If Blood Be the Price of Admiralty

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

1. Yes you are vain, and yes this song is about you.
2. 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'?
3. 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.
4. 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.
5. 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.
6. When I make eye contact with you, I am not flirting.
7. When I smile at you, I am not flirting.
8. When I am friendly to you, I am not flirting.
9. When I am flirting, 99 out of a 100 it's got less to do with you than you think.
10. 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.
11. Probably I'm 'just not that into you' either.
12. When you assume, you make an ass out of you.
13. Just because I pretend to be oblivious doesn't mean that I am.
14. The heckling is not attractive; it's merely a minor annoyance that I grudgingly put up with.
15. 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

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

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

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