2007-11-28 - 9:41 p.m.
Drop-down fast
Today I feel like everything is in it's place. As I walk through the hall, the floor boards lay in attention, those that just yesterday seemed askew. They look more formal, as if they prepared early in the morn while I prepared in similar fashion.
Lately, thoughts creep in and are defeated immediately by an recently developed immunity to old poisons that still fog and stiffen my core, but with an intensity more transient. The apprehension clings unaffected by the proximal success of the resistance.
And then there is the closing of another chapter. Is this just the end of today or is it the closing of a group of days? Does this dusk signify something monumental on the horizon, some phoenix flame ready to scorch these faulty nerves and this hampered self esteem?
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27 Mar 2007
Maximum 95 charaters
When I try to tell people things, I try to use the words to describe exatly what I mean. I never thought that saying what you think exactly could be confusing, but it can be, even if you're trying to use the perfect word.
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08 Feb 2007
Terradoilance
Melting beads of water play tag down the glass slope and a thick fog embraces everything as it moves around. The structures of icey gravel pose in their unique marvel in the roadside. Slippery sections switch along the path into compact sections, the grey sun sings while the sections swtich partners. Stresslines giggle up through the pavement, bursting into silly potholes full of cheerful slush. Everything thing is joyful, dancing in the chilly fog, the world is heaving at mother natures sense of humour.
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Quaxazime
What treacherous folly. Whenever I go to pick up the little cicrles that fall on the surfaces all around me, they move out of the way, slipping into deep spots between matter into nothing, or so it seems. These circles are moments in time missed because of my inabilities and issues with my own mechanisms. Strange to imagine a warrior fighting against himself, thinking he is defending the nation from impending doom by dismantling the barracks. Brandishing a poisonous vial like a holy chalice, casting my wishes into a teeming prison, an endless catacomb of wasted energies and needless anxieties, stuggling towards infinity.
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01 Feb 2007
Territorial Observations
I am on a mission for the core of everything I come into contact with. I am never satisfied with "for nows" and "good enoughs." I am hopelessly dramatic in a reserved and personal way. The obsession of youth is still bubbling over the hearth of my ambition. I always question information as it comes in and form opinions to contest them and myself on my way out to find the next debate and cold case. My intensity is hardly ever grabbed immediately by strangers, rarely glorified and appriciated at first impression. People say first impression is important. Important how? Important to present yourself in the greatest light so the let down is even more heartbreaking and disenchanting?
I prefer an honest first impression to a good one, and honest ones show an equilibrium between good and bad. I usually make the general public and service people and clerks uneasy or uncomfortable with my obscurities and awkward disposition. I don't mind this, aside from the difficulties it causes me in socializing and fakely promoting myself in sex, popularity and reputation.
My demeanor weeds out people looking for an "icing-on-the-cake, fair-weather" friendship. I am raw and passionate, unwilling to be nice to your parents while effacing my beliefs or sit back and receive poor service at the risk of seeming like an asshole. I love reading and writing and conversation above all else. I delight in random conversations with unseeming participants. A few personal weaknesses include over dramatising things, giving away too many details, being over critical of myself and others, confronting people on mutual issues and feeling things too deeply.
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07 Dec 2006
Previous about me and who I want to meet.
Current mood: Sitting (indigestions)
Devising a clear interpretation of dedicated deception. A curious, obnoxious declaration of my potency. Loud heralds of integrity, trumpeted with confident obstinance from a strong, ugly mouth. My broad, exaggerated shoulders slumping while supporting a proud, squinting face. It sits on a facade posture, crowding your judgement with my allusions to mediocre greatness. There are fashion flickers of discards and bling, impressing yet pathetic.
Talking circles of who I am is hilarious because I am a deepening, beautiful puddle, of piss, of love, of glory, hatred and self depreciation and the epitome of life, expressed as complete failure and simultaneous glory.
I don't want to miss out on an oppurtunity to meet anyone with something to say, something to state. Anyone who truly wants to be heard and discuss something. People who can conjure thought, brainstorm, muster idea groups to make a discussion full and meaningful. Photography and images are becoming a prerequisite to social adaption, a code of worth attatched, a crying shame. How many of the great geniuses and contributers imitated famed, lush idiots? How many ground-breakers and Nobel prize winners are drop dead gorgeous? I am not on myspace to swap undawears with you. I question my accountability in my time spent, I have wasted so much already. I can never present something like this paragraph with unflinching satisfaction.
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25 Oct 2006
Alfy
Gerry was wringing her hands, staring into the puddle at her sepia reflection, wondering something she would forget when prompted by something actual. Crytal clear edges on the muddy abyss revealed tiny, coloured stones. There were springs of April, breaking up through the surface, weeds which signaled a recent disenchantment with the garden where the puddle lay . The yard had fallen intodisorder since last fall, something which all the neighbors had easily notcied, for the yard was a local spectacle. Irises and tigerlilies sprang out towards the boulevard like watchdogs. Arbors and trellises pregnant with vine. And those roses, roses like you had never seen. In the fall, the birches in the front yard roasted bright yellow, contrasting to the surrounding maples and ashes, complimenting the deep terracotta brick. In wonder she gazed, transfixed on the sloppy details without noticing them, a fuzz of disassociated colour. She wasn't considering what she was thinking but she was really thinking about Alfy.
He was hanging the Christmas light on the front gable when it happened. Alfy was setting his ladder into the rosebed and making sure it was sturdy. Three boxes of ancient green plastic chains and flaking painted glass were systematically placed around the perimeter of the house. Gerry came out wearing her apron, it was decorated with acorns and pies.
"Alfy, why do you always wait until the last minute to do everything?" she scorned him as he climbed the ladder slowly setting one foot up onto a rung and waiting to proceed until his feet were placed safely together once more. "Last minute?! It's October fer Christ sake" he said. He then added "When should I put them up, Labour Day? He chuckled and continued his patient climb. "Well be careful! We should call Dave to come over here and do that. He is half your age and twice your size, he could hang those lights in a fraction of the time. I refuse to call the ambulance if you fall. And what about that? If you fall who suffers? Me, that's who. Who will hang the lights next year, Alfy?
Alfy grinned as he stepped up onto the icey slope.
*
It was Tuesday and she had no obligations or appointments. Yesterday was shuffleboard at the Laurier Centre. Wednsday was bloodwork downtown. Tuesday was a quiet and agonizing day for her. Pills at ten, mail at eleven thirty, Coronation Street wasn't until three. The cheery spring sky dropped sun dew into her feild of vision. She scorned it for clearing things again. A neighbor passed by saying "Hey Mrs.Picola". She dryly replied "Good afternoon" but nothing in her voice alluded to it being good. The brave neighbor hurried along. She looked around at the garden and thought about it's condition. She felt nothing for it anymore. It was no longer a fountain of life and colour, no longer a testament to living. Just a reminder of a life that expired into a box, covered in flaking paint, and connected by rigid green plastic wires.
It began to warm and morning birds had beome silent. A train blared miles away. The warm sound neutralized all these things again and she began to fuzz back out. Fuzz slowly out of the yard, the house, the television and back into nothing but something. Tuesdays were always like this. The puddle and brick and roses all fuzzed back. Back to an unconscious something. Back into Alfy.
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20 Oct 2006
.
Wearing this heavy, thick coat of impotence. Total and utter emptiness. Complete, terrible, devastating annihilation. Feeling a sense of loss about myself, not my situation. Bleeding, crying, gasping for credibility. Screaming in silent agony, wishing for the slightest comprehension, a twirling shred of rational foresight.
There is no dream fufilled today, no pleasure in movement, pleasure in gathering blessed ideas, these collections of daily joys, no highnoon tea or light in digestion of thought, nor bliss in the gorgeous sky souring into a beautiful night which heralds a somber, less passionate nihilistic dawn.
Flipping through a catalogue of pointless angles, blank decisions in a careless history, memories of tactless abandon, foolish misrepresentations of my soul and my ambition. Wasted seconds in trite behaviours and horrendous context. What a miserable paradox. Feeding your ego with one hand and throwing up your expansion with a finger of myopia.
Crying is the only thing that seems to account for whats happening. The only thing that lets me know whats going on, the only thing keeping me from acting out in a spirit of self destruction. Rationless, I know. Complete lack of rational perspective.
The tears, they tear their way out, pulling at the moral fabric - or the place where the fabric should be stitched.
Maybe this is just a landmark, signaling my insolence, declaring my inability.
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20 Sep 2006
Let's not pidgeon hole
Tuning into other frequencies takes effort. Question whether or not it's really worth it, consider these possibilities:
-After adjusting signals for an extended period of time, you may not satisfy your clandestine expectation, much to your chagrin.
-While tuning out, you may miss something incredibly important transmitting on the current wavelengths. In searching for something else, you cannot be paying attention to what is presently occuring.
-Unless previously decided, surfing the airwaves wastes precious time and exhausts valuable energies. Occasionally, a lucky boon appears, though generally that isn't the case.
-Sometimes, there are so many signals pumped into the air, pushed onto the ground and all obvious surfaces that there is really no need to find a distracting path. Possibly, the other issues and noises need resolution before tackling a more "interesting" one.
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03 Sep 2006
Stories - a and b and c
It was a cool spring morning, overcast and buzzing with electricity and expectation. It felt as if it would rain until an opening in the cloud let a burning beam through, changing the short term prediction. Sheanne looked up through these cracks as sunbeams struck her on her daily stroll down to the grocers. There was a gentle wind that blew her dress tightly against her hourglass figure and her hair out behind her, a wake of auburn water. She walked with abandon, with a loose contentment, a free spirit in locomotion. Her oval face had an olive complextion decorated with bright green eyes, a roman nose and coral lips.
Christopher looked behind him quickly, moving much faster now. Everything looked like it had been moved around before being properly disconnected. Cars had shuffled out of their comfortable stalls against one another, mechanical sardines of red and blue. People were shouting and screaming everywhere, falling down in fatigue, running back an forth in confusion like extras in a shoot em' up video game. He stumbled past a crumbled church, the weathered marquee sign declaring "Man makes messes only God can clean up." Yeah right, he thought to himself.
While digging through her garden shed, Anita reminissed about all the years in her backyard at 1546 Solstice Drive. All the long summers and warm autumns. All the lovely gatherings with her children and friends, neighbours. All the fresh vegetables and smells, her proud collection of bird baths, feeders and houses. She snapped out of it when a Robin burst into song somewhere in the garden hegdge. Now where did I put that spade? She looked behind the lawn equipment and quickly checked her mini greenhouse. Suddenly, the terrace phone rang. She briskly walked over as it rang again. She quickly lifted the receiver. "Hello, Gallagher residence" she claimed in a deft, trademark way. "Anita" a dark voice lulled, "it's Claudia."
