Split
I
I am ◦ xenakaaii
My ◦ twisted twin
My delirious doppleganger
Drunk in delight
For being more than imaginary.
Thát ◦ clack of tap shoes and tacks
Against the concrete
That ◦ chilly breath that ◦
Tickles the hair on the back of your neck
The ◦ conscience to ask for direction,
These things are me,
Because,
The mechanics of the mind are mine
To control. There-fóre I can
Drop people, like flies,
Like … like kicking rocks in the lake
(cause that's how I see it at least)
If you're seeking me, I am ◦
The man in the crown or the empty room.
I am the man who wears his top hat down
To cover the seven stigma,
The scars etched for every sin
Into an already frailing forehead.
And after all that other shit I've said
I was the one to whom the wild,
Matted wolf named Evandse appeared
Because I called him for my company
And crafted him from clearer shadows than I'm clad
In and then I listened to the cherished earthbound chattering that rang
II
I am ◦ an eternal beast
With teeth bared and eyes chiseled from coal -
Darker than black beneath the night-come sky and
Colder than caves deeply buried in arctic lakes.
With cheeks contorted in chagrin, I preen my chaos-covered limbs
To cleanse the deep, green cuts of sweet and sacred sacrificial fights.
Then, adjusting every muscle, fiber, joint, and bone,
And throwing back my chin, I moan!
I moan the age-old chant, the screeching hymn,
The same as ev'ry sailor knows. The song he sings on sinking ships
(And in the eye of violent storms this song is sung by nature and by man alike.)
And I moan the battle cry of cats,
The one they cry when leaping on their chosen catch
(Not now the grumble for aggressors in the nest
And not the hush for hunters holding guns.)
I moan the wisdom of the sages with the power of forgotten gods.
And when my master comes to calm my soul and comb my wild coat,
I sing the contradicting song of Cel and into him transform.
III
I am the child clad in white sitting on the floor,
Crouching with my cars and blocks, and
Grinning with a toothy smile, and
Catching fireflies in cans,
And then carrying my catch to light my chilly room
In the eerie, greying night.
I am ◦ a prodigy at three years old
Because I laugh in glee and take delight
Despite the wicked world alight with with war;
Maybe I'm still just too young to understand to poor and the tyrants,
Because I'm still too young to be•bent with apathy,
My soul is filled with random sympathy,
And needless joy, and curiosity.
Regardless, I prefer my caring, sympathetic world to the
Concrete chaos constantly on magazines and television screens.
It's not wrong, for me, to be ageless for eternity,
To always be the child thinking that he's clad in light,
To always laugh, and to always, with everyone, delight.
Because despite the wicked world alight with hate and fear,
Despair, insanities, lust, wrath, and greed,
I still believe that every greying night
Is lit by fireflies
In summer.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Chapter 11
Good morning. I’m the local narrator here, and it’s come to my attention that I have something to say. This is a broadcast, an outcast casting out, waking up to who knows what, responding to niftyion, please recieve.
The analogy, a cup of tea, could be both you and me, our minds clouded to an intolerable degree, meditating to clear away debris, settling slowly as a tumultuous sea, but that’s not how I see.
Don’t mediate, frozen in a standstill state, allow discord reign, raise a little disarray. Rustle, bustle, hustle, make some noise, the bus’ll pick you up if your waiting at the stop. But why wait, patient, latent, blatantly just going with the go? You wanted to live, right? You wanted to know?
Well: Writing is power. Reread, review, rewind, repent, reevaluate the reasons and release. Be repetitive, bang your fists on the table and heed no one. Feed on the words pouring from your own lips and drink the syrup from your fingertips.
But writing’s only a way to clear you mind, a way to unwind, a way to keep from being blind. Writing alone will bind you to the page.
There’s only one way to keep from being left behind.
Rise up.
Take a stand. Start a marching band. With a megaphone. Don’t be tied down to clarinets and saxophones. Don’t go on acting like a fucking drone. Tell them that they’re fucking wrong! Tell them that you know the truth! Tell them everything inside of you! Tell them awkward! Tell them lust! Tell them grass orgies! Tell them trust! Tell them everything you ache to tell! Tell them loud and tell them well! Slap them with your silken glove! And most of all… tell them of love.
The world out there, it isn’t evil. People are people, just like you and me. The world out there, it’s just like us, it’s just a step behind, but it’s catching up. Maybe some think we’re all smoking weed, we’re all taking speed, or whatever today’s shit is. But we’ll always have them, just like a misquoted man once proclaimed, “We’ll always have the poor!” Well now I repeat, “We’ll always have the immature!” The childish minds who group and stammer and insist they know it all, even though they know nothing.
…
You wanna know what I honestly think? Fuck ‘em. Leave ‘em behind. We don’t need ‘em. But don’t you dare be one of ‘em. Don’t go whinin’ and bitchin’ that society always shuts you in some category. Look at what you’re doing you lousy hypocrite! You call a crime and spit on those who commit and permit but you can’t admit you won’t quit it yourself‽ Be literate, be explicit, and know what you mean to mean.
But that’s not the issue here, is it?
You wanted to live?
What’s stopping you?
It’s you, isn’t it. Just going through the motions, no emotion, no devotion. Empty sacrilegious rituals to nothing. You used to be lucid, I know you did, when you were a kid. You had an attraction to every action. What happened to that? Social norms happened to that. You’re afraid. Why else would you worry about the masquerade? You’ve been taken in by their serenade. And you can’t imagine if you’d never played.
So?
Upgrade. Dissuade. Disobey that clichéd charade.
Open your eyes. There are millions of us. And we’re waiting inside, inside the machine, ‘cause we don’t want to break out. We just have a hide out. Under the radar. Waiting, watching. The ultimate answer is right there in front of you. Lead your own life and throw the first stone into everyone’s glass houses.
Turn off your mind, and move to the instinct. If you wanna feel alive, don’t be alone, ‘cause life is with people. Turn off your phone. Get up and get out. Act it up. Live it up. Life is a play, not a paper.
The analogy, a cup of tea, could be both you and me, our minds clouded to an intolerable degree, meditating to clear away debris, settling slowly as a tumultuous sea, but that’s not how I see.
Don’t mediate, frozen in a standstill state, allow discord reign, raise a little disarray. Rustle, bustle, hustle, make some noise, the bus’ll pick you up if your waiting at the stop. But why wait, patient, latent, blatantly just going with the go? You wanted to live, right? You wanted to know?
Well: Writing is power. Reread, review, rewind, repent, reevaluate the reasons and release. Be repetitive, bang your fists on the table and heed no one. Feed on the words pouring from your own lips and drink the syrup from your fingertips.
But writing’s only a way to clear you mind, a way to unwind, a way to keep from being blind. Writing alone will bind you to the page.
There’s only one way to keep from being left behind.
Rise up.
Take a stand. Start a marching band. With a megaphone. Don’t be tied down to clarinets and saxophones. Don’t go on acting like a fucking drone. Tell them that they’re fucking wrong! Tell them that you know the truth! Tell them everything inside of you! Tell them awkward! Tell them lust! Tell them grass orgies! Tell them trust! Tell them everything you ache to tell! Tell them loud and tell them well! Slap them with your silken glove! And most of all… tell them of love.
The world out there, it isn’t evil. People are people, just like you and me. The world out there, it’s just like us, it’s just a step behind, but it’s catching up. Maybe some think we’re all smoking weed, we’re all taking speed, or whatever today’s shit is. But we’ll always have them, just like a misquoted man once proclaimed, “We’ll always have the poor!” Well now I repeat, “We’ll always have the immature!” The childish minds who group and stammer and insist they know it all, even though they know nothing.
…
You wanna know what I honestly think? Fuck ‘em. Leave ‘em behind. We don’t need ‘em. But don’t you dare be one of ‘em. Don’t go whinin’ and bitchin’ that society always shuts you in some category. Look at what you’re doing you lousy hypocrite! You call a crime and spit on those who commit and permit but you can’t admit you won’t quit it yourself‽ Be literate, be explicit, and know what you mean to mean.
But that’s not the issue here, is it?
You wanted to live?
What’s stopping you?
It’s you, isn’t it. Just going through the motions, no emotion, no devotion. Empty sacrilegious rituals to nothing. You used to be lucid, I know you did, when you were a kid. You had an attraction to every action. What happened to that? Social norms happened to that. You’re afraid. Why else would you worry about the masquerade? You’ve been taken in by their serenade. And you can’t imagine if you’d never played.
So?
Upgrade. Dissuade. Disobey that clichéd charade.
Open your eyes. There are millions of us. And we’re waiting inside, inside the machine, ‘cause we don’t want to break out. We just have a hide out. Under the radar. Waiting, watching. The ultimate answer is right there in front of you. Lead your own life and throw the first stone into everyone’s glass houses.
Turn off your mind, and move to the instinct. If you wanna feel alive, don’t be alone, ‘cause life is with people. Turn off your phone. Get up and get out. Act it up. Live it up. Life is a play, not a paper.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Chapter X
Shhh…!
Shhh – Quiet..!
Caution, ○ caution ○
Tape closes off the scene, ○
To warn outsides, this
Is MÝ life, beware!
Be ○ wary, for it
ís infused with
Ev’ry grain of
Paradise !
The inspiration ○ shimmers in
The sky
Àt ○ Lan ○ càster
Àt ○ Lan ○ tìs
My – Neverneverland
We are the lost boys
We are the lost girls
No, no …… that’s wrong
We are –– ○ lost.
We are lost
So we dance!
As they did ○ in the glory
Of my mind’s life
As they did ○ in 1762
As they did ○ last year
As they did ○ yesterday
Decked out in drag
My hear dangles on a thread
Shot through with electric blue
Every year ○
I watch a thousand sad stories
In my mind’s eýe, ○ a thousand
Black flowers explὄde into butterflies
Drowned in tears while burning with joy
And I scream into the night ○
YES! I SEE!
And I believe in rock’n’roll
And music be the crumbs ○ for
My famished soul!
But the songbirds, immortal,
of Keats and Shelly scream
“You’re never gonna make it lad!
Your hope’s a folly dream!”
And I scream back! ○ –
“Kubla Khan may have drunk the milk of paradise
But he never tasted this!”
“And if I cannot stay Forever Young!
–––– I’m sure as hell gonna try!”
I love CTY. And I love the Passionfruit.
Shhh – Quiet..!
Caution, ○ caution ○
Tape closes off the scene, ○
To warn outsides, this
Is MÝ life, beware!
Be ○ wary, for it
ís infused with
Ev’ry grain of
Paradise !
The inspiration ○ shimmers in
The sky
Àt ○ Lan ○ càster
Àt ○ Lan ○ tìs
My – Neverneverland
We are the lost boys
We are the lost girls
No, no …… that’s wrong
We are –– ○ lost.
We are lost
So we dance!
As they did ○ in the glory
Of my mind’s life
As they did ○ in 1762
As they did ○ last year
As they did ○ yesterday
Decked out in drag
My hear dangles on a thread
Shot through with electric blue
Every year ○
I watch a thousand sad stories
In my mind’s eýe, ○ a thousand
Black flowers explὄde into butterflies
Drowned in tears while burning with joy
And I scream into the night ○
YES! I SEE!
And I believe in rock’n’roll
And music be the crumbs ○ for
My famished soul!
But the songbirds, immortal,
of Keats and Shelly scream
“You’re never gonna make it lad!
Your hope’s a folly dream!”
And I scream back! ○ –
“Kubla Khan may have drunk the milk of paradise
But he never tasted this!”
“And if I cannot stay Forever Young!
–––– I’m sure as hell gonna try!”
I love CTY. And I love the Passionfruit.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Chapter Nine
A Pair of Ballads
The Pains of the Past
The Follies of Future
And Pretenses
Or
Holy Fuck Why Do I Have To Read All This Shit
And The Memoirs Of How I Lost My Sock
By The Authors Who Brought You:
I Shaved My Legs For This?
And
(Text Purposefully Omitted)
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I miss you quite terribly.
[I'm quoting song lyrics again. Apologies.]
I miss everything. So...much.
It never hit this hard before.
And I regret
not giving you
a proper goodbye.
Or at least one that felt close enough.
Oh hell.
I'm sulking. I'm sorry, I really am, and those words don't look meaningful enough when I type them. But anyways, I am sorry. I am sorry a thousand times over. I should listen more. But it...no, it doesn't hurt, it's just hard to.
Side note: the problem with me and writing is that I edit excessively as I go. And I hate how I sound so different in the written than the spoken. A little more sarcastic. A little more sardonic, biting...cold? I'm unsure. I don't know how I sound to other people either way. I'll assume -
I sound silly, don't I?
In the real world I'm not supposed to drink coffee every morning, so I'm not thinking straight right now. Maybe that's a good thing.
I don't know.
I'm scared.
I woke up an hour ago to sunlight and - silence. Absolute fucking silence. Not even a snort **** ***** to console me. So I screamed, *** grabbed ** *******, stuffed ** ** ** *****, even though nobody would yell at me for not doing so. [I sort of don't want to wash them, these jeans. They wouldn't smell the same at all. A little revolting, but...****.]
Walking downstairs was...I couldn't hear my footsteps echo. The carpet sank under my feet. Too soft. Wondered why I was walking barefoot.
Looked outside at the lawn - the grass was too green. Well, no. It was too - perfect. Dull neon, every sharp bit with the contrast upped. There were no brown patches. It wasn't quashed down anywhere. Anywhere! No footprints - horribly green and lush, unruffled, untouched! I was too scared to get too close. Too homey. Too alien.
When I walk, I wonder if we're still in sync. If we're breathing at the same time. If we're both breathing at all.
I like you. I love you. * *** ***. * *** *** to the 1764th power [* ****] and then some. You changed a lot for me.
Thanks.
This isn't the end, right?
I can't handle endings. Not now. Not even - no, especially not the temporary ones. The temporary ones are why I am totally not burying my face ** ** ****** so I don't forget *** *** *****.
I'm trying to talk to people now, smudging eyeliner, drinking ******** in your honor.
::hug::
::kiss::
::wild skipping rampage across *** **** in the dark ***** * ****-****::
And all the rest.
Can I assume you're going to write back?
♥
With hair in my face, a rusty bracelet and some other meaningful-sounding sort of thing,
******.
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wow, that was epically long. I'm usually one for short responses, like yeses and nos, but such a long letter deserves a long response, right? of course it does, there's no way to argue with that. well, there's always a way to argue with it, actually, but it just feels right.
I am also going to quote a song, unfortunately, you cant just read the lyrics, you have to go listen, title is Nocturne no.20 in C-sharp minor by Chopin. let me know what you think. in fact, chopin in general is wonderful
meaningful words, or in other words, words that have meaning. god those are hard to come by, to think of. Hell. don’t listen. stop apologizing. stop with me. stand forever by my side and watch the world rot. and laugh with me. be my goddess. all that foolishness. there’s no reason sulk, no reason to be sorry. real, make-believe, what’s the difference? perceive with the mind, but mind, it's only perception.
edit as you go. I don’t know why you think that’s a problem. let your writing be a voice of its own. a little more sarcastic, a little colder, a little meaner, a little full of malice, or a lot. let it be itself. hell, give it a name. *****'* ** ******, **** ** ****, what's yours? give it some time.
don’t worry how you sound to other people; they don’t know how they sound to you. except me, I know how I sound cause I'm special like that.
thinking straight? who wants that? I know the answer, I think you do too. (**) it’s adults, and you know what we feel about them. today I was accused of acting like a five-year-old by some old friends. isn’t that great? I cant think of any reason not to do, but there might be. and to be a little (ok, really) technical, thoughts are created by sensory inputs which trigger clusters of neurons, which interact with other clusters, while meanwhile more sensory inputs are starting off new cluster chains, which interact with other chains. all this chaos creates consciousness and curiosity etc. so what’s with this "thinking straight". I see more chaos. which is much more fun. but at the same time, you can simplify outputs to happy, sad, mad, etc. so the chaos can be manipulated. the clusters create thought, but thought can create clusters, so you can consciously manipulate your own mind. don’t think to hard.
scared, maybe you understand this. numb, you’ve felt it too. after numbness, scared can be welcomed, it can be really cool feeling if just let it run through your body like a drug.... best reference I can think of.
ok, first off, I really love your voice in the next part. you made me realize why my writing stopped working, it was because I had stopped complaining about things, I had pushed my darker half away, thank you for reminding me **** **'* *****. ***
why should you be faltered by pristine and untouched beauty? pure snow, lush grass, uncreased sky? the world is a savage garden, vivid colors entrance as the garden devours itself, as surely the world devours itself, not speaking of humans just, but of all beings surviving in the garden. perfection? yes it is, you, perfect, and everything around you perfect, and everything around me perfect, and people try to find perfection, trip and are devoured. just walk through, knowing that your perfect and knowing the perfection of the savage garden. if you look like you know where you’re going, you might as well, no questions shall be asked. don’t forget, you edit your words, don’t stop, edit the world
when you walk, forget about me, and not to mean to leave me, but when to enjoy the perfection around you, in chaos why shant all be equal?
there is something called the quantum superposition. a classic exemplification is Schrödinger's cat. this theory puts a cat in a box with food and closes the box. now the cat can, or cannot eat the food, and therefore the cat can be alive or dead, but since the box is closed, we cant know whether the cat is alive or dead, we just know its one of the two. According to quantum superpositions, we say that because of the unknown condition of the cat, it is both alive and dead. Once, you open the box, you can eliminate one of the choices, but while its closed, it is both. so why cant we be? while apart, we walk in perfect harmony and disharmony at the same time, we breathe and we don’t, we do everything the same, and we do nothing the same at the same time. and all the time we enjoy the savage garden.
there’s no ending, this isn’t a storybook, its a dance. a ballroom dance from 1762, the style. and its now. and we twirl around the floor, spinning many people, and its all ok, because we're on the dance floor, there’s no ending, we'll dance again, just twirl your lovers while you wait for me, ill find you, be there, and when I find you, well let the party revolve around us as we dance together, stare into eyes, laughing at how vain we are, you must be by the time we meet, keep your hair back so you can see your partners, so they see you, find you, wait for me.
don’t drink in my honor, I don’t deserve that, I’m a horrible being, loathe me, detest me, love me and stay with me, ****** and everything we know, ill kiss you every time before you’re stolen away. and ill always know where you are, don’t worry about losing me, until your next to me, touch me gently first, I lose you when you’re next to me, but don’t think I've forgotten you
watch with me as a thousand black flowers explode into butterflies and they're away and kiss me, jekyll and hyde, under *** **** ****, under the stars, under a bridge, in a stairwell, in the savage garden and on the dancefloor. love in what vertigo
♥
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What does one say to that? I know I can't counter those words. Not as well as I want to. Not that I want to, either. Not after tearing up. This is no duel.
Maybe it's because of the Yiruma being poured into my ears instead of, say, your voice. But if it was your voice, and if I could feel your body heat right now, if I could hear your heartbeat [if you still have a heart ******* ** ***], it'd be an entirely different story and I wouldn't be typing right now. One wonders. But for now, I'll switch back to Panic, because the words are long and easy to look through. Raindrops and roses. To feel right is...hell, you've done it, and I'll do it right back. The drums make me angry, so I hug myself and say, "Die, bitch!" because you're in my head and off the internets. [Edit: not now.]
It sounds - deliberate, gentle, a little sad. I'll have to listen again. I'm sure I missed something. Quietly dramatic. Sharp trills. Imperfect circles. Bittersweet? Rolling up and down. Slow waterfalls.
I keep forgetting. The real world takes its toll, so I look outside for "Keep Off the Grass" signs to pull up and stab into dead patches. I lie down and look for arches and blacktop and trees taller than they could ever be here, and right-side-up mazes with chalk scraped on. I can only find these when I close my eyes. When I hear notes from them. When I hear the voices that made the world-not-real-world a little, a lot more insane than I'd expected in my metal box. And here I am. Steel and sound and skin, or something poetic like that. No. No! More.
I am no goddess, just a human with bad perspective and cute little noises. But I will laugh. We all are fools, and it's great. Everything is made of everything it's not! I refuse to make sense, because I mimic the world, or parts of it. A puzzle piece with disconnected thoughts and broken-off angles. One of the corners.
It has bounds. Tie myself up again with the backspace button, because I know I can't say anything right. Take a trip inside my head, I don't know how. Tell me what it looks like. Actually, no, you'll find out even states away. Eventually. Probably. My words suck.
Take in rather than analyze?
Love is better, but fear's mixed in that too. Fear is a dictatorship. Something. Something.
I like to complain about things, and thank you, and you're welcome. My sentences grow ever choppier. Bullets. Hard-hitting, and there's no flow, fragments, put me back together. Reanimation. Dead tissue.
Beauty is in imperfection, too. Like *** **** - halfway-dead grass soaks in words and touch _because_ it is halfway-dead, it waits to be full, and it clings to hair and clothes because it wants to be complete. Perfect grass makes it feel too saturated, associating it with good things. What am I saying? Am I saying that too much good is bad? I don't know, because I can hear words, and they crawl down my fingertips and press on a dirty keyboard.
I thank you, but I am not perfect. I can't decide on whether you are perfect yourself, though. Not yet. However long it takes. But I will live. Vanity, I live on. Vanity, I am.
I'll try. To fall in step, though...I wonder why I've been seeing only sidewalk for the past ten minutes and nothing's happened yet, why my hands are so cold. I'm not trying to, but it just floats in there, and the pavement gets a little darker with dirt at the edges instead of tires. And you are you.
That...means something. I will keep it.
You amaze me. And I'll keep my hair back, dancing with those strangers to pass the time, sneak sideways glances at you on the other side of the room. Miles, feet away. Mouthing words, reading lips, but still dancing, trying not to smash toes with knee-high boots, swift, six inches apart. Threads. Threads across borders, metal threads, conducting all currents, at least the ones in words.
You also just contradicted yourself, but that's probably all the different parts of you speaking. Do I drink in your anti-honor, then? Or simply to the memories, a little less **** ***** *****, days of scenes and improvisation? I can. I can do that.
Goodbye kisses, but there is no goodbye. Screw endings - this is a circle. Ghost arms, snatches of smiles, poetry hidden in boxes of tea - all I have ** *** ****, and yet not. There is more. Maybe when you find met again, I'll tell you stories; tell them until we're breathing words, carbon dioxide, secrets in sync. Under that lamp-post, under brick walls, in the cello-string grass, the laughter-light sky, below a dripping moon, against a balcony's edge, on the fringes of society, between real and make-believe, maybe I'll kiss you first.
"I'm not going anywhere."
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Think you can't counter, this isn't a duel, maybe you’re right, but we are ************** *** ******** ******* ** ******, or at least we were, and will again.
And you know, your ********* *** a little bit of torture, holding you close, intertwining pinkies, matching or dismatching footsteps, but I scarcely heard your voice, only when alone, under a lamppost, instead, remember the water and the fire, both sinister and uncontrollable, and vain, speaking whatever they want. me? possibly it might be good enough.
what: is this made of, origami and toothpaste, and maybe on tuesdays, vinegar too.
the waterfalls, rewind them as they happen, watch them roll up the trees and into the ground, playing the music of the spheres, I know I mentioned {and there is perfection in every flaw} not by god, goodness, although it sounds like, instead, listen to the voices, in the place of religion, what ultimate fiction is there, and turn to poetry. rejecting religion cant reject reason, rejecting god means you have to find you’re own meaning, write your own code, I’m speaking figuratively of course, like the last time that I committed suicide, social suicide. and if you missed something, what will you do with it? you should know yourself in that< will it follow you, or do you have to pull it along, or does the moment stop so you can stare at it forever and it never gets devoured before you move on and it does>>?
"
I keep forgetting. The real world takes its toll, so I look outside for "Keep Off the Grass" signs to pull up and stab into dead patches. I lie down and look for arches and blacktop and trees taller than they could ever be here, and right-side-up mazes with chalk scraped on. I can only find these when I close my eyes. When I hear notes from them. When I hear the voices that made the world-not-real-world a little, a lot more insane than I'd expected in my metal box. And here I am. Steel and sound and skin, or something poetic like that. No. No! More.
"
***'* ** *** **** **** *****!
and you dear enjoy. weather. I cant get at it here, you have fun with your steel and sound and skin while I deteriorate within these walls, you seem to be getting out, have enough fresh air for me, I rather enjoy it, its funny how the moment I tell how my mind is falling apart into order, my words seem rational. enough! as I spew crimson unicorns for you and rainbows don’t taste the same at night, they really don’t. I wound my grandfather backwards, he ticks down the china plates in the cabinet and they want my bubble wrap too. I’m paining my room over, painting colors, not to be vague, but actual colors, different bases that blend and bend and some that scream at the eyes, soon to be striped and splotched and worn and burned. It’s never finished. I paint what I see, and as I paint, see and more and spinning in, quick, over there, how to paint a panorama with only sound?
not a bird, just me in the window there
and what if I shatter like glass after I come apart at the, seems like I have my picture, its there at least, not here, in the world.
everyone’s a let down, and don’t you deny my queen, not a goddess? neither I a god, just ******* young, but watching from over the rail ** *** ****, you are my goddess, and come, I wish to join the dance, but lets not waste time with the stairs tonight, jump with me, we can see the ground, it cant be far, or do we even move, lets just dance here again, but through thought alone, because we can, we will join the rest, and pardon us if we bump into you, but we just don’t care tonight.
and by the way, wash the corners; we don’t need to see them, the need to blend! to the backwash of corpse
tie me up in the backspace too, but careful, I rewired the keyboard, you cant know where we'll go! don’t say it right, lets speak in tongues, english for me as we kiss. I see color in you words now, much better than the pale uncertainty I felt before, you seem better, cough drops? don’t get addicted. the wrappers will come to haunt you, don’t trust the rats, you cant see them, but they'll steal your gossamer mask.
fear in love? I don’t see that. with each emotion, let it wash over you and fill you and watch your veins glow with the color of the feeling, feel one thing at a time, feel it completely. fear is as beautiful as love, just remember its all chemical reactions, fire the pistol, yellow, but before the bullet leaves the barrel, the oak couldn’t drop its leaves, and they cling off white, rotting brown at the edges, can you see the oak covered in white leaves?
you like to complain about things? shut up. kiss me, now complain about that, or you can kiss me again, whisper fingerprints on my neck, hit me hard with the absolute softest caress, it’ll throw my heart off beat, and I might forget to keep it going, its such a pain to make a heart beat, and needed? pshaw.
isn’t a basket ball sitting on a wood floor under a window with the sun behind it, evening of course, so its pink, just as beautiful as a melting tree with burning fruit on a crumbling mountain, a girl hanged from the branch? and as the words crawl to the ancient pen, let the vines in your wrist rupture your skin and grow, wrapping around your finger tips.
is too much good bad? can good come from evil, the real question is does it even matter? it makes me glad when I see people smile, it makes me glad when I make people smile, so I make people smile, and I’m glad, screw the rest, its beautiful enough, even in its malice, it makes me smile no matter what it is, as long as I’m involved.
me, perfect? hahaha, I’m just like you, so lets get fucked up and die, and everything that follows.
and doesn’t it feel odd to get in a car, after walking everywhere *** *****, now you know what, I was right and so **** *** ************, * ****?
and don’t sneak sideways glances at me, you have to love yourself more than you love me, or something like that? meh. don’t wait for me, for cereal, dance your heart around without me, just remember me, because I’ll be back, don’t forget me is all I ask, but I don’t want you waiting just for me, because you might as well be sitting on the sidelines. and what’s with those six inches? pull your partners close; unless they smell bad, then you can push them over with a grin.
don’t drink to me, drink to yourself, your going to get high off it, right? there’s no one better to drink to than yourself, and don’t make me a cause, don’t live off my rules, don’t listen to me, I’m only here to share what I’ve thought, and to love you because I want to and cant help it, listen to yourself, figure out what you are, what you want, the savage garden and ballroom are mine, keep them if you want, but shred them to pieces and tell me what's yours!
of course there’s a goodbye kiss, and then a goodbye, and then ill leave, and then ill miss you and come running back for another. *** and you can do the same, and between us we'll never have to actually go anywhere. and I’m waiting for your stories, and I’m waiting to see what you will do in public, peter pan, you can be more obnoxious that you are now, and ask me about obnoxious if you don’t understand. its good, I love you in vertigo, write back, love
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[THIS IS PART ONE.]
[This side note is the only edit I have made in this response. I haven't read over it once. If I contradict myself, have underdeveloped thoughts, or hurt you, please bear with me.]
Freeze! And some other figure comes in, steals one away, so I beat them up *** ***** **** ***** ** **** * ***** ************. No. I refuse, because I don't know how many people are in the circle, or if we're in a circle at all, can you make one with two convoluted twisted straight lines? All I know is that there is ** **** ** that circle, outside of it ** *** **************, we drink ** *****, and when we jump back in *** *** ******* jump out and drink *** damn ****! Who are we, anyway? No, no, don't answer, you don't need to speak, our voices might be ugly when they sing but the words are always good.
And I figure, yes, you might as well be an angel sent down to save me. I laughed at that that night, and I still smile at it now, but differently. Can't believe I'm believing in silly comments, but here I am! Save me from myself, so as all fanfiction summaries say, and the hero falls in love with the victim, but the story's all wrong! - so we rip off the masks, the costumes, the delicate faces and spiderwebbed mazes, and run through the castle walls until they melt back **** *** **** and ****** ****** and speakers breaking, metronome migraines, and a sky dark as tuxedo jackets slick with hair gel, screaming. Running and screaming. Didn't I say they were the worst combination? That then someone could find you? I don't know about that now. There was screaming in my silence, you could say. You know how I ran. I'm a hypocrite, because maybe I wanted to be found all along [and that sounded incredibly bad shooting out of these hands.]
And yet, if I was mute, I would still be unhappy. I speak, I speak, even if only to you, but that might as well be good enough. But not really. Well, anyway - it's nothing so simple, nothing so silly, nothing so mundane. Go east ** ******* *******, turn left ** ******'* ******, turn right at the first stoplight - but no, no, no, I don't want that. I can't wait. I'll runskipdance instead, hair whipping, stabbing me in the eyes, and I'll laugh. Laugh until the cops come in and drag me to a life sentence - my crime is silence, an uproar of laughter, a load of secrets I'd never tell, just say everything else and I'd be fine. I'll take the bricks from my cell and carve sculptures from the bars, the guards will be baffled and amused, I sell my works on eBay and burn all the money. Run to Alaska with ten pounds of rice - but that would be too lonely. I'd rather eat a teabag.
You'd think my silence meant I understand silence itself. But I don't. I can only see the obvious, maybe a change in atmosphere, but I can't process the other languages, or maybe I can. I'm a liar - hell yes I can. I just have to stop thinking about it so hard. Difficult. Possible. I wrap my mind around words because they are concrete, and I don't know the abstract, but I'll flail at it anyways.
On Tuesdays, there are more flies than yesterday. Honey in tea, honey in coffee - revolting, so the flies go to bitterness. They go to reality. Is that why some kid at a day camp long ago caught one, pinned it to the table, and took out its eyes? So it wouldn't see anything, wouldn't see color, wouldn't mistake vinegar for water but use everything else, words, words, I spit them out like toothpicks. And they don't need instructions on the damn box.
And the music of the spheres, and we are falling backwards into the future, trudging into the past like the valiant greedy noble bastards we all are, or how we describe ourselves. When the waterrises seep in, do they touch the center of the earth? When do they dissolve into archaebacteria, into beginnings, into circle upon circles - if at all?
I wail. The back of my throat is sticky with water, communal wafers, with powdered words, church wine. I cough and they do not budge. Hiccup, and I fall to my knees, heaving over the sink, my head hurts so bad, elbows bent at acute angles to hold my hair back myself, and I ask the white porcelain bowl for time. It crawls out of my mouth and I pass out. I wake up. It was all a dream, or at least this paragraph-stanza-killer was.
Don't worry, because the human brain retains everything, we just can't access it all. When we find out how to put our thoughts in machines and in everyone else's head, it will be the end of the world, because then we'll all know things and misunderstand but we would _not_ misunderstand because we know everything now, and we can't lie anymore, there is only reality and that would suck ass.
[THIS IS PART TWO.]
***** ***! ***** ***! ***** ***! ***** ***! *** ****** *** *****!
Cut your way out with laser eyes, with society, with humanity, watch artificiality mix with nature, watch everything be ruined forever. So don't, don't, don't go that fast, look out the window, sneak past ** with a neon lavender glass ** **** in your hand, walk up to the doors at 5:45, hold them open for me too, I'll thank you, AND THEN WE RUN OUTSIDE careful not to spill caffeine precious caffeine hell yes HOLDING HANDS LIKE THE LUNATICS WE ARE, WE ARE, WERE MEANT TO BE, OR AT LEAST WANT TO BE! Because **'* ***, your never never land, the real world's taboo and sanity is unheard of.
Crimson unicorns - shun! Shun the nonbeliever, only not really, let's jump all over poor Charlie's china-muscle body until he wakes up, and the sequencing's all wrong, and the kidney is taken out of the wrong side! It wasn't my fault, I'm not buzzed from anesthetic, nor from a thousand, two thousand milligrams ** ******* with vitamins **** ****** ****, we'll worship * *** ******* and compare the price of gas to cigarettes, put an earbud in both our heads, just realized how close I might have been to saying "bullet" instead. I have a sick sense of humor, so I'll sneak into the computer lab and buy my life off iTunes, and all the songs are beautiful and horrendous, the harmonies clash, and it's the best kind of avant-garde I've heard in quite a while. No, it's not. I only go for the live performances. They go on forever, because I'm not dead yet. I'm so vain I need a nine-player punk cabaret punk rock orchestra to back me up. I don’t' know how to feel - and here's your conscience just in case you don't have one: Rod Serling said, he said: "This neighborhood's gone to the dogs." Let's stop and wave! Every time the cops drive by, we smile and smile and smile and smile. Broke as I'll be on Monday, at the village Halloween parade, me and the mad Monkettes, we CARRY THE DAY! This is only when nobody's looking, and on the inside I'm terribly lonely so I isolate it all in an old iPod mini, first generation, and I won't let you listen until I see you again. or maybe I will. And spit thunderstorms into the sky, they're beautiful like you. My teeth are made of lightning and my lips are bloody held-back words, my tongue is just sounds, it's not real, it's only in your head unless we're in the same seat, under a tree, a lamp-post, I don't know anything anymore. Chain links on the floor, and I'll pick them up, they turn into paper clips so I can hold all the pages together, so I fling them all into the fire and go back to the dance.
Painting? Lick the walls. Does your spit have color? Maybe it'll smell bad after a few days, but soak it all in Febreze, chemically refreshing, wheeze on the fumes and run out, jump on the bed and break the skylight, break the sky, but we're going somewhere! We don't know where!
Bluebirds on the roof, the shingles, ride them, I'll be in the trees fighting off squirrels with bottles of ginger ale, with plastic bags and oranges. Go on, you know you're crazy, we should all act on that. Life makes more sense if it makes no sense, and I hate that statement! So much!
La la la la la la la. Sonnets, I cannot write. Bad poetry, maybe, if I crumple it up, keep it in my pocket and have to run to keep it from - hell. Burn, burn! I walk with my hair in my face, Lady Lazarus, Plath references strewn about, worms like sticky pearls and I wonder where my soul went when it's all perception. Peel off the napkin - O my lover. Do I terrify? Lover, not enemy, because doctors save people but I know they're scared, they're numbed, but can't you feel the pins and needles anyway?
You're in the window, I don't know what side, you're south, I'm north, cold and bitter and *'* * *** ****** FEAR'S MY LIFE, I don't know **** *********'* ****, only my six-year-old self knows, and I can't recall, recall, recall. There are no voicemails from the past that I can get to now. A few more years. Ew.
And if you shatter like glass, I****, ***** **** ** divided by zero, but not really, I don' know what would happen. Kiss your lips and I taste my own blood, bubbling up. Can shards speak? If you painted yourself, could the world in the paper stacks beside you creep in and let you go? Horcruxes, but don't split your soul, I can feel it in the walls that you've never seen before. Glass lips. Glass! Too smooth, cold, glacial, dawn would break it open instead of the reverse. So you are made of atoms and atoms and love and hate and all the rest, that's why you're here, why I'm the same and different, and why I'm trying to make it rain cookies.
Yours, but not a! You are a vampire, a face that needs eyeliner that last night, a voice that sings dying, whispering, quoting, gasping philosophies and anti-theories, views on life into the piped-icing-cloud sky, fans look down and make your hair levitate, when the light hits you right you look evil like I do when the sun sets me on fire, 42:42:42, * ****, on the millisecond. Beautiful, but you're not a god, not even a king, just an angel with human tendencies. Scratch that. Maybe - just look at the shadows on the wall. Two meld into one, the truth and the lies, the truth is a lie, the lies are only truth, and the cake - don't even get me started! You can see my lipstick from the other side of the gym, I see you and pretend not to, but I'm still taken by surprise. It is hot in the room, I'm cold, cold, heat passes through me, I'm the worst kind of sieve. And yet you are warm. I wondered why you'd want to grasp soft marble, melting rancid ice cream, rubber tires, wedding rings in my nose. Symbols on my eye I forgot the meaning of, wrote on my hands and you'd read the actual words, answer the questions, I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. Sure, I'll jump. The floor is latex tiles, but the bodies are dough in fancier clothing. No, I won't depend on them, but I'll just have to grip your hand until both our palms are sweaty, and we're falling, falling up until we bang our heads on the ceiling floor, the solo comes on, we fit right in.
Wash the corners with blood, it'd be so much more patriotic.
[THIS IS PART THREE.]
So are we tied together? Self-censorship was here, but still I say we are, I'll assume fearlessly, because I don't know fear, I do know fear, but not tonight; raptors are in my blood. I have the coffee-stained teeth to prove it - or _had_, rather, the dentist didn't want people to know...
A keyboard is a minefield, but what does it explode into?
Speaking in tongues - your puns amuse me, so I'll close my eyes and breathe non-words into your head, draw patterns into your back with shaking fingertips, earthquakes, earthquakes on every surface. You're more alive than I'll ever be, at least in that long-ago state of mind, and I'll leave that, soaked in hyphens, in the curtains. I'm not in stage crew anymore, but I used to be, so they won't mind.
My mask, sure, but I can still hide: hair, hands, sleeves. Layer upon layer of plastic, I am a monster, I won't bleed if you puncture my skin, I'll simply turn back into pixels and you'll level up. No. I am real, very real, at least to myself - that was redundant, and I'm not editing anything. This fastwrite takes hours.
The oak leaves weren't that way at first, you know. There was this poor farmer in Mississippi there, and he whitewashed all the green away, because his world had to be black and white in more than just his head. The grass is dribbled with metallic snow, and he's outlined all the edges with his black brush pens stolen from the artist next door. I tried to stop him, really I did! I had the pistol, and he ran after me with his bucket of pearls, and I was afraid. Afraid of the monochrome, so I fired the gun, the pail, the splatters were flung into the air, and he died, fingerprints in white, white dripping from his mouth, but he was bleeding red. Red, and it seeped into the white, he stained it pink and raw. Then it traveled even deeper, and the oak, seeing color, shouted, threw its arms up in joy. The blood squinched its way up, up the trunk, through the branches, finally stopping at the fringes of the leaves, drying brown, rotting brown, and here we are. I looked at the artist's corpse and threw up out of pity, and my bile mixed with the pink grass, so it died, light brown, dried up. Then it started to rain, new grass sprouted up - no, they had all turned to flowers, delicate death-flowers, and the water collected into the centers of the leaves, the leaves got soaked red, red, scarlet, and the trunk stayed its old bark-trunk-sour brown, so covered with red. And so the oak turned to a Japanese maple. A lamp-post grew up through the farmer's body, normal trees sprouted up, they poured blacktop in swirls, in rectangles, brought out all the chalk they could. The maple is gone now, because they made it a "keep off the grass" sign, and when they stuck it in the ground, all the flowers fled for anti-society.
I have to admit, I like that story I painted with pressure and my eyes rolled into my brain. I'm a mess, I'm a wreck. I thank you for being a part of my forget-me-nots and marigolds.
You speak in lyrics to songs I'll never hear outside of my ears, poetry that means something, that I understand but I can never write or sing myself. I've always had an awful voice, but you can't hear me now, can you? Can you...?
I'd choose the latter, the latter, the latter, because sometimes the words never always fit to say...and I'll trail off all my sentences, sever the last words, because last means an end, and I refuse to believe in endings for now.
Perhaps that's what you taught me to do. And it's more likely I'd break their faces and manhoods with stilettos with actual stiletto blades for heels, I'm fun and a bitchface like that. If they're a jerk, I'll spike the punch, lead them upstairs, and set them on fire, gauzy curtains and all. But I won't, really. It's more likely I'll run away, lose a knife-shoe, speed up the plush staircase and fight off sanity with my traveling dagger, knowing I've already won. Would that speed the time? Jump off the balcony with me, let's do a stage dive, crowdsurf, headbang and cry out of exhilaration, cry our eyeliner off in perfect streams and clouds. Kiss my cheek, you'll taste salt; kiss my mouth, you'll taste...hell, I don't know.
Your ego amazes me. Oh, love.
The veins, the vines are red again, crimson, burgundy, cheap red wine. I become them, and they move the tissues, the pen, and write words I know but not the meanings. Trees grow out of my wrists, and ever since I gave you my heart and chain, they lovelily turn me ever darker, darker, darker...take my chain-link fences, take my past and make it something entirely new. The hills are on fire, so KISS ME BEFORE THE TREES THE VEINS MY BLOOD BURN DOWN TO WATER LIKE A SONG A SONG FROM YOUR HEART TO YOUR BRAIN LET US DANCE LIKE ORGANIC ANTI-BALLERINAS OUR MOVEMENTS JERKING AND COARSE TO YOUR ROCK AND ROLL. Lift up your hands. Lift up your hands. Lift up your HANDS!
I'll do that, indeed.
No, don't you dare wait for me. Live. Live. Live it the FUCK up, because I'd hate to live with someone like me, because you are you, because I love you, because there should be a thesaurus for just that phrase, because reasons are grown-up things and we both have a Peter Pan complex.
Write back, write back, because I can see you in all your words, lying in green and brown, talking to me and the lamp-post, talking to me and the darkest light blue sky. And again: watashi wa ai suru, te amo, miluji te, mahal kita, you're a fucking looney, I love you.
The Pains of the Past
The Follies of Future
And Pretenses
Or
Holy Fuck Why Do I Have To Read All This Shit
And The Memoirs Of How I Lost My Sock
By The Authors Who Brought You:
I Shaved My Legs For This?
And
(Text Purposefully Omitted)
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I miss you quite terribly.
[I'm quoting song lyrics again. Apologies.]
I miss everything. So...much.
It never hit this hard before.
And I regret
not giving you
a proper goodbye.
Or at least one that felt close enough.
Oh hell.
I'm sulking. I'm sorry, I really am, and those words don't look meaningful enough when I type them. But anyways, I am sorry. I am sorry a thousand times over. I should listen more. But it...no, it doesn't hurt, it's just hard to.
Side note: the problem with me and writing is that I edit excessively as I go. And I hate how I sound so different in the written than the spoken. A little more sarcastic. A little more sardonic, biting...cold? I'm unsure. I don't know how I sound to other people either way. I'll assume -
I sound silly, don't I?
In the real world I'm not supposed to drink coffee every morning, so I'm not thinking straight right now. Maybe that's a good thing.
I don't know.
I'm scared.
I woke up an hour ago to sunlight and - silence. Absolute fucking silence. Not even a snort **** ***** to console me. So I screamed, *** grabbed ** *******, stuffed ** ** ** *****, even though nobody would yell at me for not doing so. [I sort of don't want to wash them, these jeans. They wouldn't smell the same at all. A little revolting, but...****.]
Walking downstairs was...I couldn't hear my footsteps echo. The carpet sank under my feet. Too soft. Wondered why I was walking barefoot.
Looked outside at the lawn - the grass was too green. Well, no. It was too - perfect. Dull neon, every sharp bit with the contrast upped. There were no brown patches. It wasn't quashed down anywhere. Anywhere! No footprints - horribly green and lush, unruffled, untouched! I was too scared to get too close. Too homey. Too alien.
When I walk, I wonder if we're still in sync. If we're breathing at the same time. If we're both breathing at all.
I like you. I love you. * *** ***. * *** *** to the 1764th power [* ****] and then some. You changed a lot for me.
Thanks.
This isn't the end, right?
I can't handle endings. Not now. Not even - no, especially not the temporary ones. The temporary ones are why I am totally not burying my face ** ** ****** so I don't forget *** *** *****.
I'm trying to talk to people now, smudging eyeliner, drinking ******** in your honor.
::hug::
::kiss::
::wild skipping rampage across *** **** in the dark ***** * ****-****::
And all the rest.
Can I assume you're going to write back?
♥
With hair in my face, a rusty bracelet and some other meaningful-sounding sort of thing,
******.
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wow, that was epically long. I'm usually one for short responses, like yeses and nos, but such a long letter deserves a long response, right? of course it does, there's no way to argue with that. well, there's always a way to argue with it, actually, but it just feels right.
I am also going to quote a song, unfortunately, you cant just read the lyrics, you have to go listen, title is Nocturne no.20 in C-sharp minor by Chopin. let me know what you think. in fact, chopin in general is wonderful
meaningful words, or in other words, words that have meaning. god those are hard to come by, to think of. Hell. don’t listen. stop apologizing. stop with me. stand forever by my side and watch the world rot. and laugh with me. be my goddess. all that foolishness. there’s no reason sulk, no reason to be sorry. real, make-believe, what’s the difference? perceive with the mind, but mind, it's only perception.
edit as you go. I don’t know why you think that’s a problem. let your writing be a voice of its own. a little more sarcastic, a little colder, a little meaner, a little full of malice, or a lot. let it be itself. hell, give it a name. *****'* ** ******, **** ** ****, what's yours? give it some time.
don’t worry how you sound to other people; they don’t know how they sound to you. except me, I know how I sound cause I'm special like that.
thinking straight? who wants that? I know the answer, I think you do too. (**) it’s adults, and you know what we feel about them. today I was accused of acting like a five-year-old by some old friends. isn’t that great? I cant think of any reason not to do, but there might be. and to be a little (ok, really) technical, thoughts are created by sensory inputs which trigger clusters of neurons, which interact with other clusters, while meanwhile more sensory inputs are starting off new cluster chains, which interact with other chains. all this chaos creates consciousness and curiosity etc. so what’s with this "thinking straight". I see more chaos. which is much more fun. but at the same time, you can simplify outputs to happy, sad, mad, etc. so the chaos can be manipulated. the clusters create thought, but thought can create clusters, so you can consciously manipulate your own mind. don’t think to hard.
scared, maybe you understand this. numb, you’ve felt it too. after numbness, scared can be welcomed, it can be really cool feeling if just let it run through your body like a drug.... best reference I can think of.
ok, first off, I really love your voice in the next part. you made me realize why my writing stopped working, it was because I had stopped complaining about things, I had pushed my darker half away, thank you for reminding me **** **'* *****. ***
why should you be faltered by pristine and untouched beauty? pure snow, lush grass, uncreased sky? the world is a savage garden, vivid colors entrance as the garden devours itself, as surely the world devours itself, not speaking of humans just, but of all beings surviving in the garden. perfection? yes it is, you, perfect, and everything around you perfect, and everything around me perfect, and people try to find perfection, trip and are devoured. just walk through, knowing that your perfect and knowing the perfection of the savage garden. if you look like you know where you’re going, you might as well, no questions shall be asked. don’t forget, you edit your words, don’t stop, edit the world
when you walk, forget about me, and not to mean to leave me, but when to enjoy the perfection around you, in chaos why shant all be equal?
there is something called the quantum superposition. a classic exemplification is Schrödinger's cat. this theory puts a cat in a box with food and closes the box. now the cat can, or cannot eat the food, and therefore the cat can be alive or dead, but since the box is closed, we cant know whether the cat is alive or dead, we just know its one of the two. According to quantum superpositions, we say that because of the unknown condition of the cat, it is both alive and dead. Once, you open the box, you can eliminate one of the choices, but while its closed, it is both. so why cant we be? while apart, we walk in perfect harmony and disharmony at the same time, we breathe and we don’t, we do everything the same, and we do nothing the same at the same time. and all the time we enjoy the savage garden.
there’s no ending, this isn’t a storybook, its a dance. a ballroom dance from 1762, the style. and its now. and we twirl around the floor, spinning many people, and its all ok, because we're on the dance floor, there’s no ending, we'll dance again, just twirl your lovers while you wait for me, ill find you, be there, and when I find you, well let the party revolve around us as we dance together, stare into eyes, laughing at how vain we are, you must be by the time we meet, keep your hair back so you can see your partners, so they see you, find you, wait for me.
don’t drink in my honor, I don’t deserve that, I’m a horrible being, loathe me, detest me, love me and stay with me, ****** and everything we know, ill kiss you every time before you’re stolen away. and ill always know where you are, don’t worry about losing me, until your next to me, touch me gently first, I lose you when you’re next to me, but don’t think I've forgotten you
watch with me as a thousand black flowers explode into butterflies and they're away and kiss me, jekyll and hyde, under *** **** ****, under the stars, under a bridge, in a stairwell, in the savage garden and on the dancefloor. love in what vertigo
♥
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What does one say to that? I know I can't counter those words. Not as well as I want to. Not that I want to, either. Not after tearing up. This is no duel.
Maybe it's because of the Yiruma being poured into my ears instead of, say, your voice. But if it was your voice, and if I could feel your body heat right now, if I could hear your heartbeat [if you still have a heart ******* ** ***], it'd be an entirely different story and I wouldn't be typing right now. One wonders. But for now, I'll switch back to Panic, because the words are long and easy to look through. Raindrops and roses. To feel right is...hell, you've done it, and I'll do it right back. The drums make me angry, so I hug myself and say, "Die, bitch!" because you're in my head and off the internets. [Edit: not now.]
It sounds - deliberate, gentle, a little sad. I'll have to listen again. I'm sure I missed something. Quietly dramatic. Sharp trills. Imperfect circles. Bittersweet? Rolling up and down. Slow waterfalls.
I keep forgetting. The real world takes its toll, so I look outside for "Keep Off the Grass" signs to pull up and stab into dead patches. I lie down and look for arches and blacktop and trees taller than they could ever be here, and right-side-up mazes with chalk scraped on. I can only find these when I close my eyes. When I hear notes from them. When I hear the voices that made the world-not-real-world a little, a lot more insane than I'd expected in my metal box. And here I am. Steel and sound and skin, or something poetic like that. No. No! More.
I am no goddess, just a human with bad perspective and cute little noises. But I will laugh. We all are fools, and it's great. Everything is made of everything it's not! I refuse to make sense, because I mimic the world, or parts of it. A puzzle piece with disconnected thoughts and broken-off angles. One of the corners.
It has bounds. Tie myself up again with the backspace button, because I know I can't say anything right. Take a trip inside my head, I don't know how. Tell me what it looks like. Actually, no, you'll find out even states away. Eventually. Probably. My words suck.
Take in rather than analyze?
Love is better, but fear's mixed in that too. Fear is a dictatorship. Something. Something.
I like to complain about things, and thank you, and you're welcome. My sentences grow ever choppier. Bullets. Hard-hitting, and there's no flow, fragments, put me back together. Reanimation. Dead tissue.
Beauty is in imperfection, too. Like *** **** - halfway-dead grass soaks in words and touch _because_ it is halfway-dead, it waits to be full, and it clings to hair and clothes because it wants to be complete. Perfect grass makes it feel too saturated, associating it with good things. What am I saying? Am I saying that too much good is bad? I don't know, because I can hear words, and they crawl down my fingertips and press on a dirty keyboard.
I thank you, but I am not perfect. I can't decide on whether you are perfect yourself, though. Not yet. However long it takes. But I will live. Vanity, I live on. Vanity, I am.
I'll try. To fall in step, though...I wonder why I've been seeing only sidewalk for the past ten minutes and nothing's happened yet, why my hands are so cold. I'm not trying to, but it just floats in there, and the pavement gets a little darker with dirt at the edges instead of tires. And you are you.
That...means something. I will keep it.
You amaze me. And I'll keep my hair back, dancing with those strangers to pass the time, sneak sideways glances at you on the other side of the room. Miles, feet away. Mouthing words, reading lips, but still dancing, trying not to smash toes with knee-high boots, swift, six inches apart. Threads. Threads across borders, metal threads, conducting all currents, at least the ones in words.
You also just contradicted yourself, but that's probably all the different parts of you speaking. Do I drink in your anti-honor, then? Or simply to the memories, a little less **** ***** *****, days of scenes and improvisation? I can. I can do that.
Goodbye kisses, but there is no goodbye. Screw endings - this is a circle. Ghost arms, snatches of smiles, poetry hidden in boxes of tea - all I have ** *** ****, and yet not. There is more. Maybe when you find met again, I'll tell you stories; tell them until we're breathing words, carbon dioxide, secrets in sync. Under that lamp-post, under brick walls, in the cello-string grass, the laughter-light sky, below a dripping moon, against a balcony's edge, on the fringes of society, between real and make-believe, maybe I'll kiss you first.
"I'm not going anywhere."
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Think you can't counter, this isn't a duel, maybe you’re right, but we are ************** *** ******** ******* ** ******, or at least we were, and will again.
And you know, your ********* *** a little bit of torture, holding you close, intertwining pinkies, matching or dismatching footsteps, but I scarcely heard your voice, only when alone, under a lamppost, instead, remember the water and the fire, both sinister and uncontrollable, and vain, speaking whatever they want. me? possibly it might be good enough.
what: is this made of, origami and toothpaste, and maybe on tuesdays, vinegar too.
the waterfalls, rewind them as they happen, watch them roll up the trees and into the ground, playing the music of the spheres, I know I mentioned {and there is perfection in every flaw} not by god, goodness, although it sounds like, instead, listen to the voices, in the place of religion, what ultimate fiction is there, and turn to poetry. rejecting religion cant reject reason, rejecting god means you have to find you’re own meaning, write your own code, I’m speaking figuratively of course, like the last time that I committed suicide, social suicide. and if you missed something, what will you do with it? you should know yourself in that< will it follow you, or do you have to pull it along, or does the moment stop so you can stare at it forever and it never gets devoured before you move on and it does>>?
"
I keep forgetting. The real world takes its toll, so I look outside for "Keep Off the Grass" signs to pull up and stab into dead patches. I lie down and look for arches and blacktop and trees taller than they could ever be here, and right-side-up mazes with chalk scraped on. I can only find these when I close my eyes. When I hear notes from them. When I hear the voices that made the world-not-real-world a little, a lot more insane than I'd expected in my metal box. And here I am. Steel and sound and skin, or something poetic like that. No. No! More.
"
***'* ** *** **** **** *****!
and you dear enjoy. weather. I cant get at it here, you have fun with your steel and sound and skin while I deteriorate within these walls, you seem to be getting out, have enough fresh air for me, I rather enjoy it, its funny how the moment I tell how my mind is falling apart into order, my words seem rational. enough! as I spew crimson unicorns for you and rainbows don’t taste the same at night, they really don’t. I wound my grandfather backwards, he ticks down the china plates in the cabinet and they want my bubble wrap too. I’m paining my room over, painting colors, not to be vague, but actual colors, different bases that blend and bend and some that scream at the eyes, soon to be striped and splotched and worn and burned. It’s never finished. I paint what I see, and as I paint, see and more and spinning in, quick, over there, how to paint a panorama with only sound?
not a bird, just me in the window there
and what if I shatter like glass after I come apart at the, seems like I have my picture, its there at least, not here, in the world.
everyone’s a let down, and don’t you deny my queen, not a goddess? neither I a god, just ******* young, but watching from over the rail ** *** ****, you are my goddess, and come, I wish to join the dance, but lets not waste time with the stairs tonight, jump with me, we can see the ground, it cant be far, or do we even move, lets just dance here again, but through thought alone, because we can, we will join the rest, and pardon us if we bump into you, but we just don’t care tonight.
and by the way, wash the corners; we don’t need to see them, the need to blend! to the backwash of corpse
tie me up in the backspace too, but careful, I rewired the keyboard, you cant know where we'll go! don’t say it right, lets speak in tongues, english for me as we kiss. I see color in you words now, much better than the pale uncertainty I felt before, you seem better, cough drops? don’t get addicted. the wrappers will come to haunt you, don’t trust the rats, you cant see them, but they'll steal your gossamer mask.
fear in love? I don’t see that. with each emotion, let it wash over you and fill you and watch your veins glow with the color of the feeling, feel one thing at a time, feel it completely. fear is as beautiful as love, just remember its all chemical reactions, fire the pistol, yellow, but before the bullet leaves the barrel, the oak couldn’t drop its leaves, and they cling off white, rotting brown at the edges, can you see the oak covered in white leaves?
you like to complain about things? shut up. kiss me, now complain about that, or you can kiss me again, whisper fingerprints on my neck, hit me hard with the absolute softest caress, it’ll throw my heart off beat, and I might forget to keep it going, its such a pain to make a heart beat, and needed? pshaw.
isn’t a basket ball sitting on a wood floor under a window with the sun behind it, evening of course, so its pink, just as beautiful as a melting tree with burning fruit on a crumbling mountain, a girl hanged from the branch? and as the words crawl to the ancient pen, let the vines in your wrist rupture your skin and grow, wrapping around your finger tips.
is too much good bad? can good come from evil, the real question is does it even matter? it makes me glad when I see people smile, it makes me glad when I make people smile, so I make people smile, and I’m glad, screw the rest, its beautiful enough, even in its malice, it makes me smile no matter what it is, as long as I’m involved.
me, perfect? hahaha, I’m just like you, so lets get fucked up and die, and everything that follows.
and doesn’t it feel odd to get in a car, after walking everywhere *** *****, now you know what, I was right and so **** *** ************, * ****?
and don’t sneak sideways glances at me, you have to love yourself more than you love me, or something like that? meh. don’t wait for me, for cereal, dance your heart around without me, just remember me, because I’ll be back, don’t forget me is all I ask, but I don’t want you waiting just for me, because you might as well be sitting on the sidelines. and what’s with those six inches? pull your partners close; unless they smell bad, then you can push them over with a grin.
don’t drink to me, drink to yourself, your going to get high off it, right? there’s no one better to drink to than yourself, and don’t make me a cause, don’t live off my rules, don’t listen to me, I’m only here to share what I’ve thought, and to love you because I want to and cant help it, listen to yourself, figure out what you are, what you want, the savage garden and ballroom are mine, keep them if you want, but shred them to pieces and tell me what's yours!
of course there’s a goodbye kiss, and then a goodbye, and then ill leave, and then ill miss you and come running back for another. *** and you can do the same, and between us we'll never have to actually go anywhere. and I’m waiting for your stories, and I’m waiting to see what you will do in public, peter pan, you can be more obnoxious that you are now, and ask me about obnoxious if you don’t understand. its good, I love you in vertigo, write back, love
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[THIS IS PART ONE.]
[This side note is the only edit I have made in this response. I haven't read over it once. If I contradict myself, have underdeveloped thoughts, or hurt you, please bear with me.]
Freeze! And some other figure comes in, steals one away, so I beat them up *** ***** **** ***** ** **** * ***** ************. No. I refuse, because I don't know how many people are in the circle, or if we're in a circle at all, can you make one with two convoluted twisted straight lines? All I know is that there is ** **** ** that circle, outside of it ** *** **************, we drink ** *****, and when we jump back in *** *** ******* jump out and drink *** damn ****! Who are we, anyway? No, no, don't answer, you don't need to speak, our voices might be ugly when they sing but the words are always good.
And I figure, yes, you might as well be an angel sent down to save me. I laughed at that that night, and I still smile at it now, but differently. Can't believe I'm believing in silly comments, but here I am! Save me from myself, so as all fanfiction summaries say, and the hero falls in love with the victim, but the story's all wrong! - so we rip off the masks, the costumes, the delicate faces and spiderwebbed mazes, and run through the castle walls until they melt back **** *** **** and ****** ****** and speakers breaking, metronome migraines, and a sky dark as tuxedo jackets slick with hair gel, screaming. Running and screaming. Didn't I say they were the worst combination? That then someone could find you? I don't know about that now. There was screaming in my silence, you could say. You know how I ran. I'm a hypocrite, because maybe I wanted to be found all along [and that sounded incredibly bad shooting out of these hands.]
And yet, if I was mute, I would still be unhappy. I speak, I speak, even if only to you, but that might as well be good enough. But not really. Well, anyway - it's nothing so simple, nothing so silly, nothing so mundane. Go east ** ******* *******, turn left ** ******'* ******, turn right at the first stoplight - but no, no, no, I don't want that. I can't wait. I'll runskipdance instead, hair whipping, stabbing me in the eyes, and I'll laugh. Laugh until the cops come in and drag me to a life sentence - my crime is silence, an uproar of laughter, a load of secrets I'd never tell, just say everything else and I'd be fine. I'll take the bricks from my cell and carve sculptures from the bars, the guards will be baffled and amused, I sell my works on eBay and burn all the money. Run to Alaska with ten pounds of rice - but that would be too lonely. I'd rather eat a teabag.
You'd think my silence meant I understand silence itself. But I don't. I can only see the obvious, maybe a change in atmosphere, but I can't process the other languages, or maybe I can. I'm a liar - hell yes I can. I just have to stop thinking about it so hard. Difficult. Possible. I wrap my mind around words because they are concrete, and I don't know the abstract, but I'll flail at it anyways.
On Tuesdays, there are more flies than yesterday. Honey in tea, honey in coffee - revolting, so the flies go to bitterness. They go to reality. Is that why some kid at a day camp long ago caught one, pinned it to the table, and took out its eyes? So it wouldn't see anything, wouldn't see color, wouldn't mistake vinegar for water but use everything else, words, words, I spit them out like toothpicks. And they don't need instructions on the damn box.
And the music of the spheres, and we are falling backwards into the future, trudging into the past like the valiant greedy noble bastards we all are, or how we describe ourselves. When the waterrises seep in, do they touch the center of the earth? When do they dissolve into archaebacteria, into beginnings, into circle upon circles - if at all?
I wail. The back of my throat is sticky with water, communal wafers, with powdered words, church wine. I cough and they do not budge. Hiccup, and I fall to my knees, heaving over the sink, my head hurts so bad, elbows bent at acute angles to hold my hair back myself, and I ask the white porcelain bowl for time. It crawls out of my mouth and I pass out. I wake up. It was all a dream, or at least this paragraph-stanza-killer was.
Don't worry, because the human brain retains everything, we just can't access it all. When we find out how to put our thoughts in machines and in everyone else's head, it will be the end of the world, because then we'll all know things and misunderstand but we would _not_ misunderstand because we know everything now, and we can't lie anymore, there is only reality and that would suck ass.
[THIS IS PART TWO.]
***** ***! ***** ***! ***** ***! ***** ***! *** ****** *** *****!
Cut your way out with laser eyes, with society, with humanity, watch artificiality mix with nature, watch everything be ruined forever. So don't, don't, don't go that fast, look out the window, sneak past ** with a neon lavender glass ** **** in your hand, walk up to the doors at 5:45, hold them open for me too, I'll thank you, AND THEN WE RUN OUTSIDE careful not to spill caffeine precious caffeine hell yes HOLDING HANDS LIKE THE LUNATICS WE ARE, WE ARE, WERE MEANT TO BE, OR AT LEAST WANT TO BE! Because **'* ***, your never never land, the real world's taboo and sanity is unheard of.
Crimson unicorns - shun! Shun the nonbeliever, only not really, let's jump all over poor Charlie's china-muscle body until he wakes up, and the sequencing's all wrong, and the kidney is taken out of the wrong side! It wasn't my fault, I'm not buzzed from anesthetic, nor from a thousand, two thousand milligrams ** ******* with vitamins **** ****** ****, we'll worship * *** ******* and compare the price of gas to cigarettes, put an earbud in both our heads, just realized how close I might have been to saying "bullet" instead. I have a sick sense of humor, so I'll sneak into the computer lab and buy my life off iTunes, and all the songs are beautiful and horrendous, the harmonies clash, and it's the best kind of avant-garde I've heard in quite a while. No, it's not. I only go for the live performances. They go on forever, because I'm not dead yet. I'm so vain I need a nine-player punk cabaret punk rock orchestra to back me up. I don’t' know how to feel - and here's your conscience just in case you don't have one: Rod Serling said, he said: "This neighborhood's gone to the dogs." Let's stop and wave! Every time the cops drive by, we smile and smile and smile and smile. Broke as I'll be on Monday, at the village Halloween parade, me and the mad Monkettes, we CARRY THE DAY! This is only when nobody's looking, and on the inside I'm terribly lonely so I isolate it all in an old iPod mini, first generation, and I won't let you listen until I see you again. or maybe I will. And spit thunderstorms into the sky, they're beautiful like you. My teeth are made of lightning and my lips are bloody held-back words, my tongue is just sounds, it's not real, it's only in your head unless we're in the same seat, under a tree, a lamp-post, I don't know anything anymore. Chain links on the floor, and I'll pick them up, they turn into paper clips so I can hold all the pages together, so I fling them all into the fire and go back to the dance.
Painting? Lick the walls. Does your spit have color? Maybe it'll smell bad after a few days, but soak it all in Febreze, chemically refreshing, wheeze on the fumes and run out, jump on the bed and break the skylight, break the sky, but we're going somewhere! We don't know where!
Bluebirds on the roof, the shingles, ride them, I'll be in the trees fighting off squirrels with bottles of ginger ale, with plastic bags and oranges. Go on, you know you're crazy, we should all act on that. Life makes more sense if it makes no sense, and I hate that statement! So much!
La la la la la la la. Sonnets, I cannot write. Bad poetry, maybe, if I crumple it up, keep it in my pocket and have to run to keep it from - hell. Burn, burn! I walk with my hair in my face, Lady Lazarus, Plath references strewn about, worms like sticky pearls and I wonder where my soul went when it's all perception. Peel off the napkin - O my lover. Do I terrify? Lover, not enemy, because doctors save people but I know they're scared, they're numbed, but can't you feel the pins and needles anyway?
You're in the window, I don't know what side, you're south, I'm north, cold and bitter and *'* * *** ****** FEAR'S MY LIFE, I don't know **** *********'* ****, only my six-year-old self knows, and I can't recall, recall, recall. There are no voicemails from the past that I can get to now. A few more years. Ew.
And if you shatter like glass, I****, ***** **** ** divided by zero, but not really, I don' know what would happen. Kiss your lips and I taste my own blood, bubbling up. Can shards speak? If you painted yourself, could the world in the paper stacks beside you creep in and let you go? Horcruxes, but don't split your soul, I can feel it in the walls that you've never seen before. Glass lips. Glass! Too smooth, cold, glacial, dawn would break it open instead of the reverse. So you are made of atoms and atoms and love and hate and all the rest, that's why you're here, why I'm the same and different, and why I'm trying to make it rain cookies.
Yours, but not a! You are a vampire, a face that needs eyeliner that last night, a voice that sings dying, whispering, quoting, gasping philosophies and anti-theories, views on life into the piped-icing-cloud sky, fans look down and make your hair levitate, when the light hits you right you look evil like I do when the sun sets me on fire, 42:42:42, * ****, on the millisecond. Beautiful, but you're not a god, not even a king, just an angel with human tendencies. Scratch that. Maybe - just look at the shadows on the wall. Two meld into one, the truth and the lies, the truth is a lie, the lies are only truth, and the cake - don't even get me started! You can see my lipstick from the other side of the gym, I see you and pretend not to, but I'm still taken by surprise. It is hot in the room, I'm cold, cold, heat passes through me, I'm the worst kind of sieve. And yet you are warm. I wondered why you'd want to grasp soft marble, melting rancid ice cream, rubber tires, wedding rings in my nose. Symbols on my eye I forgot the meaning of, wrote on my hands and you'd read the actual words, answer the questions, I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. Sure, I'll jump. The floor is latex tiles, but the bodies are dough in fancier clothing. No, I won't depend on them, but I'll just have to grip your hand until both our palms are sweaty, and we're falling, falling up until we bang our heads on the ceiling floor, the solo comes on, we fit right in.
Wash the corners with blood, it'd be so much more patriotic.
[THIS IS PART THREE.]
So are we tied together? Self-censorship was here, but still I say we are, I'll assume fearlessly, because I don't know fear, I do know fear, but not tonight; raptors are in my blood. I have the coffee-stained teeth to prove it - or _had_, rather, the dentist didn't want people to know...
A keyboard is a minefield, but what does it explode into?
Speaking in tongues - your puns amuse me, so I'll close my eyes and breathe non-words into your head, draw patterns into your back with shaking fingertips, earthquakes, earthquakes on every surface. You're more alive than I'll ever be, at least in that long-ago state of mind, and I'll leave that, soaked in hyphens, in the curtains. I'm not in stage crew anymore, but I used to be, so they won't mind.
My mask, sure, but I can still hide: hair, hands, sleeves. Layer upon layer of plastic, I am a monster, I won't bleed if you puncture my skin, I'll simply turn back into pixels and you'll level up. No. I am real, very real, at least to myself - that was redundant, and I'm not editing anything. This fastwrite takes hours.
The oak leaves weren't that way at first, you know. There was this poor farmer in Mississippi there, and he whitewashed all the green away, because his world had to be black and white in more than just his head. The grass is dribbled with metallic snow, and he's outlined all the edges with his black brush pens stolen from the artist next door. I tried to stop him, really I did! I had the pistol, and he ran after me with his bucket of pearls, and I was afraid. Afraid of the monochrome, so I fired the gun, the pail, the splatters were flung into the air, and he died, fingerprints in white, white dripping from his mouth, but he was bleeding red. Red, and it seeped into the white, he stained it pink and raw. Then it traveled even deeper, and the oak, seeing color, shouted, threw its arms up in joy. The blood squinched its way up, up the trunk, through the branches, finally stopping at the fringes of the leaves, drying brown, rotting brown, and here we are. I looked at the artist's corpse and threw up out of pity, and my bile mixed with the pink grass, so it died, light brown, dried up. Then it started to rain, new grass sprouted up - no, they had all turned to flowers, delicate death-flowers, and the water collected into the centers of the leaves, the leaves got soaked red, red, scarlet, and the trunk stayed its old bark-trunk-sour brown, so covered with red. And so the oak turned to a Japanese maple. A lamp-post grew up through the farmer's body, normal trees sprouted up, they poured blacktop in swirls, in rectangles, brought out all the chalk they could. The maple is gone now, because they made it a "keep off the grass" sign, and when they stuck it in the ground, all the flowers fled for anti-society.
I have to admit, I like that story I painted with pressure and my eyes rolled into my brain. I'm a mess, I'm a wreck. I thank you for being a part of my forget-me-nots and marigolds.
You speak in lyrics to songs I'll never hear outside of my ears, poetry that means something, that I understand but I can never write or sing myself. I've always had an awful voice, but you can't hear me now, can you? Can you...?
I'd choose the latter, the latter, the latter, because sometimes the words never always fit to say...and I'll trail off all my sentences, sever the last words, because last means an end, and I refuse to believe in endings for now.
Perhaps that's what you taught me to do. And it's more likely I'd break their faces and manhoods with stilettos with actual stiletto blades for heels, I'm fun and a bitchface like that. If they're a jerk, I'll spike the punch, lead them upstairs, and set them on fire, gauzy curtains and all. But I won't, really. It's more likely I'll run away, lose a knife-shoe, speed up the plush staircase and fight off sanity with my traveling dagger, knowing I've already won. Would that speed the time? Jump off the balcony with me, let's do a stage dive, crowdsurf, headbang and cry out of exhilaration, cry our eyeliner off in perfect streams and clouds. Kiss my cheek, you'll taste salt; kiss my mouth, you'll taste...hell, I don't know.
Your ego amazes me. Oh, love.
The veins, the vines are red again, crimson, burgundy, cheap red wine. I become them, and they move the tissues, the pen, and write words I know but not the meanings. Trees grow out of my wrists, and ever since I gave you my heart and chain, they lovelily turn me ever darker, darker, darker...take my chain-link fences, take my past and make it something entirely new. The hills are on fire, so KISS ME BEFORE THE TREES THE VEINS MY BLOOD BURN DOWN TO WATER LIKE A SONG A SONG FROM YOUR HEART TO YOUR BRAIN LET US DANCE LIKE ORGANIC ANTI-BALLERINAS OUR MOVEMENTS JERKING AND COARSE TO YOUR ROCK AND ROLL. Lift up your hands. Lift up your hands. Lift up your HANDS!
I'll do that, indeed.
No, don't you dare wait for me. Live. Live. Live it the FUCK up, because I'd hate to live with someone like me, because you are you, because I love you, because there should be a thesaurus for just that phrase, because reasons are grown-up things and we both have a Peter Pan complex.
Write back, write back, because I can see you in all your words, lying in green and brown, talking to me and the lamp-post, talking to me and the darkest light blue sky. And again: watashi wa ai suru, te amo, miluji te, mahal kita, you're a fucking looney, I love you.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Chapter Eight
So today I was waiting in the dentist's office and I got into a discussion which quickly turned into an argument with my grandmother. It was about politics. My nana asked me what I thought about the new supreme justice or person-in-the-supreme-court- to-be or something like that. To this I reply that I have no opinion because I don't follow politics. "Why?" It's pretty simple if you'll bare with me for a moment.
As introduction, let me define a unit of time, a scee, such that my friend Louis is about 100 scees. When I was 40 scees old, there was this boy I'll call Steven. Steven wasn't exactly the nicest kid, a little snobby and a little aggressive. He certainly wasn't the nicest kid to my brother either. Regardless, one day I forgot to do my handwriting homework and so when everyone else went out to recess, I went to the teacher's desk. His was on top, so I erased his name and put mine, thus letting you know that this was the only reason I introduced him.
Then when I was 50 scees, I had two friends who I knew weren't really my friends - Simon and Abel. At recess one day, I was sitting on a bench with Abel talking about something very exciting. I do believe there was a profit involved with the selling of some commodity, however I can't say for certain because at this point I was actually -20 scees and my brother was actually 50 scees. Anyway, while Abel was chatting up my brother, Simon sneaked under the bench and tied his shoelaces together. When my brother stood up, ready to run no less, he fell on his face. Very embarrassing. Simon and Abel got in a lot of trouble. All this is a complete lie, by the way. Except the part about Simon and Abel getting in trouble. That did happen.
My point is that the reason I don't have to follow politics is two-fold. One, it's actually bad for your health. I can prove this too. Politics is actually a compound word. Poly-tics, (n) poly- many; tics- things that suck your blood. There you have it. Bad for your health. The second reason I don't follow politics is that there are plenty of people who care about it more than I do who are going to keep it in check. There are plenty of television stations with people who dissect every other word these politicians (like electricians but for that system of bloodsucking parasites, you see).
My nana tried to persuade me that politics influenced almost every aspect of my life, so I should care about it. I countered by saying there are much better things to do with my time then follow politics. "Like what?" Like technology. I got a scowl. But seriously, I explained. Literally every aspect of our life is goverened by technology. Texting, email, news, internet, cars, lights, stoves, air conditioning, electricity. We would be horribly off if we lost all those for even one week. There would be chaos. We would destroy ourselves.
"Oh, and you think we could do better without politics?" Yes! Undeniably yes! We would be better without government for a week than without technology. "But you realize that you're saying government on every level. Not just federal, but local too, just like you're taking away cars and radios." Yes, I realize that and I still hold fast. She didn't buy it.
But consider this. For technology, I implied only those things running on electricity. Anything that runs on gears is fine. Any clocks etcetera wouldn't be effected. By the same card (or a similar card because they're not exactly the same, technically) once all government disappears, any vigilante-types, people with heroic ideals and a sense of justice wouldn't disappear. Remember that blackout in New York. There was mass chaos. But police officers still had radios, there were still flashlights. If government disappeared, there would be a lapse in moral upstanding, but it would be righted and civic order would return, to a degree. I believe in homo sapiens that much. But if technology disappeared, police forces would be alienated and cut off from each other. Fire departments would be useless with no means of travel. There would be no trucks to deliver goods or food. Food in supermarkets would quickly run out, so that would cause early rioting and looting. People in cities would try to get to farms, but that food would quickly disappear. We would rip the flesh off each other for a meal. It would be total chaos.
What I couldn't bring up was my support of anarchy as a political stand. My nana would flip. But it does lend itself well. Anarchy, to me at least, is not chaos. It simply suggests that there should not be a government. "Anarchism is founded on the observation that since few men are wise enough to rule themselves, even fewer are wise enough to rule others." Anarchism asks the question "Why is there a government. Why can't we do without it?" The way I see it, even if I don't take an active political role, this mindset alone is good enough. I don't have to answer the question, I just have to ask it. I have to let people know it exists. And then the government has to answer it. And they have to give a legitimate answer. If they can't, then just asking the question will let people know. If the government can't justify it's actions legitimately, then it's time for change. I won't be the one to start that change, and I probably won't even partake in it. I am not a revolutionary. I just swim in the wind when i feel like floating and walk on my own when I feel like walking. I am free. But for those people involved in the way the wind blows, for those people who want to know which way it's blowing and why it's blowing that way and why it isn't say, blowing the other way when maybe it should, I only give this advice: if you don't understand why the wind is blowing, ask. If after you ask, it still doesn't make any sense, it might be time to get rid of the wind. But only if it's blowing down your house.
As introduction, let me define a unit of time, a scee, such that my friend Louis is about 100 scees. When I was 40 scees old, there was this boy I'll call Steven. Steven wasn't exactly the nicest kid, a little snobby and a little aggressive. He certainly wasn't the nicest kid to my brother either. Regardless, one day I forgot to do my handwriting homework and so when everyone else went out to recess, I went to the teacher's desk. His was on top, so I erased his name and put mine, thus letting you know that this was the only reason I introduced him.
Then when I was 50 scees, I had two friends who I knew weren't really my friends - Simon and Abel. At recess one day, I was sitting on a bench with Abel talking about something very exciting. I do believe there was a profit involved with the selling of some commodity, however I can't say for certain because at this point I was actually -20 scees and my brother was actually 50 scees. Anyway, while Abel was chatting up my brother, Simon sneaked under the bench and tied his shoelaces together. When my brother stood up, ready to run no less, he fell on his face. Very embarrassing. Simon and Abel got in a lot of trouble. All this is a complete lie, by the way. Except the part about Simon and Abel getting in trouble. That did happen.
My point is that the reason I don't have to follow politics is two-fold. One, it's actually bad for your health. I can prove this too. Politics is actually a compound word. Poly-tics, (n) poly- many; tics- things that suck your blood. There you have it. Bad for your health. The second reason I don't follow politics is that there are plenty of people who care about it more than I do who are going to keep it in check. There are plenty of television stations with people who dissect every other word these politicians (like electricians but for that system of bloodsucking parasites, you see).
My nana tried to persuade me that politics influenced almost every aspect of my life, so I should care about it. I countered by saying there are much better things to do with my time then follow politics. "Like what?" Like technology. I got a scowl. But seriously, I explained. Literally every aspect of our life is goverened by technology. Texting, email, news, internet, cars, lights, stoves, air conditioning, electricity. We would be horribly off if we lost all those for even one week. There would be chaos. We would destroy ourselves.
"Oh, and you think we could do better without politics?" Yes! Undeniably yes! We would be better without government for a week than without technology. "But you realize that you're saying government on every level. Not just federal, but local too, just like you're taking away cars and radios." Yes, I realize that and I still hold fast. She didn't buy it.
But consider this. For technology, I implied only those things running on electricity. Anything that runs on gears is fine. Any clocks etcetera wouldn't be effected. By the same card (or a similar card because they're not exactly the same, technically) once all government disappears, any vigilante-types, people with heroic ideals and a sense of justice wouldn't disappear. Remember that blackout in New York. There was mass chaos. But police officers still had radios, there were still flashlights. If government disappeared, there would be a lapse in moral upstanding, but it would be righted and civic order would return, to a degree. I believe in homo sapiens that much. But if technology disappeared, police forces would be alienated and cut off from each other. Fire departments would be useless with no means of travel. There would be no trucks to deliver goods or food. Food in supermarkets would quickly run out, so that would cause early rioting and looting. People in cities would try to get to farms, but that food would quickly disappear. We would rip the flesh off each other for a meal. It would be total chaos.
What I couldn't bring up was my support of anarchy as a political stand. My nana would flip. But it does lend itself well. Anarchy, to me at least, is not chaos. It simply suggests that there should not be a government. "Anarchism is founded on the observation that since few men are wise enough to rule themselves, even fewer are wise enough to rule others." Anarchism asks the question "Why is there a government. Why can't we do without it?" The way I see it, even if I don't take an active political role, this mindset alone is good enough. I don't have to answer the question, I just have to ask it. I have to let people know it exists. And then the government has to answer it. And they have to give a legitimate answer. If they can't, then just asking the question will let people know. If the government can't justify it's actions legitimately, then it's time for change. I won't be the one to start that change, and I probably won't even partake in it. I am not a revolutionary. I just swim in the wind when i feel like floating and walk on my own when I feel like walking. I am free. But for those people involved in the way the wind blows, for those people who want to know which way it's blowing and why it's blowing that way and why it isn't say, blowing the other way when maybe it should, I only give this advice: if you don't understand why the wind is blowing, ask. If after you ask, it still doesn't make any sense, it might be time to get rid of the wind. But only if it's blowing down your house.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Chapter Seven
So there's a field of flowers of every possible color that flowers come in that is beautiful. It looks like that Seurat enveloping your bare feet. It kind of tickles. Yes, it’s just like that Seurat. Except there is no picture when you step back or as you fly over in one of those old 1-seat model red planes. But if you were in one of those, whether it was covered in dust or whether someone was caring and wiped it down, the air would be cool as it rushed against your cheek, hitting a perfect balance with a warm but not humid southern-winter day. You would notice that the grass grows sparsely back on the ground. You could find a piece to whistle through – that way you do when you put it between your thumbs-if you looked hard, but this is a sea of flowers. Grass has no place, no claim /here/. It's too boring for this field.
The horizon in front of you is a cool and royal blue. Or maybe a purple. It’s hard to tell, but you don't really feel like thinking about it. It looks just nice and relaxing the way it is. You could almost breathe it in like you would a steaming cup of tea, you’re your hands cupped tightly around it on a rainy, foggy afternoon. The moon floats lazily in the skeleton of some tree, casting its eerie and familiar yellow whisper into the chirping air. Chirping? You look around and listen. The field is full of crickets, somewhere, invisible until you close your eyes and see them, a dissolved hum of the air. You open your eyes slowly. You can still hear the crickets, while swarms of fireflies rise like the dead from a slumber. It’s like nothing you've ever seen. Each pin point of green lantern light blends with each trill echoing in your head. They become one; one thing more basic than either sight or sound alone. One mystical thing. A faint light and a faint sound together here are louder then even silence. And you aren't the only one enjoying the calm and majestic backdrop.
A few meters away a pair of suits waltzes in the moonbeam. Or is it the firefly light? The coats are tailored in that very 18th century noble and modern pianist drag cut, with the long narrow coat tails and the black silk and the white velvet trim and the pearl buttons and the ivory cuff links and the whatnot. And two black silk top hats spun with the coats above and two pairs of black silk trousers and white velvet shoes spun below. They were very pretty to watch in their waltz, you almost wanted to join them, to ask to cut in. But those two suits must have been cut together and from the same and you'd hate to interrupt them when they look to be having so much fun. Instead you just listen to the wind whistle through the empty hollows of the beautiful suits that no bodies will ever wear and waltz half as well.
Beyond them is a crumbling stone archway and a large imposing and commanding door. It looks rather silly, all by itself in this field, but not completely out of place. It felt somehow like it belonged here. It’s done in a soft pink paint that makes you think of the first moments of your first love. And it actually makes you feel warm and cozy. Almost like you've been wrapped in baby's wool - soft and soothing. The way wool would always feel if it wasn’t itchy, or if you couldn’t sense itchy. Stop that. The word itchy is ruining the cozy feeling. You need something else to do with your mind. You suddenly need to see what’s through that door. Now, you already know what’s through the door, you can see it on the other side. There’s no building or room. It’s just a door frame in the middle of a field. But you have to open it anyway. You have to look through. It’s some kind of instinct, it draws you in. You don’t even try to fight it. You walk over towards the door. As you walk, you feel each fiber of your muscles bending, extending, pushing, pulling. It’s fascinating. It’s the kind of sensation you only have once every thirty years and only by sheer accident! You revel in the feeling. It’s alien, but you want to remember it because you know it will never happen again. You look up. You’ve gone full past the door. How did that happen? You’re the same distance away as you started, but on the other side. Smooth. And the feeling’s gone. So you hasten back to the door.
The knob for the lovely door done in pink is golden and tear shaped. Your hand wraps perfectly and smoothly around it, pressing into the chilled soft gold. And what soft gold it is! It feels frozen and molten at the same time. It's got the feel of touching ice - the sudden burst of cold, and then the relaxation as it melts in your hand on a hot summer day. But also the flow of molten gold. It forms to you hand and jumps through your fingers like Play Doh. You open it sensationally, and you see exactly the other side of the field. It's not another world or some magick door. It's completely normal. Nothing special, nothing to get worked up about. It's exactly what you expected; it seems calm and peaceful. There are no tricks. Everything is... Everything is fine and beautiful just the way it is.
It's a wonderful sentiment to hold onto as you yawn, stretch, and start your day.
The horizon in front of you is a cool and royal blue. Or maybe a purple. It’s hard to tell, but you don't really feel like thinking about it. It looks just nice and relaxing the way it is. You could almost breathe it in like you would a steaming cup of tea, you’re your hands cupped tightly around it on a rainy, foggy afternoon. The moon floats lazily in the skeleton of some tree, casting its eerie and familiar yellow whisper into the chirping air. Chirping? You look around and listen. The field is full of crickets, somewhere, invisible until you close your eyes and see them, a dissolved hum of the air. You open your eyes slowly. You can still hear the crickets, while swarms of fireflies rise like the dead from a slumber. It’s like nothing you've ever seen. Each pin point of green lantern light blends with each trill echoing in your head. They become one; one thing more basic than either sight or sound alone. One mystical thing. A faint light and a faint sound together here are louder then even silence. And you aren't the only one enjoying the calm and majestic backdrop.
A few meters away a pair of suits waltzes in the moonbeam. Or is it the firefly light? The coats are tailored in that very 18th century noble and modern pianist drag cut, with the long narrow coat tails and the black silk and the white velvet trim and the pearl buttons and the ivory cuff links and the whatnot. And two black silk top hats spun with the coats above and two pairs of black silk trousers and white velvet shoes spun below. They were very pretty to watch in their waltz, you almost wanted to join them, to ask to cut in. But those two suits must have been cut together and from the same and you'd hate to interrupt them when they look to be having so much fun. Instead you just listen to the wind whistle through the empty hollows of the beautiful suits that no bodies will ever wear and waltz half as well.
Beyond them is a crumbling stone archway and a large imposing and commanding door. It looks rather silly, all by itself in this field, but not completely out of place. It felt somehow like it belonged here. It’s done in a soft pink paint that makes you think of the first moments of your first love. And it actually makes you feel warm and cozy. Almost like you've been wrapped in baby's wool - soft and soothing. The way wool would always feel if it wasn’t itchy, or if you couldn’t sense itchy. Stop that. The word itchy is ruining the cozy feeling. You need something else to do with your mind. You suddenly need to see what’s through that door. Now, you already know what’s through the door, you can see it on the other side. There’s no building or room. It’s just a door frame in the middle of a field. But you have to open it anyway. You have to look through. It’s some kind of instinct, it draws you in. You don’t even try to fight it. You walk over towards the door. As you walk, you feel each fiber of your muscles bending, extending, pushing, pulling. It’s fascinating. It’s the kind of sensation you only have once every thirty years and only by sheer accident! You revel in the feeling. It’s alien, but you want to remember it because you know it will never happen again. You look up. You’ve gone full past the door. How did that happen? You’re the same distance away as you started, but on the other side. Smooth. And the feeling’s gone. So you hasten back to the door.
The knob for the lovely door done in pink is golden and tear shaped. Your hand wraps perfectly and smoothly around it, pressing into the chilled soft gold. And what soft gold it is! It feels frozen and molten at the same time. It's got the feel of touching ice - the sudden burst of cold, and then the relaxation as it melts in your hand on a hot summer day. But also the flow of molten gold. It forms to you hand and jumps through your fingers like Play Doh. You open it sensationally, and you see exactly the other side of the field. It's not another world or some magick door. It's completely normal. Nothing special, nothing to get worked up about. It's exactly what you expected; it seems calm and peaceful. There are no tricks. Everything is... Everything is fine and beautiful just the way it is.
It's a wonderful sentiment to hold onto as you yawn, stretch, and start your day.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Chapter Six
Well shit.
I've been in so many different moods in the past week, it's really not like me at all.
My first problem was one of those troll dolls that used to be so popular with little girls - not sure if they still are. It had neon green hair. Needless to say, these things would ruin everyone's day. It was that troll and a furbie. Do you get what I'm saying? Probably not, oh, probably not. How can I explain better - because there's no way I can say exactly what I mean. No, no. That would be unwise. Anyway, these two were giving me a headache. What with the neon green hair and the constant chirping.
And for the longest time, I couldn't figure out what was wrong with me. I knew I had a splitting headache, and I knew that I was in a morbidly awful mood. But I couldn't put those two things together. I was getting angrier and angrier at the world. No, not the world. That would have been to easy. I can't say what I was mad at. It might have been myself, for some reason or other, but I'm not the judge for that. I'm the worst judge for that.
Then it was Thursday. Let me tell you, Thursday sucked. I can call this one on it's face - AP world history. I didn't get stressed studying for it, i started a week early and did a little at a time. It was manageable. But the test! By Jove, the test! sitting in a room for 4 hours taking a test, and then going for four hours of classes, without a break... It broke me. And I had pre-calc right after the AP. Think about that. World history and then calculus. That alone would break my mind and spill it all over the floor in its rainbows and spinney gadgets and forest noises and television programs and burnt-down wax candles and broken vases and wilting flowers and stereo systems and Pokemon paraphernalia and grass-orgy memories and butterfly stew and Saturday's dinner's recipe and that time I asked someone to mix paints for me while I worked on the scaffolding and I needed a green and he couldn't get it right and "That's not good, It has to be like... like the color when you wake up and you /know/ that you saw the meaning of life in your dreams but can't remember it." Maybe it's yellow...
Once upon a time, in a land far far away there were two oscillating lemurs named Charlie and Steve. They both had a lot of HAIR and really enjoyed eating candy corn..." To be continued.
Steve declaimed i is NOT a PILLOW! i is PLAYING PIANO!
And if that isn't enough, I had three hours of class after that.
But I got through Thursday. I got home and I played games and I went to sleep and I ignored the slightest reality of any "homework." It didn't make my mood any better. Friday I was in for a nice surprise, but it wasn't really that big a deal. Everyone else thought it was though, so I smiled and said thank you as politely as I could. It didn't affect me though. But that's a lie. It did affect me. It was exactly what I needed to get out of Thursday's soreness. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough. It didn't get me out, for whatever reason. So in retrospect, I wasn't really lying. So, ha!
And then I had a pleasant encounter with Louis, my dear Louis. ~ . It turns out that despite everything I convince myself in the dead of night, Louis doesn't really hate me. And that's good. But there's still the possibility that Louis is indifferent; and that's almost worse. No, that is worse. Indifference is the biggest insult you can give. It's worse than hate. Especially between Louis and I. But Louis encountered me today, too. And there was no reason for that encounter. So maybe Louis actually isn't indifferent, as I fear. I hope.
But that's jumping around. I digress. Louis encountered me first on Friday. There really isn't any significance in that. Except that Louis is very dear. But on the topic of Louis, there was another. My Eternal Friend.
It's really quite exciting, just thinking about My Eternal Friend. I really am lucky. But you don't know anything about that. The point is that My Eternal Friend reminded me a way to escape. Fate - M.E.F., reminded me in my most dire straights, when all I knew was a Chopinian hovel - is entirely determinable. And so I was able to re-determine my fate. And I destroyed everything. Almost everything. I was capable of it, truely, I was. I must have done it too, so deep was my resolve. But I never did. And I never have. Never yet. Everything is a little beyond my reach. And so within it too. So strange, that paradox.
But that griddiness was growing inside my lungs. I could feel it. And sometimes I couldn't hold it back. I wanted to call some few and share it with them, but I didn't. And I say didn't and not haven't because it feels as if it's sliding a way. Which, I guess, everyone else will see as a good thing, but I'm going to miss it...
...
...
...
Steve thinks your stupid.
I've been in so many different moods in the past week, it's really not like me at all.
My first problem was one of those troll dolls that used to be so popular with little girls - not sure if they still are. It had neon green hair. Needless to say, these things would ruin everyone's day. It was that troll and a furbie. Do you get what I'm saying? Probably not, oh, probably not. How can I explain better - because there's no way I can say exactly what I mean. No, no. That would be unwise. Anyway, these two were giving me a headache. What with the neon green hair and the constant chirping.
And for the longest time, I couldn't figure out what was wrong with me. I knew I had a splitting headache, and I knew that I was in a morbidly awful mood. But I couldn't put those two things together. I was getting angrier and angrier at the world. No, not the world. That would have been to easy. I can't say what I was mad at. It might have been myself, for some reason or other, but I'm not the judge for that. I'm the worst judge for that.
Then it was Thursday. Let me tell you, Thursday sucked. I can call this one on it's face - AP world history. I didn't get stressed studying for it, i started a week early and did a little at a time. It was manageable. But the test! By Jove, the test! sitting in a room for 4 hours taking a test, and then going for four hours of classes, without a break... It broke me. And I had pre-calc right after the AP. Think about that. World history and then calculus. That alone would break my mind and spill it all over the floor in its rainbows and spinney gadgets and forest noises and television programs and burnt-down wax candles and broken vases and wilting flowers and stereo systems and Pokemon paraphernalia and grass-orgy memories and butterfly stew and Saturday's dinner's recipe and that time I asked someone to mix paints for me while I worked on the scaffolding and I needed a green and he couldn't get it right and "That's not good, It has to be like... like the color when you wake up and you /know/ that you saw the meaning of life in your dreams but can't remember it." Maybe it's yellow...
Once upon a time, in a land far far away there were two oscillating lemurs named Charlie and Steve. They both had a lot of HAIR and really enjoyed eating candy corn..." To be continued.
Steve declaimed i is NOT a PILLOW! i is PLAYING PIANO!
And if that isn't enough, I had three hours of class after that.
But I got through Thursday. I got home and I played games and I went to sleep and I ignored the slightest reality of any "homework." It didn't make my mood any better. Friday I was in for a nice surprise, but it wasn't really that big a deal. Everyone else thought it was though, so I smiled and said thank you as politely as I could. It didn't affect me though. But that's a lie. It did affect me. It was exactly what I needed to get out of Thursday's soreness. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough. It didn't get me out, for whatever reason. So in retrospect, I wasn't really lying. So, ha!
And then I had a pleasant encounter with Louis, my dear Louis. ~ . It turns out that despite everything I convince myself in the dead of night, Louis doesn't really hate me. And that's good. But there's still the possibility that Louis is indifferent; and that's almost worse. No, that is worse. Indifference is the biggest insult you can give. It's worse than hate. Especially between Louis and I. But Louis encountered me today, too. And there was no reason for that encounter. So maybe Louis actually isn't indifferent, as I fear. I hope.
But that's jumping around. I digress. Louis encountered me first on Friday. There really isn't any significance in that. Except that Louis is very dear. But on the topic of Louis, there was another. My Eternal Friend.
It's really quite exciting, just thinking about My Eternal Friend. I really am lucky. But you don't know anything about that. The point is that My Eternal Friend reminded me a way to escape. Fate - M.E.F., reminded me in my most dire straights, when all I knew was a Chopinian hovel - is entirely determinable. And so I was able to re-determine my fate. And I destroyed everything. Almost everything. I was capable of it, truely, I was. I must have done it too, so deep was my resolve. But I never did. And I never have. Never yet. Everything is a little beyond my reach. And so within it too. So strange, that paradox.
But that griddiness was growing inside my lungs. I could feel it. And sometimes I couldn't hold it back. I wanted to call some few and share it with them, but I didn't. And I say didn't and not haven't because it feels as if it's sliding a way. Which, I guess, everyone else will see as a good thing, but I'm going to miss it...
...
...
...
Steve thinks your stupid.
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