Thursday, October 25, 2007

I feel even more so, weak and lame, this time not at my wanton emotions, or any other such nonsense. I am done with all of it. There exists, extensions of my life people that I love, that they love…What am I to learn, it shall not be that in the end we all loose…it will be different, I will not wish that I had lived my life different, that I had hugged more often, or spoke more sincere to the most precious of people. I will learn only to treasure the ones most dear. I pass an antique store today, and wonder what happened to the lives of the people that owned such beautiful things. A woman who does not belong to me, she is mine by law, and soon not to be, she is sick, I am not privileged to see her, to know her, to give her warmth or love. I love her, and I might never have the opportunity to tell her, but how vain, and selfish a thought. I pray, I forget that I am praying, I feel guilt that I had so easily forgotten. And I pray again. This time more sincere, with all the conjured feelings of unselfishness, and pure hope that the message will be heard, and possibly granted. I cry to her daughter, in a desperate search for answers that do not come, I promise myself that I will help, that I will pray, that I could mean anything to her now. I feel sadness at all of the kisses we missed, I will not repeat this again. no use in sorrow, again i shall pray...

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

I will not take the time to know you, for I am discovering the deepest long lost things. It will take more than my life to discover its most precious pieces, and "I have wasted so much time" …I feel a calm whisper of hope that shall endure me still. The spastic yearn has dulled now, it will soon content itself to a pattering, barely light enough to consider. Yet, I shall pay no attention…pathetic still. My, for what I am assuming are pending, sorrows have escaped, even myself, and I cannot reason as to where they have gone. I do not wish them away so fast, for I love the wallow of pain and suffering. The existence of breathe, tears, and inconsequential fear that shall eventually be left and forgotten are all that confide in my heart. Perhaps there is nothing left to suffer, no new pain to disillusion the distinctions among men. I am left to understand that I was not made for this world. I am not. The life…described as heathen or whore. Meant only for the blasted dispassionate sickening creatures which consider themselves alive. To be, they have not. And sincerely speaking, I only wish to set myself apart then, from any such heathen.
The constant chatter in my head will not stop. It continues much past night, even still, while I sleep. It will not relent to a dream, only once since. It was a brilliant dream. The numbness subsides, I have the most magical, even perhaps surreal, I do love that word (of which I was forbade to speak these last three years, I did not say it once, even when it perfectly fit the most "surreal" situation, I could not, and eventually forgot that it was ever a chosen spoken word of mine). I find a book filled with precious nonsense that I was not allowed to have, I am an enlightened and released child. Young again, but oh so dreadfully aged, it was given to me by a lovely laurel.
I had been satisfied still, with the altruistic idea of a dying heart. It could have been possibly, quite perfectly staged. Still, it has passed, and a brightness, which I remember has long since been lost, has flooded my very soul. I am shamed to consider the illusions which I held so dear. They were my breath, how ever did I breathe…
I am left with the mundane things in all of their glory. These I love. I always have, I do not care for any (left un-described) such intrigues. They are nothing but imaginary fascinations of which I can easily create, but much more so, perfect. The ideas in my heart, the lasting day dreams that I conjure, are much more to my satisfaction.. I cannot imagine them true, I know I cannot, and for this, and yet, they are much closer, much dearer a reality than all things worldly. I will satisfy to dream of a conversation, I smile…and a dearness, that cannot be repeated in words that I carry the ability to express, is returned. This, simply is my dream. Ha!
tonight i can write, however possible, but so (in the deepest of my mourning)only this...
"Behind every smile a frown, every laugh a cry. For I seek not salvation, but redemption. Alone I walk, forever lost..." E.Spenser
but not true, since i am no longer no longer resounds on my skin, or leaves it's ugly mark, there is no bruise, on heal or any other such member. i look to the shroud of turin, forever lost is not myself or mine and the fallen will not me or of mine. such unwholy things, even to dream, does not gouge me still. instead, i sit ever quiet, will no defined direction of consequence. there is no more sadness to pass my time. i do not weap, even if i so wish. i always hated his name, it did not suit a person i was to love. so, here again. i sit. i ache for nothing. i laugh at old things. and i long until i learn to live in my life with myself. constant chattering of nothingness that is important. random thoughts, i know this comes from eternal sunshine. it is not my thought then, it comes to me, and i know it is not mine. ha, like so many other times. i do like it though, it fits, so well. i wish i would have thought of it first. i read that i could be gluttonous because i am a cancer. i do love all things so very delicious. i will have indian food this weekend. taste of india. splendid! i ask myself for a date, there is no rejection...great stuff. and i decided, i rather like that i might possibly be pathetic. (to others, or to even myself as i grade the facts of my life) i like this, that i am vulnerable. that i am weak. it is good, and will keep me happy. for if i was too strong, i would have to be cold. not too much so, but more, and then i would no longer be myself. i amuse myself to say that i will keep it still. also, i think, i could never be completely rational a person. i don't care to be and this i like. it does not suit me, nor do i like people who are, maybe one or two, though i can't think of any persistently calm people at the moment. rage, i will not keep. sadness i will entertain from time to time, in order to keep my ducts from drying out, i always loved a good cry. emotionally disfunctional perhaps, i think it fits my lameness further. i found a zuzu journal. i promise myself that i will continue my ridiculous thoughts further...i like dots after many things...goodnight, farewell. i smile...pathetic still, i sleep.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

I sit alone, though not, well actually i have two, but im only babysitting this one, until her mama get her own apartment, and a dog, but he's really my brothers, although i babysat him for like a freaking year and half while my brother was learning about all these chinese. I have a cat, a black paisly named Wednesday, she sits on my lap and cries for my attention. I hang my head, it is not sadness this time, it has turned to a numbness not to far from an ache. Then I hear "landslide"…. I remember a time, it was a tape, it had a yellow label. I made it on dudman drive…I loved that house and all of the people in it. The people inside of this very special yellow house, held the secrets, untold I expect, to that of broken windows, and trespassed headstones, and abandoned balloons, and perhaps a missing tooth or two, even the mysterious falling floors. And a deafening shriek that you would not believe if I dare describe. "boys don't cry" that's crap by the way…they cry. The most painful sound I have ever heard…it hurts your bones to hear a man cry. "when we kissed they're perfectly aligned" speculation is never a strong suit of mine, I know realize this. Especially when the damned freckles are too dark to identify. Ha! But I do so love the song. It is beautiful… all beautiful things are not repeated in my own life.
This blog was blundered…ha! I seriously consider that I may be mad, I smile, because I feel the need to say that it may be possible though I know it not to be true. I shall merely record my thoughts to improve my spelling, and the lyrical sense of my brain in fashioning fantastic words, and to laugh at my impossible nightmare of an existence once this has expired. I smile again, it has changed, I am not the same as I was last month, or two weeks ago or four hours ago. I am known to have a switch. I dare say it has been turned off. I have not miss him. Not a smile, I do not look to him to see the truth…there has been none. Perhaps I will give a narrative of conversations that would disgust a maggot… again I dare not. Instead, I shall repeat a passage of the most amazing book, I read it to my children, two nights in a row. Beautiful thing, a good childrens book. It is called "on the night you were born" by nancy tillman. Her paintings are rather marvelous things in themselves. Without a narrative. Oh, and I saw a painting on the side of a truck today. Beautiful brushstrokes, I LOVE brushstrokes. ( I will remind myself to take myself to a museum, perhaps the getty, at the next opportunity) I will touch the travertine floors as is my repetitious pattern of amusement upon entering. I will look at all of the beautiful gilded catholic depictions, and wonder at the people who could not read, and yet were happy perhaps? Were there always people, in all circumstances that held an all powerful, always existence happiness? I believe so, I must. "on the night you were born, the moon smiled with such wonder that the stars peeked in to see you and the night wind whispered, "life will never be the same."" "because there had never been anyone like you…ever in the world." OHHH, how it makes me feel like the luckiest person alive. Amazing, words from a beautifully depicted, 10 page novel, that can scream at the sickest of individuals…. "if the moon stays up until morning on day, or a ladybug lands and decides to stay, or a little bird sits at your window awhile, it's because they're all hoping to see you smile…" my mother told me once, that trees loved to be talked to, and that if they were, that they would grow to make you happy. I honestly believed those very wonderful words, I would talk to the plants in our house, and the magnolia in the front, there was also a very special jacaranda that lived outside my bedroom window. When I got older, I remember feeling foolish, but still, I would speak to the growing living things, and they did, always grew to make me happy. Also, my father told me that there was a witch that lived in the pine tree in the deepest part of my backyard. I no longer climbed the mulberry that lay beside it, I was afraid of the witch. He doesn't remember telling me that story, but he thought that it was funny when I reminded him of it. I always loved my fathers laugh, the good one, for there are two, the second I am not so fond of. There was also a dream I had when I was young, we were camping, my mother, my father, and I. We slept in a little pointy orange tent. My fathers feet stuck out of the opening. Bears, I could never see them, because I was inside the tent. They came and licked his feet. My father told me that it was not a dream, and that had happened. That was a delightful finding. My grandfather taught me how to write my name. I sat on his lap, in the kitchen of my grandmothers house. We sat at the very long red table. I remember where she used to put the molasses. I remember that my aunt put cheese on everything. My grandmother would only serve on piece of bacon for every egg. I was five, so I got one egg, and one piece of bacon, but the most wonderfully lathered English muffin. Always crunchy with the proper dose of nooks and crannies. She taught me to eat like a clock. I know the sign for "all gone", and "milk" and "more" and "love" and secretly I know the how to sign the song 'white Christmas'. I have boxes and boxes of unuseful memories that I love. I threw away all of my used candles. I do not hold my personal secrets well. I, in fact, scream them out loud, until they melt away and they no longer hold any semblance of shame or sadness. This last one has been need for quite awhile. "I can't sleep" I have a year book that does not belong to me, it belongs to Tricia Legar. If anyone knows where she is, let me know. I would love to find her again…her and Rochelle Martinez. I miss them both. They are in my heart, maybe Tanya Pashoc, I don't know how to spell her last name, I was six, and she was my best friend-just to see if her life is good, and she has lived well. I want to go to England, and Ireland, and India, and Tahiti, and Egypt, and Jordan, and…Korea, and Japan…it's okay, next life is alright too. This life, though, I must have coffee in San Francisco. And I want to take my children to ride the old paint horses in Rosarito. I hope they still have old paint horses in Rosarito-the atlantic ocean, I would like to see that, walk all of central park. See the caves of Lascaux. And perhaps all Petra in Jordan. Oh, and perhaps, I have no idea where it is, saw it on KCET. it was a place in the world, where the actually collected frankincense. Amazing! i must remember to add them to my page...
...poppycock and hogwash...
Calmness has never been a strong suit of mine. I do not believe that I possess the genotype that lends itself to the capability of that emotion. Poppycock and hogwash. I've grown ancient over these past years, "ah no, where were you to lie" "I need a release….summon you here my love" ….there is no love, I am here, therefore, to announce a most anonymous and very fictitious, most dear creation of my imagination. I have not named such a sacred individual that is to be mine, I have yet to determine the appropriate title. However, I have come to the conclusion that he shall, and will so dedicatedly, save me from any future indiscretion, as I will be taken by the most darling of men. He will, so very patiently, wait for my attentions to him, as to further create his mannerisms, or to indulge his particular smile, at any given state. I will laugh, and he will watch, I will cry and he will feel pain. Not exacerbated contempt as is the customary response to this emotion . I will nevermore ache, and slowly he will fade into oblivion where I vaguely can recall that quite possibly there was ever a story attached to his person. This was my, once-however quite frequent-young determination. I was certain I was never to find a love, a life, outside of the one that I so carelessly sought release. I would pray, how sickening a thought, to have a kiss. Just a single kiss, so that I ought to know how it felt-to be kissed. Ha! I laugh at the pathetic ideas that led me on such a treacherous path. To imagine such an idea, that was never experienced, and your mind could not quite grasp the idea that the floor was solid. It would fall beneath you at the slightest hint that a kiss might actually be accomplished. But here, I need not stay. I have passed these frivolous ideas to a place where I need not seek any contemplation or energy from another single individual who so wholy is without any care of me, or mine. By mine, I do intend to imply the darlings of my current existence. They will not go away, they cannot be wished to another time, or another life. They are the biggest part of all-of me. This is the warmth that has kept me alive these many years. How selfish, yet simplistic an idea. I love ideas. I have always longed for something or someone that was unable to possess. We would (simply) lead our lives, happy even, untouched by the disgusting things of the world. I was selfish and pretentious enough, though I think myself not, to believe that anything could and can be permanent.

Wednesday, October 3, 2007

I have spent time with myself so consistently that I grow weary of my own thoughts, this changes…I brood on nothing that is meaningful and ramble through my ideas of self worth and identity. I am told that I will grow strong, this horizon and where it is, I do not know. The idea in itself is easy. But as I consider this, that I have, in my young adult life, not that I am young now, just considered by some, that I have not been able to accomplish the existence, the horrid, elusive manifestation of my soul, my heart. What I wish and desire, more that life, that existence itself, has it brought goodness. To only me, am I to realize selfishly that I am nothing without my children. My heart does not understand it’s own survival. It does not acknowledge what-in my stupid, juvenile, idealistic heart, that it is not so…to believe in something so pathetic, and to live it, because it’s own belief, that has no basis, no proof in reality is. I have a large world of happiness that I have seemingly ignored. Haven’t I? And I tell myself again, reassure my mind, lest it be gone, that I am a good mother. This is not about being a parent. When, really everything should be. I continue to ramble in this sense hours over. I forget to spell, words, and continuing business fall out of my brain, only to find themselves unfinished. I cannot distinguish myself from them. I am left with nothing, my belief, without them is not real. Has it always been imagined. I am not a victim. I have not been these many years since. How could it be possible that I shall suffer the same consequence, yet again. When I have already done, the so pathetic, again pathetic, things that have been the largest challenges of my lifetime. This, I admit, they are nothing, to most, who has suffered, the most insufferable experiences. Yet, I cannot sleep. Again, and always, I sit, and I dream, alone. I am not whole. In day, I am awake, and I laugh. I do not cry, not until I am alone. I am left with what. An un so holy disposition of what I despise….what this is I do not say. I am only to state the obvious. That I cannot see myself in a position, in life that is, aside from my beautiful children. A position of motherhood, that is beyond comparison, that from any other trifles of my heart. I am nothing. I cannot sleep alone. I do, because I must. Not to share my bed. This is not the subject that I am addressing. Really, this is a random excuse to excavate the shattered thoughts that do not manage to congregate together. The thinking is so scattered. I am not healing, instead, I travel to a darker realm of my ownself I have not seen. I do not know her. She thinks of things, accepts and welcomes the nasty untold things she despises. I think, I will paint, I tell myself there is no time. I will die with nothing complete. I will not marry. I promise myself. Ever. Maybe, marriage is a discusting thing, meant to poison in disguise of an imaginary beautiful. No, it is my stupid, pathetic heart again. I do not know you. And I am not whole. I am so far from who I believed myself to be. My children sleep. I cannot sleep with them. Because I must, in my selfish disgust of what has become to me selfish me, I must cry. I must feel everything that I created for my pathetic heart. I cannot do this to them. They deserve more than anything that I have given. I feel myself growing savage. There is no strong. Only weak and pitiful. I am moved, without content. Somewhere in my history, in my thousands of daydreams I have imagined this life. I have imagined myself in a set of misery. I had it everything so perfectly planned. So many different dreams…I was to have a boy. His name was to be Michael Joseph, a proper bible name. I was going to marry luther snoke. He exists, he never liked me. I was obsessed. I have always been obsessed. There has always been a distraction. He was 5’3” when he turned 11, on march 24. Why do I still know this. I cannot forget the things, so many things that I have experienced…they haunt me. They haunt me still. All at the same time. But I do not have recluse. I have no stillness.
Today was a beautiful day. I could see color, feel color, contour, does this make sense, somewhere I remember I need to paint. I need to flood myself with beauty and words, and knowledge, and I do, I need this. I miss my children. Always, I feel guilt. Horrible throbbing guilt at my disposition, and my selfish need for sadness. It floods me again. The choking in my throat. I cry still. What of that. I stole that from Shakespeare. I loved the whole, what would it be, phrase. I wrote it on my hand, everyday until I could remember it. Pathetic little heart. “but soft, what light through yonder window breaks, it is the east, and juliet is the sun. Arise fair sun, and kill the envious moon, that is already sick, and pale with grief that thou her moon art far more fairer than she, but not her moon, since she is envious. Her vestal livery is sick and green and none but fools do wear it, cast it off, it is my lady it is my love, she speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that?” I still do not know what this means…vestal livery. I had always been so beautiful. I love this. It makes me warm for a moment. I would wait on the corner in the cold, to not miss you. You would, sometimes, take so long. I did not want to miss you. When you would come your hair was wet, I would watch as the drips fell onto the upholstery. I wanted to touch them. To wipe them away but you never belonged to me. They never have. I would walk past brookhurst, past queens kitchen, over the hill. I remember it would always be hot, drenched in sweat. I would walk as slow as I could stand to arrive before you, but not appear eager, as I was. I remember crying, because I liked you and did not know that you could ever want me. It has always been pathetic. Not just now. I have always been this person. So seemingly worthless. I give myself away, always. Until I am alone again. I always wanted to hear your voice. I ached for the sound of those words, I never heard them. They never came. I would not say them, forbidden to me, always not for me, for a distant lost before me. Instead, I assembled them in my kiss… I picture myself a walking tragedy, so pathetic. I know I am. I will not let myself be convinced. “who so ever pulleth this sword from the stone”. I grew up on disney movies. Enchanting aren’t they. Only, I did not ever learn this difference in love. I have always picked an impossibility to complement my torment. My need to be imagined in reciprocal. Quite possibly, only in dreams.