They feel so small
deep within these hard, glass walls
shake them, shake the children, shake the women
the men will fall.
WAR IS PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
The snow is spinning,
spinning around them mockingly.
Soon it lies at their cold dead feet.
SHOUT, CRY:
WE ARE THE DEAD
The process begins again.
Pushed up against the glass
their breath creates steam,
their screams make a crack,
their love burns a hole,
their defiance breaks the Globe.
There is no scream.
A fresh crack in the glass:
are they the first or the last?
To break the Globe?
No. There is no crack. There is no break.
There is no hope.
2+2 will always = 5
Blind eyes see no crime.
Bruised ears hear no scream.
Paralyzed hands feel no pain.
THIS IS PEACE
There is no scream.
Not really,
not even a echo vibrates
off these glass walls.
Just snow.
Spinning,
spinning
in the machine:
turning the gears
freezing all that is human.
It is perfect
It is powered by the snow...
When it stops,
only we will know.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Thursday, April 9, 2009
I just watched All the Real Girls and it depressed me so much! What love story ends with both characters in love with one another, yet not together?
Yet again, another movie that wakes me up to sad reality: that love does not conquer all. At least it did not end like the most classic love story, with a double suicide, like Antony and Cleopatra. Now that would have been a downer...
Yet again, another movie that wakes me up to sad reality: that love does not conquer all. At least it did not end like the most classic love story, with a double suicide, like Antony and Cleopatra. Now that would have been a downer...
Building Sandcastles_REVISED
I haven't posted in a while, so this goes out to "all you" :) I think I posted this story already, but this is the version that I handed in for English class.
His weary eyes followed the flashing, black bar as it made its way back up to the start of the page. Groaning, he watched as his hours of work were slowly wiped off the computer screen. He took his right forefinger from the backspace and moved his hands through his dark, scruffy mop of hair. Maybe his ex-wife was right. This just isn’t worth it. All the pressure, all the headaches. What is the point? He had nothing to write about because he gave up everything important to him just to pursue his dream. Now, even that is gone.
He pushed off the basement floor, sent the empty chair flying across the dimly lit room and watched as it went crashing into the wall. The sound it made when it hit, told him that the chair had created another dent. Another reminder of his inabilities. The dents were the only things that were reliable and consistent.
Taking off his glasses and placing them next to his notepad on the desk, he began to massage his strained eyes. He had been sitting in the same spot for hours and his back was covered in moist perspiration that had now begun to stick to his green dress shirt. With one hand, he pulled the wet shirt away from his back; with the other he picked up his glasses and put them on. He noticed the fingerprints and dust covering them; he had become unaware of the blurriness after hours of staring at a screen. His wife used to bug him about his dirty glasses.
“How can you possibly see anything with so much grit on your glasses? How many fingers am I holding up?” Jan would say with a loving smile and he would follow along with the charade by pretending to be blind as he groped for her hand.
He fumbled for the banister in the dark with his free hand. Feeling the cool medal hit his fingertips, he grasped onto it and made his way up stairs to make a cup of strong coffee. He hated memories. He hated remembering. He somehow managed to drain it in less than a minute, despite its lava-like temperature. When he went to throw his cup in the sink, adding to the overflow of week old dishes, his eyes caught sight of the front lawn. The lawn was in such bad shape that the people in the community seemed to avoid it as they went for their morning walks. Old people would not stop and talk by it, teenagers would not make out near it, kids would not play on it, and dogs would not even pee on it. The shrubs were once trimmed every week, the grass always cut and the flowers… were now buried beneath years of weeds and neglect. He remembered that his wife had taken care of the flowers. Her once loving and happy face would be replaced with a look of disgust. The last time he saw her she was not too happy either.
“You quit? How are you going to support us as a writer? Why don’t you just ask for your old job back?” Jan asked, getting more and more furious when he repeated the same answer over and over, he had made up his mind.
The fight went on for days, but following a week of quiet seething she found him in the kitchen preparing dinner.
“Fine. You made up your mind. It seems that you have your whole life sorted out. I can’t convince you to listen to me, so I too have made up my mind.” He couldn’t turn to face her, he just nodded. He didn’t say anything to prevent her from leaving. Jan moved out a day later. Her packing had been done long before that night.
So now the bright yellow, romantic, little house on the street had become the depressing, little shack with peeling paint that reminded people that the world was not as perfect as suburbia might suggest.
It was as if there was a neon sign on his door that said: “Hide your eyes, keep your children close, for you just might catch this man’s disease.” He had heard the neighbors talking once, they were an old couple so they had trouble hearing each other and had to practically shout to have a conversation. He listened to their shouting match as they talked about him and his lovely wife, how lucky he had been to find such a caring woman and how happy they had been together before he had a “mid-life crisis”. These people spoke about him as if he had died and the spirit he left behind was who he had become. He had become something to be ignored and forgotten, a horrible and depressing entity that refused to move on, a reminder of failure.
What he really needed was to go outside and breathe fresh air. Maybe a walk would clear his head. He couldn’t remember the last time he had even opened the front door.
Stepping outside, he expected all of his neighbors to poke their heads out their doors just to get a look at the crazy, hermit man. The only thing that happed was that he received an instant headache from the sun. He went back inside to get his sunglasses, which were buried beneath a pile of old newspapers that had replaced his dinner table. He glanced at the date on one of the papers and become conscious of the fact that he had no idea what day it was. Stepping back outside he began walking. His neighbor was having a beer on his front porch. John was waving at him, but he ignored John, kept his head down and walked faster. He really didn’t know where he was going, but stopped went he reached the beach. He saw that the bench was powdered with grains of sand, he brushed some of them off, sat down and then he surveyed his surroundings. There was a young man and woman who were having a picnic. He could hear them laughing and felt the familiar pang of jealously. He turned his head away. There were a few other people. A little boy who was having trouble building a sandcastle, someone he assumed to be the little boy’s mother and a few teenagers swimming in the warm water.
“Hello.”
The voice made him jump and he turned to see who had broken the silence. It was a small woman in her eighties who had sat down beside him. He gave her an awkward smile and turned his eyes to the ocean.
“I’m sorry I scared you. I just thought that you might want some company.” She waited for his reply, but never got one. She looked like she was in pain as she struggled to get up, to leave him to his silence. He felt bad, so he turned and told her to stay. They sat there for a while, each one off in their own little world. The lady turned to him and told him that she had never seen anyone look so sad.
“I thought how odd. It’s such a beautiful day. The sun is so bright. It brings everything alive. See, just look at the ocean.” She said this as she pointed with her finger that quivered from the effort of the motion. He looked, but he could not see the beauty that she could so effortlessly. He lied to her when he nodded his head. It did appear to please the old lady. She once again pointed to various things around the beach and spoke about their beauty. He began to tune her out. He focused on the sand at his feet and started to push it around with the toe of his shoe. He took a quick look beside him and saw that the old lady had gone. He noticed that he still had his sunglasses on and that there was no need for them, so he took them off and put them in his pocket. Then, he went back to pushing the sand.
“Excuse me mister?” He looked up to see the little boy who had been trying to build a sandcastle and his mother standing beside him. “I was just wondering if you had something that I could put on my castle.” He glanced over the little boy’s shoulder to see that he had succeeded in building a sandcastle. It wasn’t perfect, but it was standing. He asked the boy how long it took him to build the castle.
Smiling, the little boy said, “A long time. It kept falling down.” The man asked him why he just didn’t give up. The little boy looked at him like he was nuts and said, “If I gave up every time that the sandcastle fell down, I’d never build one.” The mother added, “Think about it, if every time you built a sandcastle it was perfect, then the excitement of building a perfect castle would fade. The effort makes the finished product much more rewarding. Plus, maybe he’ll be an architect someday.” The mother bent and kissed the top of her son’s blond head, smiling as she brushed sand from her lips with the back of her hand. Convinced that the man didn’t have anything to give him, the boy returned to his sandcastle. The little boy’s mother sat down on the bench.
Once, again both parties were off in their own worlds, at least he thought so. After a while, he noticed her eying him with curiosity. “Are you the man who lives in the little yellow house?” He searched her face, looking for any sign of disgust or horror, but when he did not see either, he nodded his head. “I used to be your neighbor, but when my husband died, my parents forced me to move closer to them. I still cannot resist coming back to the ocean though. It has always held a special place in my memories. I met my husband here.” She smiled at him, but her smile did not suggest sadness as he had expected. She looked more wistful as she turned to the ocean and breathed a great sigh. He could practically see her memories written in her expression and he felt uncomfortable around her vulnerability.
“I always wanted a house like yours, it seemed so perfect behind its white picket fence. It stood there as a monument, so safe from outside influence and I envied you.” After a long pause she continued. “I passed the house today. I didn’t think that anyone lived there anymore. It’s good to know that it’s still serving its purpose.” He looked at her then and thanked her. Laughing she replied, “I have not idea what you would be thanking me for, but you’re welcome.” Shivering she said, “It’s getting pretty cold. The ocean has a way of changing the weather instantly. You better get home.” He watched as the boy and his mother walked away and he couldn’t help but smile. He stayed for a little while, until the sun went down and everyone left the beach to return to warm homes. He told himself that it was his time to go too, so he got off the bench and made his way back to his little, yellow house.
When he got inside, he cleaned his glasses then went down stairs. He fetched his chair from across the room, turned on his computer and began writing. He wrote about pursuing dreams, ones that may lead nowhere, finding people who will support your leaps of faith and the importance of embracing the memories that make you who you are; for without them, one cannot exist. But, more importantly he wrote about a little old lady who saw beauty wherever she looked, a widow who convinced a man to escape his ivory tower and a little boy who built imperfect sandcastles all day long.
His weary eyes followed the flashing, black bar as it made its way back up to the start of the page. Groaning, he watched as his hours of work were slowly wiped off the computer screen. He took his right forefinger from the backspace and moved his hands through his dark, scruffy mop of hair. Maybe his ex-wife was right. This just isn’t worth it. All the pressure, all the headaches. What is the point? He had nothing to write about because he gave up everything important to him just to pursue his dream. Now, even that is gone.
He pushed off the basement floor, sent the empty chair flying across the dimly lit room and watched as it went crashing into the wall. The sound it made when it hit, told him that the chair had created another dent. Another reminder of his inabilities. The dents were the only things that were reliable and consistent.
Taking off his glasses and placing them next to his notepad on the desk, he began to massage his strained eyes. He had been sitting in the same spot for hours and his back was covered in moist perspiration that had now begun to stick to his green dress shirt. With one hand, he pulled the wet shirt away from his back; with the other he picked up his glasses and put them on. He noticed the fingerprints and dust covering them; he had become unaware of the blurriness after hours of staring at a screen. His wife used to bug him about his dirty glasses.
“How can you possibly see anything with so much grit on your glasses? How many fingers am I holding up?” Jan would say with a loving smile and he would follow along with the charade by pretending to be blind as he groped for her hand.
He fumbled for the banister in the dark with his free hand. Feeling the cool medal hit his fingertips, he grasped onto it and made his way up stairs to make a cup of strong coffee. He hated memories. He hated remembering. He somehow managed to drain it in less than a minute, despite its lava-like temperature. When he went to throw his cup in the sink, adding to the overflow of week old dishes, his eyes caught sight of the front lawn. The lawn was in such bad shape that the people in the community seemed to avoid it as they went for their morning walks. Old people would not stop and talk by it, teenagers would not make out near it, kids would not play on it, and dogs would not even pee on it. The shrubs were once trimmed every week, the grass always cut and the flowers… were now buried beneath years of weeds and neglect. He remembered that his wife had taken care of the flowers. Her once loving and happy face would be replaced with a look of disgust. The last time he saw her she was not too happy either.
“You quit? How are you going to support us as a writer? Why don’t you just ask for your old job back?” Jan asked, getting more and more furious when he repeated the same answer over and over, he had made up his mind.
The fight went on for days, but following a week of quiet seething she found him in the kitchen preparing dinner.
“Fine. You made up your mind. It seems that you have your whole life sorted out. I can’t convince you to listen to me, so I too have made up my mind.” He couldn’t turn to face her, he just nodded. He didn’t say anything to prevent her from leaving. Jan moved out a day later. Her packing had been done long before that night.
So now the bright yellow, romantic, little house on the street had become the depressing, little shack with peeling paint that reminded people that the world was not as perfect as suburbia might suggest.
It was as if there was a neon sign on his door that said: “Hide your eyes, keep your children close, for you just might catch this man’s disease.” He had heard the neighbors talking once, they were an old couple so they had trouble hearing each other and had to practically shout to have a conversation. He listened to their shouting match as they talked about him and his lovely wife, how lucky he had been to find such a caring woman and how happy they had been together before he had a “mid-life crisis”. These people spoke about him as if he had died and the spirit he left behind was who he had become. He had become something to be ignored and forgotten, a horrible and depressing entity that refused to move on, a reminder of failure.
What he really needed was to go outside and breathe fresh air. Maybe a walk would clear his head. He couldn’t remember the last time he had even opened the front door.
Stepping outside, he expected all of his neighbors to poke their heads out their doors just to get a look at the crazy, hermit man. The only thing that happed was that he received an instant headache from the sun. He went back inside to get his sunglasses, which were buried beneath a pile of old newspapers that had replaced his dinner table. He glanced at the date on one of the papers and become conscious of the fact that he had no idea what day it was. Stepping back outside he began walking. His neighbor was having a beer on his front porch. John was waving at him, but he ignored John, kept his head down and walked faster. He really didn’t know where he was going, but stopped went he reached the beach. He saw that the bench was powdered with grains of sand, he brushed some of them off, sat down and then he surveyed his surroundings. There was a young man and woman who were having a picnic. He could hear them laughing and felt the familiar pang of jealously. He turned his head away. There were a few other people. A little boy who was having trouble building a sandcastle, someone he assumed to be the little boy’s mother and a few teenagers swimming in the warm water.
“Hello.”
The voice made him jump and he turned to see who had broken the silence. It was a small woman in her eighties who had sat down beside him. He gave her an awkward smile and turned his eyes to the ocean.
“I’m sorry I scared you. I just thought that you might want some company.” She waited for his reply, but never got one. She looked like she was in pain as she struggled to get up, to leave him to his silence. He felt bad, so he turned and told her to stay. They sat there for a while, each one off in their own little world. The lady turned to him and told him that she had never seen anyone look so sad.
“I thought how odd. It’s such a beautiful day. The sun is so bright. It brings everything alive. See, just look at the ocean.” She said this as she pointed with her finger that quivered from the effort of the motion. He looked, but he could not see the beauty that she could so effortlessly. He lied to her when he nodded his head. It did appear to please the old lady. She once again pointed to various things around the beach and spoke about their beauty. He began to tune her out. He focused on the sand at his feet and started to push it around with the toe of his shoe. He took a quick look beside him and saw that the old lady had gone. He noticed that he still had his sunglasses on and that there was no need for them, so he took them off and put them in his pocket. Then, he went back to pushing the sand.
“Excuse me mister?” He looked up to see the little boy who had been trying to build a sandcastle and his mother standing beside him. “I was just wondering if you had something that I could put on my castle.” He glanced over the little boy’s shoulder to see that he had succeeded in building a sandcastle. It wasn’t perfect, but it was standing. He asked the boy how long it took him to build the castle.
Smiling, the little boy said, “A long time. It kept falling down.” The man asked him why he just didn’t give up. The little boy looked at him like he was nuts and said, “If I gave up every time that the sandcastle fell down, I’d never build one.” The mother added, “Think about it, if every time you built a sandcastle it was perfect, then the excitement of building a perfect castle would fade. The effort makes the finished product much more rewarding. Plus, maybe he’ll be an architect someday.” The mother bent and kissed the top of her son’s blond head, smiling as she brushed sand from her lips with the back of her hand. Convinced that the man didn’t have anything to give him, the boy returned to his sandcastle. The little boy’s mother sat down on the bench.
Once, again both parties were off in their own worlds, at least he thought so. After a while, he noticed her eying him with curiosity. “Are you the man who lives in the little yellow house?” He searched her face, looking for any sign of disgust or horror, but when he did not see either, he nodded his head. “I used to be your neighbor, but when my husband died, my parents forced me to move closer to them. I still cannot resist coming back to the ocean though. It has always held a special place in my memories. I met my husband here.” She smiled at him, but her smile did not suggest sadness as he had expected. She looked more wistful as she turned to the ocean and breathed a great sigh. He could practically see her memories written in her expression and he felt uncomfortable around her vulnerability.
“I always wanted a house like yours, it seemed so perfect behind its white picket fence. It stood there as a monument, so safe from outside influence and I envied you.” After a long pause she continued. “I passed the house today. I didn’t think that anyone lived there anymore. It’s good to know that it’s still serving its purpose.” He looked at her then and thanked her. Laughing she replied, “I have not idea what you would be thanking me for, but you’re welcome.” Shivering she said, “It’s getting pretty cold. The ocean has a way of changing the weather instantly. You better get home.” He watched as the boy and his mother walked away and he couldn’t help but smile. He stayed for a little while, until the sun went down and everyone left the beach to return to warm homes. He told himself that it was his time to go too, so he got off the bench and made his way back to his little, yellow house.
When he got inside, he cleaned his glasses then went down stairs. He fetched his chair from across the room, turned on his computer and began writing. He wrote about pursuing dreams, ones that may lead nowhere, finding people who will support your leaps of faith and the importance of embracing the memories that make you who you are; for without them, one cannot exist. But, more importantly he wrote about a little old lady who saw beauty wherever she looked, a widow who convinced a man to escape his ivory tower and a little boy who built imperfect sandcastles all day long.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Driving No Where Any Time Soon
So, I had an eye doctors appointment on Tuesday. I found out that I can't drive... I might need a CATs scan done on my brain because my eyes have not improved since I was five. Then after I get that done I need to get laser eye surgery again. And maybe after all of this some divine miracle will happen and my eyes will stop being so screwy. I think I have a brain tumor... lmao I've thought that it was a problem since I read a book which was talking about some guy who had double vision and migraines = brain tumors. Sort of scared me a little. It sucks completely.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
You Call That Mature?
Fact: People grow up. Another fact: People put too much importance on maturity. Maturity is just a word. Like many other words it is used too much, to frequently inflate peoples' egos.
People tell you that you are mature for your age. BTW: not a complement. AKA: You are not as stupid and annoying as I assumed you would be when I found out that you were a teenager. Immaturity makes life interesting. If the whole world was made of mature people, topics on a rainy day would range from tax returns to what specific colour the wall paint is. So let's PLEASE stop acting like mature adults while we still have our childhood. Someday you will look back on yourself and hate that you never embraced your childish natures. But, if you had put so much importance on maturity, you will also see your childish self as an idiot. When, truly, that's just the way we start out. And you'll ask yourself in the most secluded part of your mature brain what you were thinking when you did those supposedly "MATURE" things, because to the future you, you were as egotistical as they come. I was there with you when you bragged about being so much more fucking mature than us, sorry to tell you but, it was kind of ironic. Do you really think that a mature person would brag about being mature? Jesus fucking Christ. You call that mature? Keep denying that immaturity is biting at your heels, keep running and looking behind you. I seriously hope you trip and fall, because once you do, there will be no one there to pick you up off your ass. Maturity means nothing, neither does immaturity. It's the way people act that make them mature or immature individuals. Mature means being responsible, responsible for your actions, responsible for your stupidity, and responsible for your health. But, that's just me looking through your smoke filled eyes and don't try telling me that your life is so bad that you have to do all this shit. Try thinking about people who matter for once. Your problems, my problems, are not worth reading. I hope this is a phase and that it ends soon.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Impressions are PITIFUL
It's scary in a way, that people are so reliant on the opinions of other people. Whether they need confirmation that they are accepted, beautiful, cool, smart or funny, many people lack the skills to make themselves feel good about themselves. Here's the sad part: Once you are complimented by a person, you strain to be like that, even if you aren't what they see you. At least you are being seen, right? That's when you become someone else, hungering for compliments, spewing pity through every pore, waiting for someone to clog them temporarily. They become you eventually. And that person no longer gets genuine compliments, just ones to shut them up. Is it wrong to stop complimenting that person--to stop encouraging their pity seeking pleas? It makes everyone sad, and a little tired. So, let's be ourselves... as if it was that simple. We'd all be so very beautiful, but for every beautiful person, there is an ugly one to make seem untouchable. We all hungry for something more, it's time to feed that stomach, but not with pity, with courage and eventually confidence. It goes the same way for insults, including ones that come from so called friends. But that's a whole other issue, that I'd prefer not to get into. It's buried under 3000 feet of sand, silt and clay.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Laughing at Yourself Doesn't Accomplish Anything
I've done many stupid things in my life. I've been ashamed, hated, pitied and saved. But, of all the stupid things that I've done that Canada Day is in first place. My father thinks that it is funny to tell everyone and anyone that will listen. Does he think it's funny that his daughter made a mistake? His other perfect daughter would never do anything that would make him upset -- then happy that he has a freaking story to tell to the neighbours. For me it's in the past. For him, it should be brought up at any mention of alcohol and I should laugh. Then why the fuck do I feel like crying? There was nothing funny about it. My heart was beating irregularly. What if it had stopped? Please stop laughing at something that I'm ashamed of, a part of myself that I've gotten over and it has become a part of who I am. Please stop picking at scars. Please stop reminding everyone. Please stop laughing at me.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Try This On For Size
The pigheadedness of people is astounding. It's curious how the fangs appear, as if from thin air, once the person is backed into a corner. The corner closes in and the only way out is through the person blocking you in. Either you can go through them, blast them down or wait until the waves of insults/arguments are passed. Just try to ignore their smug sense of satisfaction as you gather your bloodied parts, wipe their spit from your face and slink by them. The other ways involve confidence, a suicide wish and a few more brain cells. See, if you spend all your life getting beaten up by the "facts", you lose brain cells needed to find the facts. That is their point. To stop you from finding your own way and your own facts. I'm giving up on convincing others to believe what I believe. There is no point, because I could be wrong and I'm only preventing them from finding their own way, plus I've been beaten up by the "facts" way too many times. Just like raising children to be a certain religion or even vegetarian. You have to wait until they can see the facts that you feed them. You tell them the story and let them choose, they'll thank you for it later and they'll understand why they are the way they are. They'll see that they are the product of their own choice and belief. Ex. I've been baptised. It means nothing to me, because I found my own way. I sometime start to wonder what would have happened if my mother took me too church every Sunday. I'd probably not hangout with the people I do, I wouldn't swear, I wouldn't be a vegetarian, I would be scared of gay people, I would read the bible-- not Cosmopolitan, I would be a happy person, I would confess to some "bad things I do", I wouldn't think about suicide (don't worry, haven't in a year since I began writing), I wouldn't have ended up in the hospital, I wouldn't have gone to Centennial and learned about sex and evolution, I would have joined a production course to realize that all the swears have been blacked out (that fucking sucks ass), my blog would be more boring and everything will be very opposite. That scares me to death. It's not those facts, it's the possibility that my mom determined my whole future with that one decision. Power is not always as obvious as a blazing gun. If the whole world was full of god-loving, animal murdering crazies then there would be no nature-loving, plant eating crazies to balance out the whole equation. It's simple science. It's that my mom made the decision to deal with a animal loving crazy when she let me choose. I grew up and I will continue to grow up until I find my way. I'm getting old enough to see the infinite things that could make or break me. I've got a lifetime to figure out if this crazy is right for me, there is always another crazy waiting to be tried on.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
The Very Preptarded Line Between Best Friend and Enemy
What do you do when two people you love fight? Me, I sit and try not to get involved. It helps everyone: I get to be lazy and they get to work it out or avoid each other. I know many people who will jump right into a problem and want to get into the thick of it. It just might make them important or something. Now, I used to spit advice at anyone who would take it, well at least nod and pretend, hell if I cared. Advice ranging from boy troubles, funny... coming from someone who has never had a boyfriend, to family issues, equally funny... coming from someone who has never really had any. So, now I'm just starting to learn to shut my trap and sit on my ass. Something that suits me fine. Until that one faithful day that someone yells at me for not caring about their life enough, this will continue. Gossip is a preptarded thing, the less you know the more you want to know, the more you know the more you complain about being in the middle of it. It's simple, step off the playing field, it's someone else's game.
Did We Become Our Shells?
The sad thing about getting hurt is that every time it happens, we put up these walls. Some become so fully enclosed in these barriers that we begin to doubt who we really are. So, my question is, are these shells still us, or are they a decoy, to distract the next possible attacker? It's like our security system, but it's more like those invisible red lasers they have in those jewel burglary movies. Once in a blue moon, someone or something might get through those lasers, whether they have laser viewing goggles or they are just lucky, they are still walking on egg shells once they are in. It's much easier and calmer to watch the sea, instead of jumping into the shark pit. So, we've learned to accept the shell as the person and get on with life. Is that wrong? -- cowardly even? We tell ourselves that it's what the person wants. Really, it's like hiding without the seek. They fall asleep in the closet, under the bed or behind the curtains and we are forgetting about them. They are still waiting to be found. Ignoring the fact that they are still hiding, makes the person behind our walls even uglier.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Please Baby Don't Cry
All of our lives we are told to be strong and not cry. But really it's these people telling us not to feel, who don't want to see the pain in you. They could care less if you held it in until you exploded, hurting yourself and maybe everyone around you. All that they can see is the present dilemma, the water leaking from your eyes, ignoring the pain leaking through your body. Invisible pain is so much easier for others' to live with. Will it always be this way? Will your loved ones let you cry until you are numb or will this "suffocation of emotions" continue until it's too late? I believe that their intentions are good, but they don't want to venture into the reason for the tears or see the pain on your face and know that they might be the reason behind it. And anyways, why should crying make you weak? Doesn't suppressing it make you weaker in the long run? Hiding from things that make you uncomfortable makes you weak. Actual strong people cry out their tears and get on with their life. Or they stand up at a funeral and tell their story, their memories and never ask the question "What if I had done..." because they did and there are no regrets. They face everyday with a new attitude, no matter how bad yesterday was. Yesterday was a day for crying, today is a day for finding things to smile about. I don't care what the text book definition of a strong person is, but too me, and I hope many others as well, it's all a bunch of bull crap.
A few days ago, I told my friend that she was the strongest person I knew. She embraces her emotions, one of the things that makes her such an amazing writer, and follows her own unique path. My life has been filled with many strong women who have taught me absolutely everything that I base myself on and I plan to admire them for the rest of my life. Screw the textbooks.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Ten Ways to Fit Your Whole Summer Into One Day
10. The night before, stay up until 4:00am playing FFXII.
9. Wake up at noon and play FFXII until 3:00pm.
8. Eat lunch just because your stomach is eating you from the inside out.
7. Play with your bunny and get annoyed when she tries to bite wires.
6. Put bunny away and play FFXII.
5. Get stuck in game and look on gamefaqs for a walkthrough. Should take awhile if you have dial up...
4. Realize that school is tomorrow and that you have to decorate your binders with picture of random crap.
3. Step outside, thinking that you should get some sun for once, and realize that the house is a lot cooler, by twenty degrees.
2. Stay inside and stare at the clock, wishing that you could freeze time.
1. Do nothing. The same thing that you have been doing all summer.
Among the Ranks of Other Famous Fat Heads
I was published once again in the newspaper. I got that poem called "What If?" in the August addition. I was very very pissed that the lady who put it in the paper didn't correct the mistake that I pointed out to her in an e-mail. It went something like this:
Before:
While the strong were forced to made a deal with the devil.
After w/ correction:
While the strong were forced to make a deal with the devil.
Then I received an e-mail back that said:
Done. Thanks.
I'm beginning to think that the bitch was laughing at me. If you say that sentence with sarcasm it explains everything. Writing is quiet ironic. You write a sentence or many and they could be taken anyway that the reader wants to take it. Maybe she intended to say, "What's the big deal. You are sixteen and you wrote a poem that sucks. I have better things to do than correct a mistake you should have noticed before you sent it, so ya! Thanks for the tip. I'm gonna go an get a coffee so I can stay awake long enough to kill myself."
It put a damper on a great day, I have to admit. Whatever, it was partly my fault. Geeezzus even when I sent in a picture of my bunny ABIE she spelt her name wrong in the paper. Jessica Shelley's bunny Albie. Albie? As in the racist dragon?
Shrug it off. Shrug it off. Is it possible? My dad read my story in the paper. The one about THAT day. He didn't say anything. I cried in my room. The same as time and time before when my dad lets me down. I shouldn't cry I know, not over him. I'm sick of wondering what it means, but after I told him that I was published again he told me that he could see me famous. Can I see me famous? Naa. I may be a fat head sometimes but I could never do it full time. I told my mom something when she said that I have talent. I said, "It comes and goes." The scary thing about writing is that after you finish a story you always wonder if that's the last one or if there is another, will it be as good? The world is full of the broken glass of broken goals. You know in school when they try to get you to have goals? Well it's all some sort of conspiracy designed to get you to do great things. I'm too lazy. Way too lazy. I could never get a job working with people. For one thing I don't like them and the other, I'd let them down. One thing that people forget about famous people is that they are still people and when they fall or stumble we love it because it reminds us that even golden plated people get scratched by broken glass. I guess deep down some people hide it, but it shows now and then. Stop hiding silly, come out and play. Embrace your jumbled thoughts, if you can gather enough energy to hold them. I know that I'm too lazy to care. How about you?
Before:
While the strong were forced to made a deal with the devil.
After w/ correction:
While the strong were forced to make a deal with the devil.
Then I received an e-mail back that said:
Done. Thanks.
I'm beginning to think that the bitch was laughing at me. If you say that sentence with sarcasm it explains everything. Writing is quiet ironic. You write a sentence or many and they could be taken anyway that the reader wants to take it. Maybe she intended to say, "What's the big deal. You are sixteen and you wrote a poem that sucks. I have better things to do than correct a mistake you should have noticed before you sent it, so ya! Thanks for the tip. I'm gonna go an get a coffee so I can stay awake long enough to kill myself."
It put a damper on a great day, I have to admit. Whatever, it was partly my fault. Geeezzus even when I sent in a picture of my bunny ABIE she spelt her name wrong in the paper. Jessica Shelley's bunny Albie. Albie? As in the racist dragon?
Shrug it off. Shrug it off. Is it possible? My dad read my story in the paper. The one about THAT day. He didn't say anything. I cried in my room. The same as time and time before when my dad lets me down. I shouldn't cry I know, not over him. I'm sick of wondering what it means, but after I told him that I was published again he told me that he could see me famous. Can I see me famous? Naa. I may be a fat head sometimes but I could never do it full time. I told my mom something when she said that I have talent. I said, "It comes and goes." The scary thing about writing is that after you finish a story you always wonder if that's the last one or if there is another, will it be as good? The world is full of the broken glass of broken goals. You know in school when they try to get you to have goals? Well it's all some sort of conspiracy designed to get you to do great things. I'm too lazy. Way too lazy. I could never get a job working with people. For one thing I don't like them and the other, I'd let them down. One thing that people forget about famous people is that they are still people and when they fall or stumble we love it because it reminds us that even golden plated people get scratched by broken glass. I guess deep down some people hide it, but it shows now and then. Stop hiding silly, come out and play. Embrace your jumbled thoughts, if you can gather enough energy to hold them. I know that I'm too lazy to care. How about you?
Thursday, August 28, 2008
When Talking No Longer Gets You Anywhere
I was watching the movie Your Mommy Kills Animals, which is about the animal rights movement. Mostly, it shunned Peta and groups that have lost their way. Well, I disagree with that statement on most parts. At least they are speaking out about a cause that seems noble. But, one thing these turd sandwiches said, was that they couldn't understand why wearing fur was so wrong. This one bitch from Australia said that she enjoyed wearing fur cause it was warm and that didn't mean that she hated animals. I was sort of laughing and crying at that point. How can you say that you love animals, yet kill them, skin them for your own benefit? It sickens me to think that these delusional people actually thing that wearing fur or leather is fine, when there are warmer, CHEAPER things to wear. Like a fucking ski jacket. All I can think about now is going up to that girl and showing her my bunny, letting her see the FACE of her fur. Like holy shit, not like it would change her mind about it, but it sure would give me the satisfaction of knowing that she can see how pissed I am. Just like people who have dogs or pets and eat meat, you ask them why it's OK to eat a cow when they would never eat their dog. It's so frustrating. This whole thing. Deep down my parents, and my whole family believe that vegetarianism is a phase, probably some teenager thing about having an identity. In a way it is. I've found who I am and I've found something to fight for. I look back and I hate that I once ate meat without thinking about the animal. I've always loved animals and recently I've seen my former self as one of those delusional turds that I get pissed at. I love that I'm finding who I am. For the first fifteen years of my life I was what I as told to be. Now, I'm thinking for myself, living for myself and loving every minute of it. But, anyways, back to the movie. It was also about the SHAC 7 convictions. And if you noticed, I added the homepage to my blog for anyone who is interested in the case. These people were tried as terrorists because they protested animal testing. None of the people who were convicted did any of the crimes. They were a representation of the whole activist group. They couldn't actually find the people they suspected of the crimes. The sentences ranged from 3 to 6 years and each person was fined 1 million dollars. These people were given a larger sentence than a rapist would have received or even a murderer in the UK. The funny thing is these "terrorists," were these geeky, skinny, vegans who wouldn't hurt a fly. The guy, Kevin Kajonaas, who got the highest amount of jail time was ambushed in his house by a SWAT team who put a gun to his head. The guy was 5'10 and weighed 120 pounds. I remember this thing he said in the movie that went something like this: "Just like time and time before the same questions are being asked. All this for a black? All this for a Jew? All this so women can vote? And now it's: All this for an animal?" He put words to the sad history that is being repeated over and over again. I'm SICK of crying myself to sleep because nothing I say is being taken as valuable information into any one's brain. I'm screaming in the dark, waiting for someone to tell me, not that they care or that they feel the same way, just that they can hear. I'm SICK of being made fun of because I haven't had a boyfriend. I guess it's kinda hard to find a boyfriend if the whole world thinks that you like girls. I've even began to doubt myself. I'm SICK of being laughed at because I TRULY BELIEVE THAT ALL ANIMALS ARE EQUALS. YES! Even the fucking birds and the worms. Everything has a right to life. I'm going to be a vegetarian for the rest of my life. I don't even care if it gets me nowhere in the end. I'd love to say that I hate everyone and everything, but I really don't. It's just a sickness that forms in my heart and has eaten its way out every time I'm told not to scream, not to cry, not to feel. Feelings tell us that we are alive. It's only after the fact that we see this. After the screaming fits and the tears. Sickness is a whole different story. Sickness is what I feel, bitter resentment and anger. But anyways, most of all I'm SICK of yelling into space. Empty space. There is not even an echo. If there was an echo I might be able to convince myself that it's really someone who gives a shit.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Old Habits Die Hard
Or as I like to call it: OHDH. My dog is fine now. He had a tumor, but it wasn't cancer. Well, for the longest time no one yelled at Rocky, no one got mad at him in anyway. Since, he was likely to die. He's alive and you know what? It's back to the beginning. Why can't we cherish the days with our dog, not wait for the next time we have a scare? So now it's OK to kick the dog right? He's not dying so you won't feel guilty. I'd like to know that you do though. But, I know it's the same as it was before. No more guilt. Well, I never felt guilty about it cause I never did it. No one has a right to kick a dog, even if it growls at you because it thought you were going to take its toy. You wouldn't dare do that to a child. You'd end up in jail. A dog doesn't mean as much as a child to you though. Ya, sure you'd cry if it might have cancer, but the thought of causing it harm doesn't faze you one bit. I'm protecting him from now on. You crazy religious freaks believe animals are lower than you. I guess you are just making up for that fact that you can't kill and eat him, you have to express your dominance somehow right? Animals have prices on their heads. Not because it's been there since the beginning of time, no, it's because we put them there. And let's just pull our heads from our asses for a few seconds to see that animals have every right to be here. No harm is done by them. They are creatures based on instinct, now we... we might be right about one thing. We are smart. Maybe we are too smart to always run on instinct and too blind to realize when our instincts are wrong. Sure, its kept us alive for a few years. But, do you feel good about it? O wait. Feelings are for sissies. And who needs to feel good anyways... people with souls? O well OHDH
Dr.Footlove or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bathroom
Now, I'm not a person to jump to conclusions about people. And, I let this kid have a decent chance of earning my respect, but when this little freak starts to touch my feet, one thing that most people should know about me is that I fucking hate when people touch me with their feet or touch mine, I just flip. It started with sitting down with me. He then began to touch my feet with his and I told myself that it was just an accident, then I moved my feet. It was when the little twerp followed them where ever I moved them when I got pretty freaked out. I moved them to the couch. His hands found them and my feet found the floor once more. I moved couches, he moved to the floor. Thus, to my feet. His head was on my feet... I moved my feet. He ordered me to put my feet on the floor. I refused. He pulled them off the couch. In the course of doing so, managed to bruise my little toe :( I told myself to stick it out and let the freak at my feet so, I gave in and let him at my feet, at move that I regret now, thinking that it would get out of his system. What an idealist I am. Anyways... he tickled them until they practically bled. He was angry. I went to the bathroom, "I'll be waiting for you..." Stayed in the bathroom for as long as I could manage. Got back. He offered to massage them, ordering me to put one on a chair. No. SOOOO WRONG. I complained of bruised feet... not a total lie. And that was that. My Aunt took me home. And that was the day I met my cousin's six-year-old footloving friend.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
What If You Lived Every Day Like It Was Your Last?
What if we did? Would we get more out of life, living everyday doing whatever we wanted, no responsibilities and no regrets at the end? Or are we just kidding ourselves. See, if we knew that death could be right around the corner wouldn't we lock our doors? So, if you take to that way of thinking you are not living your life, you're just hiding from the inevitable? No matter how much you live, your death will always end with tears. Tears for what you haven't done and even tears for what you've done. So what is it? Do we sit on our asses day after day hiding from the world and it's risks or do you live everyday like it was your last? The one thing that prevents us from the later is money. It's always about money they say, and they're right to say it. How are you supposed to explore the world if you don't have money to do so? How are you supposed to live the life you want to if you don't get a job and support the economy. That's what your reward is after you work for more than half of your life, money. And who in their right mind would want to do anything after working for all their life? Thus, the couch potato. Besides, at the end there is no difference between the man who explored the world and the man who lived in his basement because they are opposites. One could tell you about one thing but not the other. So let's just stop kidding ourselves. We can't live everyday like it was our last. That's too much living for one person to do, so let the billionaires buy the world and build their skyscrapers, while some are perfectly happy with living in their basements. If there is a middle ground let me know, because I haven't found it yet.
Monday, August 18, 2008
What Would You Say If We Lived On TV?
I'd love to make this post beautifully tragic, but I guess I'm not in the state of mind to do so. My dog might die of cancer. I was petting him for awhile, and it might have just been the situation, but my dog didn't move as much and breathed harder than normally. I think it might have been my imagination. Everyone wants to talk it out, this horrible, painful "event". That's all they ever want to do. When I want to scream. I wish I could just run outside, stand on the deck and scream until my lungs exploded. But, instead I'm here, with my dog a few meters behind me sleeping ,while whole family sits and stuffs their heads with television bullshit, anythings better than thinking about it. On TV everyone is fake, fake emotions, fake faces. They are watching "fakeness" with red puffy eyes? Look around you, we are hiding. How is this strong? Covering up this pain when we should be holding our dog and crying openly... screaming openly. "He can't die he's only seven", they should say. Is thinking it somehow better? Does it help at all? I'm sick of television. If a dog on television got sick. It wouldn't even have a chance of dying. There would be tears and then the credits would roll. I'm sick of movies. Love always saves in movies. No matter how much I love my dog, it doesn't cure him, it wont stop him from getting weaker. I want to be strong. I'm weak cause I'm not screaming now. Never let anyone tell you than crying makes you weak. Holding it in until you break makes you weak. At times like these I wish I could pray to some sort of God who could perform a miracle and save my puppy. All I have is a less than 50/50 chance that my dog has a cancerous tumor or not. Nothing can change his chances. The only thing we have is hope. And even that isn't much. Sometimes I wish that I lived on TV and always had the perfect things to say. So ya I wish I could write some amazing post that would touch the reader and make them feel like I do. But the thing is, I don't want you to feel like I do. Even if I don't know you, you don't deserve to feel like this. Until next time, probably when I hear the news, all I ask is that if you care just hope for the best.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
When Did "Vegetarian" Become a Bad Thing???
I'm proud of my choice and I wish I had done it sooner. Yet, whenever I say that I'm a vegetarian, some wise-ass asks if I eat chicken or fish, no one informed me that some animals are OK to eat... That's bullshit. How can you call yourself a vegetarian if you eat animals. Either you do or you don't. It's not rocket science. It's like grade two math.
Any Meat + Eat = Meat eater All Meat + Eat - All Meat = Vegetarian
Recently, Peta was brought up in a conversation with my family. The word extremist was used and I was extremely uncomfortable. I was ashamed to be associated with them and why? They have changed so many peoples' views, but sadly, it turns out that they have been changed negatively, or in these words "Peta gives vegetarians a bad name." Now that I see it written down, it's actually funny. Look at it this way, Peta fights for animal rights. Vegetarians don't eat animals, therefore pretty much fighting for animal rights. Suddenly, vegetarian means "crazy hippie who protests and persuades people to join their club sometimes using violence". Peta isn't giving vegetarians a bad name. In truth, I wouldn't have been a vegetarian if it wasn't for Peta. Maybe I've been feed lies about factory farming or that it's really not that bad for the animals. But, it opened my eyes to what I was eating. It gave me something to set my sights on and also gave me an identity. Haven't you ever wondered why your parents feed you beef, not cow, and that the juicier, the bloodier, the better. I love animals, they have every right to be here as we do. Why should their lives end in order to feed our fat asses, when there is an alternative? Right, the bible says that animals were put on this earth to feed man. Just let me say this... The bible is a FUCKING BOOK. A book designed for mass control. What easier way to ensure that moral values are passed on than through threat? Heaven or Hell YOU DECIDE! All that BS. But, like most things, we are scared to try something different and we stick with what were are used to. Seriously, what could it hurt? I shouldn't have to keep telling myself that I'm doing a great thing. I should know that what I'm doing is great. But, as long as there are those people who are jumping to conclusions about vegetarians, then vegetarians will have a bad name. And anyways... when did fighting for what you believe in and being different become a bad thing?
Friday, August 8, 2008
Image Issues and Coping with Yourself
I'm guessing that thousands of teen aged girls and maybe even some boys have had the trouble with growing up, and growing in size. I know that I'm not "fat" but, I am a "big" girl. Oh, have I learned to despise the phrase " you aren't fat, you're big boned..." Well, these big bones are really annoyed with skinny people. Here's the truth, big girls want to be skinny and skinny girls want to be skinnier, with the big girl's tits. I can't remember the exact date when I realized that my body had changed drastically, but when trying on clothes became a continuous river of disappointment followed by a huge decrease in self esteem, I just simply can't find the fun in it anymore. I want to feel beautiful, sure, some people say that I am, but I just don't feel beautiful. Like what sixteen year old girl has stretch marks? Inside I know that many do, but no one has the guts to admit it. I could never tell shout it from the roof tops. This blog just lets me, it's like talking to a robot. But, back to my image issues, it's usually at night that I feel crappy. In the morning I may look like crap, but I don't feel like it. I wish that more people would be comfortable with talking about themselves. Or, maybe they don't need to, they've already coped with what they've got. I've found ways to feel beautiful, doing my hair, painting my nails, day-dreaming about sexy Christian Bale and working out. The way I've learned to look at it, is something like most of the world's population can't afford plastic surgery to improve their appearance, so I guess I will eventually find another person to love my image issues, including the curves and stretch marks. Until then, I'll have to start coping with what I got. And, start hitting myself when ever I feel crappy, cause there are many people that have bigger problems than I do.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Getting Used to Failure and Doggy Heaven
It may have something to do with growing up but I've found that disappointing people and failing doesn't bug me that much anymore. I have learned that my family is telling me lies. Mostly about my writing. Now, that are realizing that I have turned myself in a direction that with probably leave me homeless and husbandless. "Don't you like Science or Math?" Nope, too many numbers. I just finished the story I published a few seconds ago and I got my mom to read it. It's about the equality of animals and my mom didn't buy it. She probably just thinks that it's the ramblings from a vegetarian, crazy teen aged girl. Just a phase. Well if this is a phase, then who's to say that being a religious fanatic isn't a phase? I get angry at religion. When really it's the people that I am angry at. Religion just let's me hate something that easy to hate. My mom, that is something that i can't hate. I am determined to write, even if it means homelessness. O, and there is a doggy heaven, but all dogs are allowed. There's none of that heaven or hell bullshit. Just heaven.
He Saw Fire Wherever He Looked
A homeless man watched, with curiosity, at the young man across from him. Like an ape, he was covered in hair, and the fact that the ape didn’t look too smart either passed though the homeless man’s mind. He watched closely as if waiting for the ape to stand up, reach over, and strangle him. The man was so concentrated on the ape’s movements that he almost jumped when the ape scratched his arm. The homeless man was not the only person whose attention was drawn to the ape. The strangers’ stares were not hidden; they were openly, and offensively, obvious. The eyes’ were glued to the animal’s face which was covered in scars, that were somewhat hidden beneath a layer of soot. He repeatedly picked at the bubbles of skin on his hands, which exploded with pus. Whenever they did so, a rough laugh bellowed from the ape. He remembered the feeling. The bubbles still burned as if on fire and it made him frivolous with excitement. These sounds that protruded from his belly, made the strangers shiver while they checked their watches, humorously synchronized.
The ball of fire in the sky had fallen by the time the ape stepped off the train and he was greeted with a cold gust of wind that chilled him to the bone. He preferred to play with fire when the eyes were not watching. They were always watching when the sky was ablaze. They relied on fire as he did, given this he chose to avoid hurting anyone with his flames. His hands were starting to itch. He wiped the pus off on his pants and headed towards the flashing sign in a bar’s window. The bar was one of those places where people went if they couldn’t get into the nicer bars, but in most cases you went there if you wanted to get shit faced. A man at the front door allowed the ape in right away and turned to the people in line to deal with their complaints, but stopped himself, the people were not complaining and he smirked. It didn’t surprise him. The ape just looked like one of those guys that you didn’t pick a fight with, if you did, you might as well pick out your coffin and it could be a cheap coffin, something around the size of an empty water jug, because the guy would likely beat you into a bloody pulp.
The ape sat in the corner and bellowed to the bartender to make him something strong. Waiting for his drink to come, the ape’s eyes fixed on his hands again. The waitress arrived with his drink, but he didn’t notice that it had come until he looked up to see the glass on the edge of the scuffed tabletop. Finishing his drink, the ape looked across the smoke filled room, when his eyes fixed on a large man who stood up from his table and walked to the bar.
He knew the ape had seen him. That was whom he was hired to find. He began counting which gave the ape some time to come to the bar himself, but after exactly three minutes he turned, walked over and sat at the ape’s table.
“How ya been?” He asked rhetorically and with a cheerful voice as if they were old friends. The only thing that proved the falseness of his mask were his piercing eyes, which at the time were shooting daggers at the ape, who chose not to answer.
“Do you have a name?” This time the man spoke with apparent slowness, as if it’s very point was to send the ape over the edge. The question seemed to make the man smile, a smile which grew bigger and bigger after every second of silence. After a few moments, the ape saw who this man really was and panic rose up his stomach, up his throat and into his mouth, and then he recognized that it was actually vomit. The back of the ape’s throat was stinging. The man was getting too comfortable with his charade and the ape knew more questions were to come. The ape swallowed the vomit and stood up. The man stopped smiling.
“You are not supposed to leave the facility.” And with that, the man picked up his cell phone and dialed a number. The ape did not stick around to find out who would pick up on the other end. He grabbed the table, ignoring his bubbled hands, and flipped it, crushing the man on the other side. He couldn’t stop himself, his eye’s caught sight of a whiskey bottle and he smashed it on the man’s head. Then lit a match. The flame stopped time and it felt heavier and heavier in the ape’s hand. It became too much to tolerate, so he let it drop.
Without looking back and with screams ringing in his ears, the ape ran through the door and down the street. He was choking on his tears, but didn’t dare stop to catch his breath. He had hurt again. He swore he would never hurt again. His hands were on fire and the scent of burning flesh reached his nostrils. And there was no need to remember, the feeling came back again, and he was laughing.
The motel room was the best the ape could find in his condition. He needed a place to hide away from the men who would come for him, the men that would take his freedom away. Like firemen, they would extinguish his fires and take him away. Then put him back in a room where he could only watch as the bubbles on his hand disappeared and the feeling went away. So, he sat on the bed of the motel room and tried desperately to remember the feeling as it was now, to make sure that he would never forget it. And so, he wouldn’t have to hurt again to get it back.
The television was on. The ape did not remember turning it on. It was the news, in the hospital they were not allowed to watch the news. The ape was immediately fixed to it. The sound was off and a video that was unsteady replaced the face of the pretty news lady. The ape managed to catch -SCAPE FROM ZOO, CAGE LEFT OPEN, as it rolled across the screen. The footage showed a gang of gunmen who were chasing after some kind of animals. The cameraman was running. The ape, with a smile on his face and transfixed to the screen, moved closer to the edge of the bed as if the motion would improve the quality of the video. The cameraman caught up with the gunmen, just in time to see one of the men shoot a monkey in the head. The ape didn’t look away. He wanted to, but knew that if he did, wherever he looked, he would see the very same image in front of him. Just as cruel and as painfully blunt, as it was a few second before. Wherever he looked he would see innocent eyes, eyes that looked into a barrel of a gun and could not fathom why they were having the right to see taken away. All the animals could do was run and the ape man screamed as the second monkey received a bullet in the head by the same gunman. Running got them nowhere. They were running in this world, this hell we created for them. Punishing them for our inability to understand that all life is equal. The gunmen couldn’t see that the animals’ hearts beat like theirs, thought the ape, the one thing that gunmen ignored as they killed them and smiled as the blood pooled at their feet, the feet of lesser men.
The ape could not stand it anymore. His screams were not unheard by the other guests as he picked up the television and threw it against the wall. It fell to the ground in a heap of glass and drywall. But the picture was not gone. It filled the screen again. The ape lit the bed on fire and crawled into a ball on the ground, his eyes still fixed on the television. Seeing the innocent eyes, just as the world went black, eyes that did not look into the gunman’s, they looked to the sky, into beauty and to freedom.
That’s how the young man was found, almost burned alive and staring off into space. The doctor gave him a shoot to put him to sleep and returned him to the facility. Where he could only watch as the walls bled and his hands burned with imaginary fire, while waiting patiently, living day after day, year after year, until the world went black.
The ball of fire in the sky had fallen by the time the ape stepped off the train and he was greeted with a cold gust of wind that chilled him to the bone. He preferred to play with fire when the eyes were not watching. They were always watching when the sky was ablaze. They relied on fire as he did, given this he chose to avoid hurting anyone with his flames. His hands were starting to itch. He wiped the pus off on his pants and headed towards the flashing sign in a bar’s window. The bar was one of those places where people went if they couldn’t get into the nicer bars, but in most cases you went there if you wanted to get shit faced. A man at the front door allowed the ape in right away and turned to the people in line to deal with their complaints, but stopped himself, the people were not complaining and he smirked. It didn’t surprise him. The ape just looked like one of those guys that you didn’t pick a fight with, if you did, you might as well pick out your coffin and it could be a cheap coffin, something around the size of an empty water jug, because the guy would likely beat you into a bloody pulp.
The ape sat in the corner and bellowed to the bartender to make him something strong. Waiting for his drink to come, the ape’s eyes fixed on his hands again. The waitress arrived with his drink, but he didn’t notice that it had come until he looked up to see the glass on the edge of the scuffed tabletop. Finishing his drink, the ape looked across the smoke filled room, when his eyes fixed on a large man who stood up from his table and walked to the bar.
He knew the ape had seen him. That was whom he was hired to find. He began counting which gave the ape some time to come to the bar himself, but after exactly three minutes he turned, walked over and sat at the ape’s table.
“How ya been?” He asked rhetorically and with a cheerful voice as if they were old friends. The only thing that proved the falseness of his mask were his piercing eyes, which at the time were shooting daggers at the ape, who chose not to answer.
“Do you have a name?” This time the man spoke with apparent slowness, as if it’s very point was to send the ape over the edge. The question seemed to make the man smile, a smile which grew bigger and bigger after every second of silence. After a few moments, the ape saw who this man really was and panic rose up his stomach, up his throat and into his mouth, and then he recognized that it was actually vomit. The back of the ape’s throat was stinging. The man was getting too comfortable with his charade and the ape knew more questions were to come. The ape swallowed the vomit and stood up. The man stopped smiling.
“You are not supposed to leave the facility.” And with that, the man picked up his cell phone and dialed a number. The ape did not stick around to find out who would pick up on the other end. He grabbed the table, ignoring his bubbled hands, and flipped it, crushing the man on the other side. He couldn’t stop himself, his eye’s caught sight of a whiskey bottle and he smashed it on the man’s head. Then lit a match. The flame stopped time and it felt heavier and heavier in the ape’s hand. It became too much to tolerate, so he let it drop.
Without looking back and with screams ringing in his ears, the ape ran through the door and down the street. He was choking on his tears, but didn’t dare stop to catch his breath. He had hurt again. He swore he would never hurt again. His hands were on fire and the scent of burning flesh reached his nostrils. And there was no need to remember, the feeling came back again, and he was laughing.
The motel room was the best the ape could find in his condition. He needed a place to hide away from the men who would come for him, the men that would take his freedom away. Like firemen, they would extinguish his fires and take him away. Then put him back in a room where he could only watch as the bubbles on his hand disappeared and the feeling went away. So, he sat on the bed of the motel room and tried desperately to remember the feeling as it was now, to make sure that he would never forget it. And so, he wouldn’t have to hurt again to get it back.
The television was on. The ape did not remember turning it on. It was the news, in the hospital they were not allowed to watch the news. The ape was immediately fixed to it. The sound was off and a video that was unsteady replaced the face of the pretty news lady. The ape managed to catch -SCAPE FROM ZOO, CAGE LEFT OPEN, as it rolled across the screen. The footage showed a gang of gunmen who were chasing after some kind of animals. The cameraman was running. The ape, with a smile on his face and transfixed to the screen, moved closer to the edge of the bed as if the motion would improve the quality of the video. The cameraman caught up with the gunmen, just in time to see one of the men shoot a monkey in the head. The ape didn’t look away. He wanted to, but knew that if he did, wherever he looked, he would see the very same image in front of him. Just as cruel and as painfully blunt, as it was a few second before. Wherever he looked he would see innocent eyes, eyes that looked into a barrel of a gun and could not fathom why they were having the right to see taken away. All the animals could do was run and the ape man screamed as the second monkey received a bullet in the head by the same gunman. Running got them nowhere. They were running in this world, this hell we created for them. Punishing them for our inability to understand that all life is equal. The gunmen couldn’t see that the animals’ hearts beat like theirs, thought the ape, the one thing that gunmen ignored as they killed them and smiled as the blood pooled at their feet, the feet of lesser men.
The ape could not stand it anymore. His screams were not unheard by the other guests as he picked up the television and threw it against the wall. It fell to the ground in a heap of glass and drywall. But the picture was not gone. It filled the screen again. The ape lit the bed on fire and crawled into a ball on the ground, his eyes still fixed on the television. Seeing the innocent eyes, just as the world went black, eyes that did not look into the gunman’s, they looked to the sky, into beauty and to freedom.
That’s how the young man was found, almost burned alive and staring off into space. The doctor gave him a shoot to put him to sleep and returned him to the facility. Where he could only watch as the walls bled and his hands burned with imaginary fire, while waiting patiently, living day after day, year after year, until the world went black.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Building Sandcastles
This is the short story I submitted to that FOCUS newspaper yesterday night:
Building Sandcastles
His weary eyes followed the black bar as it made its way back up to the start of the page. Groaning, he watched as his hours of work were slowly wiped off the computer screen. He took his right forefinger from the backspace and moved his hands through his dark, scruffy mop of hair. Maybe his ex-wife was right. He pushed off the basement floor, sent the empty chair flying across the dimly lit room and watched as it went crashing into the wall. Taking off his glasses and placing them next to his notepad on the desk, he went up stairs and made a cup of strong coffee. He somehow managed to drain it in less than a minute. His eyes caught sight of the state of his lawn when he went to place his cup in the sink, which was overflowing with week old dishes. The lawn was in such bad shape that the people in the community seemed to avoid it as they went for their morning walks. The shrubs were once trimmed every week, the grass always cut and the flowers… The flowers weren’t dead like they were now… He remembered that his wife had taken care of the flowers. Her face would be marked with displeasure. The last time he saw her she wasn’t too happy either.
“How are you going to support us as a writer? Why don’t you just take that job at my brother’s company?” she asked. Getting more and more furious when he repeated that he had made up his mind. The fight went on for days, but following two weeks of quiet seething she found him in the kitchen preparing dinner.
“Fine. You made up your mind. It seems that you have your whole life sorted out. I can’t convince you to listen to me, so I too have made of my mind.” He didn’t say anything to prevent her from leaving. She moved out a day later.
What he really needed was to go outside. He couldn’t remember the last time he had opened the front door.
Stepping outside, he got an instant headache from the sun. He went back inside to get his sunglasses, which were buried beneath a pile of old newspapers that had piled up on his dinner table. He glanced at the date on one of the papers and become conscious of the fact that he had no idea what day it was. Stepping back outside he began walking. His neighbor John Nelson was having a beer on his front porch. John was waving at him, but he ignored John, kept his head down and walked faster. He really didn’t know where he was going, but stopped went he reached the beach. He first saw a bench powdered with grains of sand, he brushed some of them off, sat down and then he surveyed his surroundings. There was a young man and woman who were having a picnic. He could hear them laughing and felt the familiar pang of jealously. He turned his head away. There were a few other people. A little boy who was having trouble building a sandcastle, someone he assumed to be the little boy’s mother and a few teenagers swimming in the warm water.
“Hello.”
The voice made him jump and he turned to see who had broken the silence. It was a small woman in her eighties who had sat down beside him. He gave her an awkward smile and turned his eyes to the ocean.
“I’m sorry I scared you. I just thought that you might want some company.” She waited for his reply, but never got one. She looked like she was in pain as she struggled to get up, to leave him to his silence. He felt bad, so he turned and told her to stay. They sat there for a while, each one off in their own little world. The lady turned to him and told him that she had never seen anyone look so sad.
“I thought how odd. It’s such a beautiful day. The sun is so bright. It brings everything alive. See, just look at the ocean.” She said this as she pointed with her finger that quivered from the effort of the motion. He looked, but he could not see the beauty that she could so effortlessly. He lied to her when he nodded his head. It did appear to please the old lady. She once again pointed to various things around the beach and spoke about their beauty. He began to tune her out. He focused on the sand at his feet and started to push it around with the toe of his shoe. He took a quick look beside him and saw that the old lady had gone. He noticed that he still had his sunglasses on and that there was no need for them, so he took them off and put them in his pocket. Then, he went back to pushing the sand.
“Excuse me mister?” He looked up to see the little boy who had been trying to build a sandcastle and his mother standing beside him. “I was just wondering if you had something that I could put on my castle.” He glanced over the little boy’s shoulder to see that he had succeeded in building a sandcastle. It wasn’t perfect, but it was standing. He asked the boy how long it took him to build the castle.
Smiling, the little boy said, “A long time. It kept falling down.” The man asked him why he just didn’t give up. The little boy looked at him like he was nuts and said, “If I gave up every time that the sandcastle fell down, I’d never build a sandcastle.” The mother added, “Think about it, if every time you built a sandcastle it was perfect, then the excitement of building a perfect castle would fade. The effort makes the finished product that much nicer.” The mother bent and kissed the top of her son’s sandy blond head. Convinced that the man didn’t have anything to give him, the boy returned to his sandcastle. He watched as the boy walked away with his mother and he smiled. He stayed for a little while, until the sun went down and everyone left the beach to return to warm homes. He told himself that it was his time to go too, so he got off the bench and made his way home. This time around he waved to John, who was still sitting on his porch.
Going down stairs, he fetched his chair from across the room, turned on his computer and began writing. He wrote about pursuing dreams, ones that may lead nowhere, finding people who will support your leaps of faith and the importance of sunglasses. But, most of all he wrote about a little old lady who saw beauty wherever she looked and a boy who built imperfect sandcastles all day long.
Can't Wait
I'm at university! It's so cool. I cannot wait until I have the chance to go to lectures, be bored and starve!
Friday, July 18, 2008
Genocide is a Fun Pastime
"Sudan's government says the scale of the violence and suffering has been exaggerated by the west for political reasons.
It denies charges that it organised the Arab Janjaweed militias, accused of widespread atrocities against Darfur's black African population."
- BBC News
The scale of the killing is exaggerated? There should be not killing period. So, the government blames the west for the exaggeration of the killing, causing their charges for mass murder?
The International Criminals Court can have any of it's charges waved by presidents like the President of Sudan Omar al-Bashir, a man who is immune to being prosecuted for his part in the genocide in Darfur. This sure sends a great message. International should no longer be a part of ICC. More like ASFCC. A Select Few Criminals Court. It's fitting I think. What's the point of a criminals court that cannot charge people of high power for their crimes? I guess mass murder isn't a major crime.
It denies charges that it organised the Arab Janjaweed militias, accused of widespread atrocities against Darfur's black African population."
- BBC News
The scale of the killing is exaggerated? There should be not killing period. So, the government blames the west for the exaggeration of the killing, causing their charges for mass murder?
The International Criminals Court can have any of it's charges waved by presidents like the President of Sudan Omar al-Bashir, a man who is immune to being prosecuted for his part in the genocide in Darfur. This sure sends a great message. International should no longer be a part of ICC. More like ASFCC. A Select Few Criminals Court. It's fitting I think. What's the point of a criminals court that cannot charge people of high power for their crimes? I guess mass murder isn't a major crime.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Pictures of Loved Ones
They are looking me in the eye.
This pain wells up inside of me.
This pain when loved ones die.
There are pictures of them, up there.
Their bodies are rotten,
how come I still care?
They are long gone,
but forever loved by flesh and blood.
They had rested before they were withdrawn,
from that warm place under the lawn.
To be placed forever in my beating heart.
Never to part.
You were nothing to some,
But, pictures of loved ones still hag forever on these walls.
Some are blind to these pictures of what they had become.
Except one.
This pain wells up inside of me.
This pain when loved ones die.
There are pictures of them, up there.
Their bodies are rotten,
how come I still care?
They are long gone,
but forever loved by flesh and blood.
They had rested before they were withdrawn,
from that warm place under the lawn.
To be placed forever in my beating heart.
Never to part.
You were nothing to some,
But, pictures of loved ones still hag forever on these walls.
Some are blind to these pictures of what they had become.
Except one.
I'm Tired but, I'm Not Going to Bed
I stay up all night. After awhile I convince myself that waking up will refresh me. It never does. I just go back to doing nothing. Ya ya ya, I know that in a few years when I will have to be doing something all the time, I'll look back and wish for this. Right now I'd rather be in a hole in the ground, away from this constant nagging in my head. Is it me or is it a piece of my mother poking my brain and making me jittery? That's what this is. I'm so full of pent-up energy that I could actually go outside for once. I haven't been eating correctly. My day is full of snacks. I babysit and come home and all I do is read, blog, play video games and suffocate myself with this nagging in my head. O, and eat more snacks. I think that all I need to do is vomit the contents of my stomach and I'll feel better. Not that I will though. I did it once when I wanted to get out of going to soccer practice and my throat stung all day. I'm watching south park right now. Well, it's a rerun but, it's something to watch other than go to bed. Tomorrow my mom is taking me to Milton to find the newspaper that I might be published in. I was excited awhile ago but the excitement wore off a little while back, My birthday is in 7 days. I haven't been counting. Someone told me. I don't want anything for my sixteenth. Well, to be honest I don't want to think about anything at the moment. My brain is mush. I don't want jewelery for my birthday cause I'll never wear it. I did ask that my mom help pay for the laptop that I plan to buy at the end of summer. She hasn't agreed yet, I hope she will. I need a computer to write on when I'm anywhere. No more scraps for me. I feel tired, but I don't want to sleep. I think I might go to my sister's empty room to sleep, it's colder and I wont step on any crap that seems to litter my room. I can't hardy type anymore, maybe I should go to bed.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Sunday, July 13, 2008
What Does if Feel Like to Feel?
Have you ever thought about the origin of your feelings?
What if I only know what love is because I feed off of others?
Or if I only think that when something dies I have to cry? That it is normal.
If I never truly missed anything?
Just felt that it was what was demanded of me.
I'm really fucked.
What if I only swear because it sounds cool and gets a reaction... not because I'm angry.
I'm a product of your imagination.
You created me.
I feed from you.
You are my mother.
I am your child...
If you learn to hate me. You are just hating yourself.
I'm writing because I'll implode if I don't. Not explode. I'll never explode.
You will never have a piece of me.
I'm a figment of your imagination and you'll never prove my existence.
Like a UFO or an alien.
But back to this.
What are you feeling.
What am I feeling.
We can't put words to it.
Because these feelings are not ours.
They don't belong to us.
And the people that came before us don't know either.
God will tells us won't he?
Won't he?
In time they say, but
time is running out of gas.
We are all running on empty.
But, as long as we are full of feelings we will keep running on the gas of those who taught us to feel. Until. We stop.
The feelings stop.
Feel what?
I have no idea.
I guess confusion.
There is always confusion.
Feelings kill us... and diseases.
Diseases are fun.
We are running on opium not gas.
Talking to animals and forgetting where we are going.
Only to find ourselves where we least wanted to be.
Back to the questions and finding that we passed all the answers.
We are all going somewhere.
Where. We will never know.
Not even when we reach that somewhere.
Do we have souls?
Maybe a long time ago.
But we lost them trying to find a point.
They got bored and flew away.
Will we ever find an origin to these feelings?
I know I wont, but at the same time... I've wasted too long searching.
Two Cold Little Bodies Became Food One Day
A cardboard coffin found with a hole.
The hole leads nowhere now,
but it did before.
It was a warm place,
where their end was final.
A resting place.
But they rest no more.
They are gone now.
In more ways than one.
Two cold little bodies
became food one day.
Their warmth had been replaced.
In more than one way.
Picking flowers to beautify her home,
the girl stopped and stared
an image was burning her eyes.
While standing frozen, petrified, surprised.
Face of stone.
Heart beating fast.
Stood in her room alone.
Letting go, hiding no more.
Tears fell, but could not warm
the cold in that cardboard coffin found with a hole.
She had tried and tried with all her core.
But, they would always be food, nothing less.
Nothing more.
The hole leads nowhere now,
but it did before.
It was a warm place,
where their end was final.
A resting place.
But they rest no more.
They are gone now.
In more ways than one.
Two cold little bodies
became food one day.
Their warmth had been replaced.
In more than one way.
Picking flowers to beautify her home,
the girl stopped and stared
an image was burning her eyes.
While standing frozen, petrified, surprised.
Face of stone.
Heart beating fast.
Stood in her room alone.
Letting go, hiding no more.
Tears fell, but could not warm
the cold in that cardboard coffin found with a hole.
She had tried and tried with all her core.
But, they would always be food, nothing less.
Nothing more.
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