| note |
[ 02:41 am Thursday, November 29th, 2007 ] |
|
crows on line
|
| Before. After. |
[ 06:39 pm Friday, October 12th, 2007 ] |
IGNITE
A thousand voices tell her what to do
Not one of them offer a hand
They want to possess her
They want inside her
Never want her to grow up
Because then she'd be dangerous
Caught in a web of her own design
Unaware of what really matters
But can she mend
Broken in mind, body and spirit
Desiring only to be happy
Requiring courage that she doesn't have
A fight that she had always avoided
She's a scarred rocket
Ready to explode
But can she light her own fuse
###
BLOWN
It's the voices that she needs
To reassure her that's she is tiny
Never will she accept the hand offered
Because she wishes to feel like dirt
She is the willing victim
Becoming an adult isn't possible
She will always hide in child thought
It is her bed and she will happily lay in it
What really matters is being trampled
To build again isn't an option
For a girl broken in mind, body and spirit
Happiness was the pain
A belief of courage would be alien
For a girl not willing to fight
An exotic petal to be worshipped
That is always torn asunder
|
| I got new ink. |
[ 08:10 pm Thursday, May 31st, 2007 ] |
The king and his men stole the queen from her bed
and bound her in her bones…
The seas be ours and by the powers
Where we will, we'll roam…
Yo, ho, haul together,
hoist the colors high…
heave ho, thieves and beggars,
never shall we die…
Some men have died and some are alive
And others sail on the sea
With the keys to the cage and the Devil to pay
We lay to Fiddler's Green!
Yo, ho, haul together,
hoist the Colors high…
heave ho, thieves and beggars,
never shall we die…
The bell has been raised from it's watery grave...
Do you hear it's sepulchral tone?
A call to all, pay heed the squall
And turn your sail toward home!
Yo ho, haul together-- Raise the colors high! Heave ho --
-- thieves and beggars, never say we die.
|
| Pina Colada. |
[ 07:44 am Sunday, May 27th, 2007 ] |
Love burns through and leaves you rot
Music is the Juliet
Forfeited with the heart
##
Random verse @ 7:44 AM on a Sunday.
|
| Scissors Cut. |
[ 05:59 pm Thursday, May 24th, 2007 ] |
I was on a string
Wrapped up on you
Every thought of that night
Set in a fortune's farce made of fable twigs
I lied and said I didn't love you
You lied and said you were done with him
Thunderclap with metal writhe
Soon my words were dialed out
Becon sedated spill in a cloud of you
###
Random verse.
|
| Cave. |
[ 11:19 pm Friday, May 18th, 2007 ] |
|
| Shit that sucks #2324: |
[ 02:31 am Monday, May 7th, 2007 ] |
You make yourself a bowl of cereal.
You're watching Heroes on NBC.com.
And you take a spoonful.
And the milk is utterly rancid.
|
| poem. |
[ 09:58 am Friday, April 13th, 2007 ] |
zampire hours
bags under my eyes
hours waste like toilet paper
plug unplug dial-up GO
yesterday was happiness
tomorrow comes too slow
404 404 404
it could change at any second
caffeine sugar liver EXPLODE
|
| Infant Tree; |
[ 02:53 am Sunday, April 8th, 2007 ] |
IMAGE: Black, crisp lines, flat color. It's a tree whose roots become an infant. The tree symbolizes the same age as the child. Therefore, there would only be one or two branches off the trunk and those would not have many leaves. Child in the fetal (thanks, Mila) position. Tree connecting to the belly button of the baby.
MATERIALS: Pencil and then Photoshop rendering.
THOUGHTS: Terence McKenna comes to mind. He was an ethnobotanist. He grew mushrooms and studied their hallucinogens. McKenna referred to these in a manner of a virtual reality where people could communicate in an artistical manner. It was McKenna's opinion that taking mushrooms in extreme doses - alone and in a dark space with no distractions (television, music) - could allow the user full access to this virtual reality. McKenna was open-minded with any psychedlic concepts that drugs enabled the user to partake. This mental image reminded me of McKenna.
|
| 2026. |
[ 10:44 pm Wednesday, April 4th, 2007 ] |
I requested an Economic Hardship Forbearance again.
It came with a bill. Now, this is my first loan. The loan that doesn't stay quiet while I'm working on my masters. This was the associate degree.
Now, my intentions were going to be that I'd use the money that I was getting through websites and funnel them into the payments on this loan. Sadly, I get e-mails like the following when I ask if my payment was billed:
"I don't know how you got paid last time. My dad handled it. Did you submit an invoice? Dad, how can he get paid?"
So beside having me take off my glasses and rub the bridge of my nose... it's not very productive.
Especially since I get paid half what I made a week when I worked in-office there. I get $250 which would have worked nicely in the scheme of the loan payments but I have to have the money to be put on the payment program. Money is entirely too tight at my house to exclaim that I require $250 a month.
Ben, the fellow who lives with us, mows neighbor's yard for his beer money now. So he isn't an expense other than water.
This all goes back to the repayment schedule.
09/07/2026
That's the date that they project, on these two loans, that paying at a rate of 225 and 212 a month... I'll be done. That'll make the actual loans be $52,731 and $49,199 when they currently are $24,696 and $23,043. That's my associate. I still have the bachelors and now a masters to eventually have payments for.
I need to get more accounts... that don't want to barter me things like appartments for payment. I need money.
What really did it... is on my phone is a voicemail from my father. This day spiral down after I listened to it. It was from back in December when he was still talking. It's one of my most prized possessions.
I cried a bit. It's the trendy thing these days. My mother does it all the time now.
Which, I'm not getting any better with dealing. I'm not good with people that's crying.
Let's just pay all these loans off with credit cards, file chapter 13 and then run off to Europe.
|
| Funeral yesterday: ROBERT HICEMAN |
[ 02:47 am Sunday, April 1st, 2007 ] |
Relative of mine is named Bruce Saxon.
He's in his early 50s.
I've grown up seeing him at the reunions. Really only one of the few that my father held a conversation with.
I approached him, "We need to stop meeting like this."
He'd nodded, "Not under circumstances like this."
A beat passed and Bruce started talking about as he drove through Baytown - certain spots and houses were home of memories.
"There was this one time. Over in Pelly. That the kids were left to look after themselves. So I was after Jill with a bat," Jill is my aunt, "I don't remember why but I was after her with a bat. Next thing I know, Jack has me on the pavement. Needless to say, when the adults got back we were all in trouble. Lots of finger-pointing."
He smiled.
It was then that my half-uncle Kenneth Tilton interrupted. He was sweaty. It also interested me because I hadn't seen the man in over a decade.
"You're losing weight," announced Kenneth to me.
"You're losing brothers."
He dabbed his forehead with a napkin like this was a court-trail during the 1800s and he was a lawyer in some backwater city.
"Yah. My wife, Lucille, she slipped and hit her head. That's why I didn't make it to Jack's funeral."
I smiled.
"We all thought Lucille hit her head a long time ago."
It's then that Kenneth begins to detail about how he has to lose weight or he will simply die. Being nice, Bruce suggested that Kenneth get on that since there really isn't a need for another funeral this spring.
The funeral service had little to with my half-uncle Robert Hiceman and a lot to do with finding Christ. If you didn't know Robert, you learned nothing about him at his funeral. It was yet another warm fuzzy blanket with claws at empathy. The preacher brought up hearing one's last breath. Things with intent on making you cry and my mother fell victim. She had been both with Robert and my father upon their last breaths.
The death rattle.
"Try to stay fit," I said to Bruce before we left, "I'm running out of ones I like."
We said goodbyes all around. My grandmother. My family.
Upon exiting, I told my mother: "I need a beer."
She smiled. Perhaps the purest smile I'd seen in a long time on her face.
"That's what your father would have said."
Bought a pack of Newcastle. Drank it in the dark and then passed out.
1.14.07............................3.24.07
|
| Ahem. |
[ 06:13 am Wednesday, March 28th, 2007 ] |
It's been a long time.
I can't keep hiding. You know it. That's why you keep making me realize that there is no rock big enough.
Okay, you win.
I'm fucking staring at you now.
Now what?
You got my goddamn attention. You going to do something fruitful with it, world?
|
| Prepare later this week: |
[ 05:54 pm Tuesday, January 2nd, 2007 ] |
Square Bagel, can be square bagel bread
Deli-cut turky meat
2 slices of Cheddar Cheese (needs to cover the entire bagel)
Lettace
Grilled/pan cooked sliced red bell peppers
Grilled/pan cooked sliced green bell peppers
Grilled/pan cooked sliced onions
Japanese mayo
"Hiro-sammich-O!"
|
| Untitled, part 2. 496 |
[ 04:06 pm Wednesday, December 13th, 2006 ] |
Angels weren’t real.
No skeletons to be seen. The dark water had been drained, replaced by concrete. Brown cardboard boxes surrounded her like a drum-set. None of the concrete’s color seemed pleasant. Walls were drenched in snot green splatter of paint but a down-syndrome Jackson Pollock would have been in love. Its gray peeked out behind the smears.
She was restrained. Her head again locked in place. Leather? It felt like leather around her neck and cold metal. Eyes pulsed with pain. She could feel her heartbeat through them. Directly above her exposed body hung dual florescent lights that flickered in a seizure. Conscious moments had long past before she noticed the gag was gone and so was the taste.
“Hello?”
A ghostlike echo replied back to her that was followed by footsteps. Muscles throbbed as her whole being fought at her restraints. No prevail heeded. Lower lip gnawed in her mouth and she bit down on it. It didn’t… taste like vinegar.
Her eyes focused on the triangle-shaped hanging lamp. She had seen those lamps before. It was a grow-lamp but from the corners of her eyes she didn’t see any plants. An unnerving feeling of ants crawling was on her legs. Her nails scratched the palms of her hands as she finally released a tormented lip.
“Somebody fucking help me!” she screamed but each word echoed back.
His shadow presented itself. It traced his angular frame on the wall. His body made noise and she heard all of it. Rustle of material between his legs as he walked. Wheeze from his breath. Every sound, as the shadow grew, caused her eyes to throb quicker and quicker.
She began to scream. He anticipated this. Her eyes had caught a glimpse of mercury before she was silenced. Mouth spread. Cold metal pressed her cheeks open. Straps fluttered as she fought but there was no escape.
Then there he was. Dark hair was neatly combed back from a widow’s peak. The sides of his hair closely trimmed which made his ears look bigger than they actually were. Eyebrows were thin but his brow slightly narrow. His eyes were amendable and dark. These eyes had wrinkle lines that curved from them. Both had dark bags underneath them. He had a straight bridge but a round nose. A small mouth and clean shaven cheeks that sunk in. A dress shirt’s white collar and a checkered tie peeked behind the white surgeon coat.
He held a scalpel.
“I’m trying, Sarah.”
Tongue was gripped by his free hand’s fist. It was stretched out and the scalpel dug in. Blood squirted up and soon her teeth looked like the concrete walls. Sarah could see her blue eyes in the metal handle. His hand jerked away and the emancipated tongue convulsed in sync with the lights above her.
All she could taste was metal. It felt like her heart exploded and she closed her eyes tight.
Red eventually turned white. She felt feathers.
|
| thoughts. |
[ 03:05 pm Wednesday, December 13th, 2006 ] |
I don’t really know when I started to hate first-person.
I read plenty of stories when I was young that were perception. There are things to be learned from first-person. For example, I remember a book (for the love of me, I can’t recall the name) that began with a teen in a hospital bed. It started with the great visual/thought of how the boy could feel the tunnel that a bullet had left through his torso/stomach. I know for a fact that Anne Rice didn’t help. I distinctly remember reading about eighty percent of her novel Pandora and calling first-person perspective rubbish. On the same token, I also remember reading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and loving it. Perhaps its because I was partial to Hunter. Perhaps it’s because I was programmed to love the story where with Rice she was on her own. Taken at face value. In that sense, I’m a bigot when it comes to first-person. Unless I know the wording will be of my liking then I won’t even adventure into it. It’s the voice, at least, I’m pretty sure it is. You can get the same thrill and imagination out of the voice of a document without having to employ first-person. Take Chuck Palahniuk. His voice is dense in his works in a Kurt Vonnegut way. There’s the story then there’s the messages he wants you to notice.
“Imagine your husband's just killed himself in your family car. Imagine you have to go out and sponge his piss out of the driver's seat. Pretend you still have to drive this stinking rusted junk pile to work, with everyone watching, everyone knowing, because it's the only car you have.
Does any of this ring a bell?” (Palahniuk)
This blog does what these texts do. They document the immediate thoughts/actions of experience. We go on a journey together with these characters. First-Person has a lot of hype when dealing with religion. The Self would have a lot of reference listings in the Book of Religions Best-Ofs. It is argued that the notion of self is important for proper understanding of the conscious. Therefore, if a story is told in first-person then we investigate as the character and there’s no isolation. We, the reader, take these events seriously and have experiential knowledge. As religion would document, with the Self we have the analyses pertaining to the nature of self-experience.
It could be that I need the omniscience. By reading first-person, I must submit. I must be willing to be the character. Third-person has the everybody-character in fiction to do this. We join them as they are on a budding quest and we follow all the way through. We don’t deal with things as they come to us (as in first-person) but we empathize when it happens to the everybody-character. It could also be that I’m from a generation that has met narrations in a different matter. I can’t bring myself to write these first-person narratives. Maybe I just have detest for the pronoun “I” when telling a story.
Again, names like Hemingway have weight in our pop culture or maybe its even the story. Stories that are journals or diaries, I don’t mind it either. These serials are meant to put on an illusion though. That’s a style. It’s as if you stumbled on secret letters. Style. Remember, I bring up this dislike rooting with Anne Rice. I’ve had plenty of arguments regarding her stories and writing style. I don’t fancy it.
First-person has a time and place and every author reserves the right to use it. I find more comfort with a character retelling an event (in the manner of Edgar Allen Poe) than I do with a present-tense first-person. Cinema has jaded me, I think. I’m more likely to watch a film with narration (oh, Film Noir) than pick up a novel of the same breed. I think there’s something that clashes with my imagination. The idea of being that strongly connected to the character and their choices doesn’t feel comfortable anymore.
Time will tell if I can allow new authors to build integrity enough for me to explore their eye-witness stories.
I could just be going through a long-phase. What is certain is I still don’t know why I hate first-person perspective.
|
| Untitled. 321 words. |
[ 02:26 pm Tuesday, December 12th, 2006 ] |
White.
It was a white tie-wrap that fit snug. Skin was bit. The fence that it was latched on to taunted her with its cold strikes. No sound broke free from her. Black and white. A perfect gag had her bandanna been. Tribal symbols choked. Her eyes screamed. Every development recorded as testimony.
A cry came from the hand-drill. It had been sudden and terrible. She didn’t know she could be frightened any further. Just the feeling had felt like fugitive hope. Her head couldn’t move. Hair was snarled in her only witness, a fence that rattled with every shake.
Her legs had long worn out from the kicking. It had only caused the tie-wraps to draw blood. Grassy fields were vile places at night. Tall grass weren’t places to daydream in. Tall grass moved with the wind. Grassy fields became dark water: waves of darkness that took no prisoners. In the distance, a withered tree was painted shades of white by stars. The moon wasn’t invited. Trees became bone here. Deviated skeletons from hell guarded the horror.
She tried not to swallow. Her bandanna had been drenched in ethanoic acid. Vinegar fumes worked backwards like a noodle. It clogged her nose. Her eyes were glassy and bloodshot. What was worse was the taste of the rag against her tongue. By now, it had worn numerous spots of her tongue sore. Neck was similarly raw from hanging her head.
Spade drill bit punctured and cleaved into her shoulder. No pesty organs in the way. Drill slashed until the wound began to spill cherry. Her blood splattered across her face from the helix as the wet bit liberated. It shrieked while rotating. Surgeon expertise guided the drill exactly three inches left from the previous trickling hole. Three was a magical number.
Her angel had finally arrived. The dark ocean drew away. Earth had no weight. There was no pain. Eyelids shut.
White.
|
| poem. |
[ 09:46 pm Sunday, December 10th, 2006 ] |
trip and fell
broke my elbow, shattered my wrist
met a girl off craigslist
caked-up on cosmetics
tracked sand all in my car
didn't get to first base
beaches are for scenesters
trip and fell
funny bone, funny bone
|
| 2006 poem batch 01 |
[ 02:49 pm Wednesday, September 27th, 2006 ] |
And when you go to change
My heart strings
Make sure you wrap them together
And make little rings
For boys named Ted and girls named Heather
A unique novelty for dancing flings
When you change
My Heart Strings
|
| Let’s get fucked up and die. |
[ 09:59 am Thursday, August 10th, 2006 ] |
So I want a salad. That was my curse for yesterday.
After I got off work, down the block is a McD. I stroll over and I look at the salads. Now, I already know the dressing they give you has far too much sugar to be healthy. I saw that Supersize Me movie. I’m in the loop but I just want a salad. I decided just to get a large Powerade.
Halfway to the bus stop: I realize the drink is empty. I do the civil thing and cross the street to the Holiday Gas Station. Between the gas pumps are the trash receptacles. As the cup falls from my hand, I see a chipmunk face. A familiar chipmunk face and a green SUV. It’s my boss’s daughter. Failure Ms. Richfield. Stace’s cousin.
Before I go on, I should clarify a few things. Stace’s cousin, Katie, is a rich brat. Her parents are going into this big explosion of a divorce and her sole fear was now having to worry about money. In the green SUV would also be the granddaughter, Emily, who the exwife’s family has been holding hostage. They won’t show her to the boss and she’s nearly a year old. Oh and the boss’s side of the family which brings me in since I live with the boss’s sister and her daughter a la Stace. By default, I’m disliked. These people hold on to grudges like cancer patients hold on to hope.
I hide. I quickly enter the Holiday store. I can tell you what’s on every cover of the magazine section because after five minutes, they’re still parked outside. You see, they’re parked by the exit doors and the side of the building. If I had proceeded to the bus stop, I may have conflict. If I exited, I may have conflict. That’s when I hear it. I hear the nails-on-chalkboard voice of the boss’s exwife. It’s a true cake-eater voice. I look and catch a glimpse of the red beehive. I hide behind the dog food isle.
When she exits, she doesn’t get in her gas-puking SUV. She stands beside it with the windows down. I have a sneaking suspicion that hamster face told her that I was inside. I noticed that I got some ink on my hand from work. Surely, if I go to the restroom the stalkers would be gone.
They’re still there. I notice a man coming in the open-only doors. I catch the door and hold it open for the guy. I slip out and round the building. The setup for the bus stop is askew to the road. There’s a straight road, an intersection and the actual bus stop. As I round the building, I am heading down the straight road. I slip across the intersection and as I enter some bushes, I notice that the green SUV is at the intersection. I hide behind a fat tree.
They turn down the straight tree slowly. Windows are rolled down. I feel like an escapee. Eventually, they go down the street and I go to the bus stop. A few minutes later, I see the green SUV coming back up the straight road. I jump behind a large truck in the parking lot behind the bus stop. It’s a Tree-Removing Truck, Wilson’s, and I wait until they drive by. Because of traffic, they aren’t allowed to go slow. They even get honked at.
I call Stace and tell her my tale. I learn that her mother has already gone to the bar. It’s 2pm. When I get home, I make it a point to call her mother and ask if she wants a salad for dinner. She says no, she says that there’s leftovers. We go have a salad. As we’re eating, her mother calls. She tells me that she wants a Rottweiler cassette pajamas. First, I tell her that I don’t have access to a pen or paper to write that down and second, where am I going to get a pajamas with Rottweilers and Cassettes on them? She demands to talk to her daughter.
I hear, “Ritter? Cards?” Then she asks if we’re supposed to get this off ebay. Her mother mutters “yeah” as if it was only natural. She tells her mother to write it down and her mother hangs up angrily. On our way home, I figure I would be nice and talk Stace into driving us to the bar. I go in with a pen and paper. She’s already written it down but… she tells me she wants the one with a deck of cards attached. She wants a brand new cassette with a deck of cards? What the fuck?
So I check eBay when I get home. Deck of Cards is a song. Drunken correct one. It’s also not originally done by Tex Ritter. It’s a cover. So all the cassettes I found have the original and not the Ritter version. Her mother comes home sloppy. She’s also angry. She sits down in a huff.
I tell her that I can’t find the cassette. To which she blows up about how can it not be possible to find it? …It’s a cassette for starters and she also wants the novelty item that came with the cassette. It’s not a furby. I could get her a furby. Even the special E.T. furby in the box. I find it but the person selling it is insane. They want 25 bucks for it but Susie orders me to buy it. So I buy it and put it on her credit card.
Then she starts prying us because we went out. We ate. I tell her again that we had salads and she said on the phone she’d have the shrimp. She argues. “I never said that! I said there was leftovers.” Because, you know, that really shows I’m an idiot. Sorry, I didn’t get that you didn’t mean you weren’t going to have the leftovers when you get home since you made it a point to indicate there were leftovers.
She goes on for about twenty minutes about this pizza. I tell her we have some downstairs. She doesn’t want it but she finally caves. Now I use that loosely. I could care less if she ordered a pizza but I didn’t want to stay up another hour for it to get there. That and she’d be asleep before it got here. Or so I thought.
I make the pizza. As its cooking, the mother shares that she’s so angry at the boss’s new girlfriend Candance. The two have been setting up this surprise party and neither are getting along. She deduces that the right thing to do is just give Candance a money order and not attend her brother’s 60th Birthday. We’re talking pure intelligence here.
Stace blows up at her mother for being an idiot about this. There’s no damage control. Her mother blows up with whine whine whine. Stace sticks behind the whole thing and I go to bed.
Her mother is shouting. Why is she shouting? I go back downstairs. She shouts “WHATEVER!” I go to the door of her bedroom. She’s lying down in bed. It’s dark. She shouts “IS IT WEDNESDAY?”
I shout back, “IT IS!”
She doesn’t roll over. She replies, “Don’t yell at me.”
I go, “I just want to know why you’re yelling.”
She goes, “I’m not.”
I go back upstairs where I can’t go back to sleep. I get my fancy XPS laptop and turn it on. The battery is dead. I huff and finally fall asleep. I wake up in a puddle of my own drool a few hours later. I have to get ready for work.
Fuck salads.
|
| December Poetry; |
[ 01:23 pm Friday, December 9th, 2005 ] |
With every joke that we tell
We lace it with a half-truth
That we'd just love to share
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
| [ |
go |
| |
earlier |
] |
|
|
|
|
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=92.1){kind=small}
assassingeared's journal