Tuesday, March 22, 2016

When the quarters are the mids, and the mids crave the end.

You know that sound a teapot makes when it's pushing steam out at full force?

That is the noise that I am making inside, viewing myself as someone that is sitting on the couch, pulling hair from the head, that awful screeching at maximum blast.  It's like being a teenager, the angst and anger spewing this way and that, so pent up, so alarming, so...ARGH!

I hate this life.  I hate it.  I hate it.  Woe is me, woe is me.  My life is at a standstill, I am going nowhere, this is nothing, he is ...  They are...  The screeching continues, piercing my own ear canals.  I imagine the blood trickling out of them, staining my shirt and the couch.  NOWHERE.  STUCK.

Woe, woe, woe, dear child.  Where is the comfort, where is the feeling that things will be okay, the assurance of a mother's touch, her hug, her guiding words...

Woe, woe, poor child, poor baby.  Screech, screech.  The downward spiral is about to take hold, about to pull me under, when I realize:

I am an adult.

Damn it.  Damn it, damn it, DAMN IT.

And where do we go from there?  The child adult sits on the couch, eyes absorbing the tears that were going to spill, unclenching the fists of rage, seemingly relaxing.  Ah, relaxing...adults don't do that.  The tension has turned to something else: it has turned to some sort of sadness, embarrassment, ignominy.

Body slumped, deadness taking over.  I am an adult.

And, with that, there goes my hope.  My world.  My sense of being.

This...is ...?

Friday, March 11, 2016

I don't believe in God.

He's not always present.

A lot of the time, he is.

It's lovely, yet, it can be painful.

He'll tell you the truth, whatever that may be.  Whatever he needs.  And you'll respect it.  It will pain you both.

You'll want to tear your heart out.  He'll make you cry, even if it isn't really his fault, because it is yours.

Forward, you'll say to yourself.  You wanted his presence.  But you knew it wasn't right.  And nothing you did seemed right.

He could be a martyr.  You are the sinner.  Baptism has nothing on this shit.

Nothing is really "wrong", is it?  But you'll tear yourself apart anyway, believing what you were taught, what he feels, is everything that makes you that sinner.  May you burn in Hell.  This is your forever Limbo, and you're scratching and pawing at everything.  Tread on your skin, bring upon the raw flesh to feel some substance of what is this life, but only for a brief moment.  Because the pain doesn't last, and the stinging doesn't last, either.

Go numb.

Jesus, Christ

Are you fucking kidding me with this shit?

Repetition as a human.  You'd think we'd learn.  We do, yet we repeat our situations in our lives over and over again.  Broken records.

And we try to stop, but...  Alas, it will happen.

And this is fine, for the happy, content person.  Praise to them.  But to those masochists...  Well, is it praise to them, too, because they are achieving their masochism?  Burn yourselves.  Again.

And, so, there she is, again.  Silent, silent, silence.  Happy to the outside, blindsided a little, but feeling demeaned and confused as to why she feels bad about herself, sometimes.  Are the words spoken to her manipulative?  How can one know if not meaning to manipulate?  Ah, but the manipulation isn't always meant to be cruel.  But, most times, it comes out as such, and they will suffer.  She will suffer.

Stand strong, miss.  You've got a heart in there, and you can beat this.  Don't let them tread you down.  You've got this.  Strength, miss.  Strength and love.

Saturday, January 23, 2016



These aren't revelations, they are ruminations.  Abominations.

Again, and again,
and again.

Ask her once,
Ask her twice.

Again, and again,
and again.


Eventually, she'll catch up.

To us?

We'll call to her
Through the smog

Cigarettes, here
and there
and there

.Not making sense.
But, alas,
here she is.

Friday, January 22, 2016

Somewhere, here, and she's dead.

She'll come alive through the paint.

In a stroke.

But living isn't really living anymore, is it?

So, where is she?

Things were grand.  A roller coaster of emotions, she was, but she was happy.  She didn't know it.  But she was.

She had hope, back then.  I don't know where it is now.  She remembers sitting in class, nervous.  Waiting for a call that she didn't understand.  The truth was, she did understand.  But she didn't want to believe it.  So, telling herself that she didn't really know what it meant was a way for her to deny what was really going on.

The fluorescent lights outside of the classroom shed plain, pallid light in the hallway.  She snuck out there to listen to her father, his voice steady, confident.  Lies?  Or did he believe himself?  Regardless, she believed his words.  They felt safe.  They felt okay.  Her heart felt sad, but she had that hope.  Whatever the fuck that was.

"The operation went fine."

Fucking tell me what this means, I tell her.  But she's in the past, and I'm in the present.  So how the fuck will she hear me?  It doesn't matter anymore.  We're here.  She's there.  The future is dark.  Or, maybe, it is bright.

Let's practice dialectically.

I can't.  Neither can she.  She worries too much.  She was wondering if her mother would see her sister graduate.  She saw mine.  Or was that the disease?  No, no; it was her.  She saw it.

Sips, sips.  Let the liquid flow.

You know who you are, you do.  You're afraid, and I know it.  I feel it.  You're stuck.  You're so very stuck, like a small, scared animal stuck in tar.  Except time stops for you.  The world around you keeps going.  You never age.  Your body does.  People think you mature.  You do things adults do.  But, inside, you're still the same.  You're still that small, desperate child.  Well, fuck.  What do you do?  Don't be so damn afraid, child.  Even children in Neverland grow and learn.  You'll get out of this.

Let's practice.  Come alive through the paint.  This is your picture.  It's not always big.  But it's here.

Paint, bitch.  Paint.

Realizing your truths

All these dark places
We go

We're not drowning
But the liquids do douse our feathers
A lighting of a match
And the party starts
Down, down we go

Wednesday, January 20, 2016

We feel safe with labels.

It's a new year.  I suppose I am a little late on this.

So, we're not going to talk about resolutions.

I haven't written a bloody thing in what seems like ages.  My mind is mush, yet sparked with all sorts of raging daggers and shards of glass and things that glimmer (but not craft herpes - what you may know as "glitter".).  Artist's block?  Writer's block?  What shall we call it?  After all, we are human, and humans seem to need some sort of categorization and familiarity to function and care.  Ah, well, let's not name this, and not see what it makes you feel.

I had some dreams lately, but I cannot recall them well.  I miss having crazy dreams.  Remembering them, that is.

Let's talk about anger.


That tickle inside you that makes you twitch and shake, feel the urge to explode your every negative emotion upon anything within a Mt St Helen's radius around you.  The fire burning in your eyes as you feel them shoot lasers into those people or things that have angered you.

He's chewing his food.  Everyone needs to chew food.  Okay, maybe not snakes.  But humans.  We need to do it.  But, gosh, does he have to do it so loudly?  Am I going crazy?  Why is this so loud to me?  WHY MUST YOU DO THIS TO ME?  Can I say something?  Should I say something?  Is that rude?  Why am I thinking so much on this?  Does everyone do this?  It didn't bother me yesterday.  FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MAKE IT STOP.

I don't know where I'm going with this.  I don't even know where I am going.  Well, then.  End post.