Of Life, Attractions, and Shtuff

Not Writing You A Love Song

2008-10-21T11:10:00.004+03:00

This is not a comeback. This is just me stopping by. Real life is taking over, not in a bad way. A poem for you.

I don’t know what love is.

I know fear
Dark, consuming
Gut clenching, sweat drenching
I’ve been frozen to stone with it
Struck dumb
Helpless
This is familiar
Yet different

I know joy
Bright, heady
Smile readying, hope steadying
I’ve been filled to burst with it
Full of laughter
Flying
This is familiar
Yet different

I know grief
Heavy, overwhelming
Heart wrenching, soul rending
I’ve been pulled down low with it
Shed tears
Dying
This is familiar
Yet different

I know peace
Calm, restful
Mind soothing, pulse smoothing
I’ve been suffused by it
Learned to soar
Uplifted
This is familiar
Yet different

Is this what love is?

A Long Time Ago, We Used to Be...

2008-03-30T10:49:00.003+03:00

Participants in the same after school activity. Er... I don't think it has quite the same ring to it.

I like you and it makes feel odd. The last time I liked someone it was a thirteen year old boy, smile as slow as molasses as it stretched out over braces. In my own defense, I was 12.

You’re only a little older than me and I always thought I’d want a bigger age difference. Yet, you drew me to you with your poise and intensity.

I don’t know if that spark when I first saw you was recognition of a face I haven’t seen since my high school days or if it was attraction. Maybe attraction came when I saw that pale strip of skin when your shirt rode up that one time. Maybe it was the self deprecating tilt of your smile. Your hands as they spread and clenched to make your point may have played more than a part in capturing my attention.

I don’t know what to do. Your talking about NGOs shouldn’t make my heart flutter. You’re a friend of a friend; I don’t even know how I’ll see you again.

I hate playing games. I don’t do coy and flirtation. Can’t I just come up to you and tell you I like you?

In (?) WeTrust

2008-03-24T00:35:00.004+03:00

Trust. It’s an interesting concept. Princeton’s WorldNet says it means to “have confidence or faith in” something. It doesn’t say how much confidence or if that faith is all compassing, or what it is in which we have that confidence and faith. I have faith in you. Some? A lot? Absolute? Faith that you’ll do what? I’m confident that you’ll protect me from physical harm, but that you’ll let my psyche be destroyed. I believe that you'll hurt me if you're able. I have faith that you’ll keep me from danger but only as long as you’re completely safe.

I don’t know that I trust. And yet, I have to trust. We all do. I trust my parents to love and care for me, until they see a part of me they cannot accept. I trust my friends with one of my most important secrets, one that I have not even trusted to this blog, but I don’t trust that they’ll look at me the same way if they read my past journal entries.

Is trust an absolute? Trust, you either have it or you don’t right? How about those little doubts that whisper seductively in the back of your mind, do they negate your trust? We’re human beings, we are by design imperfect fallible creatures. If I trust you implicitly does that make me stupid? Sucker, patsy, chump. There's one of me born every minute.

I waver, I doubt, I fear. My faith, it does flicker. And yet the candle for you is still lit, my vigil for you has not ended. I trust you. I struggle and fight my darker nature, my cynicism and lingering suspicions. I don’t know that I trust you, but I think I do. Try to forgive me this shortcoming, and if you prove unworthy of my trust I shall try to forgive you yours.

Back Again. Er.. Again.

2007-12-10T20:35:00.000+03:00

So, Sometimes you have to fall off the face of the earth. I've gone to ground with nary a resurfacing in months. Lots of things happened, significant to me but probably not that interesting. Also forgetting your password and your username is not conductive to good blogging. In short, summers and new beginnings in life, but in small ordinary ways. Sometimes you renew your lease but it's all routine and water under the bridge. So I'm a little less emo, a little more... me. I'm not sure if this blog is now obsolete,but, as always, I post into the void, and the void weighs the worthiness of a response.

So anyway, I thought after such a long absence, better come bearing gifts. Small, but heartfelt.

We were born to be heroes, you and I, that is our fate. We are humanity's last great hope. We are our last attempt at a good thing. We built the world, height upon height, we rose up reaching for the sky. We thought we could leave the mess, the grit and dirt of humanity behind. Reaching out to the clean expanse of sky, dirtying it as we reached. We spread and multiplied, full of ambition and hubris, brushing aside the pain and squalor of the seething masses. Little did we know that from that squalor would rise our downfall. So rose the end of the world, born of pain and misery and fear. So our numbers dwindled down to nothing and we withered away. And so, here we are, you and I, heads raised about to cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war. To defend the fate of a species that has led us down the road to hell, with their good intentions and ambition. Then they left us here, living in the shadows of what they have wrought, mere skeletons now. Left us with hollow husks, laying under this blotted out sun. What a legacy they’ve left us, cadavers, monoliths, useless, a tribute to a pointless race whose outcome has been lost to time. This is what we have chosen to defend, have been chosen to sacrifice our lives for. To preserve humanity, the feeble remains of the seething masses. We’re broken, you and I, the lonely relics of a proud race. We will stand, shoulder to shoulder, back to back, on the frontlines of this battle. We will fight. For our lives, for their lives, for the future, whatever its worth, we will fight. Fight and die and be forgotten. Like those who have brought us to this point. Die for the fleeting wish for existence. Die for the faint hope that we will prevail. Never has a battle been fought for something so insignificant, never has a battle been fought for something so profound. We were born to be heroes, you and I, that is our misfortune.

Good Enough For Me

2007-06-13T04:41:00.000+03:00

But appaarantly not for Bobby McGee.

Lasts post’s poem was hint enough.

I’m so far to the left of normal I don’t remember when I left it behind. My dearest sacrifice is of course sleep. Isn’t it interesting how creative sleep disturbance can be in manifesting?

Always a new twist on an old story. A few days where time and again I refuse to wake up, avoid being awake as much as possible. Next, three days on a total of three hours of assorted dozing, trying to get away with as little shut eye as possible.

Eyes burning temper flaring, I am so on edge. Tired but I don’t want to sleep and I don’t know why. Certainly not out of affection for the way the lack of sleep makes me feel.

Angry and resentful and so fucking sad. Me, junk food, Ms. Joplin and Ms. Stone.

I’m craving a book, a good piece of fiction that will hold me hostage. For some reason people’s recommendations keep falling flat. Something that will hold my increasingly fickle attention.

As usual my concentration is shot to hell. I can’t focus and my senses are feeling the strain of my deficiencies. At this point I’m not entirely certain that I am adhering to the rules of grammar and spelling.

Even my vocabulary seems to be cracking under the pressure. It feels like I’m experiencing some kind of aphasia, words that once came easily are dancing teasingly out of reach.

My feet were too dirty so I gave them a lavender soak with the works, bath salts and bath oils, essence and cream.

I think I’m going to bed now even though part of me doesn’t want to give in to reason.

I think Tarantino is only halfway a hack but I hate the arrogance of his pronouncing the Italian cinema dead. What a prick.

Running on Fumes

2007-06-10T22:10:00.000+03:00

I have a secret. It’s big bad and tearing me apart. I’ve been living with it for so long and I am so fucking tired of hiding it away. It’s not shame that’s making me hide it; choice was mine I’d shout it from the roof tops. It’s just so powerful; it has the power to ruin everything. I’d rather have it eat away at me than destroy the people I love and the life I’ve built. I wish people wouldn’t give it the power they do. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live as myself, no lies no pretence no apologies. What would feel like to just let go, stop clenching my teeth and blurt it out. I love my family, love my people, but sometimes I hate them so fucking much. The anger, the resentment, the fear, it just builds and sometimes I feel like I’m going to burst. I have a secret and it’s tearing me apart.

Insomniac by Sylvia Plath

The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole . . .
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue . . .
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.

Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.

I'm Just Saying

2007-06-01T00:28:00.000+03:00

I hate that I’m 22 and still afraid of growing up. I hate that I still refer to being an adult as growing up. I hate that I have absolutely how to be an adult.

I dislike that it’s very hard for me to end things with a friend I no longer trust and with whom I have a cycle of growing and waning resentment. I dislike the fact that I feel a lot of unresolved and unspecified anxiety. I dislike that I don’t photograph well.

I like that I am probably not a stereotype. I like that I am intellectually curious. I like that I am not narrow minded. I like that I am probably not boring.

I don’t know that I love anything about myself.

Please, no pep talk, just… yeah. I don't need anything positive or supportive, just stating things.

In other news, watching Life on Mars, and enjoying it immensely. A police officer is involved in an accident, and wakes up in 1973. He has no idea what’s going on, no one else seems to think that anything is going on. I admit my favorite parts are the music and the protagonist’s emotional and psychological deterioration.

Also, can you believe that a year has passed since this post?

Mama Weer All Crazee Now

2007-05-18T23:44:00.002+03:00

Or I am at least.

The following is not at all connected to Wet Works. Or possibly completely connected.

Disclaimer the First: I have much respect for human life, I do. In Real Life, I’m quite the pacifist. This is just too little sleep, too much caffeine, end of term jitters, and a well meaning and usually lovable friend who would not just shut the hell up even though I was not in the effin mood. Not a psycho, just like to play one on TV.

Disclaimer the Second: The following material is of a graphic and disturbing nature. If you've got any qualms about murder or torture in fiction you should give this a miss.

If I were to kill you, this is how I would do it. The room would be empty of furniture, stark clean lines, no color on the walls, no covering on the ground. Well lit center, edges in shadow so that you can wonder if there was an exit out there somewhere. I’d like to have you hung from your wrists, but it would be too much of a cliché. Instead I’d have you on a table, ankles and wrists bound tight, stretched out in a nod to the medieval. Black Sabbath’s Paranoid would be on constant repeat, to prevent things from getting too somber. No blindfold because that would rob me of the pleasure of your expressive face.

We would be alone, you and I, with no one around to hear you scream. And trust me, you will scream. You’ll resist at first, choke them down, but I’ll rip them from your throat until it bleeds, and then I’ll make you scream some more. See my plans for you are much bigger than a happy dagger slipped softly between your ribs. I’m going to take my time with you.

I’ll let you admire my large, shiny hunting knife; twist it this way and that in the bright lights, letting it glint cheerfully at you. It would rest briefly at your temple before traveling oh so slowly down your face. I’m going to use it to lightly trace your neck, sinews tight with fear, down down, collar bone, fluttering chest, heaving sides before stopping just below your navel.

Just as panic begins to set in, filling the room with the wet rattle of your breathing, I’ll pause. Frowning and feigning reluctance I’ll pull away and wait for the guarded hope to slip into your eyes before plunging in to the hilt. My grip will tighten on the handle before I pull up. I wonder how much resistance your body will put up as I split you open.

I’m not going to eviscerate you. Entrails are all good and well in theory, but the reality tends to be too messy. That said I don’t know how I’ll resist the lure of being elbow deep, and tinkering around with your blood warm insides. The liver is supposed to hold your body temperature for ages I've heard.

Will you beg? Will you cry? Cover everything in tears and sweat and snot and the stench of your fear? Will you be worth all the work, all the quiet preparation? I put in a lot of time and effort for you, you know.

“Shhhhhhh,” I’d whisper to you stroking your face with a maternal touch. I’d press my lips gently to the top of your head and lovingly smooth back your hair. I’d solemnly look into your terrified eyes before slashing your throat and stepping back to watch your life bleed away.

And Now For a Horse of a Different Color

2007-04-09T13:55:00.000+03:00

Less dark at least.

I have great affection for words that begin with an S and a consonant. Slick, smack, swift, stark. I like how they sound and what they mean. I like them in fiction, Wolverine’s snickt! and Potter’s snitch. I prefer the single syllable words because they have pizaz, and their counterparts tend to be less pleasant like study, or god forbid, student (if its not self referential). Stars, the fiercely burning heavenly bodies are great, unlike their human namesakes. These words make great weapons, spears, swords, and grammar sporks. They can be interesting verbs, like sneer, spew, steal, and scorn. Without them we couldn’t make our silences stony or Joes sloppy. They are vital to many a genre, whether for the slaying of fantasy’s dragons or the science in our fiction. Our live would be out of shape without spheres and squares and the scalene of triangles. Our children wouldn’t be the same without slides, spills and stickiness. Don’t you think loss of all that is quite a scary concept, even if you really can’t get rid of that stain?

When the Going Gets Tough

2007-03-12T23:22:00.000+03:00

The crazy gets going.

Weeks of being uncomplicatedly alright and then things get a little tangled up. I’m not convinced of borderline personalities, they seem like something they stick you with when there isn’t something wrong enough with you for them to want to figure you out. I just react badly to stressful situations.

Not So Standard Disclaimer: Let me explain something about myself. In the Real World I am a puppy; overly enthusiastic, eager to please, annoyingly cheerful and about as subtle as a pile of bricks. Blogging is many things, a catharsis, a place to interact with others without the pressure to be well adjusted, a place to expose the inner working of my mind. Here I can let my cynic out to play. That said, I would love to go for coffee Krispy, if only because your brain, and by extension you, roxxorz like a rocking thing.

Now, on to the crazy.

Hellfire merrily flickering away, flames licking at my toes. Layers of my soul crack and blacken and peel away. Is new skin revealed? Pure and unblemished and oh so sensitive to the nuances of morality? Quickly marked up with the dirty finger prints of my mind? Again and Again buried under the gray, there is no real cleansing to be had. Only false hope, itchiness, and a slight burning sensation… Do they sell antibiotics for that? Other that those wrapped in little metal jackets? Leaf after new leaf turned only to be sullied with the chicken scratch of my life. Vitriol; it bubbles up and bubbles over, corrosive and where it doesn’t eat away it stains everything with a murky hue. I scrub and scrub but the residue wont disappear so I paint over it to leave everything sparkling new and if only I could keep my Hands Off the white wouldn’t wear away to reveal the dirt beneath. Facades are all good and well for shooting the biopic but they’re a bitch to live in, especial'ly when things aren’t highly fictionalized.

Torn, worn, used and faded, my dysfunctions may no longer be in vogue, but they are my own. Scout’s honor and since I never sold the cookies let alone took the oath, that doesn’t necessarily have to be true. Preparation is for pussies any way. Dry baby, take it like a man until you’re raw and bleeding out the eyes. Isn’t that a symptom of reading something with this little talent? Talent can go eat my shoe anyway, I’d be happy with cohesiveness, or even a sense of coherence for heaven’s sake. Although it may be blasphemous to invoke it while you’re dipping you’re toes in hellfire before you take the plunge. Plunge.

The Best Policy?

2007-02-21T12:18:00.000+03:00

I am a huge mystery to myself. Not one of those cute little puzzles you pick up at the toy store either. I often feel like a frustrated convoluted maze, its hedges overgrown and its pathways lost in shadow.

Honesty, now that’s an interesting concept. How can you be honest when you don’t know where the truth lies? Sometimes I feel every aspect of me is deceitful, even those I present to my self. Honesty, who looks into themselves and sees the humanity within? And I’m not talking about the sweet giving humanitarian side. Humanity, the dark ugly messy kind, the steaming pile of entrails kind. The pettiness, the suspicion, the envy. I lay myself open and gingerly toe my psyche and think, ‘I am not a good person’. I don’t think I’m Evil, not the horns and forked tail mysterious super villain kind of evil, but I’m not good either. I’m incredibly, depressingly infinitesimal. I am an infinitely immeasurably small person. And that makes me sad.

In other news I’m back in school and rubbing shoulders with all those eager shiny faced peers I left behind a few months ago. It can grate on one’s nerves a bit. Also I just had a birthday which always makes things look particularly overcast.

If Blood Be the Price of Admiralty

2007-01-25T03:45:00.000+03:00

300 words of Fiction

I wake up to you wrapped around me warm and pliant with sleep. Your breath is hot and wet on my shoulder and my heart is breaking. So this is goodbye. Turning to face you shouldn’t hurt this bad. My hands on your face, and I brush kisses over every part. Your nose, your eyes, your cheekbones. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. Your fingers tighten on my hips but I know that you can’t hold on. This is us, maybe for the last time, soft and drowsy, thigh to thigh and hip to hip.

Last night was about holding on, your lower lip trapped between my teeth, and a bruise beneath you collar bone. Last night was fierce and desperate, and staystaystay. Last night were the last tears I had left to shed. Last night was sweat slick bodies slipping against one another and sliding away in desperation. This morning is about connection and affection between the crumpled sheets where our scents mingle.

I’ve promised not to wait for you. I didn’t lie, I didn’t need to. Waiting is moot. I will never find anyone else because you have ruined me for all mankind. After you everyone seems flat and colorless, like they’re not really there. I will never drink my fill of you, not even if we had all eternity, but even if I never see you again I will be content. I found my one.

My lips on your jaw, my lashes on your face, my legs, my hips, my finger tips, they all say the same things to you. Be safe, be happy, do great things, come back to me. But most of all they say, god I’m going to miss you. I hold you tight to me and ignore the whispers that say this is the last time.

END

Title comes from Rudyard Kipling's The Song of the Dead.

Hear now the Song of the Dead -- in the North by the torn berg-edges --
They that look still to the Pole, asleep by their hide-stripped sledges.
Song of the Dead in the South -- in the sun by their skeleton horses,
Where the warrigal whimpers and bays through the dust
of the sear river-courses.

Song of the Dead in the East -- in the heat-rotted jungle hollows,
Where the dog-ape barks in the kloof --
in the brake of the buffalo-wallows.
Song of the Dead in the West --
in the Barrens, the waste that betrayed them,
Where the wolverene tumbles their packs
from the camp and the grave-mound they made them;
Hear now the Song of the Dead!

I

We were dreamers, dreaming greatly, in the man-stifled town;
We yearned beyond the sky-line where the strange roads go down.
Came the Whisper, came the Vision, came the Power with the Need,
Till the Soul that is not man's soul was lent us to lead.
As the deer breaks -- as the steer breaks -- from the herd where they graze,
In the faith of little children we went on our ways.
Then the wood failed -- then the food failed -- then the last water dried --
In the faith of little children we lay down and died.
On the sand-drift -- on the veldt-side -- in the fern-scrub we lay,
That our sons might follow after by the bones on the way.
Follow after -- follow after! We have watered the root,
And the bud has come to blossom that ripens for fruit!
Follow after -- we are waiting, by the trails that we lost,
For the sounds of many footsteps, for the tread of a host.
Follow after -- follow after -- for the harvest is sown:
By the bones about the wayside ye shall come to your own!

When Drake went down to the Horn
And England was crowned thereby,
'Twixt seas unsailed and shores unhailed
Our Lodge -- our Lodge was born
(And England was crowned thereby!)

Which never shall close again
By day nor yet by night,
While man shall take his life to stake
At risk of shoal or main
(By day nor yet by night).

But standeth even so
As now we witness here,
While men depart, of joyful heart,
Adventure for to know
(As now bear witness here!)

II

We have fed our sea for a thousand years
And she calls us, still unfed,
Though there's never a wave of all her waves
But marks our English dead:
We have strawed our best to the weed's unrest,
To the shark and the sheering gull.
If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha' paid in full!

There's never a flood goes shoreward now
But lifts a keel we manned;
There's never an ebb goes seaward now
But drops our dead on the sand --
But slinks our dead on the sands forlore,
From the Ducies to the Swin.
If blood be the price of admiralty,
If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha' paid it in!

We must feed our sea for a thousand years,
For that is our doom and pride,
As it was when they sailed with the ~Golden Hind~,
Or the wreck that struck last tide --
Or the wreck that lies on the spouting reef
Where the ghastly blue-lights flare.
If blood be the price of admiralty,
If blood be the price of admiralty,
If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha' bought it fair!

And the Truth Shall Set You Free

2007-01-22T03:40:00.000+03:00

Then again, maybe not.

Non-fiction.

Tossing and turning in bed for hours until I give up sleep for a lost cause, I emerge from my room to haunt the house’s hallways, eerily empty in the dark. The house seems sad and lonely without the daytime’s buzz of activity. My family is quieter than most, but never this quiet. Parents and siblings all tucked in and sound asleep.

My days are all turned around and try as I might, I can’t seem to put things right. My body is weighed down with exhaustion but my mind refuses to give me reprieve. Hours grasping at the sandman in futility but he won’t come as long as my pulse keeps racing with unspecified anxiety. The future lurks hungrily at the edges of my vision waiting to devour me.

Attempting to escape my fate, I disassociate myself from the world around me. I’ve been stumbling around for days in a fugue state, avoiding reality. The tartness of under ripened strawberries is shocking on my tongue, and it seems to me the first real thing I’ve felt in days.

I feel trapped and vaguely panicked, like a rat suspecting that there’s no real way out of the maze. My eyes have started to linger a little too long on sharp implements so I make an effort to avoid being around anything sharper than the butter knife. The small cuts on my arms, long healed, have started to itch. Over and over I trace a crescent shaped scar on my leg. It’s faded almost to nothing. Over four years have passed since I heated a small spoon with a lighter’s flame and took it to my flesh.

Not Dead. Yet.

2007-01-19T09:07:00.000+03:00

So this is the summing up of my radio silence.

On the downside, fell off the happy wagon. Depression, insomnia, overeating, oh my. Sometimes, I forget how to relate to others so I lock myself away.

On the less nihilistic side, it’s a whole new year for me to fuck up… er I mean get my shit together.

In entertainment news, I recently downloaded the third and final season of Deadwood, which had the most anti-climatic finale known to man. I agree with a lot of people that the third season was a stupid waste of time and a show that rocked so hard for two seasons. I truly believe that a good finally could have save it but, alas, it sucked mightily.

Also, speaking of finales? Dexter, the first season ended about a month ago. Now there’s an ending fuckers. So much love. Michael C Hall nails the character, cute as a button and completely psychotic. There’s something naïve and childlike about my favorite serial killer. Love, love, love.

Can’t wait for the second season. In the meantime though, Rome’s second season just started. No decent torrents as of yet. The aftermath of Caesar’s death. Octavian’s rise to power. Ah my serpent pit how I have missed thee.

That is all; hopefully I will resurface more frequently.

Of Shoes and Ships and Sealing Wax

2006-12-24T19:50:00.000+03:00

I did the weekend family thing. I came back with my eyes red, brain fried, back strained and I would do it again in a second. I got to do the female thing which I don’t get to do too much, being a socially inept loner with a gender unspecific brain.

I went to Villa Moda for the first time this week. Me mater got me there under false pretenses, and let me tell you all the funny stories you hear about women going at it over a bag during sales are all dirty lies. I was unimpressed, probably because I’m not into the designer label thing. Not against it, but I can take it or leave it. Didn’t think Dubai was that hot either. Also probable is that it was because most of their clothes were made for anorexic 12 year olds.

I love music. I love it in many forms. I was going through my old CDs and I found a couple of Pearl Jam Live Concert ones. I like Pearl Jam a lot. I don’t really keep up with any kind of ‘scene’ so I don’t really know what they’re up to, but man, they used to rock. Last Kiss? The apex of pathos when you’re a high school student trying to pose as independent, and not bad these days either. Wishlist, because hey tis the season. Black, see Pathos.

I found American Gods last Wednesday at Virgin. I tried to stretch it out, but I am not a junkie for nothing. Wound up sitting down with it on the ride back and resurfacing sometime before dawn with it lying decimated in my hands. So much for that. I liked it for a lot of reasons that I may or may not get into later.

Meanwhile, these were my favorite two lines.

Chicago happened slowly, like a migrane. -Page 79, First Sentence.

It says so much. How the city blends into the surrounding area, sure, but also exactly how you’re supposed to feel about it, the moment you set eyes on it. That line hits you right between the eyes.

I effin forgot the second line. I remember that it grabbed me, and I looked around in vain forsomething to use as a book mark. I almost regretted that I have too much respect for books to dog-ear and underline. I remember it hit me somewhere below my solar plexus. Ah well, it’s be something to find next time I read the book.

Once More Into The Breach

2006-12-20T02:14:00.000+03:00

So tomorrow (today?) I’m going to the Kheiran Resort. Not because we don’t have a chalet, but because it’s the only place big enough to pull of something on the scale of what my family is planning to do. They’re having this huge weekend get-together of extended family, of cousins, second cousins, cousins twice-removed and God knows who else. I think they’re renting a total of about 20 units or so. Cool but weird. Which kind of describes my family. I love them to death but they’re nuts (Thank God).

I’m thinking it’s going to be tons of fun but insanely busy. I’m taking Jayne, but I don’t know if I’ll have online access or even time to get online if I do. Hopefully nothing too interesting will happen within the ‘sphere while I’m there. Either way, I’ll be back on Friday with many stories I’m sure.

In other news, you know when you’ve hit the upper threshold of geekitude? It’s not when more than half your library is sci-fi fantasy. No, it’s not when your speech is peppered with expressions exclusive to fandom (and mostly sci-fi fandom at that). It’s not even when you find it necessary to correct people who misquote your shows.

Hitting the upper threshold of geekitude is when you read anthropomorphic erotica with the pairing academia/pure maths and you think it’s cute, funny as hell and kinda hot. I… I think I might be a little shell-shocked. And a pervert. I’m sorry ok? I have a math kink. Math talk is just… it’s hot people!

Here’s a little quote:

Pure Maths iterated an algorithm in an attempt to hide its excitement.

"Take me," pleaded Academia. "Take me like a runaway freight train that leaves Boston at 9:18 travelling west at 143 miles per hour."

Pure Maths chuckled, its rich laugh reaching deep into its natural logarithms. "Party tricks," it sneered. "You want me to do party tricks? Applied Maths could do this!"

And:

"You want me to make you see uncountable infinities you've never even dreamt of?" Pure Maths asked, perhaps not noticing, perhaps not caring about the effect ending a sentence with a preposition had on its companion. "You want a long, hard Cantor's Diagonal Proof up against the wall?"

It was all Academia could do to nod acquiescence.

"You're going to have to beg."

For an anthropomorph so used to verifying its sources, this was not a problem. "I need you like I need footnotes. I need you like I need lecturers who mutter into the board rather than engaging with their students. I need you like I need Dilbert cartoons gracing the doors of my offices."

Full piece found here.

And Krispy before you shun me read this hyperbole/understatement romance.

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

2006-12-19T00:42:00.000+03:00

You know why I like Democrats? I like them because they’re internally focused. They care about things like social welfare, civil rights, rule of law. Most importantly, they don’t do much country building when they’re in office.

Remember Bush’s plan to spread freedom across the globe? How freedom was flowering in the Middle East? Remember how he planted the seeds in Iraq, and it spread to Lebanon and Palestine? (Almost Revolutions and Free Elections, w00t!) Well, it’s spread alright. Spread like a pestilence.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m all for democracy. My problem is with democracy that doesn’t come as a natural step in a country’s political evolution. America has to realize that they can’t play God, they can’t create countries in their image. It just doesn’t work that way. This is what comes from stomping around the world making demands; three countries in shambles, on the brink of civil war. Now I’m not discounting the extreme idiocy of the people involved in these conflicts, but I also won’t deny the affect of the US further destabilizing this already volatile region.

What I love about the whole thing is the sheer arrogance that goes into US foreign policy. See they were supposed to be greeted as liberators. They’re fixing our flawed systems of government. They’re freeing us from our terrible autocracies (if it’s in their best interest to do that, after all if it ain’t broke don’t fix it, financially speaking of course).

I will not even mention how freezing DPR Korea’s foreign assets probably caused them to step up their nuclear program. Or how they seem to have gone into the current six country talks with a ‘we will be obeyed or we will make your lives this much more miserable’ attitude which is just how you should treat a megalomaniac with nuclear capabilities.

Stupid arrogant neo-con FUCKERS.

End rant.

Meme Madness

2006-12-17T21:50:00.000+03:00

I have so much Water Works trying to scratch its way out but the extraction process is stalled. I bomb Marzouq’s blog with talky comments and refresh Krispy’s, futilely, until now. I got tagged. A book meme.

It goes like this:

Go to the closest book.
Open it to page 123.
Go to the fifth sentence.
Post the next 3 sentences.
Post the book’s name and author.
Tag 3 more people.

Here it goes.

“He turned away from the body and looked for Fiver among the rabbits behind him. But Fiver was nowhere to be seen and Hazel was afraid to ask for him, in case to do so would seem like weakness and a need for comfort.
‘Pipkin,’ he snapped, ‘why don’t you clean up you face and stop the bleeding?’”

From Watership Down by Richard Adams

I was reading it a few months ago in an attempt to recapture childhood and hadn’t yet had the heart to stick it back on the shelf.

I tag:
Kwtia
Boojam
Mel

MIA Alert

2006-12-14T16:48:00.000+03:00

I'm going to the chalet for the weekend, and I'm not taking Jayne (my laptop) with me. This means I'll be offline for a night and a day. If anything interesting happens in the 'sphere please let me know.

Wish me luck.

"Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duty, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth lasts for a thousand years, men will still say, 'This was their finest hour.'" - Sir Winston Churchill

Ok, so I may be just a leeetle bit of a junkie. Hopefully the silence will be inspirational.

Bits and Pieces

2006-12-14T01:10:00.000+03:00

Sometimes contentment is curling up with a dystopian (my favorite kind of literature) graphic novel and a cup of hot apple cider (Second Cup, you rock). Sometimes it’s spending the night with chili cheese fries and a cherry coke from Johnny Rocket’s and season one of Stargate (going awww at the titanium gatesheild).

Sometimes contentment is spending time with your family in full view of a twilight sky that would not have looked out of place in a renascence painting. Sometimes it’s hanging out with your uncles (who you adore) over smoldering coals and talking over everything from Good Will Hunting to the crappy music they used to listen to when they were kids.

Sometimes contentment is someone letting you know that what you do matters (thank you Krispy). Sometimes it is finding your best friend online for the first time in ages and poking fun at her just like you did in high school.

Other times it’s very far away, not at all important, and all you have is 200 words of fiction.

Short? Yes. Sweet? You tell me.

I haven’t gotten rid any of Ari’s stuff. People have dropped a few hints about helping me find some sort of charity to which I could donate some of his things. The truth is, I haven’t even started packing things away. I still pay rent on his place, and when I’m there it seems like I’m there waiting for him to get ready so that we can go already. He's always late, and I'm always impatient. Impatient for what, I'm not really sure. For more opportunities to strike out I guess. A little pool, a few beers, you’d think I’d loosen up some but I just can’t talk to chicks like he can. He’s always been the suave one where as I tend to impress with my amazing powers of stumbling over every word I say. No complaints though, some chicks are into the whole bumbling fool thing, so it’s not like I never hook up.

The thing is, of the two of us, I've always been the more dispensable. I’m the one with no attachments to speak of, no significant academic presence, the one with the transitory lifestyle. If my life had ended that night the ripples that would have been caused would have been very small, infinitesimal. And yet I’m the one left to knock around in my empty life.

That’s why it seemed so much simpler to get rid of my stuff instead.

Waste Not Want Not

2006-12-12T01:40:00.000+03:00

Despite being more than a little attached to my mind, my mind tends to find bloody imagery more interesting than other things at the moment.

Well, bloody imagery and handball, since it’s the only national team that gives us reason to be proud. So we kicked the Irani team’s collective ass and breezed through to Thursday’s finals. Some moments in today’s game our players truly were poetry in motion, and the Qatari commentator whole-heartedly agreed judging by his flowery sometimes hilarious metaphors. Go Blues. We may get something glittery *and* gold methinks.

Anyway, back to the wet works. A continuation of last post’s piece.

Blood. Lots of it slicking my hands as I tried in vain to staunch the flow. Had the bullet hit his thigh just inches to either direction Ari would still be alive. Instead his femoral was ruptured and he gasped out his last breaths in front of me, his hands and mine covered in his blood. So much blood, its smell so strong that I could taste it. Coppery tang and I kept gagging, but I couldn’t throw up until they came and took him away. Only then could I let my stomache rebel and the pavement was baptized with both our insides.

That was the first time I saw a gun up close. But the killing urge didn’t come then. Even after Ari’s death I still saw academia as a warm protective cocoon that would protect me from the harshness of the outside world. It was months before she revealed herself to be a fickle mistress who would lead you to your death as soon as warm your bed. I was naive enough to believe that we were victims of a random mugging, and it never crossed my mind that it was Ari’s research that put an end to my best friend’s life. Metzger may not have carried the bullet but a few whispers into the right ears and I watched the only family I had bleed out on a sidewalk. It was seven months and four days ago that I found out.

I finally get why he was so sympathetic, so understanding. At the time I was pathetically grateful for his presence. Right now I’m just glad that all I’d sobbed to him about was worthless sentimental crap about growing up in Ari’s shadow. I wonder how soon I would have joined Ari in the nether world if Metzger had gotten what he needed out of me. Now if only I’d get what he needed out of me, I’d know where to go from here.

Unfortunately, Ari and I hardly ever talked about work when we got together, which means I’m going to have to go through everything. This scares the shit out of me. Ari was brilliant, and not in my wildest dreams could I hope to come close. I only hope I can piece together what it was that got him killed before I end up in the ground alongside of him.

A Terrible Thing To Temporarily Lose Track Of

2006-12-08T02:14:00.000+03:00

River Tam from Firefly (The Academy), Ender Wiggin from Ender’s Game (Battle School), Jared from The Pretender (The Center). Beautiful, terrible piece of fanfiction about post-Atlantis Rodney Mckay from Stargate: Atlantis.

A week of fantasies fueled by an amalgam of the above. I tend to live long hours in worlds of my own construction. Happiness is boring, pain is interesting. Sometimes they are worth writing, oftentimes not. I don’t fetishize pain (much), but I tend to lean towards flawed broken characters, because I find them more interesting. I may have an overly analytical mind.

Result.

I wipe my hands on the thighs of my jeans, leaving damp patches I can feel through the denim. It wouldn’t do to have a slippery trigger finger when the time comes. Time. It’s been seven months and four days since I decided to kill him. Six months since I bought the Berretta, 92, military, supposedly untraceable to me. Five months of trekking out to the northwest corner of nowhere and shooting tin cans into the dirt.

A sniper rifle would have been safer, but it meant more time and more effort. More than three months to be a decent shot and two more to be a great one. Plus, I wanted to smell his blood. I wanted to see his face, wanted to see the change from warm familiarity to shock.

I shower, shave, and put on my best suit. Put on my gloves; smooth Italian leather, bought special for the occasion. I arrange and rearrange my hair, adjust my tie, once, twice, three times. I feel like a girl getting ready for her first date. On my way out I stop by the picture one more time. I brush my hand across our faces, bright and jovial at last year’s faculty Christmas party. Arms over one another’s shoulders, faces flushed with drink, and I remember feeling so… fraternal. We could have been brothers, once upon a time. I feel fond, almost tender. I almost rethink what I’m about to do. Almost, because some secrets should never see the light of day.

The sidewalk is covered in gray slush and my feet are wet, but I can still feel sweat pooling at the base of my spine. My heart is in a marathon pushing through that final pain barrier in the last stretch, just a little faster, just a little longer. I finger the pretty in my coat pocket and keep my feet from picking up the pace. Musn’t be overeager.

It’s over much too fast for my liking. Recognition, pleasure, fear, anger, resignation flash too fast across his face. The first shot rings out loud, the other two less so. The crowd swells and closes. I slip away easily; the 92 down a sewer grate farther down the street. I regret not being closer. My mind toys with what it might have been like to feel the warmth of blood on my face, a small discreet splatter, but blunt objects are inconvenient.

He was my first kill, but I have a strong suspicion he will not be my last.

Behold Its Ethereal Glow

2006-11-30T01:30:00.000+03:00

Ethereal Glow indeed.

After some years of idle longing, I finally got my hands on Joss Whedon’s short-lived brainchild. I thought about it, I talked about it, I talked of getting it, and then one day I shut up and finally did get it. Firefly. Space Cowboys have never seemed this real.

I have seen Firefly at long last, and I straddle the fence between satisfaction and regret. You see, the problem is, this show is too easy to fall in love with. It sneaks to your heart with its wit and humor and hidden nobility. It perplexes you with its apparent simplicity when really it’s oh so very complex. Its characters are too real, too raw, too flawed, too much for you to ignore. The show is endearing, enduring, and very cancelled.

Alas, here lies a show that shows, it never really is just science-fiction.

Snowball's Chance in a Blizzard

2006-11-25T16:49:00.000+03:00

Fact

Week the third of starving myself to a better me and my mind is starting to rebel. Calorie intake fluctuating between the low 800s and high 500s. My temper and concentration are starting to suffer, but fuck it. 40 kilos overweight isn’t pretty, and I’m sick of this. Part of it may be rebellion against my parents for forcing their perspective of beauty on me. Most of the time I’m fine with myself, but I’m sick of being pressured to fit into their version of what I should look like. Maybe I’ll try refusing to eat, something different than my usual MO, see how they like how fucking with my head for I don’t know how many years backfiring. Something you should know about me, most of my motivations have to do with my parents.

Sort of Fiction

I knew a girl who wore a small silver razorblade that hung from a black leather thong she wore around her neck. One day I asked her why. Her mouth tightened as she held it, blunt edges digging into thumb and forefinger. She told me it was protection against the dark. I knew of no talisman that involved razorblades. She raised an eloquent shoulder and said that sometimes the symbolism was the only thing that kept her from taking the real thing to her wrists. She pressed it fondly to her lips and let it fall back between her breasts.

Tell Me How

2006-11-16T03:15:00.000+03:00

Sometimes I am vibrant, a rainforest teeming with life, pleasant and not. Other times I am a dry withered husk, holding ghosts, half-remembered. Between brief moments of being fertile ground full of slowly unfurling ideas, I am sterile and unforgiving terrain.

I wonder what it would have been like to love you. I would have collected your smiles, hoarded and treasured them. I would have learned you, and recognized the shadows in your eyes. If I couldn’t brush them away I would stroke your brow and we could share our solitude. I would have cherished every bit of you, even the ones you would do without. I would have kissed your hurts away, even those I couldn’t see. I may not have embraced your quirks and differences but I would have accepted you, which is infinitely more important. I would have tried to coax softness into your eyes and done my hardest to paint laugh lines at the corners of your eyes and mouth. I would not have tried to mold you, only let us temper each other. My fingers would have traced intricate patterns on the inside of your wrist. I would have been held captive by the curve of your jaw. I might have become a student of your lines and arches, and loved architecture. My love would not have been a gentle thing; it would burn fiercely in my chest. If the choice were mine I do not know that I would have chosen that fate. When the wind blows from a certain place, I feel sorrow that I was not able.

I read a story. It was about loss and acceptance. It was about survival. It was about leaving behind love and the horrors of grave responsibility all intertwined. It was about holding on and letting go, and staying true to a memory. It was about many things, and it hurt. The ache lies beneath my lower rib, and in the nexus of throat and collar bone. It left me with wet cheeks and a dry mouth. It was beautiful. Its title came from a Janis Joplin song. It lies in sci-fi fandom, but holds so much human truth. Fiction has broken s me apart and put me together so many times, I no longer recognize my starting point. I wish I knew if I was better for it or worse.

On a mostly unrelated note, it wasn’t just endearing children’s books that Kipling wrote.

Guess Who's Back, Back Again

2006-10-17T22:58:00.000+03:00

SnoCone's back, tell a friend.

I come back to you ripping off Eminem and stumbling in disheveled and pretending to be unrumpled.

Long story short, I went away, had fun, did some sightseeing, came back, stuttered to a halt, struggled with some stuff, straightened some other stuff out, and here I am.

For a more detailed explanation of my struggle with parents and society I give you this. Written as a sort of catharsis.

They came with their fresh faces and practical hiking boots, crashing and stomping away the green tinted silence. Eyes round with feelings I could longer recognize, they asked me how I became part of this tree. This is what I told them.

Until the moment I had become what I am, I had no intention of being this way. In fact, I hadn’t even intended to stay the night, but I was lost and the sun had set. This seemed as safe a place as any. There was a small hollow at the base of this tree that seemed to have been made for me. Come rest a while, it whispered, surely there’s no other place you need to be at this very moment. And I really was tired.

The next day I opened my eyes to the sun dappled serenity and thought to myself, what a nice place, maybe I’ll stay here a few days. So I did. The woods were peaceful and my tree provided me with food and shelter. It was refreshing to be in a place where I wasn’t hounded by everyday life, and my sole responsibility was brushing away the green tendrils that grew as I slept and wound themselves around me overnight. Sometimes I thought of leaving but the woods would ask me why? and I’d feel a strong urge to curl up in my hollow and sleep. The days ran together like the paints of a watercolor left out in the rain. My voice lost the jarring quality of the city and started to resemble the whispers between the leaves and wind that were all I heard. It became harder for me to extricate myself from the soft green wisps every morning; it seemed pointless to leave the tree’s embrace. The things I needed grew closer in proximity. I knew there was a world other than this, but it grew smaller and further away all the time. Despite never feeling true satisfaction with how I was, I was never discontent except when I was overcome with strange feelings. I had small short bursts of discomfort, when I felt like there was something trying to strangle me and smother my breath. It was as if a fiery being was trying to crawl its way out of my throat. I’d choke and pant and try to scream, then it would subside and I’d be left shaking and confused. Other times I felt a powerful yearning for something I could no longer describe. It felt like a cold hand had a closed over something in my chest, and was trying to wrench it out. I would cry out my loss in mournful wails.

Throughout all this there was a word that kept haunting me. Freedom. I tried to understand what it was but its meaning kept eluding me. Smokelike and hazy, it kept drifting just outside my reach. I tried not to let my mind linger on it because it carried with it an aura of pain. My curiosity towards it was brief and fleeting and soon it was banished to the fringes of my consciousness, forgotten but for the short-lived periods when it struggled to the surface.

Soon, it made sense not to dislodge the vines the curled themselves around my torso, and they grew thicker and took root. My resentment towards the tree faded away. I grew to embrace my captivity until we were one and the same. My memory of otherness seemed to me the imaginings of my idle mind. It was only with the people’s appearance and their probing questions that I became aware of my having been anything other than what I was at this moment. In that moment of realization I hated them. I hated them for their pity, and the sheer purposness of their young bodies. I hated them for making me remember what it was like away from here. Most of all, I hated them because when I saw them I began to understand what freedom was. I hated them because with that knowledge I knew despair.

For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss

2006-08-01T02:52:00.000+03:00

A new odd turn in my life. Sleep is tumbled over and turned around and molded into new and unusual shapes, my days are stretching out like warm taffy. I’m up for about 36 hours then asleep for awhile. Next day it’s only til dawn. After that it’s until morning. Wonder what the morrow will bring.

I feel so odd. Unbalanced and reeling. My head feels off off off. My heart flutters at the base of my throat then falls down to beat broken wings at my ribcage. It skips and stutters and stumbles around like a drunken fool.

I was in love once. They were a pair of hands. Such elegance lived in them, such beauty. We rode a bus together, three, maybe four times. Slender fingers, wide palms, narrow wrists. Artist’s hands they could have been. They would have been at home curled around a brush, a pen, flying over the piano’s keys. They seemed quick and clever, but capable. No milk and bread hands, these hands could work if they had to. Strong, powerful, these hands were the real deal, despite their beauty. I don’t recall ever seeing his face.

I’m working on something. It’s not anything much, but it could shape up to be a pretty piece. Trying to gentle it and tease it out like a scared and reluctant woodland creature. It could be interesting. I’m thinking some sort of time warp. It’s stuck now, stubborn and unwilling. I hope I make some progress soon.

Titles can be so beautiful. Once I read a story, it was called Your Cowboy Days Are Over (Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys). Like many other things I read it just about broke my heart. It’s cracked all over you see, one more hardly makes a difference. It’s made of the space in between, not itself.

Right now I’m watching Supernatural. I have to say pain makes pretty boy all the prettier. Choked up, eyes suspiciously moist, chins set with stubbornness, these boys hurt for our pleasure so we might as well appreciate it, non?

My interest in androgyny grows. Handsome boyish faces with pretty feminine mouths. Round shoulders, slender waists, skin smooth and hairless. Thick dark fringe of lashes. There's a song by the same name by Garbage you know. I like that too.

If you're curious. Not like that! Pervs.

It's a Guy Thing

2006-07-23T17:42:00.000+03:00

Saying all men are obtuse is like saying all women are petty, it's an unfair and fairly stupid generalization that unfortunately can be true on occasion. Neither all men are obtuse or all women petty, but there are some who do fit the stereotype as well as obtuse women and petty men. Being both a militant feminist and a guys gal who having for playmates an older brother and a decidedly tomboyish younger sister never learned to feel comfortable in her role as a member of the 'fairer sex', no one knows this more than me.

Having stated the former disclaimer I'd like to say a few things to the denser members of the male gender. This country may not have fraternities but we certainly have frat boys. You know who they are. These immature shallow creatures who in no way deserve to be called men and whose lives are so much poorer for the lack of an Arabic equivalent for the phrase 'Dude, score' need to know a few things. It annoys the hell out of me when a male acquaintance gives the most idiotic explanations for female behavior. I'd like to shed light on a few things for the less astute of the opposite gender.

Yes you are vain, and yes this song is about you.
In what universe is your watching some lesbian porno with a sad title like Julia Pleaser: Et tu Bootay perfectly natural but my enjoying the soft-core gayness of Queer as Folk 'gross'?
I will watch Roman Holiday and Sleepless in Seattle curled around a tissue box, and I will also enjoy the gore-encrusted Oz and numerous wartime movies; just because you're afraid to be multi-dimensional and cross gender lines doesn't mean I am.
Dropping my pen/bag/books is not dropping trou, I am not asking for your attention. My being a klutz does not mean you're anything special.
When you walk by a cluster of girls and giggles emerge, it's entirely possible that it's about that thing whatshername did the other day and that we didn't even register your presence.
When I make eye contact with you, I am not flirting.
When I smile at you, I am not flirting.
When I am friendly to you, I am not flirting.
When I am flirting, 99 out of a 100 it's got less to do with you than you think.
My flirting with you does not in anyway mean I am a) head over heels in love with you, b) taking it seriously, or c) in heat.
Probably I'm 'just not that into you' either.
When you assume, you make an ass out of you.
Just because I pretend to be oblivious doesn't mean that I am.
The heckling is not attractive; it's merely a minor annoyance that I grudgingly put up with.
When I pretend I don't hear you, what I am really saying is 'step off asshole'. Neither ignoring you nor replying should be misconstrued as an invitation to continue. Asshole.

That is all, and again I apologize to all the guys who don't fall under the fratboy category, which I'm sure are many.

Aut insanit homo, aut versus facit

2006-07-19T01:53:00.000+03:00

Well, I’m not writing verses…

I feel like my creek has run dry. No rhymes in weeks, no prose in months, and all I can come up with is worthy of a talent less schoolgirl with delusions of grandeur.

Midas touch, scratch that, reverse it. Beneath my fingers everything I touch turns to shit, to filth, to dust.

Exhibit A, tired of my half hearted attempts to not live from allowance to allowance, dad gets me a ‘make do’ TV; one day later its broken carcass is being dragged out leaving broken shards and the smell of burnt electricity in its wake. So much for attaching the DVD player. Oops, clumsy me, my bad, yes I do deserve pretty things. I excuse myself, lock bathroom door, claw at my skin until I scrape off a patch on one arm and rebreak the skin on the other. The coppery smell and red on my fingers let me cruise through the concern and my dad replacing the set. I’d walk down memories lane of other exhibits, broken objects ranging from to worthless to priceless, broken friendships that have cracked beneath my heavy hand… but what’s the point?

Word to the wise, don’t make that first cut. Who would have thought the self-harm slope would be this fucking slippery? Nearly four years of resisting its siren song, then the whisper of ‘how much damage can you possibly do with your nails’, and now a couple of days after they’ve scabbed over I’ve got the shakes. In my own defense, how much damage can you do with your nails? I mean I saw a pack of razorblades at boots, real ones, none of that safety shite. So pretty it’d make you cry, but I resisted. Don’t I deserve a freebie?

Quick question, how sad is it that I’m more bothered by the whole thing being clichéd than I am by its being unhealthy?

P.S. I keep ‘forgetting’ to take my meds. Shhh, it’s our secret. We all know that they’re a con anyway.

Knees Weak, Palms Are Sweaty

2006-06-28T20:22:00.000+03:00

It is possible that my salvation lies inside this inconspicuous box. Do all anti-depressants make this sad attempt at cheerfulness? Crayon scratchings equal mental health?

Finally gave in to Therapist, and went to see Psychiatrist, who gave me a little su’im su’im for my blues. Talking about it is no big deal, but aren’t the meds meant for the actual c-r-a-z-i-e-s? For some reason I keep flashing to Carrey as Ace Ventura in that pink tutu. No, just…no. Part of me whispers to squirrel them away then hold out for the other psychotropic drugs to mix them with, brought to you by the words coma, rare fatal outcome, and no specific antidote known.

I do want the blackness beneath the manic smile to be washed away but…
‘Screw shrinks, I don’t understand why you believe their bullshit, you need to stop thinking that you need these people,’ he says.
‘Sno, stop the drama, mafeech ila il 3afya (there’s nothing the matter with you),’ she scoffs.
‘You just need to find religion,’ he reassures.
‘Everything has to be a big deal with you? After all, you’re only human, and we can’t all be happy all the time.’

I have to ask. What if there’s nothing wrong with me? What if this is the way that it’s supposed to be? There are many other states in which I’d rather be if that’s the case, none of them conscious and aware.

Forget the Cowboys, Just Find Out About the Prose

2006-06-19T12:48:00.000+03:00

I don’t need a prairie sun or a happy ending, so I’m not doing the dishes. Also, the cowboys are probably off hooking up with each other. Here’s some poetry.

Ever since you left
I have not missed you

That the small of my back longs
For the curve of your palm
Means nothing at all

Nor does the fact that your pillow
Remains as it is, unwashed
After all
Hardly any traces
Of your scent
Cling to it anymore

It is becoming rare
That a stranger’s random smile
Invokes your memory

My laughter is genuine
My carefree air
Is no pretense
Mostly

My fingers absently
Tracing the shape of your lips
Is of no consequence

Because ever since you left
I have not missed you
At all

Maybe I Didn’t Know Him At All

2006-05-29T00:48:00.000+03:00

Nine years ago, when Jeff Buckley met his death in a river in Memphis, I was still a child. Years later I was in Paris and bought Live at L’Olympia, for a friend. When I gave it to her I listened and smiled and nodded my head, but walked away unaffected. In my defense, at the time I was somewhat a fool. Not quite as smart as my friend, it took me a while to develop discerning taste. I did however eventually, one could say inevitably, fall in love with that heart wrenching expressive crazy-ass voice. And just like Bowie’s immortalized Ziggy… ‘boy could he play guitar’. And while Hallelujah is good and well, it’s songs like Lover You Should Have Come Over that really tear me to pieces.

So I post this, in tribute, in memorandum, for love, of the beautiful Jeff. I shed a tear for all of the fucking potential lost in that river. Whether by accident or his own design, the entertainment industry is missing something I believe could have been truly worthwhile. My heart truly aches as I bid him a sincere if not last goodbye.

By the way, I’d like to upload a few mp3s for anyone who’s interested, but I’m not going to go through the hassle and then have it be for naught. If I see any expression of interest I will, otherwise, there isn’t a point.

To match the melancholy, I give you this.

Beloved temptress
Your sweet seductions
Give rise to my bile
You are my breath
And the blade by which I die
My devotion to you
Is equaled only
By my revulsion
Love and loathing live
In a land with no lines

Not Even a Wit

2006-05-24T00:44:00.000+03:00

I don’t care. My insides hurt. Despite my love for academia I want to see my career go down in flames. I can’t live up to peoples expectations. Why is everyone so helpful and concerned? My internal void eternally exists simultaneously with the black sludge weighing me down. Hollow and filled with suffocation. I’m dizzy with it. My destiny is to fail with flair. This I know. This is no plea for assistance. I hate that I am some emo fucking teenage child in my psyche, despite being a supposed adult. This has set with no warning. A few minutes ago I was feeling no pain. There were no whispers of coming, no scouts or heralds or two weeks notice. My misery coalesces in my gut and solidifies into a malignant mass. I will not claw, I will not tear, I will curl up and resign by self to be buffeted by the gale. Shut myself off from reality; cocoon my self in the fabric of make-believe until it passes. It always does. If the occasional whimper escapes me, it does not matter; I close my eyes so the world cannot see me. My nails bitten down and the consolation to the hard work of resistance is that this is safer. End of the year blues? I ache, I ache, in my wrists and ankles, finger joints, where thigh meets pelvis, the small of my back, the span of my shoulders, the curve of my neck, check, temple, bridge of my nose. I’m taking shelter in the arms of the sandman’s sweet oblivion. Tomorrow is another day, and after all the sun will be shining, and come that rising I will not be looking at the prospect with distaste.

Men of Wealth and Taste

2006-05-18T23:46:00.000+03:00

So have you guessed the nature of their game? Nice to meet you Messieurs Major Players, but I have no sympathy for your plight. The power given to you by the people’s apathy and reluctance to speak has absolutely corrupted you. No more. No more will we stand idly by as you steamroll the voices of dissent in your race to milk the moment for all it has. That moment’s overlong life has ended.

Of course right now, the whole thing is less a movement and more of a stirring, but the peoples slumber has been disturbed. Let us hope that this is the herald of an awakening, and not again the dragon turning over before it goes back to sleep. To be sure, we don’t want the bag of tricks that’s been recently entertaining European parlors, more show than substance.

We have no desire for overturnings and new slates. We’re not gunning for a second verse because that usually winds up sounding same as the first. Our needs are very simple, though many will protest difficult to achieve. That’s fine, as we prefer long hauls to quick rides anyway. After all, government is a process and we understand that. But through said process, the Powers That Be should operate with transparency, accountability, and efficiency to name a few. Really, is that too much to ask?

So let these gentlemen obfuscate and drag their feet. They can hem and haw and paint big pictures with grandiose words. They just shouldn’t expect us to grin and bear it any more. I hope.

Note: Three guesses as to the inspiration behind the lead in, and the first two don’t count.

And completely unrelated, I give you this.

You brush your hand against my shoulder
Guiding me as you point my way
Of the touch I sure you’re unaware
Yet it lingers there for days
Ghosts of fingers haunt my mind
Every time I meet your gaze
In your eyes I see bemusement
Over my blush and stumbling words
Weren’t we friends just yesterday?
I want to tell but do not dare
The truth burns a hole in me
As does the skin right there

We Sang Dirges in the Dark

2006-05-15T23:56:00.000+03:00

Aren’t we all glad music isn’t dead? There is nothing quite like rock music for digging at your soul and burying itself inside you. Haunting guitar riffs that wrap themselves around you and lyrics that tease out every bit of pain you have until all you know is melancholy. Show me a person who listens to music, especially rock, and I’ll show you a person who caries with them at least half a dozen phrases and melodies at any given moment. You know what I’m talking about, as you’re reading this how many words, how much music has floated to the surface of your consciousness? So what’s playing on your internal mp3 player right this instant?

For me it’s Nirvana’s cover of Bowie’s Man Who Sold the World. The riff in the beginning just about slays me, and then the lyrics are just… sigh.

We passed upon the stair, we spoke of was and when
Although I wasn’t there, he said I was his friend
Which came as some surprise I spoke into his eyes
I thought you died alone, a long long time ago

Oh no, not me
I never lost control
You’re face to face
With the man who sold the world

I laughed and shook his hand, and made my way back home
I searched for form and land, for years and years I roamed
I gazed a gazely stare at all the millions here
We must have died along, a long long time ago

Who knows? not me
We never lost control
You’re face to face
With the man who sold the world

Who knows? not me
We never lost control
You’re face to face
With the man who sold the world

And now I’m in the mood to live Bowie’s glam rock era, which is odd since that isn’t about that in my mind. I don’t know why but for me Bowie will always be about Ziggy Stardust and Aladdin Sane. So much for his whole musical chameleon thing.

The Future is Bright

2006-05-14T09:47:00.000+03:00

Bright and shiny, plastic and bland, it seems to me the older these books of the future are, the more accurate they seem. Heralds of dead men's fears coming true. As humanity turns away from spirituality into materialism what will become of us? Less people do any real thinking, and more regurgitate the facts they've been spoon-fed. In our lecture halls discussion is giving away to repetition. Mindlessly we look to others for behavioral cues, until we become lemmings. Books gather dust on shelves as imaginations are stunted my bright sounds and loud colors. My friends, we as a people stand as at a crossroad. These are the days that will set our course as a nation. We have three paths ahead of us, one (the less likely of the three I'm afraid) is of a revolutionary type, where a flawed system will be uprooted and one of fairness is implemented, the second is less steep, it is of dialogue and compromise, where we sit at tables with those we disagree with and come to middle grounds and transitional solutions, the third is slippery slope into an abyss of totalitarianism and suppression of the people's will. So let your voice be heard. Believe in something. Care. Be an active member of this society. Know this, you are a citizen, and your rights are also responsibilities. Love this country.

And away from the current situation, make a human connection today; find out something new about your coworker. Look at something from a different point of view; give a chance to the other opinion. Touch someone's life with kindness, allow nature to touch you. Embrace diversity. Step away from the faceless masses, and make some waves; your boat might be better for rocking. I want to do something that scares me, on a personal level. I want to make a new friend. I want to get someone to read a book. I want, I want, I want so many things. I want my being in this world to make a difference, if only to one person. I don't mean that I think I don't matter, I mean I want to help someone grow. Just a thought. Done being preachy. Here's a little something. Somewhat off topic, but still... future.

I look within its murky depths
The scrying glass is broke I think
I will not give credence to the thought
Of a future full of shadow and smoke
I do not plan for a career in the law
I have no interest in politics
I will not give the news reports
No thoughts of being a businessman
I pause and give it a second thought
Maybe the soothsayer does not lie
I know I do all the time

Summer Lovin' Had me a Blast

2006-05-13T02:26:00.000+03:00

As a child, I cherished the beginning of summer. Those were the days that saw school going out with a bang of trips to water parks and end of the year parties, playing heads up seven up despite our faces being feverish with sunburn. Looking forward to months of freedom stretched out before us until they appear seemingly endless. Our eyes bright with excitement and our faces already tan from numerous weekends at the beach, nothing was more beautiful. This is a little something for those lost days.

Rosy cheeks and sticky fingers
Squinting under the afternoon sun
Relief bought from the bicycle man
As my rescue arrives, not on time
Burning fingertips on the window glass
Fighting over gold-wrapped vanilla
And flavored water like a traffic light
In this cone lives my childhood

But gone are those days of joyful innocence. Instead I fall to pieces as I watch the house of cards I’ve been carelessly building all semester tremble under the heralding breeze of due dates. With nothing to look forward to but the paltry days before summer term begins, I have no patience for the oppressive weather.

The heat is a clumsy seductress
Unwanted, she clings to my body
Pours herself into every crack
Saturating my pores
Suffocating my breath
Her affections trickle
Down the length of my back
Then pool
At the base of my spine
Vestiges of her cling to me still
As I am embraced by the cool indoors

I for Irony

2006-05-12T00:17:00.000+03:00

In an attempt to push from my mind the current state of affairs in Kuwait, namely the constant murmurs of discontent, a government time and again turning deaf ears to its people’s calls for change, and the oppressive atmosphere of frustrating decisions made under the guise of Religion I… go see a movie about a man trying to bring down a totalitarian government operating in the name of Religion and robbing its apathetic people of their liberty. I wonder how long it takes the censors to figure out the (and I use the term loosely) subtleties and yank the movie out of theatres a la Memoirs of a Geisha. So what’s my take on the Wachowski Brothers’ V for Vendetta? I’m glad you asked faceless void. The movie itself was good enough, and I found myself very engaged. Natalie ‘Disturbingly Hot Chrome Dome’ Portman gave a performance that ranged from passable to brilliant. I especially like her after the head shaving. Truth be told I expected a graphic novel adaptation to be darker, grittier and more morally ambiguous, but I suppose I’ve been spoiled by Sin City. I truly loved that movie despite the occasional obvious misogyny. I’m considering getting V for Vendetta the graphic novel, as it promises to be more satisfying fare. The movie however, was definitely worth watching.

If Her Face is a Poem, Then Mine is...

2006-05-11T02:41:00.000+03:00

Prose.

Introspect into Her. Make of it what you will faceless void.

She is neither nameless nor faceless. She likes those she has well enough. She’d be perfectly happy to throw them away. If there was ever a true thing about her, it is that there is never a constant truth where she is concerned. She is ever fluid, flowing to and from opposite states of being. Occasionally she can be at both points at once, a human contradiction. She wears many masks, layered and interchanged until her true face has become a mystery, even to herself. Too afraid to chip away at the façade, for what if she in her entirety is painted on. Out of her mouth drop many lies, some glitter prettily in the light, while some get murkier the longer you look, and others are as black as tar falling from her lips. From those lips wells a bubbly brook of truth and lies, merged so well not even she can separate them. She enjoys pain in many forms, her fingers lovingly search her skin for cuts and bruises, caressing each as if it were a treasured possession, her psyche is on a constant hunt for pieces of art that bring her silent tears, the words, images, and sounds jagged edges that cut at her insides. And yet, she is a hedonist, craving the pleasures life has to offer. The silken feel of high count sheets against her skin, the feel of smooth sand flowing between her fingers, the exquisite sensation, the taste of a piece of dark Belgian chocolate melting on her tongue, the euphoria that follows, the aroma of good coffee, a bath with all the works, softness, kindness, joy, laughter. She has the need to fill every moment with these extremes. She does not know moderation, nor does she want to, it fills her with fear. It is very important to fill the voids and nothingness. She is conceited and full of pride, ashamed and self loathing. She yearns for maturity and sophistication almost as much as she wants to remain a child. She is invincible, but will shatter at the lightest touch. She is bright and cheery to the utmost degree, brimming with enthusiasm and lust for life until ever she is unaware of the dark muck bubbling beneath the surface, all ugliness and whispers of discontent and her own demise. Her mind is bombarded with a myriad of images, some merely melancholy, others grotesque. In her minds eye she sometimes sees her insides, black and rotten. She is not a good person she knows. Her soul feels tattered and worn around the edges, like sheets that have been washed so many times the grime has become part of them. She gives the impression of ordered chaos when the truth is it is merely chaos. Alternately hesitant and compulsive, always at the wrong moment. There is very little she does not regret. She is happiest when the disjointed melee inside of her is kept down to a dull roar, so that she can drown it out with the sound of her own voice. Her confident smile is tremulous at best, hiding self-doubt oceans deep. Often the words ‘ghastly grin’ float to the surface of her mind. Don’t ask her to make decision, it might break her. She says she is a woman, but thinks of herself as a girl. She is nothing but a dull penny, as common as dirt. She is the truest lie you’ll ever hear.

Knock Knock Knocking on a Different Door

2006-05-10T01:14:00.000+03:00

In the core of my being there is a longing, nay, a need, to be a writer. This desire is one of my psyche’s defining qualities. My attempts have been exclusively in prose since we shall never speak of my being sixteen and the emo doggerel through which I chose to share my ‘suffering’ with the world. Now even though these musings, stream of consciousness bits, and pieces of fiction are admittedly mediocre, I do have a lot of affection for them. So when a lost and annoyingly insistent poet's muse attached herself to me I was little thrown. Despite my initial resistance I soon gave in, and since it’s in my nature to overshare I’d though I’d let you sample a little of the result.

every time she opens her mouth
pretty baubles fall from her lips
people around her coo with delight
follow her and hoard the words
this is no indicator of value
some people collect snow globes

And on a slightly less obsessive note…

My eyes have had their fill of you
Sight on whole is unsatisfying fare
I would draw a map of you with my fingers
Paint your portrait, my tongue for a brush
My lips long for the insides of your wrists
The backs of your knees call to me
As does that dip between your shoulder blades
Do not deny me the curve of your jaw
Or the juxtaposition of neck and collarbone

Loving company

2006-05-08T11:56:00.000+03:00

Share with me my spiral into madness. Together let us descend into the land of insanity. As I make headway into my twenties life gifts me with a lovely mood disorder. What more can one ask for, really? Life is never so lovely as when viewed through severe seesawing of emotions. Also, it's a great way to make friends. Don't like my view of reality? See me in a couple of days, hell stick around for a few hours. After all, you never know when the moods will swing. It's funny how people describe me, depending on what they're hit with. It's really amusing how some people describe me as bubbly, enthusiastic, and maybe a little too loud while others see me as negative and morose. So seriously, let's share a giggle before I curl up into a ball and cry. Cheers. Next time, poetry. Or possibly politics. Or maybe programming, television style. Oh well at least the Ps are constant.

My kingdom for a book...

2005-11-29T03:15:00.000+03:00

Bookstores in Kuwait need to do something about their nearly non-existent sci-fi/fantasy section. I'd kill for a halfway decent book in that genre right now. I mean what kind of bookstore employee has never heard of Neil Gaiman? It's FRICKIN NEIL GAIMAN man! No graphic novels, no Discworld, no Lloyd Alexander, not even Dune! What the hell kind of bookstore doesn't carry Brave New World, or even 1984?! Don't even get me started on their ignorance of Kurt Vonnegut.

Excuse me for a second y'all, I just need a moment. ::Goes off to yell and rip up stuff::

Ok, so anyone know a bookstore that can help me not go stark raving mad? Please. For the sake of my sanity? What's left of it?

On a less manic and desperate note, is anyone here a sci-fi/fantasy fan? If so, who's your favorite author? What books do you recommend? If anyone is interested, I could do a couple of recs/reviews of some of the ones I like.

Insert appropriate song title...

2005-11-23T15:35:00.000+03:00

Are you ever driving and turn on the radio to fill the silence and/or drown out the noise in your head, and some song comes on the hits the nail right on the head? I hate that. Odd, since usually the irony is the only thing that keeps me going. Then again I find irony where other people don't so maybe that explains it. My life is a work of satire, full of dramatic irony, odd sad little situations, shoes, and me.

My day started out with trauma that was resolved but I'm still feeling off off off. Then again it may be that I'm a drama queen. Meh, trauma, drama, what's the diff. I envy goths sometimes I need black for my eyes, I need something to make me look fierce. Problem is, in Kuwait that's not the statement black makes. People, when I'm feeling goth it in no way means that I've turned into those girls that use a trowel to slather their make up on. So I don't. Maybe I will later tonight. Gah, I need release.

Dark images in my head and I can't shake them off. Inside this skull ain't pretty, don't be fooled by the lights. In other news I can't keep going over things pick pick picking at them, pulling at the threads until they're even more frayed. If I pick the right one maybe the whole thing will come unraveled. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not.

Song, not the one on the radio, this is one that been on repeat in the iPod of my head for the last couple of days. Pardon me, Incubus. The lyrics in case you're not familiar with them go something like:

Pardon me while I burst
Pardon me while I burst
A decade ago, I never thought I would be.
At twenty three on the verge of spontaneous combustion woe is me
But I guess that it comes with the territory.
An ominous landscape of never-ending calamity.
I need you to hear.
I need you to see.
That I have had all I can take
And exploding seems like a definite possibility
To me
So Pardon me while I burst into flames.
I've had enough of the world, and its people's mindless games
So Pardon me while I burn, and rise above the flame
Pardon me, pardon me.
I'll never be the same.
Not, two days ago I was having a look in a book
And I saw a picture of a guy fried up above his knees
I said I can relate
Cause lately I've been thinking of combustication as a welcome vacation from.
The burdens of the planet earth, like gravity, hypocrisy, and the perils of being in 3-D...
And thinking so much differently.
Pardon me while I burst into flames.
I've had enough of the world, and its people's mindless games
Pardon me while I burn, and rise above the flame
Pardon me, pardon me.
I'll never be the same.
Never be the same...yeah.
Pardon me while I burst into flames.
Pardon me, pardon me, pardon me.
So pardon me while I burst into flames.
I've had enough of the world, and its people's mindless games
So pardon me while I burn, and rise above the flame
Pardon me, pardon me. I'll never be the same.
Pardon me, never be the same. Yeah

If it comes across as corny or stupid, it doesn't when you're listening to it. I remember first time I heard it, on the radio. I was in 11th grade and depressed, actually when I make a reference to anything that takes place during high school assume I was depressed unless told otherwise. So some guy calls in and request this song by then unheard of band (in Kuwait anyway). It hit me like no song had before. So... yeah. Definitely contemplating combustication, implosion, explosion, something. One day my dears, all they'll find of me is the shard. Remind me to put up the doggrel I had written when I was in high school. Pathetic emo shite, but it was good for a laugh. I know this can be defined as the same but, well, I need to let off steam somehow, right?

Just another Stix song title...

2005-11-21T16:03:00.000+03:00

The thing is, I really can't take this feeling anymore. Stuff is getting more and more surreal everday and I can't step off this roller coaster. As usual, I'm decidind to shrug it off, kick it to a corner, and pretend that it isn't there. Perfect solution.

So anyway, been listening to this audio version of Thomas Friedman's 'The World is Flat', and I've got to say it's interesting stuff. It makes you wonder if/when Kuwait's ever going to join the playing field. Scary concept.

I was thinking, I want to keep my blog, and any object of my observations gender unspecified. I'm pretty sure that it's pretty obvious anyway, but what do you think? Hmm zero for, zero against. The votes seem to be evenly matched, so I guess it's up to me to decide. I'll make the decision later, I'm not much of a choice maker. The only time I can choose is when... well never, but I still prefer it not to be taken away from me.

Blogging, take 193843754.

2005-11-19T16:48:00.000+03:00

Another day, another blog. This is definitely the blog I will keep writing entries in. I'm almost sure. I'm mostly certain. Just in case though, none of y'all hold your breath now. So what can you expect from me? I haven't decided yet. Could be I'll only speak pearls of wisdom, but probably not. If there's anything I think is worth saying, I'll say it. Otherwise... I'll say it. Seriously though, sarcasm, irony, not so witty commentary, emotional crises aplenty. Anonymous Love Letters. Yes, you heard me. I need a release valve people. Also? I want to play paintbaaaaaaaall. That is all. Shut up. I don't have pent up frustrations. I am *too* Ev0l! I am!