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Go Away You Crazy Stalker.
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 13th, 2006|12:12 am] |
Maize
A May Zing found
our core-n
piled high-er
than can
be see-n
by thine (human) eye.
A maze.
yelling yellow,
groaning green
sentenced (to be) sadly shucked
(by) melancholy mexicans.
("At least one cob a hundred"
you consider, the sweat of a hot-day
survey-ing the furrowed field
smiling as much as your inevitably
curled lips at the humor (irony?)
in your almost-in-admittance statement.
"will be used by some silly sister
in a rudimentary sexual game.")
"A maze meant
for (nothing) more
than a separate style
of furrowing."
I respond, my sweat smiling
more from the wisdom that I am above
such jubilant joshing than any kind
of cleverly crafted witticism,
"Of coure-s. Of cour(n)se." |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 23rd, 2005|11:22 pm] |
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Three visible streetlights shone piercing beams onto the cool-wet sidewalk below Kyle. They looked like ordinary gods overlooking an ordinary world with the ordinary frigidness of rulers. The mailboxes jutted out of the earth in ominous stone rectangular prisms. To Kyle they looked as though they were intended to scare away strangers. Kyle was a stranger, and they unnerved him slightly. There were scattered trees in varying species and sizes. Someone had collected a miniature forest of small pines; Kyle didn’t know the exact kind. A few flowerbeds dotted the front lawns. Some scattered bushes, uncollected newspapers, a for-sale sign in the distance, chalk on the sidewalk depicting a child’s version of his or her father which was slowly giving way to the power of falling water. |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 16th, 2005|10:00 pm] |
Shortly after she shows up one day at love luggage and doesn't so much as give me a reproachful look the whole time, and in fact is quite civil towards everyone and even softspoken the whole way through,I see her, quite unexpectedly, on myspace.com Wearing my shirt!
The shirt that i gave her!
You can just imagine my surprise. |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 13th, 2005|10:27 pm] |
New ideas.
Kyle's Shells
Alice's Shells
Shells of Obsession
--- I really do want something about shells ot be in the title, i'm going to downplay the theme a lot more in the novel, it will be there, but for the reader to figure out on their own, and i want to give them something to work with.
Alice's shells....
Alice's shells....
Alice's story?
no
Alice's shell is the shell of obsession. It always has been. That's how she encloses herself.
Alice's shells. It almost seems like an oxymoron. |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 11th, 2005|09:49 pm] |
Potential Titles
Slipping Through The Cracks In Heaven.
Slipping.
The Hungry The Tired The Thirsty The Wild.
Another Wonderland.
Shelless Mind
Cracking The Shells
The Outer Shell
Right now i'm leaning towards The Hungry The Tired The Thirsty The Wild.
It's a long title, but it's a major theme that doesn't get much other play in the story.
Plus, It's catchy. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 28th, 2005|10:13 pm] |
The light of the world is fading out like some dusty white candle left unattended in an ancient room all full of cobwebs and old record players. However the light of this world has been well attended to. That’s a promise, I am watching him after all. He’s screaming, screaming, screaming because we crowned him, dishonored him, stabbed him. He’s mortal - pretty easy to see that now. He’s the light of the world and I’m watching him fade out like a closing hologram or a dying madman. We’ve crossed him, no pun intended. I‘m watching him fade and the only thing I can think is ‘We killed our king on a phallus’ . We killed our king on that spiky wooden phallic totem and now the light of the world fades before me. It’s getting even darker.
The church bells chime. I feel like I’m getting goose bumps and I don’t know if it’s from the darkness or the eeriness or both. It’s getting darker and the church bells grow louder. I’m in a crowd where no one sees me and no one else realizes that it’s time to bid goodbye to our son, the son of god and the son of man. That man who’s been called both the little lamb of heaven and the fisher of men. No one else sees this horrendous darkness rushing in, the one that sends shivers down what used to be my spine. He says his line right on cue “God! Why have you forsaken me?”. He says it right on cue and… Oh, Oh! It’s happened.
The church bells chime,
Just one more time
and Ding Dong
Christ is dead.
Well hey, I never claimed to own any awards for improvisational poetry. I just wanted to help put a lighter twist on the situation. It is awful dark, after all.
What to say, What to say…
A million words could be said in the eulogy of Jesus. A million thoughts could be thought. But no one here speaks. No one here thinks anything at all save the couple of people in blind despair and the 20 odd others who just wanted to watch a good killing. I want to tell the reader all about Jesus’ time on earth. How wonderful he was, how wrong his teachings were taken. Jesus, the man who was smart enough to find the god in himself, the man who was strong enough to know that he embodied the kingdom of heaven. But that is not my task. It’s not what Jesus would do, anyways. He never cared to talk of himself.
What would Jesus do? If I could ask that spirit sulking inches above the ground, that spirit slowly rising towards heaven, or whatever else that’s hiding in the sky, maybe he would tell me. I can’t. I can’t ask him anything, it would be wrong of me to bother a man so broken with despair. I can only assume that he would have me tell my story. The story of another color. That story of a new breed of Jesus. A preacher to a godless shell. What would Jesus do?
Chapter 1: Slipping
That boy couldn‘t ever stop slipping. The boy who didn’t even have a name, some day people would call him Kyle, but if he ever found out why I never knew of it. Kyle is what we’ll call him, for the sake of a name. For a namesake.
Kyle woke up dizzy and thirsty and bruised as hell and hungry and wondering where he’d just landed. Someone had thrown him, that accounted for his bruises. Someone had thrown him hard, too. Last he’d checked he’d never eaten or drank anything in his entire life, but he couldn’t seem to remember anything before the aforementioned bruising himself from a hard fall onto some concrete-like floor. That accounted for the hungriness and the thirstiness; he’d worry about obtaining food later. Being so hungry and thirsty and bruised probably made him this dizzy. That accounted for everything except the wondering, which he’d given up on during the course of contemplating all his other problems. He tacked ‘incredibly sleepy’ on the list, closed his eyes for a few minutes (just to rest them), fell asleep.
Kyle, as a human, failed to be anything especially special, not counting that he seemed to bring new definition to the many shades and tints of brown. Brown. Brown shirt, Brown Pants, Brown hair, Muddy brown face, Brown life. Golden eyes? Well, we’ll get to those later. For now, Kyle had only brown, and he seemed to carry endless amounts of it, brown in his pockets, Bleach-anything-brown brand cleaner. His hair looked like a dense forest in April, still covered in a thick layer of acorns and dead leaves. He may have even grown a nut or two in it, at one point. I can no longer remember.
Kyle opened his eyes. At first he thought he had gone blind; everything seemed white. The supreme whiteness ached through him and listened to loud annoying music in his head. Things came into focus soon. Apparently he was in some sort of jolly winter wonderland, if you subtract the jolly and the wonder. Everything appeared to be covered in a thick layer of pure snow, and there was lava or blood or something vibrantly red seeping through too. The red stuff seemed to pulse, almost deviously. It disgusted Kyle. He didn’t know why.
In a time we have not yet spoken of, Kyle’s eyes became what you would call extreme. They resembled the gateway to an amazing Palace. They glittered and shone and dazzled, supplying all levels of golden grandeur. Sometimes they shone so exuberantly that light seemed to pour out of his head like he was a lighthouse at night, bringing all the worried boats to safety. I say that they ‘became’ because right now they were brown as everything else Kyle-related. Eventually his eyes shone of extremities, more so than the city of New Jerusalem that is said to dwell in heaven. In this period of time however, brown is our word of choice.
No one likes extremes, and this place was extremist in every sense. It was so light that there was no light at all; the brightness glowed impossibly. Kyle thought the place looked like a completely different kind of wonderland. It made him wonder if he’d ever escape it.
With that in mind he started searching for an exit. Someone had put him here, and he didn’t know who. They probably wouldn’t appreciate him leaving, but with a little luck, he’d find some sort of exit they had overlooked. He looked around trying to decide what direction to go. The cracks laid all over the ground. He felt them and they were warm and rough to the touch. He decided that they were some sort of glow from a heating system that leaked through to keep the “winter” at a bearable temperature. He tried punching a crack as hard as he could. Nothing whatsoever happened; it was like his hand ran straight into a brick wall. The cracks didn’t help him at all, he needed to find an exit, not a thermostat.
People roamed the place in scattered little flocks. Dim people - transparent and mindless people. Most of the faces were less than desirable, Kyle actually wretched as he saw him. Despite misgivings though, he followed a little flockling of three people. He jumped all around them waving his arms desperately. He wondered whether he had made them up, apparitions, eventually settling on the fact that he couldn’t have already gone insane. He decided it was much more likely that they either couldn’t see him or they didn’t care that they did see him. His tired-from-waving arms and altogether laziness helped influence this hasty conclusion. As a last resort, Kyle tried bumping into one of the weird little people. He went straight through ‘it.’ ‘It’ coughed. ‘It’ was so incredibly ugly that Kyle couldn’t decide if ‘it’ was male or female
A man next to ‘it’ asked ‘it’ if ‘it’ was feeling sick today. ‘It’ responded that ‘it’s just got something stuck in ‘it’s lungs. ‘It’ asked how the second, slightly less ugly, man was feeling. He was feeling fine apparently, and he liked the weather. It was white as always, ‘it’ remarked, I’m feeling incredibly dull myself. Blah, Blah, Blah. Kyle tried running into the second man, more out of spite than anything else.
Despite his bad temper, Kyle found that he pitied the little creations. He couldn’t help feeling empathy towards them. they did appear to be human after all, and even if they weren’t they still seemed alive. Kyle realized that he would probably feel compelled to love, or at least pity anything with life-like qualities. He disagreed with what he’d labeled “the little fuckers” like a dieter disagrees with grapefruit, but something made him love them, albeit in a slightly mean-spirited way, all the same.
Kyle ventured away from all the little fuckers and started hunting out an exit again. It wasn’t endless, this mass of white and red. After walking until his bones cried for mercy and he hadn‘t seen one of the little fuckers for miles, he found a wall. Kyle tried to carry some optimism, maybe it wasn’t an end, but it was a start. If this place had an exit, it was likely to be on this wall somewhere. He could follow it.
The walls were so perfectly pure that he almost walked straight into them. Whatever heated this place didn’t completely surround it, it remained uncorrupted by red on at least this one side. Kyle didn’t know if he disliked or liked this - the saintly monotony of the wall almost disgusted him, but he felt scared of the red. He preferred monotony to the decrepit secrets hiding behind the cracks. As he sat down to rest, Kyle‘s fear of wherever-he-was grew. He needed to get out, and soon that was all he could think about. He had sat down for barely five minutes when he got up to leave again.
Kyle ran
And Kyle ran and Kyle ran and Kyle ran.
Kyle didn’t think about food or water at all, he didn’t think about all the idiotic people he passed by or anything else. He didn’t consider white or red, or even brown. He was barely even aware of his own brownness, his own self. He just ran. His muscles ached and something in the pit of his stomach burned painfully. It wasn’t love.
Kyle ran and ran and ran and ran and ran. He seriously began to doubt there would be an exit to this place. He began openly cursing at the people all around him; this was after he’d been running a little slower and he began to notice their existence again. It made the time pass faster. They either didn’t hear him or didn’t care; Kyle didn’t hear that they didn’t care nor would’ve he cared that they didn’t hear. He was too busy running.
After countless hours of white, white, white where the most exciting landmark was a ninety degree angle turn in the wall he’d been following, he found something that looked like it might be an exit. It was a gate, a huge (you guessed it) white gate guarded by two menacing looking men. Definitely not little fuckers. These guys meant business. The gate looked like something you’d see in a middle-school play, and the guards looked like people you find in a ghetto’s trash can. Except not dead, they were very alive, too alive. Not that Kyle gave them much thought; he was still in run-mode.
Kyle first began to panic when one guard yelled at him to stop running. Kyle first stopped his long and uneventful run when one guard grabbed him by the collar of his April-forest shirt and pulled him into the air. Kyle first feared death when the second guard spat in his face and asked him how he dared pick a fight with angels of god. He didn’t even know who angels were, and last time he checked no one was directly ‘of god’. Death didn‘t look too good.
I hate graphic things. I don’t have skin anymore, but if I did graphic things would make my skin crawl like it had turned into millipedes or caterpillars or some other undesirable insect. I’m just going to tell you that this was profoundly graphic. If these people really were who they claimed to be, then heaven better get it’s act together or my analogy about the “golden city of New Jerusalem” is completely misguided. They beat him superfluously, and when they were finally done Kyle was flying like a rocket, completely unconscious, right back to where he originally found the purity.
Kyle’s limp and nearly lifeless body flew back throughout all of the winter-like-land towards it’s opposite wall. It hit there with a thunderous thud and fell clumsily to the floor. Of course he couldn’t feel it at all, he was in some dream or another, his body pretending that pain failed to exist. Behind him the furnace, that red hot land which had been steadily leaking into Kyle’s winter, became unhinged. The impact from his body had opened it, and as he lay unconscious five people made their way out of a land once called perfection and inside. Kyle didn’t see this either, he was too busy dreaming. He was oblivious, ignorant, even foolish.
Kyle woke up a month later to a painful call. A screeching band of aches marched it’s way throughout his sleeping body, signaling that it was time for him to wake up. He answered the pain, then instantly regretted it. He’d dreamt of jungles, lush green jungles filled with animals that revered him. In his dream he was Tarzan or some like creation, with a leopard skin tunic and a loin-cloth bedecked in ivory jewels.
Kyle wanted to go back in the Jungle again, that’s where had had felt happy. He never knew happiness in this wretched white castle. He wanted the raw feeling of living in the wild, not eight tiny hamburgers for three bucks. In this reality Kyle felt as though all the pain he’d skipped through in his dream came back to get it’s revenge.
He opened his eyes and stood up to view the repercussions of his angel induced flight. It was the most horrendous thing he’d ever seen. A giant gaping mouth of steaming, pulsing, living flame. The whole glowed alluringly red. It pulsed bright and then brighter and then brightest before falling back to it’s original glow and repeating the routine. Kyle followed his first instinct and tried to back away. The flame seemed to grow brighter than ever before.
He looked behind and reviewed the land he’d spent this much of his memorable life in. It had never seemed more white, more dull, more dead to him. Then he looked back at the flame; it called to him, and without thinking he began walking towards it. Where Kyle feared change, that fear was erased. When he realized how unhappy he was in the ugly winter where-am-I-land he knew that the unknown could harbor nothing crueler. He entered it, and after this foolish mistake some would say that it entered him as well. Nevertheless though, he entered it just as five others had before him.
He slipped into that hole and fell, fast and hard, toward the sort of place no one would choose to slip into. He saw more of the sort of things I don’t like to look at or describe, pain in all its forms, trying to escape malignance without any avail. What he saw took away a little bit of his humanity. It did that for all us. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 25th, 2005|10:04 pm] |
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Kyle's just like any other Kid going through that never ending struggle to answer the ultimate question. "Who am i?" The problem for Kyle though is a little more complicated than your average teenage boy. He wasn't worried about his future, his job, his girlfriend, his school, or even some abstract form of self identity. Kyle had more pressing problems. No one seemed to know who the hell he was, and he certainly didn't know either. How could he? His memory only began roughly 11 seconds before this story and no one seemed to recognize him. Besides, if Kyle really is who some people seem to think he is, then he's in for more trouble than it's worth to find out. If he really is a new breed of Jesus, if he really is that preacher to a godless shell, and if Jesus really does save, then who will be left to save him? Certainly not a looming thuggish ogre named Axe or an infamous eight foot tall Demi-god named Veni. Certainly not anyone Kyle happened to know. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 24th, 2005|11:27 pm] |
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What if that strangely golden streetlight really is more than what meets the eye? What would that mean for Kyle when it burns bright as black and suddenly burns out forever? Does that put any emphasis on the three words "Continue to shine!"? Would they even be heard? Or is Kyle really preaching hopelessly to a world that god's forgotten completely about? |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 6th, 2005|09:52 pm] |
People tell me i'm so damn behind the times but that's just because i've got last quarter of the century blues.
I beg for a time i havn't been alive in since the last time i was alive.
Last quarter of the twenty first century, back when ralph nader was just a political activist speaking for hawaii. Not a fuckin' commie. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 17th, 2005|10:36 pm] |
somedayipromise9: the following is all buddhist speculation and belief
somedayipromise9: they believe that through rigorous meditation one can become enlightened
somedayipromise9: and then go to nirvana
somedayipromise9: they believe that once enlightened one can see all of their past lives clearly
somedayipromise9: they believe in several planes - ours is the third to the top , under the plane of gods and the plane of nirvana.
somedayipromise9: Nirvana is where the enlightened go when tehy die.
somedayipromise9: at nirvana - you can either choose to stay there and become a buddha - or be reincarnated again in order to teach people about enlightenment and how to achieve it.
somedayipromise9: the people who choose to help alleviate suffering on another plane are called boddhisatva
somedayipromise9: and most of them go to the hells - believing that they will start helping suffering from the bottom and work their way up until everyone is in nirvana.
somedayipromise9: However there is one boddhisatva on every other plane
somedayipromise9: On our plane, there is the Dalai lama.
somedayipromise9: Now just because a boddhisatva isn't in nirvana doesn't mean that they are not enlightened.
somedayipromise9: Meaning that the Dalai lama, following the terms of enlightenment, can see all of his past lives clearly.
somedayipromise9: This is as true now that he is sixty something, as it was when he was a baby many years ago.
somedayipromise9: When the Dalai lama dies, he tells a close friend where he will be reincarnated
somedayipromise9: elder buddhists go to that town
somedayipromise9: and search it looking for a baby that they see to have the same spiritual energy of the dalai lama.
somedayipromise9: In order to prove to the buddhist community that they have made the right choice, they put the baby dalai lama through a series of tests.
somedayipromise9: they test him for a week as a baby, and again when he is old enough to talk
somedayipromise9: the first week involves a series of indentification tests - including these two
somedayipromise9: A. The dalai lama baby is put in front of 70 pairs of glasses, one of these pairs belonged to him in a past life - the others did not
somedayipromise9: Result: the baby dalai lama, without hesitation, crawls straight to the pair of glasses he owned
somedayipromise9: B. The baby dalai lama is put in front of seventy men and women, one of these was a close friend of his in a past life - he is usually in the middle of the crowd and hard to get to
somedayipromise9: the baby Dalai lama find his way through the maze of people, not looking at anyone until he recognizes the one he once knew, at which point he looks up and puts his hand on the man's shoe.
somedayipromise9: The dalai lama grows to be three years old
somedayipromise9: and by this point he can usually talk
somedayipromise9: at which point he gives a very detailed description of all of his past lives.
somedayipromise9: all fourteen of them; come the next testing.
somedayipromise9: this happens as soon as he can talk well enough to do so.
somedayipromise9: Now, in theory they could force a three year old boy to memorize the history of the dalai lama, in extreme detail.
somedayipromise9: They could even have found some sort of crazy tibetan way to force a baby to crawl in a certain direction to a certain item and or human.
somedayipromise9: But the real question here is why would they do that?
somedayipromise9: Buddhism is not an evangelical religion - they take only people who believed in it before they learned the proof into serious training.
somedayipromise9: If you read up on buddhist philosophy you will understand that it is as liberal as it is strict
somedayipromise9: and as impossible as it is enjoyable
somedayipromise9: it is enough to scare away people like you and me from buddhism
somedayipromise9: with or without proof.
somedayipromise9: and on another hand you can look at this logically
somedayipromise9: Why would fourteen three year old boys agree, as soon as they can talk well mind you, to give detailed decriptions of a life they have barely even heard of
somedayipromise9: without fail, on the first try without any crying or whining or moaning
somedayipromise9: How could anyone find fourteen boys willing to take on that task at birth, in a row, without any mishaps.
somedayipromise9: How, and why?
somedayipromise9: find those answers and my proof is no longer rock solid. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 13th, 2005|12:57 pm] |
Today people are treating love more like a fast food restaraunt than an emotion.
We decide around 2 pm whether we want to drive up to mcdonalds and order love or if we want to eat in at mcdonalds and savor love in a well air conditioned some-what upbeat climate.
If we just want love to go then we drive up to little box and yell at the man we can not even see (Although we are all positive he is there)"Yes. I'd like a romantic sort of love at first or second sight love with no kissing on the first date." sometimes we're nice to add "Thank you." at the end.
If we want love to eat in we go up to the register and pay for our love; then we sit down at an empty table and talk with our friends about why we chose this kind of love, quickly moving on to the weather, the ball game, the pets, the family, and whatever else is on our mind.
People dont understand anymore that love isn't available at mcdonalds. It can't be retrieved by kneeling down on your bed at night and asking the fast food store of the sky. It can't be saught after, and it may not even be seeking you. Love might be found rotting in a trash can; and then you'll have to take it home and set it right before it can even start to love you back. Love might be thrown at you from some awful bully across the hall in the school cafeteria, and then you'll need to wipe it off your face before you can recognize and pursue it. Love might be hidden well, or in plain sight. It might be broken or together but so large you can't understand it. It might be in your current relationship or five years down the road. You may not be able to see it until you're completely matured or you may see it now. Love may come to you on your deathbed and cry that it wished it could have met you earlier. But most importantly, love is everywhere, and we forget that.
Love is everywhere, but you can't exchange it for any amount of anything at any form of fast food restaraunt. That's what humanity forgot a long time ago. That's what humanity needs to remember. You can't get love to go or on the go; you can't discuss it with your friends, or discuss with your friends while you nourish yourself from it. You can't buy love nor can you expect love to buy you. Love will come when willing to come. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 9th, 2005|09:58 pm] |
I read this - and someone called it poetry and thought it was good enough to go on fictionpress. I read the whole thing and i got nothing from it. It's times like this that i want to take the slick tricker of the gun and pull down hard because for god sakes writing just has to die and i dont care if i take all of literature with it.
Then i remember that there is good literature too and i'm happy.
If people could see the real me would they think what would they say? If
they knew me inside out, new what I was all about.would they think that I
was shy? Or would they just pass me by.act as though I wasn't there maybe
they just wasn't there maybe they just wouldn't care.the things I wonder my
o my sometimes my thought just make me cry. Slowly time is passing by. The
more time that goes the stronger my self-hate grow.why do things happen the
way they do? I use a blade to relieve my pain but my friends say that shit
gotta quit but I just don't no how but that's how I deal with everything I
feel the pain I feel is real oh my god so real. I try not 2 cut but I cant
help it cause I'm dealing with so much shit everyday I pay for all my screw
ups ill do w/e it takes 2 fix all my mistakes.when I start school I wanna
be cool but that would mean being fake and I don't no how much more of that
I can take.my friends wanna have my back but a cant let them for they only
know the half how I wish I could have them back. I don't know what 2 do how
to feel if I should be real.who is the real me? I don't know any more cause
the new me is no one but a whore and she's gotta go now. But how? Who knows
who care it's not my fault that life isn't fair. God life ain't fair what
did i do 2 my life I know I was smart in school and according 2 my friends
I was pretty cool but not no more now I'm nothing but a druggie whore and
ho 2 fix that I don't no the answer................... Well this is me. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 8th, 2005|10:07 pm] |
My peers call me Jacob and I'm sittin' in a boat.
They used to call me Ginny but back then I didn't float.
I've looked past fools in facades to the plaster on the pier
and wondered how much plaster costs to replace way up here.
I sat and thought and thought and sat until i understood,
the way that words float up on air just like spirits should.
so i took a piece of plaster and a pen of compressed air
and shot some words up to the sky and let them rest up there.
My peers call me Jacob and i'm sittin' in a tree.
They used to call me Ginny but back then i couldn't be.
I've looked past pearly pears and pools to the skimmer of the crowd
and found that dissappearing is easier than vowed.
I sat and thought and thought and sat until i realized
that there wasn't anything better than looking at her eyes.
so i picked a piece of bark that was growing near the stump.
and placed a heart together with an old fashioned lump.
I understand i'm Jacob and that Ginny had to go
because long ago a genie told alladin not to show.
Of course he went anyway and the genie had to see
what a wonderful predicament that true love can be.
a/n if you figure out the meaning of everything i'll give you a free cookie.
IF YOU"RE WRONG THOUGH YOU CANT BE MY FRIEND ANYMORE!!!
On another note I have Kyle hill in my english class. This is no good because at the beginning of the outer shell Kyle looked exactly like Kyle hill, Kyle was Kyle Hill. Personally he's changed and he's not changing back, but physically he hasn't changed that much. I'm afraid that if I see Kyle hill every day Kyle in my story will start to look more like him again. That makes me sad. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 6th, 2005|11:48 pm] |
Yes!
The most important fact of life is true!
It lives as you and I live and can not be extinguished!
Allow me to gather up my possessions and sit upon your town square!
Allow me to wait for three days as you gather up all of the greatness in your kingdom!
Allow me to wait patiently as you take time to silence among eachother and open one ear to my words
For Yes!
the most important fact of life is true!
And I am hear today to give your greedy ears an answer to your troubles!
Bring forth your Kings and queens, your princes and paupers, Your long broken war hero's and would-be martyrs, your soul broken whores and celibate nuns!
Bring forth your hard working men and long playing sons, your breastfeeding mothers and sweetly singing girls, your flea bitten canines and twin siamese kittens, your freedom seeking slaves and work seeking homeless!
Bring forth the bubbles floating lazily above the surface of the lagoon, the trees dancing merrily in a gale of chilling wind, the sun prancing mercilessly millions of miles above your sweating foreheads, the moon drifting mysteriously waxing, waning!
For Yes!
The most important fact of life is true!
And the time is drawing ever nearer, that it shall be revealed, for all to hear!
Take from within your collected masses the smallest and most naive of all of your children!
Take from within your collected masses the one being who has no beginning of a clue of the reason he is here or when he will be allowed to regress and return to his playground!
Take from within your collected masses the soul who can speak all tongues, but has just now learned his native language!
For Yes!
The most important fact of life is true!
And this child holds the secret that you all desire so strongly.
Place the child upon the pedastal i have set before us all!
Swivel the child upon the pedastal with signs of ancient knowledge and granduer!
Face the child for the world to see and wait back, allowing him one moment to smile, even to laugh, but do not shun him!
Then i can tell you whole heartedly that, Yes!
The most important fact of life is not only true!
But it stands in front of you now, on the face of your youngest child. |
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[Jul. 26th, 2005|12:38 am] |
"Down by Okkervil River slow silent thick and black, I stared into the water, and the water it stared back. The night it fell from tangles of the branches on the shore as it had on Okkervil River before. Down by Okkervil River’s cigarettes and rusty tires, we made ourselves an altar, we lit our nightly fires. And the smoke lay thick and smothered all the skunk cabbage and vines where Gods were born and Gods lay down to die. With your hand inside my pocket, you whispered in my ear “We have come from ugliness to find some refuge here. With this bracken for a blanket, where these limbs stick out like bones, we have found a place where we can be alone.” And I tried to tell you, as I kissed your hard dry lips, all the things I dreamed about. I touched your bone white hips. Far away our parents slept in while we watched our fire burn. They dreamed of nothing and got nothing in return. And the water slipped on slowly past our bodies in the weeds, pulling plastic wrap and razors on its current through the reeds. Then I woke up one cold morning, felt an absence at my back, and I searched and stared but only the river stared back."
-Okkervil river. |
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[Jul. 20th, 2005|12:10 am] |
I wonder if it was a mistake that my parents would name me Jacob.
Because i have been battling the angels my entire life and i still dont know quite who i am. |
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[Jul. 13th, 2005|11:55 pm] |
Shell one: Heaven, the shell of religion
Shell two: Hell, the shell of sin
Shell three: Earth, the shell of mortality
Shell four: The mirror world, the shell of falsehood and duplicity
Shell five: the world of nightmares, the shell of fear
Shell six: The outer shell, the shell of pain
Shell seven: The dream world, the shell of beauty |
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[Jul. 12th, 2005|01:53 am] |
the thought that perhaps this world was all just one large elaborate dream, occured to me first in kindergarten. After one particularly (or so it seemed) short weekend, i was hoping that the entire world was just a dream, and that i'd wake up and be some completely different kid, who didn't ever have to go to school. That way i could play all i wanted and not worry at all
Now, over ten years later, I'm starting to worry that maybe this world isn't an elaborate dream after all. What if everything is real? What if this is a real place, where real pain really hurts real people. Where my actions have real consequences. Where i will someday suffer a real death and ascend to a real unknown that no one really knows about. What if this isn't a dream after all? What if the person dreaming about us (should it be me or someone else) never does wake with a start and release us. What about that?
It's a scary thought, that this might not be a dream. |
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[Jul. 10th, 2005|11:06 pm] |
Driving home from april's house today i began thinking vaguely about a character in my novel, alice. After she rolled through my unconcsious for a few minutes as i sang what lyrics i know from our lady peace's Naveed, a sudden realization came to me. Alice is Ali, a girl from my church that i used to fancy but never successfully got together with. Everything matches, the names are similar. In the story Alice is a 12 year old girl that falls in love with the main character (whom is largely representative of me) who is 16. Ali is 13 now and was 12 when i had a crush on her. I was fifteen then but petty facts like that are mundane. The difference is merely nothing tranferring into a "ce" When i was trying to get over Ali i constantly had to tell myself that we were too much alike to be anything more than friends, and besides she too young and neither of our parents would go for that kind of a relationship. In kyle's world no one has any parents, and love is decided by maturity (for you see in a godless world open love and true love are the only things that flourish.) so kyle doesn't have to worry about the latter. But kyle does worry that alice and he are too similar, as alice did not have any personality before she practically adopted kyle. Kyle doesn't have to get over alice, as she's killed but that is still the difference between nothing and a "ce"
Ali is alice, and i did not mean for that to happen. My subconcious wrote her into my story, and i let it. At first this bothered me but then i was strucken with two very strong desires.
The first was to write chapter three of my novel, where Kyle and Amanda first meet in a dream. This will be easy, and i plan to do so tonight.
The second was to go to church again and meet ali. I havn't been to church in several weeks. In a way you could say that i've abandoned church and taken instead love. (the same choice that kyle makes in my novel) and i am now starting to realize the losses i'm enduring. I want to tell Ali all about my novel, and how she is in many ways a character in it. I want to tell her everything that's been happening to me since we've parted, but i know i'm not going back to church again, and this is not going to happen.
Kyle chooses between amanda and alice, and in a sense i am now choosing between april and ali. Love or god, Happiness or submission. It's a time old tale and i'm replaying twice in my mind.
It really hurts to know i may never see Ali again, but i simply can't bring myself to swallow my pride and go back to my church again.
If only she had left me her phone number...
Damn her and her conservative parents (that hate me more than they restrict her.) |
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[Jun. 28th, 2005|12:56 am] |
A Wishful Nightscape
Even during the strongest power outages streetlights shine on. Even when all of the other bulbs around die out and suburbia grows dim, streetlights continue to show their glorifying brightness. They don’t run with the chords of the other lights. Unlike that string of bright Christmas flair that stops dead from a single refusing bulb, streetlights operate on batteries. They bask in sunlight, charging for their six o clock appointment, and shine happily regardless of trauma all through out the dusk and dark.
It may then have seemed strange, when all of the streetlights in South Midland springs quivered suddenly and burst into a shower of glass. It may have seemed stranger still that every light across the world popped in unison, never to return.
People across the globe were brought to insanity. Deep in the concrete jungle of Amsterdam, a quixotic man walking home his date suddenly lost his suave demeanor as glass rained from above, piercing him and his treasured female. He quickly abandoned his so called love and rushed inside a nearby store. He moved not to call a hospitol or beg for help, but to threaten the proprietor with a lawsuit.
Throughout the prestigious casinos of the Las Vegas strip foolish gamblers were forming a massive riot. Each and every one of the anxiety ridden pigeons honestly believed they were about to win big before the sudden darkening screeched their mindless meanderings to a hault. Oblivious to the forming outbreak nearby, Brides Husbands and self proclaimed priests alike all dashed from their trendy Las Vegas chapels in order to shelter themselves from what they thought was surely either an alien attack or the long awaited second coming of Christ.
A 24 hour IHOP in Canada was forced to a close for the first time as it’s entire nightshift staff ran outside and hopelessly searched for a source of the problem. The manager (who had nothing more to do with his life than come to his prided restaurant day in and day out) quickly rushed back in, opening the store again. He avidly pursued a would be looter who jumped the gun a few seconds too early.
On the streets of Germany thousands of adventurous puppies rushed outside as their owners flung open their doors, leaving them gaping behind. They yipped happily to one another as their masters, a few feet above, barked among each other with a unanimous rage.
In Kyoto, a converted Christian boy had only one worry. What if this long awaited Santa Claus that we’ve all been told about so eagerly, gets lost in a blizzard when Rudolph’s nose suddenly dies out? The group of missionaries which comforted him, forgetting that it was Christmas eve, worried more about the funding they may have lost from this midnight extravaganza than any sort of present bearing saint.
To Jennie however, none of this mattered. Without an offending cumulous so much as dotting the Philadelphia night sky, she had never seen the stars so bright. |
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