ridiculous for my own good sometimes.

In addition: It's now past midnight. I can't sleep. I'm terrifying myself with little deaths-of-thoughts and falling-apart things that hurthurtHURTME right now. More than anything. Water like black paint runs down cavernous hall-walls and slithers along marble floors towards the pinpoint light of do-you-realize? "Do you realize you have the most beautiful face? Do you realize that everyone you know someday will die? And instead of saying all of your good-byes, let them know you realize that life goes fast, it's hard to make the good things last..." It's an illusion. Why aren't you here to listen to my ridiculous fears? Why do I have these ridiculous fears? Never mind. I don't want those particular scars seen by anybody but THERE, we have a contradiction. Three seconds later and I wish I could talk to you. I do. I wishwishwishwishwish more than anything that I could be held and listened to...and...there's an end to this. The weakness reigns tonight, but tomorrow the mask of silly-ness is tied in place. To make you smile. "More I..."

Oh, I miss you. So much.

Barnacles

2005-08-14T19:04:00.000-07:00

This no-Internet thing is slowly killing me.

I'm taking the computer in tomorrow to get a diagnosis.

We'll see how that goes.

Until then...I'm on vacation. I'll be back from my hootin' trip to Texas on the 23rd.

Have a lovely week, my darlings.

And know that I'm thinking of you...

"Needless to say odd-like."

2005-08-11T22:42:00.000-07:00

"She's dreaming in digital..."

It's raining.

It's been raining all day.

The damp breeze is an incredible change from the arid things that have wafted through my bedroom window in days past. I think I'll be able to sleep tonight. The soft patter of grey rain-sheets on the eaves is achingly lovely. Misty haloes ringing orange streetlights are the images burned sweetly onto my eyelids when finally I slip down against the wooden headboard and lay listlessly...covered in dark and ceiling-fan shadows.

Maybe I'll light candles tonight.

I adore the smell of wax. Of wicks. Of the dreams and ideas that creep unchecked into this big brain of mine.

"He's everything you want. He's everything you need..."

It was raining this morning. It was white-slate and comfortable this morning. I found my muse this morning, and I nearly overdosed on glee. I nearly allowed myself to be taken under by the sea that sucked in the moon. I am filled like a serpentine bottle with the feelings muse provokes in me. I am at once full. Silly. Wanting more and more to be swept away and swept up and held at arm's length to dance on cemetary-grass in the fall.

"He's everything inside of you that you wish you could be..."

Kiss

2005-08-10T14:29:00.000-07:00

"No, my friend, darkness is not everywhere -- for here and there I find faces illuminated from within; paper lanterns among the dark trees."

Romeo and Juliet are together in eternity.

"God made everything out of nothing, but the nothingness shows through."

Here's the thing: I didn't fall down.

"The body is a house of many windows: there we all sit, showing ourselves and crying on the passersby to come and love us."

I'm getting better. Long-suppressed silly smile: love me?

I've found something I lost. It's wonderful to know that I adore sun-fingers on my shoulders and the smell of flowers too much to breathe in at the bottom of the puddle. I missed laughing. I missed being silly. I missed Charon by a day or two, but he faxed me: I was too early, he said. I've got a long while, he said.

Not a problem. When it's time to board that boat, I'm bringing a margarita and a parasol. And maybe a pineapple-print blouse.

Love of two is one. Laaa-la-la-laa-la.

I wish I could get over my writer's block. Cheshire grin: if my muse happened to come and sweep me off my feet, I'm sure inspiration would strike. It's what muses are for, isn't it?

I want to go swimming. And get sunburned. And be completely devoid of manners.

I'm getting better.

"More I..."

"There's nothing terribly wrong with feeling lost, so long as that feeling precedes some plan on your part to actually do something about it. Too often a person grows complacent with their disillusionment, perpetually wearing their 'discomfort' like a favorite shirt."

Indecipherable Mess

2005-08-09T14:53:00.000-07:00

I dipped into the nevermore-pool last night. I touched the bottom.

I'd rather not go there again.

I'm tired of being afraid. I'm very tired of being afraid. Of being sick. Of it.

I called the hospital to see about getting a refill on my prescription because this sickness isn't gone. The nurse I talked to was oozing kindess from every pore -- she eased my tension (white-knuckled hands kneading white-pine corners). She said she'd give a message to my doctor and call in the prescription to the pharmacy.

They haven't called back. It's been close to four hours.

This isn't helping. They aren't helping.

I can feel the fear bunching up again. I can feel the make-it-stop-make-it-stop-make-it-stop rising like bile in the back of my throat.

And I thought I'd be able to regain composure and preach about strength.

Not likely. Not happening here. Not helping. Not helping!

Please, for sanity's sake...don't ever be afraid to talk. Don't ever be afraid to make your feelings known, to say what's circling the thought-drain, to paint pictures with your words. I know insanity when I see it -- and I haven't witnessed it riddling my muse.

"Stitch up my emptiness..."

I'm so afraid now. So afraid of what's going on inside. Just give me pills and dope me up and make this fear-pain-stress-ache-irritation-paranoia stop. Please. Please? Please!

A coy grin: what happened to bravery in the face of the unknown?

I miss you already.

Silly Sensations

2005-08-08T16:36:00.000-07:00

I hate feeling this way.

I'm not completely well. I think. I wish I was.

I'm not being coddled the way I want to be. I think. I wish I was.

Listen to me: I'm screwed up.

Listen to me closely: I am at my rope's end.

I'm screwed up and twisted around and completely, completely paranoid.

I want to leave this place. I want to leave. I want to pick up and drive off and never look back. Well, maybe look back. To send Christmas cards and letters. I'm a family-oriented fleshbag, you know.

"I am not here,
I think I’ve never
Been here at all...
Or ever will.
I feel like a place
Where no one goes anymore...

Why can’t you see that everything’s broken?
And why can’t you see that my life’s turned gray?
I can’t believe in anything sacred
When I don’t believe that I am real...

It seems so bizarre,
But none of this matters.
Thoughts disappear and hopes have died.
But now I am safe, nothing can hurt me here --

Why can’t you see my need for forgiveness?
The truth and the lies so confused as one...
I can’t believe in anything sacred
When I don’t believe in anything.

I am alone;
Locked in my memories,
There’s nowhere left for me to hide --
But I am not real,
I’ve made all I am with lies.

Why does it seem that everything’s different?
And why does it seems that only you are real?
I don’t believe in anything sacred --
So why do I feel so damned alone?

I need someone to break the silence,
Screaming in my head...
And in my soul..."

I love you, Stabbing Westward. I love you, Chris Hall. Sing away my aches and pains and leave me in the comfortable furrow of self-pity-paranoia-sticky-guilt-and-sorrow.

I miss you. Very much. "Show me yours..." Now. Why not? I trust you.

Infected Fleshbag

2005-08-06T17:22:00.000-07:00

In addition: (I wrote something for you. "You show me yours, I'll show you mine...")

"Don't waste your touch, you won't feel anything --
Or were you sent to save me?
I've thought too much, you won't find anything...
Worthy of redeeming.

Yo he estado aqui muchas veces antes y regreso...

To...break down, and cease all feeling;
Burn now, what once was breathing --
Reach out, and you may take my heart away.

Imperfect cry, and scream in ecstasy --
So what befalls the flawless?
Look what I've built, it shines so beautifully,
Now watch as it destroys me.

Y regreso aqui otra vez y comienzo...

To...break down, and cease all feeling;
Burn now, what once was breathing --
Reach out, and you may take my heart away.

Break down, and cease all feeling;
Burn now, what once was breathing --
Reach out, and you may take my heart away.

I left it all behind, and never said goodbye.
I left it all behind, and never said goodbye.
I left it all behind, and never said goodbye...
I left it all to die.

I saw its birth, I watched it grow,
I felt it change me.
I took the life, I ate it slow...
Now it consumes me.

I...break down, and cease all feeling;
Burn now, what once was breathing --
Reach out, and you may take my heart away.
Break down, and cease all feeling;
Burn now, what once was breathing --
Reach out, and you may take my heart away...

...Heart away."

I'm sick. It's no fun. I take far too many pills -- one hospital-medicine at nine, another hospital-medicine half an hour later, aspirin throughout the day, another hospital-medicine at four, and a little pink pill to help me sleep. I feel doped up a lot. It sort of makes me giggle. I hate pain, you see. I hate internal pain. Inflicted on the skin? Not a problem. But I get a little psychotic-paranoid if something's wrong with me on the inside. I've had to see a doctor twice in the last three weeks. Woopty-doo.

Here's the thing: I worry every day that I won't be well again.

Here's the thing: I really miss you.

Here's the thing: I'm waiting for you to show up and sweep me away. Honestly.

I wish I had something interesting and silly and thought-provoking to say, but I don't. I wish I'd find something cathartic to study, but I can't. I wish I had a pair of arms that would hold me -- even if I raged and sobbed and laughed all at the same time. But I'm not sure I do.

Here's the thing: I am at my rope's end.

Ting-a-ling

2005-08-04T11:27:00.000-07:00

"One of the things which danger does to you after a time is -- well, to kill emotion. I don't think I shall ever feel anything again except fear. None of us can hate anymore -- or love."

I don't think I shall ever feel anything again except fear.

Here's the thing: danger is a byproduct.

Here's the thing: self-manufactured byproducts are slurped down everyday.

Here's the thing: it's slurped down by absolutely everyone.

Just this moment, I've given a title to what it is that's kept me awake for a week. Just this moment, I've figured it out. Just this moment, it's advanced upon me with little knives drawn, it's carved me like a goose, it's hurt me nonchalantly in its business suit and tie.

It's self-destruction. It's what I've become. A walking-spidery glob of self-destruction.

"There is no love in your violence."

I know there isn't! Listen to me: ting a ling. Listen to me: close my eyes and carry on screaming.

Listen very closely: I am at my rope's end.

I've been playing charades with happiness. I've been putting on a stage performance when it comes to glee.

I'm pretty good, aren't I? No one even noticed when I played my little rhyme and cranked the handle until the clown popped out. Scissors-stick. I'm very pleased that you never found prosecutionable evidence of my weakness.

"I will show you fear in a handful of dust."

Press the repeat button. Only one fleshbag has ever looked through poetic annals of pointless drivel because he wanted to. In there he maybe found the thirteen keys to who I am. Maybe. He is a shrewd fleshbag. So unlike all the other fleshbags; so like this fleshbag. I like that fleshbag. More I...that fleshbag.

I wish that fleshbag could be with this fleshbag now.

And anger flares!

And depression flares!

Listen to me: I am at my rope's end.

"Behind the crimson door..."

2005-08-02T11:27:00.000-07:00

"Heaven's ablaze in our eyes...
We're standing still in time;
The blood on our hands is the wine
We offer as sacrifice...

Come on and show them your love --
Rip out the wings of a butterfly...
For your soul, my love --
Rip out the wings of a butterfly...
For your soul...

This endless mercy mile,
We're crawling side by side;
With hell freezing over in our eyes,
Gods kneel before our crime...

Come on and show them your love --
Rip out the wings of a butterfly...
For your soul, my love --
Rip out the wings of a butterfly..."

Enthralled and trampled and ground-stapled guilt-stricken sobbing with my head on the floor. Nothingevenmatters any-any-anymore. Where did everybody go...? I need them now to save me. I need you now to save me. Save me.

"Save her, precious, before the spade eats her."

Oh, never mind.

"Covered the carcass of time with flowers
To send the scent of blame to the grave;
Set the darkest thoughts on fire
And watched the ashes climb to Heaven's gates...

We hide behind the crimson door
While the summer is killed by the fall...
Alive behind the crimson door
While the winter sings, "your love will be the death of me."

Death served wine for lovers
Brought from the world where devils reign,
And intoxicated angels with sorrow
They witnessed in the eyes of their slaves..."

Look what I found. No music for the words yet but I'll have to wait another month and a half before my curiosity is quelled. Isn't it beautiful? Singing about fire and wine and slaves while I counteract the vine-feelings with water and--LORD, never mind. I go on and on but no one's around to listen...not like it's essential that they do, or that I clamor for such attention because everyone knows this silly little facade is something not one exhalation could possibly adore. Love. What? No. It cuts me up and makes me weep and forces itself on me like "clung to tear-spiked lashes." I should really stop. Stop. Make the beating pulsations
pulsations
pulsations
Stop.

I need you now to save me...

"Rip out the wings of a butterfly..."

2005-08-01T11:26:00.000-07:00

I sincerely hope no one caught that last post. Or the other two before it. Cousins in crime, they were...disgustingly weak and foully-written. I've since recovered from the despair. Rejoice.

With shifty eyes, I must admit that I'm watching the new video that's leaked from the newest HIM album...for the fifteenth time. It's absolutely amazing...deliciously beautiful. Lovely only as are those things created by that incredible band. "Rip Out the Wings of a Butterfly" has left me speechless. If this song is any indication of what's on the rest of the album, "Dark Light" will not disappoint. Rather than follow in the footsteps of "Deep Shadows and Brilliant Highlights," this brilliant piece of music sounds like something off of "Love Metal." Hallelujah. Allow to me wallow in the throes of pure, unadulterated bliss. I cannot begin to describe how happy this makes me. While DSaBH was a turning point in the band's general 'sound,' it wasn't exactly a turning point I enjoyed. I'm a fan of their older work, of "Razorblade Romance" and "Love Metal," to be completely honest...and ROtWoaB seems like it would fit in quite nicely with those two albums.

God, I'm thrilled to be listening to this. To be watching this. Thrilled!

The video? It's amazing. Although Ville chopped off his long, glorious locks (he gave himself a haircut, to the horror of many...), he still manages to retain his achingly beautiful aura. Oh, he's so fabulously dark and perfect. The video is fabulously dark and perfect. It's so haunting and marvelous and HIM-esque and gloomy and artistic and amazing. I've used that word so many times already...but it is. It's so amazing. I'm drowning in this sea of glee.

(Now, again for the sixteenth time...)

In others news, I was completely intoxicated last night...and I adored it. Inhibitions flew out the window, and I made friends -- though I'm sure most of us will be too shy to admit to anything while sober -- and I didn't get sick, and I was completely naughty...everywhere. It was very, very fun. Very freeing. Aside from the fact that I lost my Jack scarf (and I WILL find it again, or someone's going to die...), the night was wonderful. Oh, so wonderful...

And again, I'm going to watch this video. I know you want it, Mister. You'd better find me...

Poi-g-na-nt-less

2005-07-28T12:54:00.000-07:00

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..."

2005-07-27T13:47:00.000-07:00

"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

2005-07-26T00:26:00.000-07:00

"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]

2005-07-25T01:55:00.000-07:00

"...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]

2005-07-24T02:46:00.000-07:00

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...

2005-07-23T14:19:00.000-07:00

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

2005-07-21T23:16:00.000-07:00

"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

2005-07-20T00:35:00.000-07:00

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..."

2005-07-18T20:11:00.000-07:00

"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

2005-07-17T21:06:00.000-07:00

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

2005-07-15T20:23:00.000-07:00

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

2005-07-14T20:45:00.000-07:00

"...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

2005-07-12T22:55:00.000-07:00

"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

2005-07-11T12:09:00.000-07:00

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

2005-07-08T23:27:00.000-07:00

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

2005-07-06T20:20:00.000-07:00

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

2005-07-04T13:21:00.000-07:00

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

2005-07-03T09:29:00.000-07:00

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

2005-07-01T10:20:00.000-07:00

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.

Chameleon Face

2005-06-29T08:38:00.000-07:00

Summer's dying fast. With it goes my bloodless fingers. I can't write anymore. Inspiration's scorched, talent's a burned-out house. Gaping windows make the eyes, dark holes leaking glass-shard tears.

"An eye for an eye as espied in the Bible,
My faith is lost to the burning of idols.
One less cross to press upon the survival
Of this lorded agony..."

She's leaving soon. When she goes, this place will cease to be a home. Too dramatic? I don't care. I thrive on dramatic thoughts, dramatic deeds, dramatic changes to the flesh and the fury nestled within. I scared someone I thought incapable of fear [save for the swelling of cold terror as it's found in situations of self-preservation]. It made me smile. It made my dark holes leak glass-shard tears. I wish he'd never told me. I wish I never knew. [Scared and lonely]. Oh, and the vine-feelings? Still here, still blooming, still uncurling thorns between my teeth. It's never, never. Never-ending? I suppose you could say that. It's time for me to lose. Wish the world would stop turning around. Wish I knew what I was supposed to feel, feel, feel numb. Look. Coherent sentences. Intelligible grammar. I must be feeling like being found out.

"No light nor reef,
No unsinkable romance keeps me
Safely from the stormy seas.
Now drowning, resounding...
Death-knells pound my dreams;
Unthinkable to dredge through this
Listless and lonely winter frieze..."

We are born like this. Hapless, helpless, blind babies suckling at the torrent of feelings afforded by our big brains. I am given to feelings. Given to the hurt and terror and sometimes-greatness of feelings. It's not what I took from you. It's not what I stole. Fuck. [I like that word]. I've decided against showing scars. If I showed, I would be known. No one knows me. I don't want anyone to know me. I don't want to be seen, to be heard, to be known. WAIT. I want to be heard. That's why we staged counter-protests against that people-haggling, abortion-denouncing, five-foot-aborted-fetus-sign-carrying son of a bitch, isn't it? That's why I counter-protested a gung-ho anti-abortion self-proclaimed pastor and his fanatic little church, isn't it? I argued until my throat was raw. I flaunted everything that inflamed them.

Take me all the way. I give up trying to remember. Forget I mentioned it.

I wait for you to take me under. Take me over. Here's the thing. I am breaking apart on the inside. I am losing my grip with reality. I am mixing synthetic things in a tumbler and taking them in silence. Just sleep. I promise I'll be there in the morning, despite my best efforts. Here's the thing. I am violently hurting myself with word-barbs. Here's the thing. I am shattered by everyone's best intentions. Can't you save me? Can't we talk about philosophy some more? Can't we read in the dark and [oh, this has got to stop. I am self-sufficient, but I pretend not to be.] Here's the thing. I AM [edit]. Wait. Scratch that. No one knows. Your poison girl is edgy, rusty, a wasted razorblade kiss, boy. If we love so that we know we're not alone, then I'm not alone, either. Don't doubt that. This throat's too full of insincerities to tell you outright...but you should know. I wrote for you. I tentatively reached out with a piece of paper comfort and hoped that you would be alright. I wanted to save you from that.

"There was nothing to fear. Nothing to doubt."

Convex

2005-06-27T07:54:00.000-07:00

I am hurt.

I am afraid.

I am breaking.

You see, I'm not someone worth speakingtoseeingbeingwith ("nothing even matters, nothing even matters, nothing even matters, nothing even matters, nothing even matters"). I'm a disaster in a halo, the iris of an eye turned skyward for too long, the stitches (sutures-blacknylon-ouch-ouch-STOP) that dissolve when pressure forces the flesh apart. Nothing even matters. My sister, constantcompanion and bestfriendforever, leaves in a week for San Antonio. This is all my fault. My fault. All my PROBLEM, MY FAULT!

There's only enough money to keep one child (of five) in college. Guess who got that money? Now no one else (oh, fuckfuckfuck) has the opportunity to go to school after they graduate. My fault. Nothing even matters. Everyone leaves me. Everyone goes away after awhile.

Jake went away with a shotgun, filled with the sweet promises of chemical-voices in his head. Tony went away...just like Jake. Daddy went away because he couldn't handle me, or Manda, or Mom anymore. Bonnie went away with a shotgun, too, because she was afraid of being responsible. Nothing even matters. Look at how they went away. How they left me. Now Manda's going to leave me. LeavemeleavemeLEAVEMELEAVEMELEAVEME!

What am I going to do?

On the inside I'm really just fragile, and terrified, and wrong, stupid, weak, ugly, burning for attention but afraid to clinch the deal. Take me all the way, take me all the way. My knees are threatening to buckle with the weight of these thoughts, the burden (myself a burden) of opinions and ideas and the realization that I couldn't mean more than a whit to anyone. Vine-feelings coming. Oh. Oh. I will let you down.

Don'tlookatme. Don'tthinkthatIfeel. But I DO feel. I do. I promise I do. I was covered in darkness. No one attending. It doesn't really matter where it all began. Look at this. Depression has hit again. Do you know what it's like to struggle with depression?

It's all very poetic, the prodigal (hilarious) writer suffering from the intense, violent ups and downs that come without warning. I used to take my brother's Aterol (after he was diagnosed with ADHD). It helped some, some, some, not enough. I used to turn to other methods to cope. I think I may be committed soon for the habits I have now.

No, you're not alone. In anything. If thisthisTHIS can be accepted, I'll show you my scars. I won't laugh when you run. Everyone leaves. Remember?

Nevernever

2005-06-25T12:22:00.000-07:00

Ever almost choked on a spool of words that you wanted to unwind with your tongue, but didn't have the courage needed to start the sewing? Ever thought that the reason behind your constant skin-changing (I alter appearances whenever it suits me...today is no different) had something to do with reinventing what was moldering, festering, breaking apart on the inside? Ever wonder what chemicals (roilingroilingbubbling...stop) were needed to assuage the flutter-winged fears that nevernever stop nibbling?

Through a river of tingle-feelings and fleshy weakness I often wander. You've removed the dam, the stopper, the precious build-up of cooldemeanor-quietpeoplestudying-conversationcontrol that has taken me (it's always me, it always hurts) years and years and (ice age coming) years to construct.

You can't shove me over the edge and expect me to fly. Push me more and hope that I don't snap. I can't (CAN'T) deal with it all at once (is it secret? is it safe?)...I can't be whatwhowhere you want just because you insist [stop] that I can.

I am becoming what I never wanted. I am delving into spaces too clear and cold for comfort. I am throwing out raw, genuine, terrifying phrases [thought-pieces] that I swore would never surface.

There's a sign in the window that complains of nearly-sated things. You'd (me, him, all of them) better be careful of the white glass kernels...I won't be held responsible when all that you believed to be true shatters ("frozen heart and a soul on fire). Oh. I'm so sick of attempting to relate on a truthful level (I want to repeat that word senselessly). I'm sick of this/thing/hurts.

"Did you ever stop to notice
All the children dead from war?
Did you ever stop to notice
The crying Earth...the weeping shores?"

I can't even breathe.

[Witty title]

2005-06-23T09:01:00.000-07:00

What to do?

This summer is shaping up to be one of those extended moments that will forever hang in mind's eye like a pretty piece of colored glass. I'm confused, breathless, giddy, composed, cool, excited, wanting to run through a hall of ice holding fifteen sparklers and a piece of my mind.

Please have mercy. I can't take it anymore.

[At this point, the author feels remorse for whatever's causing the rotten-flesh smell in her room.]

I'm too lusty for my own good. Is that possible? Orgasms are nature's gift to those who toil and sweat -- to those that need a physical release when all else has failed. [I'm so silly.] If I could have a mind-orgasm...a word-language-poetry-induced orgasm...god. God, god, god. Oh. Blushing yet? I'm getting a little hot. There's something in the walls...it's creeping beneath this chair and slithering up my backbone. [So silly, this little girl.] I'm too lusty for my own good. I'll go to Hell for that sin (and ask politely if the Devil won't procure for me a lover). Intrusion. Deception. This song is worming it's way into what-I-want-to-say. I'm sorry. I know with this post and the last I'm attempting to write normally. But just for a little while, I promise. The wild thought-things will come when next I feel strongly some emotion or idea.

Oh. I need to make some more green tea. And dream extraordinary things. "Walked away, heard them say: poison hearts will never change..." What to listen to now?

[At this point the author decides to dream extraordinary things. ]

I wish my courage wasn't so dormant. I have a thousand things I want.need.wish to say to so many people. A few, in particular, are so very worthy of those words...but I haven't the solvent needed to unstick my tongue. I can talk big, walk big, look collected (am I beautiful? Think too much to be pretty, I thinkthinkthink), push people's buttons (gilt or plastic), shout with the rest of them. Hmm. This isn't turning out to be so extraordinary. "She's a cold porno dream in a mainstream romance..."

"Nothing even matters.
Nothing even matters.
Nothing even matters.
Nothing even matters.
Nothing even matters."

Miseryhead II

2005-06-20T20:19:00.000-07:00

I've begun to re-evaluate everything.

I don't know what makes me happy anymore...I only know that such feelings flit through me like wind-born leaves across a grey-sky expanse. I'll admit that I enjoy it.

I don't know if I feel guilt acutely anymore...I only know that when I gave up Christianity, such feelings exited as stale blood through a leech-wound. I'll admit that I enjoy it.

I don't know if being strange is conducive to a socially-healthy existence...I only know that I am comforted in my oddity by others like myself. I'll admit that I enjoy it.

What comes as a shock to others is something that has clung (tenaciously) to the inside of my skull since this paltry measure of consciousness was created by one of my father's vivacious tadpoles and some bad common sense on my mother's part:

Guess what, dear family? I don't believe in God. I don't believe in Heaven, in Hell, in acting charitably so that I won't be punished by some raging inferno. I believe in behaving as I please, in taking responsibility for molding my own joys, sorrows, shortcomings and strengths. I am me, I am me, I am mememememe. I am who I am, and at times I love it. If I am considered 'outcast' or 'lover' by anyone matters little during those periods when I am strong. Such thoughts can break me when I'm weak -- but in these nineteen years of struggle.achieve.fail I've learned that I'll always get back up...I'll always glue myshatteredself together and I will always, always go on living.

What prompted this to-the-point careful re-shaping of ideas tonight? I don't know. I decided against letting disconnection and raw thought-material flow down the silly brain sluice. Notice that I almost let go near the end? I'm sorry. I was going to insert some catchy little phrase about how I've been thinking more and more about that make-me-smile-so-easily devil. Edgar and bush-greens...it made me happy. I was going to tell a certain boy-I-saved how much I'm thankful that he cut loose the anger that could have surged up (sentiment tsunami) after his hospital stay. I was going to grinning-ly hint at dominos with a tempt-me-smart-man. I was going to shout out loud to my behbeh that I missed her silly-sweet-you'nmearecrazy converse-ings...

...But I guess I'm tired. Did you know the moon is full and silvery-white and hung with trailers of night-sky mist? I wish I were in school again so that I could wander Greenwood Cemetary and write more wild, bad poetry. The other students look at me cock-eyed when I drift throught the never-closed wrought-black-iron gates -- but what do I care? I've got HIM, Ours, Switchblade Symphony, London After Midnight, Sigur Ros, Radiohead, and some green tea tonight to stave off depression.

Give me something to think about, now.

Ouch

2005-06-19T12:18:00.000-07:00

I was locked inside my roomheadself for a long, long time yesterday. I stayed there until the night was past and early morning mutterings moved me to stare at an unblinking screen for a few hours from the solitary position I'd taken up on my worn red throne. Worn red throne. What I mean by that is a mystery, a word-doppleganger, a little secret limned in neon lights that's really tootootootoo easy to understand. I'm trying here. Catch that? I'm attempting to water down the cryptic contents of my brain in the hopes that someone will delineate what, exactly, makes me tickbreathe.screamcry.laughlust - oh, this speaking normally isn't working, is it? I'm rolling around in these run-on sentences and I'm laughing at the disgusting grammar murders I'm committing here...the serial slayings of the things that hold order for me in my world of musty-smelling books, yellowing pages, and faded photograph faces that peer out (with little black beetle eyes) from the creases created by the pressure in my pockets.

I remember finding an old picture in the pages (dirty insides, tangled with try-to-be professional entries) of a book that promised to explain the brain and all of its sicknesses. I was floating in waves of pink and green fabric, worn from countworthmind-less others who'd haunted the corner before me. I remember that being there was a precursor to the things that I'm feeling now, even though I had no idea what was to come, what had been, what would be. Be, be, be. I don't want to be anything for anybody at anytime anywhere. Any. Catch that? I dreamed last night. I don't like to dream much now...I loathe the free-wheeling, rampant, random (in-kingdom) paintings contructed there in my head at night (when the bedbugs bite). I saw a jihn out of proportion in tiny spikes of grass, I saw a poisoned girl all curly and blonde, I saw no more maybe's.

My eyes.

"Nothing even matters
Nothing even matters
Nothing even matters
Nothing even matters
Nothing even matters
Nothing even matters."

I'm a bump on the head, a bite on the neck...obviously she's got it all wrong-untogether-sadsadsadsad-I don't know what to say right now about anything. Seizures in my fingers keep making me type, seizures in my skin keep making me feel...I WANT YOU TO KNOW WHAT I'M FEELING.

But I can't. Can't speak. Don't have the words (they've betrayed me, betrayed me), don't have the energy. I want to tell you, speak, converse, debate, crycrylonelyinsidebutnotbleedingnowforyoubecauseitwasrequested. Oh, I'm so disgusting sometimes. So pathetic. My eyes. Oh, my eyes.

Malebolge

2005-06-17T12:48:00.000-07:00

Ours. Ours. Jimmy Gnecco and his shivering voice make me want to curl up and create such art. Such art. Ours. Haunting band -- haunting songs. "Distorted Lullabies" is the album that sings of my life, my biography, mymymymy me. "Sour" is profound, political, cutting, true. "Kill The Band" is a blue-nailed hand that points in a new direction...new direction towards which to walk backwards. Ours. Oh, god. Everything to me.

"Now it's pushed upon me...
It might not breathe --
But it might harm me, stuck inside;
My brains blown out again...
Trust is dead."

I have nothing to say. Nothing to bleed. Nothing to show for the intense, intricate patterns burned into an emotional garbage heap that has been polluting the bone-dry caves behind my gaze for a month. Good morning day. The sun is there. I can't see the light for fear of putting out the waterfall that invariably drenches the wormholes that have developed in the pit of my stomach. I want to [disgussssst]. You. Get that? I am covered in the stench of a million lies, a thousand smouldering desires, ten billion rotten (longing) second-looks. I surely waste away, what with the 'wait for you to take me all the way, wait, wait, take me, all the way? All the way...take me.' Yes. Catch the secret yet?

"Feed from their eyes,
Dream you're alive...
And feel...feel.
The beast flies tonight,
And the world he describes
Suffers, suffers."

Do I ever write anything that anyone can understand? Is there a sentence that comes out of my mouth, these hands (oh, how they hurt now), this wriggling pink brain of mine that doesn't need to be decoded, analyzed, inspected, dissected, twisted, drawn tight across the conscience? Perhaps I'm a reborn project de Da Vinci. Tether me to a mirror and see if my character is shown (true and real) upon that melted sand like mangrove roots on death-still river water. Try it. Get that? Understand it now? Am I making sense?

...Of course not. I'm nonsensical syllables arranged into a pretty pattern that hides in the folds of a great burlap tongue. Don't shoot to kill. Such sparkling colors on those feathers. Just wait, though. Everything turns grey in the absence of me. In the void created by shed feathers. I'd like to make sense to you. I really would. But continuous streams of thought assail me now (even as I write this), and to impart those tangential images is like sugar in my mouth. I can't [for]/[thelifeofme] speak like noun-verb-adjective.

Tell me: is this a problem? No, second thought (look at that 't.' Does it mean anything to you, or am I backing far further into this thought-scape than I intended?)...don't tell me. Just tell me in three words what is beautiful and terrifying and scarring. I love words. The number three is significant. Just ask 'Don't waste your touch...you won't feel anything. Or were you sent to save me?' He knows. He knows far too much. Ever wonder how much I know? Oh, I don't know a thing...save for the fact Naucratis was an ancient Greek city and that I loathe everything related to synthetic chemicals imbibed for the sole purpose of altering a state of mind. Chemicalssubscriptnumberpostscriptpostmortemrigormortis...and he's dead. Oh, the injustice of it all. I want to eat a fistful of heroin and a fingertip dipped in demerol. Then. Thenthenthen.

Now I'm rambling. Shine that light over here. She may be breathing. Tell me, won't you?

Struggleagainstmyself

2005-06-13T23:19:00.000-07:00

"Erupt again, ignore the pill...and I won't let it show.
Sacrifice the tortures, orchestral tear cash-flow.
Increase, delete, escape, defeat -- it's all the matters to you.
[Cotton case for an iron pill.]

E-motion sickness,
[To idle with an idol.]
E-motion sickness...
Addict with no heroine --
[Corrosive head-pollution.]"

I always thought I could captain myself. 'This one here, she won't run aground on foreign shores where emotions like blast-propelled lead buttons pit the skin and bite into the eyes.' The term "crushing blow" can be applied to that which transcends the physical, you know. Crushingblowcrushingblowohlookwhatyou'vedonenow. I've never had conversations that lasted until the light shone through my window. The last time I was awake when little grey birds sang, I was attempting to decipher the meaning of a four-part tattoo on the back of a sensitive mistake. Oh. I was crippled by words. I see in words, feel in words, taste in words. Sometimes I see tree-shadows and streetlights and sharp edges (that's what I said, wasn't it? I thought it was a beautiful string of images...). Sometimes I feel pages on my insides, vellum leaves covered in thick layers of afraidexcitedstrangealivehappysad. Sometimes I taste the word 'self-deprecation,' and sometimes I taste the words 'a maelstrom of unconnected thoughts ending in my too-soon descent.'

Sometimes, sometimes, oh sometimes I want to kill the vine-feelings.

"Imagine pageant,
In my head the flesh seems thicker;
Sandpaper tears corrode the film...
And I need you now somehow.

...Open fire on the needs designed."

I was rushed headlong through the hospital corridors covered in the vein-juice of confidence and control. In the blink of an eye, there was no one attending. No one attending. It doesn't really matter where it all began -- all I know is that I was covered in darkness. Covered in the vein-juice of a little girl's strengths dissolved by her natural (acidic) tendency to forget and bow down. Look at me rambling. No one can decipher this mess of language and thought-strings, you silly thing.

Please decipher me. I'm getting tangled in myself.

Passing storm...

2005-06-10T22:07:00.000-07:00

Everybody's angry. Feel it like perfectly-shattered shards of recompense. I am like the burned out sky. I can't help but wonder...why me? Why this empty bottle of brains? Why this heavy lock of loneliness? But I am tinsel-thin and floating on all of these marks...so the answers don't really matter, now do they? Keep nailing me together; I'll keep falling apart.

"We held hands on the last night on earth. Our mouths filled with dust, we kissed in the fields and under trees, screaming like dogs, bleeding dark into the leaves. It was empty on the edge of town but we knew everyone floated along the bottom of the river. So we walked through the waste where the road curved into the sea and the shattered seasons lay, and the bitter smell of burning was on you like a disease. In our cancer of passion you said, "Death is a midnight runner." The sky had come crashing down like the news of an intimate suicide. We picked up the shards and formed them into shapes of stars that wore like an antique wedding dress. The echoes of the past broke the hearts of the unborn as the ferris wheel silently slowed to a stop. The few insects skittered away in hopes of a better pastime. I kissed you at the apex of the maelstrom and asked if you would accompany me in a quick fall, but you made me realize that my ticket wasn't good for two. I rode alone. You said, "The cinders are falling like snow." There is poetry in despair, and we sang with unrivaled beauty, bitter elegies of savagery and eloquence. Of blue and grey. Strange, we ran down desperate streets and carved our names in the flesh of the city. The sun has stagnated somewhere beyond the rim of the horizon and the darkness is a mystery of curves and lines. Still, we lay under the emptiness and drifted slowly outward, and somewhere in the wilderness we found salvation scratched into the earth like a message."

"If I were..."

2005-06-08T09:01:00.000-07:00

If I were a month I would be: July. Sultry, velvet nights worth traipsing through...
If I were a day of the week I would be: Sunday. To work on this day is a 'sin,' and I do love to add my silk to the web of evil.
If I were a time of day I would be: Nine o'clock at night -- time for twilight, smears of red and orange on the horizon, and smoky silhouettes.
If I were a planet I would be: An extrasolar body radiant with undiscovered heat.
If I were a sea animal I would be: Something epipelagic. A porpoise, maybe.
If I were a direction I would be: Left.
If I were a piece of furniture I would be: A red silk chaise lounge.
If I were a sin I would be: Lust.
If I were a historical figure I would be: Eleanora di Toledo
If I were a liquid I would be: Laudanum.
If I were a tree I would be: A cypress tree hung with Spanish moss.
If I were a flower/plant I would be: A bleeding heart.
If I were a kind of weather I would be: Rain. Of any sort.
If I were an instrument I would be: A fleshpot.
If I were an animal I would be: A cat. A sphynx.
If I were a color I would be: Grey. So many things that I love are grey...
If I were a vegetable I would be: A radish.
If I were a sound I would be: The notes from Beethoven's Fifth Symphony seamlessly meshed into a single sound.
If I were an element I would be: The element of surprise.
If I were a car I would be: I hate rumbling machinery.
If I were a movie I would be directed by: Tim Burton.
If I were a book I would be written by: Anne Rice.
If I were a food I would be: Whatever sates the wicked.
If I were a place I would be: A Gallic forest.
If I were a material I would be: Linen.
If I were a taste I would be: The bitterness of defeat.
If I were a scent I would be: Rain-soaked pavement.
If I were a word I would be: Incomplete.
If I were an object I would be: Rather vague, hmm?
If I were a body part I would be: An eye...window to the soul, you know.

Untouchable

2005-06-06T13:35:00.000-07:00

Be careful.

I want to lash out with everything that I have.

I'm too tired, though. Too bent by conscience, too exhausted from the constant carrying of emotions that were probably never meant for me.

Oh, dammit.

I'm sick of censoring myself. I'm tired of holding back when (clearly) I should be exploding, should be demanding thoughts, should be asking sharp questions designed to cut.

Be careful.

Work has sapped me of everything. Wit, energy, patience, social tolerance. If my aversion to people was surprising before...it's absolutely shocking now. I don't want to see anyone I haven't bargained for, and I don't want to play the amiable (malleable) girl everyone can get along with. You don't like it? Regrettably, then, I ask that you fuck off.

"Now it seems you're leaving,
But we've only just begun...
And you've still got nowhere else to go,
So I wait for you to
Take me all the way...
Take me all the way."

I wish I could get away from all of this. I can't wait for school to start again. I can't wait to leave, to be independent and a shadow and a people-observer again. Coming back home to live for the summer sounded relaxing at first -- it sounded good when I was buried under fifteen tons of notes and a week's worth of final exams. But now, with the amount of drama and ache that I've immersed myself in...with the staggering number of things that have changed, with the minute tweaks and patches I've applied to myself and my personality...I'm not sure if coming home was a good idea at all.

There have been a thousand promised made to me. They've been broken.
There have been a thousand affections poured upon me. I'm parched now without them.
There have been a thousand thoughts wheeling through me. They've disintegrated.

Want to know a secret? Be careful. I've a thousand secrets to tell. Let me show you:

I am not expendable.
I am not subject to your whims.
I am not always cool, collected, and witty.
I am not anti-social...I'm anti-people.
I like the tender undersides of individuals.
Facades make me sick.
I've lied to you. I've lied through my teeth.
I like to worm my way into your head. When I'm finished, I'll worm my way out.
I am desperate, powerless, weak, and ravenous. Over you.
I am frail. Handle me delicately.
I like decadence, degradation, shooting pain, and dull aches.
If I could self-medicate against consciousness, I would.

Oh, and you thought you knew me...

"White trash, get down on your knees..."

2005-06-01T10:41:00.000-07:00

Sick of everybody.

Sick of being pulled one way and then the other. Sick of being twisted up, turned around, lied to, emotionally played with, conquered by the most base of sentiments. Sick of everything. Sick of everybody. I always thought I was better than this...but temptation tempts the tempting, and I like the way you move in the dark. I like the tension and the spark.

"Life's not meant to be disposable...
Lost. Found. Dead.
Ready and willing,
Can't stop the bleeding;
Life's not meant to be expendable...
Rain. Sun. Gone.
Left robbed, unwilling --
Can't fight the feeling;
So low.
Overwhelming.
Clinging to a tragedy
So clear,
Hear weeping voices --
Tears fall in the dark.
Feels like I'm caving in from the outside...
So lost. So gone. So wrong."

I don't get it. What am I worth? A source of comfort when bored? A game to play when the other kids have gone home? I don't get it. Thorns uncurling between my teeth again. I just don't understand. What do I want?

"Am I so unlovable?
Is my skin untouchable?
Do I remind you of a part of you that you don't like?"

I have been quietly etching away at the glass mask that encapsules the inner ugliness associated with my deception. I have been silently picking at the brown-red scabs garnered from a quick fall from faith...as per my poor Christian cognomen's suggestion. I bruised my knees when I touched down. Kiss my owies with your acidic lips. I won't cry when it burns.

I had to grow up fast. Too much pressure building within this little plastic doll. Soon I'll burst; soon you'll lose interest. Soon you'll go to the store, clutching pennies, ogling the other cellophane-wrapped treasures...pick out another. And another. And another. What does it matter if my painted eyes leak tears? Others can do that for you, in your name, for the pain you endure. We'll always have our secrets. Those you can't throw away. They're non-recyclable.

I'd like to be non-recyclable, but the confusion you heap on me is too much to move beneath. Stick to a pattern of conduct, soldier. I like the tension and the spark.

Ich kann es mir nicht aus den Rippen schneiden.

Njosnavelin

2005-05-28T11:53:00.000-07:00

Why wasn't I enough?

Why wasn't my love and my support enough to keep you from hurting yourself?

I didn't want to call 911. I didn't want to call emergency services. But you were hurting yourself, and that was hurting me...and I had to. I love you, Meaniepants. I love you so much. You're my best friend. You've been my rock for ten years. You and I -- we were the world. From Mr. Caldwell's class to Moore's yearbook room, you and I were together. It didn't mean the end of anything when you left Platteville. I was angry for a while, but only because I missed you so much. I was never very vocal about it, I think...and I'm so sorry for that. Maybe if I had been, you would have known how much I needed you. How much I needed my Grand Duke General.

And I do need you.

But why wasn't I enough?

Why was I 'too little, too late'?

I didn't want to get you into trouble. I didn't want to make you angry, to upset you, to make you hate me. But I had to call 911. I didn't want to go to the funeral of the only person on Earth who loved me unconditionally. I would never have forgiven myself if I'd have sat here, doing nothing to help. Don't be angry at the policeman who found you. He's an angel. He looked for you for almost three hours, and he called me three times so that I knew what was going on. He's an angel. A wonderful human being, an incredible policeman. Don't be angry at him. If you must be angry at someone...be angry at me.

But only because I love you too much to let you go. To let you hurt yourself.

I don't know what's going to happen now, but I ask for your forgiveness. I ask that you forgive me for interfering, for doing the only thing I could think of. I was hysterical, you know. I was crying, pacing, asking a God who doesn't exist for guidance. Asking something or someone to protect you. To protect you from yourself.

"Desperately I try to fight this overwhelming sense that I may never find the strength to change how hopeless we've become."

Forgive me. Remember that I'm your Spunky, and that I need you. That I love you like no one else.

Hurting (black-eyed angels)...

2005-05-25T00:49:00.000-07:00

12:17 AM

They're there. I can feel them stretch like long-held notes. I can hear them unfurl...and now I feel them creeping, wriggling, sneaking beneath my skin.

The vine-feelings have blossomed again this night.

I haven't found my defoliant quick enough.

Too little eating, too much growth, too few comforts, too many fears. I see Bernini's 'The Ecstasy of Saint Theresa' and desperately wish that such pious, pure rapture would enfold me.

Just once. Just this once, while I struggle against the urge to bleed. Just this once, please.

I want very much to be completely blanketed in sound. I wish I could wrap a melody, a song, a few lyrics around me and over me...I want so very much to be completely immersed in a sea of sound. Maybe then I could silence the guilt and the sorrow. Everything I do is wrong, everything I say is hollow. Every action I take is suspended in time like an insect in amber, and those actions are hurled back at me with all the dexterity and swiftness of a lead bullet (when the sniper sees fit, mind you). I do my best to comfort those who act as their own wardens in grey mind-prisons, but I think I come up short. I think I dive into the static waters, but like a weight I help them to sink.

"I'm drowning in nothing;
Nothing's real...
Nothing's left...
Nothing."

I can't give you what you want, you know. I have nothing left to give.

I am all bitterness. All lost faith. All lost love.

12:33 AM

My head hurts. Too much thinking. Not enough sleeping. Like I do a lot of that, anyway. This last night I got about three hours. There. The 'Pyramid Song' again. I needed that.

"I jumped into a river and what did I see?
Black-eyed angels swam with me..."

I'm so tired. So very, very tired. Lulled into complacency by keeping house and cleaning up after four children, a mother, and a stepfather. They have the nerve to ask me, then, why I think I need to go out every night. I'm sorry...but I won't be kept home for the sheer sake of providing them with some small measure of comfort. I don't have comfort now. Why do they think they deserve it? I'm home all day, worrying about whether my sick mom will be able to make it through work without having a panic attack, worrying about whether anyone will get angry because I hung the clothes out on the line and they got a little stiff, worrying about whether I'll be able to do the dishes and not relish the feeling of a chipped glass against my palm.

Isn't that pathetic? I'm disgusting.

Still waging a war against what's hiding in the bottom pocket of my backpack. The house is cold again. Last night it wasn't nearly as dead. The little orange light still shines, my back still aches, and my room is in complete disarray. I jumped into the river. Black-eyed angels swam with me. I moved along the crumbling sand...and clawed my way further down. Good night. The victor has been decided. I've lost the battle.

Senseless

2005-05-23T09:43:00.000-07:00

"What was it like to see
The face of your own stability
Suddenly look away...
Leaving you with the dead and hopeless?"

"My shadow's...
Shedding skin and
I've been picking
Scabs again.
I'm down
Digging through
My old muscles
Looking for a clue.
I've been crawling on my belly
Clearing out what could've been.
I've been wallowing in my own confused
And insecure delusions
For a piece to cross me over
Or a word to guide me in.
I wanna feel the changes coming down.
I wanna know what I've been hiding in..."

I don't know what to do. I don't know how to feel. I want to be angry, but there's no one to be angry at. I want to curl up (fetal position) and drift into a state of utter numbness. I want to cry, to sob, to rail against the wrongs that have brought this sickness on...but I can't. I have to be strong for the family, Bob says. I have to be strong and help out when he's not there, Bob says. I have to don the guise of strength when Mom's crying in her room because she's afraid...and I have to pretend that I'm not afraid.

Oh, but I am.

I'm terrified.

This is the third time I've had to grow up quick amidst cruel circumstances. I had to grow up at nine, I had to grow up at fourteen, and now I have to do it again. Do you know what it's like to have to take care of your brothers and sisters when you're nine years old and afraid that your mother's going to die? Do you know how much it screws with your psyche when, at fourteen (fourteen), adulthood is pushed upon you because there's no one else around to help you shoulder the burden? I was cooking dinner and cleaning at nine. I was helping with homework and making sure everyone got to school on time at fourteen.

At nineteen, I'm giving up my summer so that our family won't fall apart.

But I want to fall apart. I want someone to keep nailing me together...because I'm going to fall apart.

I don't believe in a God, but my family does. I suppose I'm glad they do. Our pastor (warm, loving, Scottish darling that is) and his amazing wife are spinning another web of hope for my mother and this family to fall back on. I'm so grateful that those two can provide some glimmer of faith, because I can't. I couldn't.

I don't want one person to tell me that there is a God. How could a RATIONAL being inflict this upon my kind, fragile, adorable mother? How could a benevolent, celestial father tear apart this family? Why the hell is this happening again? Why does she have to suffer through cancer again when a child molestor who lives just a few blocks away remains unscathed and gloating? HOWHOWHOWHOW?!

I'll tell you how. Because there is no God. The religion that they instilled in when I was six is just superstition. And now that I've figured it out, I'm brittle and terrified. But wiser.

I'm so ashamed of my own weakness right now. I need someonesomethingsomedrug. I need to be held. I need to get away from myself.

"At night I hear it creeping;
At night I feel it move.
I’ll never sleep here anymore...
I wish you never told me.
I wish I never knew.
I wake up screaming...
It’s all because of you."

Why?

2005-05-20T15:57:00.000-07:00

I feel like I have been eviscerated.

Everything is numb. Question marks are pooling.

Two words gutted me. Right in the middle of my parents' room.

"It's back."

My parents were in Madison all day. I didn't know they'd been at the hospital. My mom had a biopsy done for a lump on her side. When they came home I was cleaning, and my stepdad told me to wait a minute...to come into their room. I went in, asked how everything was. He told me to sit down. And then those two words came.

They were like snakes. They bit me. In the middle of my parents' room.

The lump is a tumor. A softball-sized mass of cancer.

My mom has cancer. Again. For the third time.

"It's back."

Now I know there is no God. Now I know religion has no place in my heart. My mom's tiny frame will be wracked with sickness again. She will lose her hair again. She will spend the next part of the year -- perhaps longer -- throwing up and being injected in the hospital. Again.

Againagainagainagainagainagainagainagain. This is happening to her again. To our family again. Right before my sister graduates, before she leaves for the Air Force. Before I start my second year of college. Before my little brother starts his senior year at high school. I won't be singing old Led Zeppelin songs with my mom as she plays the piano this summer. I won't be care-free, I won't be smiling, I won't be, I won't be, I won't be.

I can hear her now, crying in her room. Because she's in pain. I saw my stepdad cry again, because she's in pain. I cried. My little brother cried. The other three don't know yet. But they'll cry, too. And there's nothing we can do about it.

If I knew there was a God, I would tear him limb from limb. If I knew why he was doing this to me, to us, to her, I would slaughter him. WHYWHYWHYWHY?

I need somethingsomeone right now. I need them to keep me from myself. I need everything to go back to how it was a day ago. I need to know why. Why?

Please, bestrafe Mich.

2005-05-19T01:44:00.000-07:00

And again sleep flees.

Recovery often comes with a revelation. As it rained tonight, the revelation hit without recovery. I'd love to wrap myself in synthetic dreams and while away eternity in a cocoon of induced bliss, but it seems I've been denied all those things that would remedy this loathing. Oh? And the revelation...the revelation. The revelation.

I'll never make sense.

Not to you, not to myself, not to the casual onlooker who twists his neck to get a better view of the trainwreck. I watched the rain fall in white-grey sheets that disappeared in the neon haloes of streetlights, and I thought to myself: 'to what degree of depression will I sink into tonight?' Droplets on the windshield cast shadows that will never, ever be reflected while free will reigns. According to Vonnegut's Billy, individuals on Earth are the only creatures in the universe who talk of free will. How unlucky for us. "Come on, baby. Don't fear the Reaper." Beautiful song, isn't it? Reapers and free will and rain. Such things constitute an evening for me. If only I'd a black gown, a liberal amount of decadence, and an umbrella. Then I'd traipse around the foggy backdrop of a village at dusk, luring children with my piper's song. Luring and alluring are quite different, as one would guess. I'm no good at either.

Allow me to press against your eyelids.

Am I not making sense again? Here. Look at this and giggle. In pain, pain, so much pain right now. I'll shrink back and double up. My heart that shattered the night before has wounds tore afresh. By you. Mad bastard. So hore doch! Bestrafe Mich. My sister studies German. I dabble in her notes. Those were pretty words that tell a truth. So did the title of that last pathetic entry. Nie mehr das alte Leid. Nie mehr, indeed. Now I'm wanted elsewhere, but I can't go for fear of desertion. You were a priority. Was I an option? An option? Your option? There begins the pain. Hurting heart. Beating bloody cavern. We'll never make another memory. You said, you said, you said. I let you see a side of me I never share. Now I remember why.

I get it now. I am not somethingsomeone special to you. Watch as the sobbing starts.

"Irridescent eyes of the sea horse rise. Treasures she loves, others despise."