dribble...
This is an altruistic rendering of the sum of life, from a purely emotional stand point, which would therefore, from any intellectual view, render it meaningless, contrite, self-absorbed, and of course, grossly negligent of all other aspects that might hold some semblance to true purpose, honesty and ... then there is no such sense of altruistic, then is there? This shall serve only as a medium in which I speak frankly to no one in particular of the actual occurrences and there effect on the soundness of character. in consideration to nothing. I have no complete thoughts to string together to create anything massive or integral. it is mere dribble of words that linger in my mind that must be released. i wish to relay something of honestly, perhaps one day when i am honest. when i know that i live my life with something that resembles the moral scruples i once had hold of. the paper. yes, my paper looks very bad indeed. and you believe that...these creatures could not have come from the same world as I. get away from me, these disgusting things have suffered me long enough. there. i am done.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
the less helpful mindless chatter of which to rid myself of has exposed itself to be uncontinuous and perhaps grammatically challenged verses that have absolutely no purpose in being read...
…Has ever since been so completely humiliated and shamed by the words and slanders of others as to almost become immune to such pretense as would have previously dismayed and appalled even the strongest of individuals, where by, I have continued on the precipitous task of continuing in with my previously devised plan of lofty and fully thought out happiness, is the word in which I choose to refer to the joys that are the purpose of all carefully laid out endeavors of recent determination, to the point of exhaustion. And while others might not see this as an enlightened path, of which shall hold any, let alone, perhaps a regard enough in which to continue, it is actually, within this unlimited world, it is in fact the very idea of such opposition in which lends to fuel the fever of which I am now currently disposed. For I do have inside this body of mine, a brain that has fed itself along with countless other loves and experiences for which it has now come to be in me. And in this way, I have helped myself to design the very conquerable task at hand, by which I shall continue, either until the end of my days, or until some new and more convincing plan is lay before me, in which to alter the first and original plan to its conclusion.
…Has ever since been so completely humiliated and shamed by the words and slanders of others as to almost become immune to such pretense as would have previously dismayed and appalled even the strongest of individuals, where by, I have continued on the precipitous task of continuing in with my previously devised plan of lofty and fully thought out happiness, is the word in which I choose to refer to the joys that are the purpose of all carefully laid out endeavors of recent determination, to the point of exhaustion. And while others might not see this as an enlightened path, of which shall hold any, let alone, perhaps a regard enough in which to continue, it is actually, within this unlimited world, it is in fact the very idea of such opposition in which lends to fuel the fever of which I am now currently disposed. For I do have inside this body of mine, a brain that has fed itself along with countless other loves and experiences for which it has now come to be in me. And in this way, I have helped myself to design the very conquerable task at hand, by which I shall continue, either until the end of my days, or until some new and more convincing plan is lay before me, in which to alter the first and original plan to its conclusion.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
I will write tomorrow for I am exhausted today.
I remember the woman who stood up to describe her occupation…it was listed on the application as sprayer. With a word of titles and social status & judgments I had thought it a relief to have none. She described brushing, tearing and then cussed. I liked her and planned a good opinon of her until she spoke one word. I changed my mind. I have here once lived in a place. I traveled on a road I had seen thousands of times before and found freida place. Only it was spelled frieda. Only I had never noticed it in either context. I past humdingers, and I laughed. I thought of all the experiences that fit that word. I past the house where Jesus lives, and found an abandoned Spanish monastery with a wall made of bougainvillea that climbed up the eucalyptus. This house is to be my home. The cherry blossoms are in blom again and have since recovered from a near slaughter. I misread the freckles…or maybe I did not, and all of the curses were to lead me to where I am going. Or maybe they were not curses at all, but blessings because they brought me to where I am now. I drive down this road, I have driven down so many times before. I pass the house I was destined to live in and the lights are all out. There is no life there. There is a curb I knew intimately for a few hours of my life. I wonder why there are smoke stacks coming from the top of rose hills…Wednesdays darlings born april 10th…delilahs darlings born april 17th…sovereign. The gentleman eyed my purchases and handled the books as priceless pieces. He commented on each carefully chosen title, and I could feel the beams from my soul rejoice and my mouth unable to contain my happiness at his praise, this person a stranger, and their high opinions so easily given to me. A woman called today looking for cogan books. I was sorry to have to be the one to disappoint her. I saw this figure, tall and dark. I recognize the sounds of footsteps immediately and the original alarm subsides and turns to warmth. It is my father. Because your heart is bid goodnight get swept off…shared sauce on fingertips…blessed blessed the words runs through my head so I will not forget. I remember the woman with a daughter who wore dora lightup shoes and did not own any English words. The words of Pablo Neruda are never as beautiful as when they are spoken in Spanish. But not my Spanish. The Spanish that you are born to…someone once called me probresita. Smudges are not controlled…but I love things that cannot be controlled. No. I love the beauty in things that are beautiful even when they are imperfect. Because they are imperfect. He will paint like van gogh. You brought my light. I wish that life was not fleeting and that love could not be lost and that courage could be taught. I wonder that I could not always see the beautiful things. Every great tradition… my soul breathes again. I will offers my thought deliberately. My fingers are stained with the color of earth. I need a proper inkwell…ujjahi breathe.
I remember the woman who stood up to describe her occupation…it was listed on the application as sprayer. With a word of titles and social status & judgments I had thought it a relief to have none. She described brushing, tearing and then cussed. I liked her and planned a good opinon of her until she spoke one word. I changed my mind. I have here once lived in a place. I traveled on a road I had seen thousands of times before and found freida place. Only it was spelled frieda. Only I had never noticed it in either context. I past humdingers, and I laughed. I thought of all the experiences that fit that word. I past the house where Jesus lives, and found an abandoned Spanish monastery with a wall made of bougainvillea that climbed up the eucalyptus. This house is to be my home. The cherry blossoms are in blom again and have since recovered from a near slaughter. I misread the freckles…or maybe I did not, and all of the curses were to lead me to where I am going. Or maybe they were not curses at all, but blessings because they brought me to where I am now. I drive down this road, I have driven down so many times before. I pass the house I was destined to live in and the lights are all out. There is no life there. There is a curb I knew intimately for a few hours of my life. I wonder why there are smoke stacks coming from the top of rose hills…Wednesdays darlings born april 10th…delilahs darlings born april 17th…sovereign. The gentleman eyed my purchases and handled the books as priceless pieces. He commented on each carefully chosen title, and I could feel the beams from my soul rejoice and my mouth unable to contain my happiness at his praise, this person a stranger, and their high opinions so easily given to me. A woman called today looking for cogan books. I was sorry to have to be the one to disappoint her. I saw this figure, tall and dark. I recognize the sounds of footsteps immediately and the original alarm subsides and turns to warmth. It is my father. Because your heart is bid goodnight get swept off…shared sauce on fingertips…blessed blessed the words runs through my head so I will not forget. I remember the woman with a daughter who wore dora lightup shoes and did not own any English words. The words of Pablo Neruda are never as beautiful as when they are spoken in Spanish. But not my Spanish. The Spanish that you are born to…someone once called me probresita. Smudges are not controlled…but I love things that cannot be controlled. No. I love the beauty in things that are beautiful even when they are imperfect. Because they are imperfect. He will paint like van gogh. You brought my light. I wish that life was not fleeting and that love could not be lost and that courage could be taught. I wonder that I could not always see the beautiful things. Every great tradition… my soul breathes again. I will offers my thought deliberately. My fingers are stained with the color of earth. I need a proper inkwell…ujjahi breathe.
Monday, April 28, 2008
darling, i was still suffering from the bondage of a psychopathic ranting and demonstration that could only be properly understood, having been witness yourself, therefore conveying the full meaning of such disgusting splendor with each detail so carefully blurred with the next as to be left unable to diagnose a specific word or misinterpreted delirium that would front such traumatic events as these? unfortunately i am suffering still, if not endless and unwanted, at least anticipated, and for this very reason, the sickness that had me so trapped in my early life has seemed to return, and with it the curse, as before, of isolation....so, i bid you farewell in the trust that this letter will find you well, if not better than myself and that you are not caught with such dreadful exposures as these…and as i saw, what i think is goodbye, and i am not all the better for it....it is not something that i ever wanted to say to you...i have a further inclination to pain that i do not quite decipher…i did truly enjoy the talk of better things...
Monday, April 7, 2008
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