[forty nine]
the last the final the final breath
gasping and looking for a way out
but there isn't, you've left no escape
so I take your bait and look desperately behind
I looked back, you looked inside
I let you wash over me, I let you steal
my heart and my hopes and my wishes
and I let you do this, without questioning why
or begging,
except I did, because this was not right
it is not right
but I let you do it anyway, and I know
that someday
just maybe there is a possibility
that you will miss me too.
focus: on the betrayal, hurt, anziety, loneliness, rage, defeat, sadness, and hope that I've felt over the past month, and sort of an ode to poetry aka ITS DONE!
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
one headlight
[fifty eight]
i did not like it very much
no i did not
i think that it was more the feeling of
no control
and too much control
at the same time
i think that i did not like the way
that i was sitting on a dinosaur
full of heat and power
and in my hands was its mane
and if i yanked the wrong way the dinosaur flipped
and fell
or rolled onto its belly
no, i did not like it
we took it for granted
that control
that dinosaur knew it too
and killed our earth
with its breath
focus: gloval warming via cars, metaphorically implying a dinosaur is a car in relation to animal mastery? i'm so sick of poetry. one more day.
i did not like it very much
no i did not
i think that it was more the feeling of
no control
and too much control
at the same time
i think that i did not like the way
that i was sitting on a dinosaur
full of heat and power
and in my hands was its mane
and if i yanked the wrong way the dinosaur flipped
and fell
or rolled onto its belly
no, i did not like it
we took it for granted
that control
that dinosaur knew it too
and killed our earth
with its breath
focus: gloval warming via cars, metaphorically implying a dinosaur is a car in relation to animal mastery? i'm so sick of poetry. one more day.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
after the beep. beeeep
[fifty seven]
you took my hand and we got lost
running throguh crowds of people
to find the modern-tiled bathrooms
with white porcelain sinks and the blue stalls
the farthest away from the light
over the bridge we flew like two birds on the same tune
two leaves on the same wind
two fish in the same wave
it was always you holding my hand when we got lost
but we never lost us
finding our way back the light was fading
and we laughed like the funniest jokes were told
and i squeezed your hand lightly to let you know
that I'd never let it go.
you protected me from the darkness and held me up in the light
our way back was easy and easier even to think where we could go from here
so i took your hand this time, and i got us lost
always get lost together
but we find our way, always
focus: my beautiful sister who has always been there for me, and the memories that we have and share
you took my hand and we got lost
running throguh crowds of people
to find the modern-tiled bathrooms
with white porcelain sinks and the blue stalls
the farthest away from the light
over the bridge we flew like two birds on the same tune
two leaves on the same wind
two fish in the same wave
it was always you holding my hand when we got lost
but we never lost us
finding our way back the light was fading
and we laughed like the funniest jokes were told
and i squeezed your hand lightly to let you know
that I'd never let it go.
you protected me from the darkness and held me up in the light
our way back was easy and easier even to think where we could go from here
so i took your hand this time, and i got us lost
always get lost together
but we find our way, always
focus: my beautiful sister who has always been there for me, and the memories that we have and share
Friday, February 25, 2011
machine gun ready to go
[fifty six]
drink clearly down
the standard water
take deep breaths
less risky, relax
it's time to go
you can do it
focus: simplicity, i got this
drink clearly down
the standard water
take deep breaths
less risky, relax
it's time to go
you can do it
focus: simplicity, i got this
Thursday, February 24, 2011
if you had wings I'd let you fly away
[fifty five]
if the tree were tall, I'd hug it
if the tree had bones, I'd tug it
if the tree gave air, I'd breath it
if the tree sang, I'd listen to it
if the gras was soft, I'd love it
if the grass hugged back, I'd try it
if the grass were tall, I'd cut it
if the grass whispered, I'd hear it
if the flower bent, I'd straighten it
if the flower lost its colour, I'd paint it
if the flower bloomed, I'd watch it
if the flower told a secret, I'd keep it
if you fell, I'd catch you
if you laughed, I'd make you
if you were strong, I'd fight you
if you told me anything at all, I'd remember
focus: repetition and motive: metaphor
(what is with my naturalism kick on poetry? TOO MUCH NATURE. Gonna try for something different tomorrow I suppose)
if the tree were tall, I'd hug it
if the tree had bones, I'd tug it
if the tree gave air, I'd breath it
if the tree sang, I'd listen to it
if the gras was soft, I'd love it
if the grass hugged back, I'd try it
if the grass were tall, I'd cut it
if the grass whispered, I'd hear it
if the flower bent, I'd straighten it
if the flower lost its colour, I'd paint it
if the flower bloomed, I'd watch it
if the flower told a secret, I'd keep it
if you fell, I'd catch you
if you laughed, I'd make you
if you were strong, I'd fight you
if you told me anything at all, I'd remember
focus: repetition and motive: metaphor
(what is with my naturalism kick on poetry? TOO MUCH NATURE. Gonna try for something different tomorrow I suppose)
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
friggen large
[fifty four]
fragile,
agility ability to quickly tempt and lose
loft, loftilly falling
trap the fragility, the fragments frag's
the toppling, top of the trap
and inside it took ten tennants to topple the tag
the frag, framented fragile agility.
front flowers flowering for fruit for fun for fragments
fragments of holy ghost toning tune and temper
lose the tone and try to tempt the fragility of temper
temper, temperate timing time took ten ends spending soft
supple soft surroundings, still.
still.
focus: spoken sound
fragile,
agility ability to quickly tempt and lose
loft, loftilly falling
trap the fragility, the fragments frag's
the toppling, top of the trap
and inside it took ten tennants to topple the tag
the frag, framented fragile agility.
front flowers flowering for fruit for fun for fragments
fragments of holy ghost toning tune and temper
lose the tone and try to tempt the fragility of temper
temper, temperate timing time took ten ends spending soft
supple soft surroundings, still.
still.
focus: spoken sound
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
hello, nice to meet you
[fifty three i messed up the numbers again somehow this may be useless]
cardinal sitting on the line
everyone else was feeling fine
formations failing across the sky
the cardinal squeeked as they flew by
hunting and prancing and darting around
wondering why it was still on the ground
focusing in on its goal and its prey
the cardinal feared it would lose it today
rotund and round and plump was he
the fog made it so he couldn't see
losing his grasp his clasp his fight
the cardinal burst up and flew into flight
joining his brothers he triumphed in awe
losing his kill was his only flaw
spinning and flying and twirling with glee
the cardinal again just couldn't see.
focus: rhythm.
cardinal sitting on the line
everyone else was feeling fine
formations failing across the sky
the cardinal squeeked as they flew by
hunting and prancing and darting around
wondering why it was still on the ground
focusing in on its goal and its prey
the cardinal feared it would lose it today
rotund and round and plump was he
the fog made it so he couldn't see
losing his grasp his clasp his fight
the cardinal burst up and flew into flight
joining his brothers he triumphed in awe
losing his kill was his only flaw
spinning and flying and twirling with glee
the cardinal again just couldn't see.
focus: rhythm.
Monday, February 21, 2011
trend me
[fifty one]
if i ever said i hate you,
i didn't mean it,
inaudible under breathing at night,
or to the side stuck on your words,
it's only in beauty that we lose the meaning
of scared or chances,
and when i took a chance
i jumped and fell,
and rolled,
and landed, damaged,
until the only that could pick me up
was my own crumpled self,
with one hand i got up,
the other was still reaching.
if i ever said i hate you,
i didn't mean it,
inaudible under breathing at night,
or to the side stuck on your words,
it's only in beauty that we lose the meaning
of scared or chances,
and when i took a chance
i jumped and fell,
and rolled,
and landed, damaged,
until the only that could pick me up
was my own crumpled self,
with one hand i got up,
the other was still reaching.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
hunting
[FIFTY]
almost three times the kind
of eyes blue as the sky blue as the birds
blue as the wind
making their way destination onward,
to land on them and whisk their breath
knock their breath over and out
outside, until it is too hard to catch
too hard to handle the breath being gone
those blue eyes cry, tears as blue as the sea
blue as bugs,
blue as the falling birthday balloon
it falls from the sky, in the blue wind,
and is carried, drifted,
to the hands
hands that were blue as the sky
almost three times the kind
of eyes blue as the sky blue as the birds
blue as the wind
making their way destination onward,
to land on them and whisk their breath
knock their breath over and out
outside, until it is too hard to catch
too hard to handle the breath being gone
those blue eyes cry, tears as blue as the sea
blue as bugs,
blue as the falling birthday balloon
it falls from the sky, in the blue wind,
and is carried, drifted,
to the hands
hands that were blue as the sky
Saturday, February 19, 2011
wow.
[forty-nine]
Although I can't deny that this week has been fun, love letters seem so hard to write when there's hardly any love in the world anymore. People complain about not being loved, or giving too much love, or just complain because that's human nature. But there is a point in one's life where you gotta just accept it: you gotta choose who you love specifically, and for me, that's basically music and my musical influences. That's what I've been doing, writing to my loves and expressing that they continue to change my life with every listen, and will do so for the rest of my life.
If it makes any difference I only wrote to the ones that were individuals, or broadly recognisable indivudally. It's hard to recognise the lead singer or the best known participant in a band that you love every part of. Take The Who for example, I love every part of that band, every little note riff melody, and I don't think singling out anyone would do them any justice. I require equality in music, and the past love letters (even though I did single out john lennon, I could go on and write another three love letters for the latter of his band) were to show my appreciation and thakns to those artists who have influenced me and kept me alive.
So to all of my other musical influences I pledge that I will never let them down as well, I will do them their justice in due time. I promise that my music defines me more than a lot of things who I am and hwat I'm all about. I am a really personal person when it comes to my music, it's a life long journey that I am only nineteen years into, and I mean positively has been a full nineteen years.
My life of music has evolved from Sesame Street, Sharon Lois and Braham, to the Lion King soundtrack, to musicals like Joseph and the Technicolour Dreamcoat and Phantom, to pop artists Spice Girls and Britney Spears, to the dance beats like Venga Boys and ABBA, to the more rock bands such as Queen and ACDC, and from there I have followed through in developing a deep intense love for the old classic music that I wasn't alive for, and appreciating it and giving it the honour that it deserves.
If you haven't seen it already, Almost Famous changed my life, and so did Pirate Radio. They are influential and desireab;e if you want any appreciation for good music. I think that in the light of good music, good interpretations are always welcome. Also, if no one likes my music, that's fine with me. I would rather be individual thing that it is a private matter with me, and you can insult it all you want it won't change to me.
So if you like music, I never want to hear you say "music is my life." that is a pet peeve of mine, I hate when people say that. I would never say that, because I play no instruments, I don't do it as a career, I can sing but I don't act on that. I think that if music is really your life, then you do it for a living you live it everyday. I'm a band aid, it's all happening. Let it happen for you, don't force yourself to love anything because everyone else does, youc an disagree with the top 40 you won't go to jail, you can develop this yourself.
I think from now until march will be poetry, because I feel poetic, this is spring break starting today so I've got plans like everyday so poetry seemed like it would be a good filler, plus I'm having surgery at the end of the week so I can really delve into it around friday. I have some homework to do sometime this week aswell, so hopefully that gets done.
Rock on,
Jess :]
Although I can't deny that this week has been fun, love letters seem so hard to write when there's hardly any love in the world anymore. People complain about not being loved, or giving too much love, or just complain because that's human nature. But there is a point in one's life where you gotta just accept it: you gotta choose who you love specifically, and for me, that's basically music and my musical influences. That's what I've been doing, writing to my loves and expressing that they continue to change my life with every listen, and will do so for the rest of my life.
If it makes any difference I only wrote to the ones that were individuals, or broadly recognisable indivudally. It's hard to recognise the lead singer or the best known participant in a band that you love every part of. Take The Who for example, I love every part of that band, every little note riff melody, and I don't think singling out anyone would do them any justice. I require equality in music, and the past love letters (even though I did single out john lennon, I could go on and write another three love letters for the latter of his band) were to show my appreciation and thakns to those artists who have influenced me and kept me alive.
So to all of my other musical influences I pledge that I will never let them down as well, I will do them their justice in due time. I promise that my music defines me more than a lot of things who I am and hwat I'm all about. I am a really personal person when it comes to my music, it's a life long journey that I am only nineteen years into, and I mean positively has been a full nineteen years.
My life of music has evolved from Sesame Street, Sharon Lois and Braham, to the Lion King soundtrack, to musicals like Joseph and the Technicolour Dreamcoat and Phantom, to pop artists Spice Girls and Britney Spears, to the dance beats like Venga Boys and ABBA, to the more rock bands such as Queen and ACDC, and from there I have followed through in developing a deep intense love for the old classic music that I wasn't alive for, and appreciating it and giving it the honour that it deserves.
If you haven't seen it already, Almost Famous changed my life, and so did Pirate Radio. They are influential and desireab;e if you want any appreciation for good music. I think that in the light of good music, good interpretations are always welcome. Also, if no one likes my music, that's fine with me. I would rather be individual thing that it is a private matter with me, and you can insult it all you want it won't change to me.
So if you like music, I never want to hear you say "music is my life." that is a pet peeve of mine, I hate when people say that. I would never say that, because I play no instruments, I don't do it as a career, I can sing but I don't act on that. I think that if music is really your life, then you do it for a living you live it everyday. I'm a band aid, it's all happening. Let it happen for you, don't force yourself to love anything because everyone else does, youc an disagree with the top 40 you won't go to jail, you can develop this yourself.
I think from now until march will be poetry, because I feel poetic, this is spring break starting today so I've got plans like everyday so poetry seemed like it would be a good filler, plus I'm having surgery at the end of the week so I can really delve into it around friday. I have some homework to do sometime this week aswell, so hopefully that gets done.
Rock on,
Jess :]
Friday, February 18, 2011
it's a beautiful day!
[forty eight]
Dear Billy,
One song changed my life. One song that has everything, it has dancing and lyrics and melodies. I feel empowered and in love when I hear it. I feel in a phase, a trance, that only comes over me and makes me want to just be so happy. I feel like your voice in this song and many others is so raw and powerful, that it makes me want to just... I don't know. I want to high five and run and jump into water and paint. I want to paint. This songs makes me want to splash the colours of my life onto a canvas and call it my soul. This song makes me want to climb into a cave and let it echo off the walls into my being. I want to absorb this song. This, this song that makes me feel so alive and alone at the same time. I've never wanted to be by myself so much as I do when I hear this song. Thank you.
Love always,
Jessica deeanne
Dear Billy,
One song changed my life. One song that has everything, it has dancing and lyrics and melodies. I feel empowered and in love when I hear it. I feel in a phase, a trance, that only comes over me and makes me want to just be so happy. I feel like your voice in this song and many others is so raw and powerful, that it makes me want to just... I don't know. I want to high five and run and jump into water and paint. I want to paint. This songs makes me want to splash the colours of my life onto a canvas and call it my soul. This song makes me want to climb into a cave and let it echo off the walls into my being. I want to absorb this song. This, this song that makes me feel so alive and alone at the same time. I've never wanted to be by myself so much as I do when I hear this song. Thank you.
Love always,
Jessica deeanne
Thursday, February 17, 2011
high voltage
[forty eight]
Dear Angus,
if I need my ear drums, mind, and heart blown, I turn you on. I listen, which bated breath, to every song and realise and recognise something new and interesting about every song. I think that you have a hidden talent of hiding parts of music from the first listen, and I love it. I love how I can turn on TNT and hear a different riff than the first time I listened, and still have my ears buzzing. I love how I can listen to the same song multiple times in a row and never get tired of it. I love that although you are old and crazy and from europe, you still are able to reach a crazy young girl from canada, and can reach my heart as well. You write the guitar solos to my dreams, and if I am in any kind of mood I can turn you on. Let it be angry, sad, happy, I can turn on Who made who and just be beyond lost, I am enthralled and encompassed in the sound and pure magic that this music creates. If I could play any instrument I would only dream of play it while laying on the ground and spinning, and I would give anything to see you live. Thank you.
Love always,
Jessica Deeanne
Dear Angus,
if I need my ear drums, mind, and heart blown, I turn you on. I listen, which bated breath, to every song and realise and recognise something new and interesting about every song. I think that you have a hidden talent of hiding parts of music from the first listen, and I love it. I love how I can turn on TNT and hear a different riff than the first time I listened, and still have my ears buzzing. I love how I can listen to the same song multiple times in a row and never get tired of it. I love that although you are old and crazy and from europe, you still are able to reach a crazy young girl from canada, and can reach my heart as well. You write the guitar solos to my dreams, and if I am in any kind of mood I can turn you on. Let it be angry, sad, happy, I can turn on Who made who and just be beyond lost, I am enthralled and encompassed in the sound and pure magic that this music creates. If I could play any instrument I would only dream of play it while laying on the ground and spinning, and I would give anything to see you live. Thank you.
Love always,
Jessica Deeanne
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
crocodile love
[forty seven]
Dear Elton,
I have listened to you since I was three years old and I saw the Lion King. I have loved you since my dad sang me an assortment of your familiar tunes to your beautiful ballads. You were my parents' wedding song, you create such beautiful love songs. I wish the ballads could be used more than commercial use, because in my world they are so much more than a love song. They are inspirations for moments of bliss, moments in a garden, moments thinking about life or even love but more importantly looking into the goodness of people, the the badness. You have taken my hand and huided me through a musical experience that includes orchestras, concertoss, rock, and jazz. You are inhabitant to my favourite song of all time, and not only does it create the structure for my happiness, it infuses my life with such love and fufillment that I wish I could let you know. You are so quirky in yourself, and I envy your plain but classiness. You are a true inspiration, and a great love. Thank you.
Love always,
Jessica Deeanne
Dear Elton,
I have listened to you since I was three years old and I saw the Lion King. I have loved you since my dad sang me an assortment of your familiar tunes to your beautiful ballads. You were my parents' wedding song, you create such beautiful love songs. I wish the ballads could be used more than commercial use, because in my world they are so much more than a love song. They are inspirations for moments of bliss, moments in a garden, moments thinking about life or even love but more importantly looking into the goodness of people, the the badness. You have taken my hand and huided me through a musical experience that includes orchestras, concertoss, rock, and jazz. You are inhabitant to my favourite song of all time, and not only does it create the structure for my happiness, it infuses my life with such love and fufillment that I wish I could let you know. You are so quirky in yourself, and I envy your plain but classiness. You are a true inspiration, and a great love. Thank you.
Love always,
Jessica Deeanne
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
rock you like a hurricane
[forty six?]
Dear Noel,
you have written things that I can only imagine in my dreams, and the mere pictures you create are incredible. Not only are they universally connectable, but they also have this smooth and melodic sounding way, almost like if there was no extreme band going on in the background, it would still be a song. If there was any that lifted me up, let there be love and slide away are perfect for keeping me comforted and mesmerized with you brilliance. If there was anything that kept me down when I was down would be cast no shadow or supersonic, nothin' like a little bit of cigarettes and alcohol to get you right in the mood to just be pissed off. And, if anything, the best pumping up song I've ever heard, amidst all of the top forty shit that's thrown at our generation, "fuckin' in the bushes" has made me feel like either punching someone out or dancing forever, and if that is the effects of just a couple of your songs, then it is no doubt that, although you and the band are now broken up, I still devote most of my listening time to you. thank you for being there when I needed you, and thank you for not overdosing in the nineties, because when I saw you in concert I couldn't stop myself from crying. You are one of my literature-idols, and one of my favourite people in the world. Plus, you are mighty sexy.
Love always,
Jessica Deeanne
Dear Noel,
you have written things that I can only imagine in my dreams, and the mere pictures you create are incredible. Not only are they universally connectable, but they also have this smooth and melodic sounding way, almost like if there was no extreme band going on in the background, it would still be a song. If there was any that lifted me up, let there be love and slide away are perfect for keeping me comforted and mesmerized with you brilliance. If there was anything that kept me down when I was down would be cast no shadow or supersonic, nothin' like a little bit of cigarettes and alcohol to get you right in the mood to just be pissed off. And, if anything, the best pumping up song I've ever heard, amidst all of the top forty shit that's thrown at our generation, "fuckin' in the bushes" has made me feel like either punching someone out or dancing forever, and if that is the effects of just a couple of your songs, then it is no doubt that, although you and the band are now broken up, I still devote most of my listening time to you. thank you for being there when I needed you, and thank you for not overdosing in the nineties, because when I saw you in concert I couldn't stop myself from crying. You are one of my literature-idols, and one of my favourite people in the world. Plus, you are mighty sexy.
Love always,
Jessica Deeanne
Monday, February 14, 2011
today of all days
[forty five]
Dear David,
not only do you rock my world, you rock my mind. I don't think I would be here without my loving passion for eighties glam, and although you are older than that I think that you still ignite my fire for it. I wish I could also meet you, but seeing as you are married to a model and live on the other side of the world I don't think I will be able to. I wish I could have seen your face during Ziggy, and even more so in Aladdin, but mostly I wish that I could've driven my car down more roads blasting more of your songs and screaming at the top of my lungs. You have made my world brighter, you have given me hope and strength where so many artists lack. Some songs have no depth and are filled with just plain strings and harmonies, and others tell the hardships and the pain and the reality, and not only do I delve myself into those, but I make it my job to break open the lock and settle down in the middle of your meanings, searching the nooks and crannies of your world and glue them to the pieces of my world, and together I believe we make a beautiful place. I don't know what I would do without space oddity, or golden years. These things have gotten me through the dark, you brought me the light. Thank you.
Love always,
Jessica Deeanne
Dear David,
not only do you rock my world, you rock my mind. I don't think I would be here without my loving passion for eighties glam, and although you are older than that I think that you still ignite my fire for it. I wish I could also meet you, but seeing as you are married to a model and live on the other side of the world I don't think I will be able to. I wish I could have seen your face during Ziggy, and even more so in Aladdin, but mostly I wish that I could've driven my car down more roads blasting more of your songs and screaming at the top of my lungs. You have made my world brighter, you have given me hope and strength where so many artists lack. Some songs have no depth and are filled with just plain strings and harmonies, and others tell the hardships and the pain and the reality, and not only do I delve myself into those, but I make it my job to break open the lock and settle down in the middle of your meanings, searching the nooks and crannies of your world and glue them to the pieces of my world, and together I believe we make a beautiful place. I don't know what I would do without space oddity, or golden years. These things have gotten me through the dark, you brought me the light. Thank you.
Love always,
Jessica Deeanne
Sunday, February 13, 2011
he is the walrus
[forty four]
Dear John,
Although I will never meet you, you continue to be my inspiration. You have always kept something going inside of me, let it be a perfect lyric or one of those musical resolutions that takes my breath away and helps me get through the day. You've really got a hold on me, John, everything about you makes me want to just run to New York City and sit in your apartment with Yoko, and look out on Central Park and remember how influential you are, and imagine what it would be like to listen to you actually speak. You have taken my thoughts and my dreams and put them on a staff, on those five lines, and all before I was even born. I want my own people-shooting-hat, so that I could people-shoot the hell out of him, an eye for an eye for you. I wish that in all of Apollo's loving powers he could bring back the sun that saw you, but I believe the world is different today. No one is giving peace a chance, no one is letting it be. No one is coming together, and no one will get back. Dear John, you are my everything, you are my soul and my life and my love, my true love. I may love more than just you, but you had me at Hello. If I could say one thing to you and you would hear it resound in your ears for eternity, it would be thank you. Two simple words, expressing my undying devotion, and the fact that although music makes the world go round, your voice makes me heart continue beating.
Love always,
Jessica Deeanne
Dear John,
Although I will never meet you, you continue to be my inspiration. You have always kept something going inside of me, let it be a perfect lyric or one of those musical resolutions that takes my breath away and helps me get through the day. You've really got a hold on me, John, everything about you makes me want to just run to New York City and sit in your apartment with Yoko, and look out on Central Park and remember how influential you are, and imagine what it would be like to listen to you actually speak. You have taken my thoughts and my dreams and put them on a staff, on those five lines, and all before I was even born. I want my own people-shooting-hat, so that I could people-shoot the hell out of him, an eye for an eye for you. I wish that in all of Apollo's loving powers he could bring back the sun that saw you, but I believe the world is different today. No one is giving peace a chance, no one is letting it be. No one is coming together, and no one will get back. Dear John, you are my everything, you are my soul and my life and my love, my true love. I may love more than just you, but you had me at Hello. If I could say one thing to you and you would hear it resound in your ears for eternity, it would be thank you. Two simple words, expressing my undying devotion, and the fact that although music makes the world go round, your voice makes me heart continue beating.
Love always,
Jessica Deeanne
Saturday, February 12, 2011
it may overwhelm, but its a specialty
[forty three]
Today is a special day, and although no one was taking it seriously, there was something about the air that was electric. It was over, and it felt uneasy and good to know that that weight was lifted off as easilly as it was set on the shoulders. now it was time to relax, and although the sun was shining and there was extreme happiness everywhere, something seemed to be missing. the people. all of a sudden, everyone began to flow in like a bottle neck, little at first and then more and more. the noise continued to grow, until there were just audible whoops above the gabbling chatter and what non. it was over, and now everyone else was realising it too. finally, the blue skies were a real blue, the happiness painted the faces of everyone around. this was how today was supposed to be, there was supposed to be a celebration.
hell jude, there's gonna be a celebration. happy birthday love!
february 12, 2011 - jess ;] - my good friend judith's birthday is today, this story is for her, because although she had to write an exam this morning, its over now, and we can celebrate good times, come on! <3
Today is a special day, and although no one was taking it seriously, there was something about the air that was electric. It was over, and it felt uneasy and good to know that that weight was lifted off as easilly as it was set on the shoulders. now it was time to relax, and although the sun was shining and there was extreme happiness everywhere, something seemed to be missing. the people. all of a sudden, everyone began to flow in like a bottle neck, little at first and then more and more. the noise continued to grow, until there were just audible whoops above the gabbling chatter and what non. it was over, and now everyone else was realising it too. finally, the blue skies were a real blue, the happiness painted the faces of everyone around. this was how today was supposed to be, there was supposed to be a celebration.
hell jude, there's gonna be a celebration. happy birthday love!
february 12, 2011 - jess ;] - my good friend judith's birthday is today, this story is for her, because although she had to write an exam this morning, its over now, and we can celebrate good times, come on! <3
Friday, February 11, 2011
unfailing devotion to a passionate sight
[forty two]
if this was real life, there would be feeling and there would be pain. if this were real time, the clock would be ticking and the noise would drive sanity from anyone listening, or who gave an ear to listen. if this was real soil, the earth would be shaking, the world would not let this happen again. if this was real weather, there would be rain, there would be inches and flowers and clouds. if these were real people, there would be real emotions, there would be conversations, there would be love. if this was real love, there would be smooth sailing and peace and hugs. if this was the best day of your life or mine, there would be content.
although no one feels the same thing as anyone else, no one can hardly feel nothing. if one person feels something, it is empathy that draws us in with a gravitational pull. if love was present, there would be no elephants or rooms, there would just be that tension that enormous incredible feeling that overpowers and knocks one out like a wave like the undertoing of the water Gods that pulls and tugs anyone under, refusing release.
If there had been love, there would be no release. If there is a release, either the love is lost, or the love is there and it being set up on the shelf, packaged with dismay in a hurry, and hopefully not forgotten.
i will not promise
February 11, 2011 - Jess
if this was real life, there would be feeling and there would be pain. if this were real time, the clock would be ticking and the noise would drive sanity from anyone listening, or who gave an ear to listen. if this was real soil, the earth would be shaking, the world would not let this happen again. if this was real weather, there would be rain, there would be inches and flowers and clouds. if these were real people, there would be real emotions, there would be conversations, there would be love. if this was real love, there would be smooth sailing and peace and hugs. if this was the best day of your life or mine, there would be content.
although no one feels the same thing as anyone else, no one can hardly feel nothing. if one person feels something, it is empathy that draws us in with a gravitational pull. if love was present, there would be no elephants or rooms, there would just be that tension that enormous incredible feeling that overpowers and knocks one out like a wave like the undertoing of the water Gods that pulls and tugs anyone under, refusing release.
If there had been love, there would be no release. If there is a release, either the love is lost, or the love is there and it being set up on the shelf, packaged with dismay in a hurry, and hopefully not forgotten.
i will not promise
February 11, 2011 - Jess
Thursday, February 10, 2011
hey ya'll aggie haw
[forty one]
Cutting it a shave too close, he dropped the chalk and leaned back on his heals to witness the work he had just displayed on the board for the world to see. The pupils of the world would marvel at his brilliance, at his intelligently crafted placement of just this and that. No one appreciated him now, up until now that is, he had just been the quiet one, the lonely one, the introvert. Yeah, hey there world, look at me, I'm about to transform ya'.
And so he enveloped himself in his masterpiece, he licked his own seal and mailed it away to be presented and teared apart by the world. It was an incredible feeling, to actually finish something, and to be proud of something. It was like the ending of a year, on December 31st, waiting at eleven fifty four for that stupid ball to drop and the world to erupt into joyous celebration, laughter, and love. Love. It was something that he had yet to grasp, until now.
Now seemed to be a touchy subject. The time was irrelevant as to when he finished this event, this moment of his life in which his memory would never erase. This blackboard would never be erased. He picked up the erasers and went to the window, holding them shuddering in his hands not wanting to leave his love for too long, opened it, and chucked them far away. What would the teachers say then? When they realised he had figured it, he had done it, he had proved them all wrong.
He surveyed his work for a moment longer, holding back a cough as to not ruin the intense sensation that he was feeling as he realised: this was his dream. His dream, had just, come true. Mind. Blown.
Although no saying, no jargon, no calamity of changing generation discourse could ever even begin to pronounce properly his feelings. there was nothing inside that erupted when he saw it, it was more like a slow, rolling. This rolling was slow at first and continued to climb until, although he was standing completely still in a classroom at six in the morning, his inside seemed to burst and stream away from his body.
He had done it.
Looking lovingly at his work, he went to leave the room, not before he rearranged the chalk on the ledge. It had always been habit, and now was no time to break tradition. He had just rivalled brilliance, rivalled nobel, rivalled the world, and had conqueared with a bang. A silent, unwitnessed bang. That bang echoed until he realised as he was leaving, that nothing would be the same again. He was changed, life was changed. His love had changed the world, his world, their world was no longer the same no longer able to be stable or unable to continue changing. He had done this.
He had done this. He knew he could do this, and he did.
February 10, 2011 - Jess :]
Cutting it a shave too close, he dropped the chalk and leaned back on his heals to witness the work he had just displayed on the board for the world to see. The pupils of the world would marvel at his brilliance, at his intelligently crafted placement of just this and that. No one appreciated him now, up until now that is, he had just been the quiet one, the lonely one, the introvert. Yeah, hey there world, look at me, I'm about to transform ya'.
And so he enveloped himself in his masterpiece, he licked his own seal and mailed it away to be presented and teared apart by the world. It was an incredible feeling, to actually finish something, and to be proud of something. It was like the ending of a year, on December 31st, waiting at eleven fifty four for that stupid ball to drop and the world to erupt into joyous celebration, laughter, and love. Love. It was something that he had yet to grasp, until now.
Now seemed to be a touchy subject. The time was irrelevant as to when he finished this event, this moment of his life in which his memory would never erase. This blackboard would never be erased. He picked up the erasers and went to the window, holding them shuddering in his hands not wanting to leave his love for too long, opened it, and chucked them far away. What would the teachers say then? When they realised he had figured it, he had done it, he had proved them all wrong.
He surveyed his work for a moment longer, holding back a cough as to not ruin the intense sensation that he was feeling as he realised: this was his dream. His dream, had just, come true. Mind. Blown.
Although no saying, no jargon, no calamity of changing generation discourse could ever even begin to pronounce properly his feelings. there was nothing inside that erupted when he saw it, it was more like a slow, rolling. This rolling was slow at first and continued to climb until, although he was standing completely still in a classroom at six in the morning, his inside seemed to burst and stream away from his body.
He had done it.
Looking lovingly at his work, he went to leave the room, not before he rearranged the chalk on the ledge. It had always been habit, and now was no time to break tradition. He had just rivalled brilliance, rivalled nobel, rivalled the world, and had conqueared with a bang. A silent, unwitnessed bang. That bang echoed until he realised as he was leaving, that nothing would be the same again. He was changed, life was changed. His love had changed the world, his world, their world was no longer the same no longer able to be stable or unable to continue changing. He had done this.
He had done this. He knew he could do this, and he did.
February 10, 2011 - Jess :]
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
they are so heavy from the rain, and so is that note
[forty! i figured out the numba thing!]
We walked down the street and smiled and
our hands were blown up above our heads and
like floats at a parade they lifted higher until they
flew away
Our dreams blew away from us down the road
chasing them drifting amongst the tickets and ideas
and we took a basket and put some away
for later
So I caught our love and you got our goals
and we wrapped them up in packages and took them home
put them into the closet, locked them away
until today
And you ripped them open, pulled out their hearts
telling me that we were wrong
putting them in your pockets you shuffled away
taking them with you
You say you're empty with my dreams and passions in your pocket
and I laugh
it is like trying to find every last piece of confetti
you always lose one
February 9, 2011 - Jess :]
We walked down the street and smiled and
our hands were blown up above our heads and
like floats at a parade they lifted higher until they
flew away
Our dreams blew away from us down the road
chasing them drifting amongst the tickets and ideas
and we took a basket and put some away
for later
So I caught our love and you got our goals
and we wrapped them up in packages and took them home
put them into the closet, locked them away
until today
And you ripped them open, pulled out their hearts
telling me that we were wrong
putting them in your pockets you shuffled away
taking them with you
You say you're empty with my dreams and passions in your pocket
and I laugh
it is like trying to find every last piece of confetti
you always lose one
February 9, 2011 - Jess :]
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
acute pain,
[thirty eight or something]
Sitting quietly, the small fox pondered the stars that were colliding above him. Sparks and crashes above his head, and he was worried that his feet didn't match. One was dipped black, the other was the same curious burnt orange that coloured the rest of him. He sat, pondering the stars, depressed due to his lack of symmetry and normalcy, when the wind picked up, and being a small weight the small fox fell lightly onto the grass beside him.
His feet, sticking in the air, waved lightly in the darkness. it was quiet, and serene, and now the fox lay on his back staring at the small lights. The stars blotted the deep purple, blue-black sky with the singularity of drops of wax. The sky rippled around in honour of the bright stars, the reflections of their own sun and the sky's beautiful history, written on itself to portray the lost and the found. The fox was so small, and the stars were so small; the difference between the two was that the stars meant a whole lot more.
and so the fox shook off his thoughts of the stars, the illuminating paths to the Gods and the myths and so many other legendary stories. He rolled over, padding the ground that felt soft like clay and his mis-matched feet felt the earth as their home. The wind was still blowing its warnings across the grass, and it was a never-ending struggle for the fox to walk even a few strides away to his little hovel in a tree.
It was a small hole, duh neat and prim, for the fox to sleep and keep himself when times were rough or cold or wet. He smiled as his hole took light from the stars and transformed from a half-hole to his home. Dropping lightly into it, the fox sniffed at the earth as his nose traced the edge of the hole. The grass was light brown from the earlier sun, and the ground was wet, but not muddy. It smelled like his home.
Looking back up at the stars, the fox let his tongue hang noose-like from his lips while fidgeting with his black and orange paws. He was thinking again about how important the stars seemed, they were there to lead them home. To illuminate the pathes, and to act as a map for those who needed them. He sat, nose on the edge of the hole, eyes directed to the sky, reading the great history in which he trusted.
Although he was in his hole and was preparing for his sleep, he was home.
February 8, 2011 - Jess :]
Sitting quietly, the small fox pondered the stars that were colliding above him. Sparks and crashes above his head, and he was worried that his feet didn't match. One was dipped black, the other was the same curious burnt orange that coloured the rest of him. He sat, pondering the stars, depressed due to his lack of symmetry and normalcy, when the wind picked up, and being a small weight the small fox fell lightly onto the grass beside him.
His feet, sticking in the air, waved lightly in the darkness. it was quiet, and serene, and now the fox lay on his back staring at the small lights. The stars blotted the deep purple, blue-black sky with the singularity of drops of wax. The sky rippled around in honour of the bright stars, the reflections of their own sun and the sky's beautiful history, written on itself to portray the lost and the found. The fox was so small, and the stars were so small; the difference between the two was that the stars meant a whole lot more.
and so the fox shook off his thoughts of the stars, the illuminating paths to the Gods and the myths and so many other legendary stories. He rolled over, padding the ground that felt soft like clay and his mis-matched feet felt the earth as their home. The wind was still blowing its warnings across the grass, and it was a never-ending struggle for the fox to walk even a few strides away to his little hovel in a tree.
It was a small hole, duh neat and prim, for the fox to sleep and keep himself when times were rough or cold or wet. He smiled as his hole took light from the stars and transformed from a half-hole to his home. Dropping lightly into it, the fox sniffed at the earth as his nose traced the edge of the hole. The grass was light brown from the earlier sun, and the ground was wet, but not muddy. It smelled like his home.
Looking back up at the stars, the fox let his tongue hang noose-like from his lips while fidgeting with his black and orange paws. He was thinking again about how important the stars seemed, they were there to lead them home. To illuminate the pathes, and to act as a map for those who needed them. He sat, nose on the edge of the hole, eyes directed to the sky, reading the great history in which he trusted.
Although he was in his hole and was preparing for his sleep, he was home.
February 8, 2011 - Jess :]
Monday, February 7, 2011
can't shake the feeling of being uncontrollable
[thirty-eight]
Once upon a time there was a little frog. There was this boy that liked this frog, but couldn't understand why. If there was any real explanation, it was something obviously sick and morbid, and therefore should be told to the world. This little frog was just an innocent little frog, until one day that boy came at it with a look in his eye. The frog screamed in despair. He knew what was to come. The boy had a firecracker in his hand, shaking it wildly infront of the frog's eyes. He was laughing, and although it seemed like it would be a bad idea, he took out a match and lit it anyway. The frog, freaked out, tried to jump, but the boy was too fast. The firecracker was beyond the frog's lips in seconds, and bam. That was the end of the sorry little frog. The boy, who had many a wheelz, continued to laugh.
February 7, 2011 - Jess :]
Once upon a time there was a little frog. There was this boy that liked this frog, but couldn't understand why. If there was any real explanation, it was something obviously sick and morbid, and therefore should be told to the world. This little frog was just an innocent little frog, until one day that boy came at it with a look in his eye. The frog screamed in despair. He knew what was to come. The boy had a firecracker in his hand, shaking it wildly infront of the frog's eyes. He was laughing, and although it seemed like it would be a bad idea, he took out a match and lit it anyway. The frog, freaked out, tried to jump, but the boy was too fast. The firecracker was beyond the frog's lips in seconds, and bam. That was the end of the sorry little frog. The boy, who had many a wheelz, continued to laugh.
February 7, 2011 - Jess :]
Sunday, February 6, 2011
outrage
[thirty-seven] (i messed up the numbers..)
I need a break from the stories for one day, just to explain a little about this montha dn get some thoughts all figured out. So for February I'm going to do all prose, all stories everyday, except once a week so I can organise my real thoughts. If you haven't noticed, the stories have tunred into more of a morbid rant style, something have been happening and I really have just been trying to find ways to deal with it, and I turned to the things that make me most happy, unfortunately one of those things fucked me over, so he's just not going to be mentioned anymore.
I turned to my music, yeah I play it loud and yeah its not always sad and depressing, but whats with the stereotype of having to lsiten to sad music while being sad? I can deal with a little more light rock, but I cannot deal with some sad shit when I wanna be uplifted. Isn't that the opposite of what you want? Unless comfort is not the goal, and forunately for me, I want comfort.
The other thing is my writing, which in turn has taken a bludgering toll, since I've been mis-spelling everything and not editing at all and basically turning my thoughts into rampant rage on the blog scene, but it works for me because I can just sit here and scream and cry at the computer and no one can truly get inside my head to feel what I feel, this is the closest thing I could think of.
One more thing would be my friends, whom have not been upset when I'm not completely there, or don't have anything to say, or just want to lay and cry or not talk about it at all. I knew they'd be here, I just want them to know I appreciate it and that although nothing they say will ever make it better, it helps knowing that they're there at all.
As for my thoughts, I've been doing self reflecting, remembering what makes me happy for me, spending time alone and really getting into things with myself. Realising my opinions on things clash with other people's and that I am okay with that. Realising that I am too hard on myself mainly with my schoolwork and therefore I'm laying off, so what if I get a seventy? I want a seventy five average, I'll just keep doing what I'm good at and it I'm not good at something it's not the end of the world, I'll just deal with it. I need some more hobbies, but I'm working on that too, even if they're unproductive or time-wasters, if they take my mind off of things than it is okay.
So here we are, looking at a new February day (its like three pm but that is alright with me(. I have no motivation to do antyhing academic whatsoever, however I know I should probably read a play or something... I don't want to, I don't want to think about school I don't want to think about anything, but nothing numbs the mind, unofrtuantely for me.
So I'll end it with my ourage. My plain outrage or disrespect, and dishonesty, and mistrust. And the fact that although I may not be perfect by any means, I may have many flaws, I may say the wrong things all the time or not say specifically what I mean or mess up with my words or not be sensitive enough or be too reliant. I by no means do I not respect or love myself. See how selfish that sounds? I guess you already know what selfish is though, don't you?
So I'm off to decide if I'm going to read that play or just watch a movie and sleep, I'm voting for the latter but you never know. I doubt he'll ever read this but if you do, I love you, and you hurt me so badly, and I can't believe you, but please don't do this. I hope everone is having a wonderful february! I feel like I can't really put my own words into my stories, I feel like I start writing them and then I just continue going and going and they're done when they're done and I can't just put an end "hope everyone has a wonderufl day!" so assume that I always say that.
That is how I know these blogs are good for me, except when its destructive to how If eel about myself.
Take care, love always,
Jess :]
ps, never give up on yourself, never second guess yourself, never forget that you are strong.
I need a break from the stories for one day, just to explain a little about this montha dn get some thoughts all figured out. So for February I'm going to do all prose, all stories everyday, except once a week so I can organise my real thoughts. If you haven't noticed, the stories have tunred into more of a morbid rant style, something have been happening and I really have just been trying to find ways to deal with it, and I turned to the things that make me most happy, unfortunately one of those things fucked me over, so he's just not going to be mentioned anymore.
I turned to my music, yeah I play it loud and yeah its not always sad and depressing, but whats with the stereotype of having to lsiten to sad music while being sad? I can deal with a little more light rock, but I cannot deal with some sad shit when I wanna be uplifted. Isn't that the opposite of what you want? Unless comfort is not the goal, and forunately for me, I want comfort.
The other thing is my writing, which in turn has taken a bludgering toll, since I've been mis-spelling everything and not editing at all and basically turning my thoughts into rampant rage on the blog scene, but it works for me because I can just sit here and scream and cry at the computer and no one can truly get inside my head to feel what I feel, this is the closest thing I could think of.
One more thing would be my friends, whom have not been upset when I'm not completely there, or don't have anything to say, or just want to lay and cry or not talk about it at all. I knew they'd be here, I just want them to know I appreciate it and that although nothing they say will ever make it better, it helps knowing that they're there at all.
As for my thoughts, I've been doing self reflecting, remembering what makes me happy for me, spending time alone and really getting into things with myself. Realising my opinions on things clash with other people's and that I am okay with that. Realising that I am too hard on myself mainly with my schoolwork and therefore I'm laying off, so what if I get a seventy? I want a seventy five average, I'll just keep doing what I'm good at and it I'm not good at something it's not the end of the world, I'll just deal with it. I need some more hobbies, but I'm working on that too, even if they're unproductive or time-wasters, if they take my mind off of things than it is okay.
So here we are, looking at a new February day (its like three pm but that is alright with me(. I have no motivation to do antyhing academic whatsoever, however I know I should probably read a play or something... I don't want to, I don't want to think about school I don't want to think about anything, but nothing numbs the mind, unofrtuantely for me.
So I'll end it with my ourage. My plain outrage or disrespect, and dishonesty, and mistrust. And the fact that although I may not be perfect by any means, I may have many flaws, I may say the wrong things all the time or not say specifically what I mean or mess up with my words or not be sensitive enough or be too reliant. I by no means do I not respect or love myself. See how selfish that sounds? I guess you already know what selfish is though, don't you?
So I'm off to decide if I'm going to read that play or just watch a movie and sleep, I'm voting for the latter but you never know. I doubt he'll ever read this but if you do, I love you, and you hurt me so badly, and I can't believe you, but please don't do this. I hope everone is having a wonderful february! I feel like I can't really put my own words into my stories, I feel like I start writing them and then I just continue going and going and they're done when they're done and I can't just put an end "hope everyone has a wonderufl day!" so assume that I always say that.
That is how I know these blogs are good for me, except when its destructive to how If eel about myself.
Take care, love always,
Jess :]
ps, never give up on yourself, never second guess yourself, never forget that you are strong.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
you have got to be kidding me,
[thirty-five]
Smothered in blankets of snow I watched the world move on without me. My eyes glazed over with icy disbelief, and the snow calmed my body into a frozen numbness. I felt no pain, no, the pain left me after a while. There was nothing but numb knowledge that this was real, this was actually happening to me.
and there was people around, standing above me, they knew I was there, buried, covered... But they didn't notice my falling asleep body, my eyes frozen open but seeing nothing. the snow straight jacket restricted me from screaming, from turning this disaster into the end. It kept me in my body, it kept me down. It was keeping me down to the ground near the earth beyond the material buildings grass and snow. I lay there, freezing, freezing.
But I was not freezing to my death, the cold numbness kept me there. The pain was gone, but I was cold. I could feel the cold covering me, taking me hostage and sinking its teeth deep into every inch of my body. I knew I was alive then, I was living. I was feeling this thing hit me again and again like bricks like unexpected brick after brick.
I lay there, trapped in my own head trapped by the snow and the cold and the pain, and I kept thinking over and over that this was my fault. I had put myself here. I had secluded myself. I had dug the hole in which I now lie, in which now the blankets pack me tightly under their kee[ig, to be tortured and mislead to dead ends for eternity.
Well, maybe not eternity, there was distinct hope that this eternity would not last forever. The people hovering above, I could feel their warmth. I could feel their hands digging, looking, searching for me to take away the numb. Take away my pain. Take away the cold. To embrace me in this warmth I knew and loved and missed. I needed that, but for now it would have to wait. For now I had to come to terms with it myself.
Suffocating in the deep blankets of the earth, in the cold snow-ridden earth where I was. I needed to breath, but my breath was bated, standing still inches from my nose, teasing to come back but never came. Relief did not come.
February 5, 2011 - Jess
Smothered in blankets of snow I watched the world move on without me. My eyes glazed over with icy disbelief, and the snow calmed my body into a frozen numbness. I felt no pain, no, the pain left me after a while. There was nothing but numb knowledge that this was real, this was actually happening to me.
and there was people around, standing above me, they knew I was there, buried, covered... But they didn't notice my falling asleep body, my eyes frozen open but seeing nothing. the snow straight jacket restricted me from screaming, from turning this disaster into the end. It kept me in my body, it kept me down. It was keeping me down to the ground near the earth beyond the material buildings grass and snow. I lay there, freezing, freezing.
But I was not freezing to my death, the cold numbness kept me there. The pain was gone, but I was cold. I could feel the cold covering me, taking me hostage and sinking its teeth deep into every inch of my body. I knew I was alive then, I was living. I was feeling this thing hit me again and again like bricks like unexpected brick after brick.
I lay there, trapped in my own head trapped by the snow and the cold and the pain, and I kept thinking over and over that this was my fault. I had put myself here. I had secluded myself. I had dug the hole in which I now lie, in which now the blankets pack me tightly under their kee[ig, to be tortured and mislead to dead ends for eternity.
Well, maybe not eternity, there was distinct hope that this eternity would not last forever. The people hovering above, I could feel their warmth. I could feel their hands digging, looking, searching for me to take away the numb. Take away my pain. Take away the cold. To embrace me in this warmth I knew and loved and missed. I needed that, but for now it would have to wait. For now I had to come to terms with it myself.
Suffocating in the deep blankets of the earth, in the cold snow-ridden earth where I was. I needed to breath, but my breath was bated, standing still inches from my nose, teasing to come back but never came. Relief did not come.
February 5, 2011 - Jess
Friday, February 4, 2011
unintentional, but explosive
[thirty-four]
The grass was green on the other side, outside of the bubble there was green grass and red roses and brightly coloured things. Inside the bubble, there was grey, colourless nothing. Bland, like unbuttered toast, unbuttered toast and water. Inside the bubble there was no light, no dark, no taste smell or sight. Inside was where they went if there was problems. No one wanted to deal with them so they were placed in the grey bubble. Ostracised and alone. The colour drained, the life left, and the only thing left was a sound. The blinking beep that repeated just to let the outside know that that problem was still there. The beeping blink that continued, that nagged, that dragged its nails down the side of the bubble and stretched and blistered the surface. The problems were an infection, the bubble however, never grew. It stayed the same, frozen. Frosting in time to relieve its own pain and ignite pain in others. A tumor.
The cure, its inevitable.
February 4, 2011 - Jess:]
Thursday, February 3, 2011
just..
[thirty-three]
Fortunately, it was a missed goal. She was young, not young enough to be naive but not old enough to really know anything yet either. There was a sense of purpose amongst the blonde hair, the blonde hair that reached the lower middle back and the belly button exposed by a couple-inches-too-short shirt. This girl was too young to remember the Great War, but old enough to remember the second. This girl knew nothing about pride.
Pride, definition unknown in the sixties but one of freedom and unified justice, took on a new light in light of the green light of the government. The girl had seen her past boyfriends strip down and up in green, and march their way into the homes and out of the homes of their fathers, and their enemies, and their neighbourly doctor doing the deed for humanity. Fixing up bruises bones and blessings of those that have ran and lost, gave and lost, attempted, and lost.
This girl had been a lover. After the second war there wasn't much of anything but love, love and good manners and that was all she could account for. If there was anything to be said it would be that a girl about twenty was about to come across the real meaning of pride, pride and good-riddence to that of good faith. She was hit in a place where only the lovers knew, and it didn't require a condom.
Or anything else for that matter, this whole sex thing had really come over everybodsy, and it had driven the thoughts and bodies of so many people she knew, and given it was on her mind at times too, but it was impossible to think of much else when the world and the greens and the government threw you intolerance and war and hate.
We Hate Your Hate. We Hate Your Hate. We Hate Your Hate.
Over and over, no reasons reasonless loss. Loss was big then, this girl just hated losing, hated the feeling of hate and empty. The streets, the country felt empty. Sustenence and life was lost, although the sea separated the souls they were unified in the green, in the justice. the green? The red. Red Red REd.
The scare, the girl knew the scare. It was big, you needed to hate that hate, because that hate promoted more hate, and then the circle kept turning the wheels kept spinning it never ended never stopped. The green talked about trust, trust, trust when they could see it on their television, see the kids being gone, the kids falling.
Children, jesus christ. Children.
If the girl looked back she would see a life of love, but trust is somehting that the green offered and the red refused, the country was standing at yellow. Not quite sure if they should just fuck it all together and hit the bright blue. Hit the blue and fuck it altogether. Fucking let it all out. Let it all, fuck.
Just, fuck.
And so she let her boyfriends go, she let her best friends go.. They sat it was a waiting game before, now it was a watching seeing smelling feeling invigorating game. This game where lives lives at a stake? Lives at stake. There were lives at stake now. Honesty? Trust? Shoot me, LBJ, shoot me today today shoot me today.
And I felt it pulsing, the hate. We hate your hate. We hate your green your scared fucking reasons. We hate your fear. We hate hate they hate we hate you. I sat in the middle of the road, that white fucking house sitting all happy. What's with the colours? The green tells us to go green and hate the red and trust the white but never touch blue. Blue. Let us blue. Blue. I want to, fuck, fuck it all.
And so we did. We sat, we sat there infront of the house that house that white house LBJ shoot me today shoot shoot shoot me today. Children, LBJ, aren't you a father? Don't you realise that my brother and my father and my other lover boyfriend's brother other is out there for...
A thunderstorm.
Fuck.
February 3, 2011 - Jess :]
Fortunately, it was a missed goal. She was young, not young enough to be naive but not old enough to really know anything yet either. There was a sense of purpose amongst the blonde hair, the blonde hair that reached the lower middle back and the belly button exposed by a couple-inches-too-short shirt. This girl was too young to remember the Great War, but old enough to remember the second. This girl knew nothing about pride.
Pride, definition unknown in the sixties but one of freedom and unified justice, took on a new light in light of the green light of the government. The girl had seen her past boyfriends strip down and up in green, and march their way into the homes and out of the homes of their fathers, and their enemies, and their neighbourly doctor doing the deed for humanity. Fixing up bruises bones and blessings of those that have ran and lost, gave and lost, attempted, and lost.
This girl had been a lover. After the second war there wasn't much of anything but love, love and good manners and that was all she could account for. If there was anything to be said it would be that a girl about twenty was about to come across the real meaning of pride, pride and good-riddence to that of good faith. She was hit in a place where only the lovers knew, and it didn't require a condom.
Or anything else for that matter, this whole sex thing had really come over everybodsy, and it had driven the thoughts and bodies of so many people she knew, and given it was on her mind at times too, but it was impossible to think of much else when the world and the greens and the government threw you intolerance and war and hate.
We Hate Your Hate. We Hate Your Hate. We Hate Your Hate.
Over and over, no reasons reasonless loss. Loss was big then, this girl just hated losing, hated the feeling of hate and empty. The streets, the country felt empty. Sustenence and life was lost, although the sea separated the souls they were unified in the green, in the justice. the green? The red. Red Red REd.
The scare, the girl knew the scare. It was big, you needed to hate that hate, because that hate promoted more hate, and then the circle kept turning the wheels kept spinning it never ended never stopped. The green talked about trust, trust, trust when they could see it on their television, see the kids being gone, the kids falling.
Children, jesus christ. Children.
If the girl looked back she would see a life of love, but trust is somehting that the green offered and the red refused, the country was standing at yellow. Not quite sure if they should just fuck it all together and hit the bright blue. Hit the blue and fuck it altogether. Fucking let it all out. Let it all, fuck.
Just, fuck.
And so she let her boyfriends go, she let her best friends go.. They sat it was a waiting game before, now it was a watching seeing smelling feeling invigorating game. This game where lives lives at a stake? Lives at stake. There were lives at stake now. Honesty? Trust? Shoot me, LBJ, shoot me today today shoot me today.
And I felt it pulsing, the hate. We hate your hate. We hate your green your scared fucking reasons. We hate your fear. We hate hate they hate we hate you. I sat in the middle of the road, that white fucking house sitting all happy. What's with the colours? The green tells us to go green and hate the red and trust the white but never touch blue. Blue. Let us blue. Blue. I want to, fuck, fuck it all.
And so we did. We sat, we sat there infront of the house that house that white house LBJ shoot me today shoot shoot shoot me today. Children, LBJ, aren't you a father? Don't you realise that my brother and my father and my other lover boyfriend's brother other is out there for...
A thunderstorm.
Fuck.
February 3, 2011 - Jess :]
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
its like tooth decay in a bottle
[thirty-three]
Sitting alone, they were in their own seats. The air smelled thin like shallow water in a swamp, with a small hint of chemicals. It smelled too clean, red roses scrubbed white; scalpels disinfected to hell. The air was almost too toxic to breath, but it was safe. They said it was safe. Everyone was at their own seat, sitting, sitting and waiting.
The seats themselves seemed just awful, just wrong. The handles were cold but the bottoms were stiff and warm, as if someone had sweat their entire body's worth of water and it was now infusing moist heat into the bottoms of the new sitters. For everyone had to sit, everyone had to endure it.
And it didn't get easier. It didn't get warmer or colder or dirtier. It didn't get anything as expected. The walls were still that dim blue colour that resembled the colour of the ocean as only the moon sees it, and they slouched inward over the sitting body of people. The room seemed like a sneeze: tight, loud, and messy. The seats were neatly sitting closely together, elbow to elbow, knee to knee. As uncomfortable as it was, no one was talking. The noise was coming from behind the door.
The door was dark brown wood, looking heavy and solid. It stood in the middle of one blue slouching wall facing the sitting people. From it howls, beeps, and a low crumbling speech dripped insecurity into the laps of those who were aware of its existence, and the pressure sliced fear into those insecurities. The door was large, and the door was important. The door was everything.
So the people sitting were in silence, but they were not unaware of their future beyond the door. No one had come in or through since they all had arrived, and yet they sat. Lambs for the slaughter? Probably not, kittens for their milk is more like it. They were waiting for acceptance, they were waiting for the assurance, they were waiting for the grade.
The grade, it was that simple: They were waiting to know if that which they had been working hard for, working towards their entire little lives, would pay off. Although it seemed so unimportant, they waited still. There were no clocks, no watches, no cell phones, no computers, no technologies no internal clocks no intuititions. This timer was set to go off like a pop quiz: without knowledge.
Lips bitten raw red; wrists wrung until bruised blue; eveys exhausted yellow; the door reflected a rainbow on the waiting body. The feeling of the unknown was shared, was a unifying notion between. Shivering with worried cold sweats they were still holding out, holding on, holding with the idea that they could be-
A crack, and it opened. It was EXIT red, bright red, blood red, blood ripping red. The light that was cast into the dinging, worried room was broken red. It was a soul searching red that took a bite an inch deep into the soul of those sitters and chewed it up. It tugged, tearing at the goods and bads of each person.
Tearing up, ripping through the sins and deeds, the A's and B's, the loves and lusts, the departed and the stolen, the loved the loved the important. Everything and anything to make up one's self, was taken, swallowed, digested, and then sweat out again for them to ostracise themselves. If one thing was good something else wasn't good enough. If something was too bad to make anything else better, the light went dark.
the light went dark.
The red light, the red light, the red light.
Turned to green. Green is for go.
February 2, 2011 - Jess :]
Sitting alone, they were in their own seats. The air smelled thin like shallow water in a swamp, with a small hint of chemicals. It smelled too clean, red roses scrubbed white; scalpels disinfected to hell. The air was almost too toxic to breath, but it was safe. They said it was safe. Everyone was at their own seat, sitting, sitting and waiting.
The seats themselves seemed just awful, just wrong. The handles were cold but the bottoms were stiff and warm, as if someone had sweat their entire body's worth of water and it was now infusing moist heat into the bottoms of the new sitters. For everyone had to sit, everyone had to endure it.
And it didn't get easier. It didn't get warmer or colder or dirtier. It didn't get anything as expected. The walls were still that dim blue colour that resembled the colour of the ocean as only the moon sees it, and they slouched inward over the sitting body of people. The room seemed like a sneeze: tight, loud, and messy. The seats were neatly sitting closely together, elbow to elbow, knee to knee. As uncomfortable as it was, no one was talking. The noise was coming from behind the door.
The door was dark brown wood, looking heavy and solid. It stood in the middle of one blue slouching wall facing the sitting people. From it howls, beeps, and a low crumbling speech dripped insecurity into the laps of those who were aware of its existence, and the pressure sliced fear into those insecurities. The door was large, and the door was important. The door was everything.
So the people sitting were in silence, but they were not unaware of their future beyond the door. No one had come in or through since they all had arrived, and yet they sat. Lambs for the slaughter? Probably not, kittens for their milk is more like it. They were waiting for acceptance, they were waiting for the assurance, they were waiting for the grade.
The grade, it was that simple: They were waiting to know if that which they had been working hard for, working towards their entire little lives, would pay off. Although it seemed so unimportant, they waited still. There were no clocks, no watches, no cell phones, no computers, no technologies no internal clocks no intuititions. This timer was set to go off like a pop quiz: without knowledge.
Lips bitten raw red; wrists wrung until bruised blue; eveys exhausted yellow; the door reflected a rainbow on the waiting body. The feeling of the unknown was shared, was a unifying notion between. Shivering with worried cold sweats they were still holding out, holding on, holding with the idea that they could be-
A crack, and it opened. It was EXIT red, bright red, blood red, blood ripping red. The light that was cast into the dinging, worried room was broken red. It was a soul searching red that took a bite an inch deep into the soul of those sitters and chewed it up. It tugged, tearing at the goods and bads of each person.
Tearing up, ripping through the sins and deeds, the A's and B's, the loves and lusts, the departed and the stolen, the loved the loved the important. Everything and anything to make up one's self, was taken, swallowed, digested, and then sweat out again for them to ostracise themselves. If one thing was good something else wasn't good enough. If something was too bad to make anything else better, the light went dark.
the light went dark.
The red light, the red light, the red light.
Turned to green. Green is for go.
February 2, 2011 - Jess :]
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
the blizzard people
[thirty-two]
Air. It's such a simple concept when given such simple terms. Air. Air that is frozen, air that is like knives when swallowing, air that is smooth as whiskey. Air. Air is what started everything, anything worth anything really. Air that knocks you out from a whipping wind, like ice like frozen water moisture hitting a face like a brick wall. As many times to describe it, air bites. Air bites in the winter like snake bites, like infecting poison: Air gets in, cold air especially, and cold air never gets out.
So it was the cold air that got in, and no heat could sway it. No wind could dismount the cold air. Rooms were small, irregularly places in shapes of U's or L's, depending on the perspective. These irregular rooms were irregularly infused with heat on a pecularly regular basis, but on this particular week the cold air overcast the temperatures and the moral in these room plummetted. If it was anyone's inhabitance, they were surely to be in a low moral as well.
This unfortunately seemed to be the case. For a week the mroal meter was set to red, excruciatingly low, and nothing seemed to spring the spirit of the meter back up, pun intended. The winter slum had gotten everyone down, and it was just going to get worse. That always seems to be the way with life, it gives you rotten lemons for your lemonadestand, and just when you think you've found the good lemons in the fridge, it rains.
When life gets you down it continues to rain on your parade.
So the week continued, or pressed on if you will, and the cold air threatened to get worse and worse as the days droned on. There should be a light at the end of the snow-ridden tunnel coming up, but unfortunately there is none. Low moral is the recipe for insanity, but mixed with a touch of chilliness and you're in for a shit storm.
But no such storm erupted, the lava (given it was frozen) stayed boiling below, no such storm erupted. Confusion replaced the cold, and although there was still a low moral rating, things started to ease up on the inhabitants. There was still to be a storm, but that was more of a weather concern, not so much of an attitude issue.
So everything seemed wonderful, or as wonderful as it could be on the cusp of a busy week and a stressful one at that. Everyone was seeing less and less of eachother and more and more or what they would learn to call "hell". If there was anything to bring them up it would be done.
And there is really no happy ending, this story presses on, but hopefully the rest is a little warmer around the edges, and a little less frost-bitten.
February 1, 2011 Jess :]
Air. It's such a simple concept when given such simple terms. Air. Air that is frozen, air that is like knives when swallowing, air that is smooth as whiskey. Air. Air is what started everything, anything worth anything really. Air that knocks you out from a whipping wind, like ice like frozen water moisture hitting a face like a brick wall. As many times to describe it, air bites. Air bites in the winter like snake bites, like infecting poison: Air gets in, cold air especially, and cold air never gets out.
So it was the cold air that got in, and no heat could sway it. No wind could dismount the cold air. Rooms were small, irregularly places in shapes of U's or L's, depending on the perspective. These irregular rooms were irregularly infused with heat on a pecularly regular basis, but on this particular week the cold air overcast the temperatures and the moral in these room plummetted. If it was anyone's inhabitance, they were surely to be in a low moral as well.
This unfortunately seemed to be the case. For a week the mroal meter was set to red, excruciatingly low, and nothing seemed to spring the spirit of the meter back up, pun intended. The winter slum had gotten everyone down, and it was just going to get worse. That always seems to be the way with life, it gives you rotten lemons for your lemonadestand, and just when you think you've found the good lemons in the fridge, it rains.
When life gets you down it continues to rain on your parade.
So the week continued, or pressed on if you will, and the cold air threatened to get worse and worse as the days droned on. There should be a light at the end of the snow-ridden tunnel coming up, but unfortunately there is none. Low moral is the recipe for insanity, but mixed with a touch of chilliness and you're in for a shit storm.
But no such storm erupted, the lava (given it was frozen) stayed boiling below, no such storm erupted. Confusion replaced the cold, and although there was still a low moral rating, things started to ease up on the inhabitants. There was still to be a storm, but that was more of a weather concern, not so much of an attitude issue.
So everything seemed wonderful, or as wonderful as it could be on the cusp of a busy week and a stressful one at that. Everyone was seeing less and less of eachother and more and more or what they would learn to call "hell". If there was anything to bring them up it would be done.
And there is really no happy ending, this story presses on, but hopefully the rest is a little warmer around the edges, and a little less frost-bitten.
February 1, 2011 Jess :]
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