faggot

lala, split ends, and the bakers dozen.

2010-11-07T16:55:00.000-08:00

a lonely plastic bag dances through a labyrinth of heels, rushed speaking, and noise. scared the wind might die at any moment, not realising the streets are full of life to breath.

pavements embrace the glowing embers of half-smoked cigarettes, hugging the wrath of theirs sparks to it's cracks. call her queen of the train line, or dancer of the night, entertainer who will steal your heart, make you crawl on your belly to the light.

i don't know where we are going, there was a splash, a slash then a clawing against the linoleum. a moan, a guttural groan, a gutter throat, he cut his own throat. his skin like ivory.

the city air made its rounds that night, through the living room ruined curtains askew, and curled around bare toes, slamming the locked door.car headlights licked windows and the wall behind the headboard; stroked the covers as if to aplogoise (but still manage to mutter, "you know what you were getting into")

everyone pretends to be something they are not, even before they can speak to lie, burning up the possibility of truth just like the shooting star this is Laura Baker in all her poetic masochism throwing up flames where ever she stands.

sorry if this was a little left of centre, but it was written for a girl, who stands there. it is her birthday soon and i wish her all the best.

lala, i love you.

yours in christ fox

i haven't been fucked like this since grade school.

2010-11-06T23:54:00.001-07:00

tonight the rain becomes the earth falling from hidden places in the sky. i can hear it make mud of dirt, and lovers of friends. and i ask, quietly, where are we going but down?

i'm not all there, in the head, you're not all there in the head. my mother reminds me, im not all there in the head, and i repeat sometimes im there in my toes and fingers instead.

and now - in this downpour of a moment - i lie on the street, on the cement so warm that i thinks its where all the love's gotten into.but where is your shirt? oh someplace else, and is that a light flickering in the house across the road? should i hide?

i rush back home, soaked with rain, i watched fall (like stars), am i poetic enough yet, yet? leaving rain-prints on the carpet but mum won't mind. mind you she never minds anything if its mine

but then it stopes and a quick shut-eye stop (i wonder) is it dew now that is sits like jewels upon the grass?the wind is lovely in my ear, voice like rushing water. n not down; though, through.

make me move

2010-06-28T00:01:00.000-07:00

i want to write a poem about sex, and that im not a terrible person/ speller.

i am disorded but not disorderly. i am broken up. i think nice thoughts like streetlight, and linens, and is there an instruction guid to happiness? i could write one for you.

step one, paint your eyes cobalt blue.

step two, hang fireworks from coat hangers

step three, turn into one of those white weeds, blow away

my heart tried to escape out my throat. okay, i am guilty in ways that you cannot tell anyone, ever, not even your imaginary best friends. or real ones. or myself, freud says i'm an iceburg, but i don't know if he means full of repressed thought or just a fridget bitch that will cut you open.

step four, there is no step four if i am an iceburg, i desperarely need someone to warm me in the palms of their hands. no one ever will though, i sink ships and tear them all apart.

once there was a boy who told people she was not terrible, but he could never get the spelling quit right.

as if they knew better

fucking without a condom is the main way to transmit HIV

2010-04-16T23:47:00.000-07:00

i see naked bodies in the gutter as i walk queen street at 3 am. they make love, awkward but warm in the concrete curve. i don't place their clothes. i think it is wonderful though. the heat, the heat.
my entire body is rolling from heavy to light, like the shore. my head is humming and my limbs ache dull. there is a sickness in my stomach or in my throat. i think that maybe my stomach is wanting to force itself out my throat- but i won't have that.

i walk further. there are no straight lines to follow but i picture them in my mind and still cannot walk across them. i trip, tumble on the edge of the pavement and no one sees. the alcohol pulses through my blood stream and i begin to shouti love her, i fucking adore her! the brisbane night sky answers with an offset of bat noises and far off traffic. they don't understand though, they could never feel this. the sky may love the sun for lighting it each day and the moon for gracing its canvas with a milky glow, but it does not know the love i do. she is my sun and moon and stars and dew and, she is life. my head throbs. i am not well. the lovers are streets back. we could be them. but we're not. she has fallen asleep with music thrumming in her ears on somebody's couch and i am walking the city streets intoxicated, bowing to streetlamps. i am not well.heat, heat. i wouldn't mind where we were. just to have the bare skin, the nakedness of her. it's shooting heroin without the syringe. it's all i want, her, her and nothing but. she's too far away. i can't hear breath or footsteps or heartbeat and that is why she is too far. i will fall asleep without her but i wish i wouldn't. i can feel it rushing over me, tired mind, tired. there is a bench ahead and why not? home is so far and i can only walk so far before passing out. it isn't comfortable like she'd be. but i drift, rum blurring thoughts, into fogged and clouded dreams of us.us (not me and you, not you and i)us.

its about tapeing a plastic bag over your head, and waiting for jesus

2010-03-29T17:03:00.000-07:00

in five years i want to move to sydney, arkensas, or atlantas and start a family, name my children after odd numbers and teach them russian nursery rhymes, and the art of manipulating the ones you love.

in five years i want to marry you, but i dont know if you like odd numbers, or even if you like me all that much. maybe you'd like me if i tell you that i'm a mermaid, but i'm not and you can always tell when i am lying. in five years i want to be seventeen, but wishes dont work like that. i tried. in five years i want to be on a plane, and i want the plane to crash and i want everyone to be okay execpt for you. but if you were a mermaid you would be okay i suppose. you could just swim away.

in five years i want to be out of this bed, in five years i want to be crowned king of all lower case letters, in five years i want to say "your the best thing that has ever happened to me", and mean it.

in five years i hope to either be a writter or dead. but i shouldnt get my hopes up.

once more, with feeling

2010-03-05T23:24:00.000-08:00

I wanted to give up sex for lent, but somehow i find myself letting you spread my legs and whisper holy nothings into my sinful ears.

in my half-starved mind i imagine a danglinggolden cross about your neck that burns prayers into my collar bone, oh godoh god oh god oh godohgodohpleasein the morning i hide your mother's bible and try to tell you about renewal and purity and rebirth.

you just ask me if i've remembered to take my birth-control pills.i wanted to go without eating for forty days, but you take one look at my pale, nakedlegs and say, "honestly, if they wereany skinnier i would be grossed out."

here i am swallowing the world whole,all of its glory and chocolate rabbits and virgin mary statues and dirtied snow and azealea bushes. there is no confession booth left to save my soul except poetry, and as far as i know it cannot keep me from hell.

i ask you what the holy week is, and what each day signifies, but you are unsure.

i spend ash wednesday celebratingbeing alive, and wake up thursdaythinking maybe i've gotten it all wrong.

-i'm not giving up any one thing for lent.i'm just giving up.

the bad mother's handbook

2010-01-12T21:38:00.000-08:00

i am folding you one thousand paper cranes because it is all we have left.

legend says that if i fold one thousand paper cranes, i will get a wish. i could wish for a pair of iridescent wings or an ocean in a teacup or just to finally be happy again, but i don't want any of that -with every crane i fold i am imagining you. once crane for the circles under your eyes, one crane for your jutting ribs, one crane for every seizure.i love you and you're dying and i will run out of paper trying to fold your broken pieces into birds.

you drew me a picture of us in the future.

our houses were next door to each other and a white picket fence separated our property and oh god, it made me curl into a ball and ache for hours. see, in a perfect world, the clouds would always be fluffy and our mailboxes would always be full of hand-drawn pictures and our smiles would be lopsided but permanent.

i hung it on my refrigerator as a reminder that there is still hope, but paper is so fragile and i am afraid that someday it might be nothing more than smears.

we both want to name our sons Archie and neither of us paint our fingernails. we have the same middle name and we finish each others sentences.

sometimes people tell us we are the same person; the only difference if that you're sick and im just guilty.

one night i asked my boyfriend what would happen, and he let me toss fitfully on the too-small bed and cry all over the clean sheets.

"we'll go to the funeral" he told me. "and we will cry. and whenever we are all together, we will think about her and how much we love her and we will smile. it will be okay" so i will keep telling you that until one of us believes it. it will be okay, it will, it has to. [it might not be, but i cannot imagine you gone. i want a white picket fence and graphite clouds and strings of origami veiling every window in your house]
in the end neither paper cranes nor stories will keep you alive, but i have to try.

short stories with long titles

2009-08-31T02:47:00.000-07:00

there is a place in my town, i guess, now i think about it there would be one in every town. in mine its a public toilet in a park. a place were men go to get fucked.

i like to sit on the hill and watch them come and go. i wonder if they even know eachothers name? i dont judge them by anymeans, in fact to think of it I almost respect them. i never really had the confidence to meet new people.

I wonder if they ever fall in love with each other, if they meet their sole mates on the floor of the Queens Park bathroom? I wonder if i will ever find my sole mate? if one day while sitting on the hill he will walk into the toilet, and we will ride off into the sunset together?

I work at a privet primary school where the children have more money than i do. i wonder if they know about the place in their town where men go to get fucked? i hope they dont. its ment to be a seacret. just from them. and me i guess,
maybe we look for secrets because we are unable to deal with ourselves. when i told my parents i was gay they couldnt even look at me. i had only told them the truth, was that so selfish? our integrity sells for so little, but it is the last inch of us, the very end. but in that inch we are free.

the men who pray by public toilets i also find are free. they never seem to run out of options, they never aim to high. i wish i was happy enough with what i have, let alone what i am given.

dont piss in my face, and then tell me its raining. or you love me

2009-06-24T15:09:00.000-07:00

I have a monster living underneath my bed. He’s made up of burnt frog skin, white-red cobweb veined eyes and a collection of missing pebble teeth. Sometimes we play scrabble.
(The first time he was just a mechanical hum beneath the bowing wooden planks, he was just a faint smell of green and he was just a hot cloud of fog around my lips. It’s the wind, it’s the wind, I breathed. Then he breathed back, heavy and loud and monster-like; AM NOT.)

He always spoke in capitals; MONSTERS ARE MUCH TOO SCARY FOR LOWER-CASED LETTERS, he informed me one night under pink covers. I shined the flashlight into his eyes until they changed colour and he bared his teeth.
He sometimes visits my dreams. The grass turns sickly where he trudges and the woodland creatures whimper and scramble in his wake. WHERE’S MY HUG? He holds his warm monster limbs out, palms snatching me from my happy-ever-after and grins gap-toothily. I manage a chuckle as I buckle in his embrace.

He used to keep me awake with questions- he’d keep me awake with questions that don’t have answers. He’d ask me why, why, why. And my eyelids would cling to my cheekbones in desperate hope of sleep but my tongue would slide across the roof of my mouth with thoughts and sounds. I held pillows over my eardrums and blared music- but the ringing of his guttural voice forced through all else and looped continually.
You’re a bad song, I told him, and he kissed my temples with his sticky fingers.He knew everything about Tom. He knew about the hurried, mismatched kiss and the tangle of our hands that day and the way he spoke my name and my toes tingled.
He knew the way he made my heart and eyelashes flutter and the way he broke my heart. He heard between the sobbing, absorbing my tears with frog fingers, about the way he said goodbye.

I told him I loved him and the lime of his cheeks brightened and his eyes held mine tight and close. I LOVE YOU TOO. He grumbled in the prettiest way you’d expect of a monster. I held his webbed fingers and let my heart thump against them.
DON’T GROW UP, he’d beg from beneath me, on the hard cool floor amongst candy wrappers and comic books. Never, I’d reply, adopting his grin. i wear nametags that read "alicia"and "liana" and "samantha," because i want to know how it feels to be someone else for a day.you make me a nametag with my real name on it, and i just laugh.

(later i slip it beneath my mattressand spend the night staring at the ceiling.see, i've tried myself on one too manytimes, and the fit is never right.)

next to a dog a book is a mans best friend. inside a dog its to dark to read

2009-06-02T01:59:00.000-07:00

this is what i thought was a great big fuck up. a great big situation that needed a great big abortion. but you cant self abort at 19. i think i should start with sorry. i need to say sorry to a girl. because i pissed in her life, instead of in the shower, and because of it i lost everything. and i think it will be harder in the morning.

but im not a child anymore. and i have to sleep in the bed i so uncomfortabley made for myself. im was tall enough to reach for the stars, and im old enough to love you from afar. and now im old enough to do what im told. even if i never hold you again.
this is what i think is for the best. i left. i left without a goodbye, i always run. i always have run away and tried to dig a hole big enough to put my head in. but never succed. i ran away from them because i knew that no amount of the truth could set me free. no amount of sorry could make her forgive me. and no amount of time could heel the silly little wounds.
i sit most nights and wonder why i did it. was it the rush? when did i make up my mind? when did i not think it over? i think i did it because im still scared of myself. im still scared of what i am that i cant deal with what im not. that and the feeling of being alone. even in a room full of people i called friends. still being a stranger. the thrill of doing something that i know i shouldnt. seeing how long it took to get my taste of hate. this is me, completely terrified.

hats, cats and places to hide.

2009-05-28T16:02:00.000-07:00

Somebody asked me today, if I believed in God. It’s funny how its trendy to hate god at the moment. All my friends are so wrapped up in their own atheism that I don’t think the question of his existence has ever been positioned to me. I guess they just assumed I was happily sitting in the boat with them. I looked down at my feet; I looked at the ground around them, and then slowly climbed back to stare vacantly and the negative space made by the person’s neck and shoulders. As if the question was so personal that I couldn’t bring myself look them in the eye, as if they had just pulled down my pants in the middle of the street.
I felt how a prostitute must feel when they are finished with a tick, a mix of pride and shame.

I rested on that I don’t believe in organized religion and that no man or no mans book can tell me anymore about god than I can tell myself. That god wont talk to me because im sure he is pretty busy at the moment with his own drama, and although im sure he listens cant be bothered by my little things.
I think that god is like a working parent. They love you, and care for you. But they just can’t be there all the time; you have to grow up by yourself.

they were always to cool to run my race..

2009-05-24T00:40:00.000-07:00

Have you ever read one of those stories? One of those poems? The sad ones. You know what I’m talking about. The ones that make you regret and wonder what you’ve done with your life.
I don’t like them. Never have, never will. I write them though. They just happen. I can’t help it… I hate it when they come out. They’re terribly sad. What’s worse is I don’t have anything to be sad about.

Well, no. I do have things, but they’re not that bad. I want to quit writing the ones that scream “Woe is me!” That’s not what I want to be, That’s not who I am. I want to make people laugh, Not cry. Not think. Not sigh…

I can’t keep them hidden though. I can’t write them and lock them away. They are part of me, no matter what I say. It’s lying to pass them over.Maybe I write them because I haven’t found myself.When I do, I hope I’m happy.
It is difficult to make out the words because it’s not you and me, it’s just me. It is about my mind drawn in a blue sky, and my window sill blistering because of it. It is about staring down ten stories and seeing animal eyes painted on the pavement, bleeding and crying and moaning like something inside me, like the reek of greenhouses and cow shit inside my room.

Even if I close my eyes, I picture spring devouring crows’ feet and pickled eggs sticking to my window, where those branches scrape like an old friend, except trees don’t grow this high, so it’s all in my mind, you see. It is about this pen and this paper andten stories I can’t stare down.
I am beyond finding rainbows out here, in the sludge of yesterday’s rain, where every stone bench, and even the green of the grass, is covered in pigeon shit. This town is like a crowd, like a monster from the worst parts of us, in time to place you at the head and me at the foot gazing up from the tower to the sun-burnt sky.
Must there be a mutual understanding that I will never see you again, if we are part of the same body of wistful thinking that we can do something significant here? Your palms are thirty, forty, six hundred and twenty two meters away, but I can feel them resting against the hollow of your neck stretching for anybody else against you,And I am counting the stars on the other side of the world or something like it, knowing full well that half of them probably died millions of years ago, with your lips against the white of my knuckles.
And I don’t even bother to remove the staples from the pre-recycling curling inward like clustered fetuses because I’m secretly screaming at them never to let go. I wish I could call sunsets black or white and leave it at that, but these fingers against my temple are not my own, leaking out my ideas and dreams. My tongue never bites back, but every muscle in my body recoils against the slap of a door closing or a shoulder turning the blind eye or deaf ear, or cocked in your throat,
Do you know the hardest— battle we fight is barely tasting the edge of tomorrow, and having to go it alone. And Remember, in elementary school when it was safe to give Valentine’s cards with “I love you” and “Won’t you be my Valentine?” to other boys because they didn’t have cooties?

of john tuverly and timothy golding and men who dwell by railway tracks

2009-05-16T20:30:00.000-07:00

when i was seven years old, i used to love to watch my mother cook on the hot plate. i think is because i liked the way that she always had it up on full go, which caused the rings to glow the most amazing warm orange colour. i can remember sitting on the hard flat floor, my skin sticking to the lineo and stareing up in aww at it, wishing i could just hold it in my hands for a second.one evening my curiosity got the better of me, while my mother stood there, waiting for the water to boil so she could cook the frozen peas, i decided i was going to touch it. i had mulled over the idea for some time but had never been able to pluck up the corage to do it. i always knew in the back of my mind it would be painful. but how could i not. so as my mother stood there watching me, with an amost excited grin on her face, i reached out. i was never a short child so i didnt have to strain to reach it, but in my mind it was as if it was the most unachieveable feet, like climbing to the top of a mountain. and then, i screamed. my fingers throbed and ached and stung all at once. my mother waiting, had already began running the cold water in the sink, and stuffed my hand under it. she was laughing rather lightly in my ear, as i screamed and cryed and winged. i asked her later why she had let me do it. why she had just stood there when she knew how much it would hurt. she told me that unless i had done it and felt the pain of it, i would have never learned to do it again. she said something never judgeing a book by its cover, even though the glowing red looked warm and pretty it was really painful and distructive. i took this advice to far, everytime i got that glowing awww feeling, i ran away and his my hands in my pockets, in fear of getting burned again.i realise now that people are not like hotplates. you cant avoid being burned by them all your life, the best you can do is hope with all that you have that they stove is up high enough to really hurt you. but even if it is all you can do is run your fingers under the cold water, and try again.

rabbit

for anyone whos ever told a lie, and enjoyed it

2009-05-07T04:11:00.000-07:00

when you dont wanna feel, death can seem like a dream. but seeing death, really seeing it, makes dreaming about it fucking ridiculous. maybe theres a moment growing up when something peels back, maybe we look for secrets because we cant believe our own minds. though i missed you, even without really knowing you, life would be better without me. a thought is a hard thing to control.

all i know is that i began to feel again. crazy, sane, whatever i was, i knew there was only one way back into the world. i began to talk, to tell you my stories and my adventures. i realise that being crazy dosnt mean your broken its just you or me applified. ive been up and ive been down, ive been good and ive commited every sin. but ive come along way to see you.

to the old, i really miss you, you know that? i really do. i miss our words, our jokes, our secrets. i miss our fabrications and our lies. because in time those things will make me stronger, just at moment every time i think of them it makes me wanna scream.
tears are just the antidote for laughter
i keep fucking picking my nails, there isnt going to be anything left of them soon.

and im pouring my secrets into shot glasses and dumping them down the drain. because there is nothing better than a broken heart to dull your senes, not even alcohol cant do what that dose.

its funny because i have no reason to be sad. [you know except for feeling completely alone] i have things to make me happy. but they never seem to last. its like im dumping myself down the toilet. i dont even know what im talking about anymore.
its just an endless spiral downward. and i would like the feeling to die now. please. this train of thought is falling off the track and its about to crash, and did you know blood it blue untill its oxiginated. and i want something but i dont really know what.

rabbit

JOY joy joy in the rain.

2009-05-05T06:37:00.001-07:00

It has been another awkward day, from wakeing, to eating, to sitting here typeing. to say that i hadnt forgotton about my little blog would be lieing quite a bit. ive been looking around and im starting to think the world is running out of things to tell me. good news is hard to come by. some boys from school died in a car crash, they were two years yonger then me and in their grad year this year. it made me think of my old imaginary friend Elroy and what ever happened to him.

i mean what happens to them when you no longer have the imagination to let them live. where do they go back to? is there an agency for then? a boarding house? and how can we be so crule? he was the cowboy when i was the indian, he would hide when i wished to seek. all that is left of Elroy is memory, which seems not even strong enough to allow him to live. how could i let this happen to my best friend, my only friend. he knew me better than i did myself. he knew every move, was there for every blow, for every last bruise they gave me he was there to suck the bad blood out. and i just let it happen. i just left him to rot in the back of my mind.

in the end im glad im not somebodies imaginary friend. the thought of liveing on the lonieness of others in a terrifying idea. Elroy made me happy, but i wonder if he ever held back, kept me from feeling truley whole just so i didnt make him dissapear too soon. i think all that matters is that i loved him and he loved me. and for something that only exsisted in my head ive never met anyone as real. i miss him now i think of it. i tried talking to him today but felt like an idiot. i guess thats sosiety right.

rabbitx

even the uglest among us have made our lovers beg

2009-04-14T16:15:00.000-07:00

i like kat. shes cute. shes got very good taste. shes strong shes talented. she wont call her parents for money and she wont work. so what? so just what am i supposed to do. my job situation is slow but it will work out. i pay the rent. what about everything. i understand her not wanting a sleazoid job. neither do i. but stilll........i think i gave her the traditional blueprint of what a fucked up youth should be. i think i sort of contributed and helped to shape that blue print. it has always exsisted ofcorse, youth should generally be loud and fucked up. or i usellally dont talk to them. unless they are quiet and fucked up. in which case they are even better.

linear thinking dose not come naturally to me, moreover it kills me and my imagination. nothing happens. no bell rings. no moment of here and now.
without those moments i am not alive, and so rather than driving at a goal
i like so much better to go through a spiral. rabitx

lions and tigars and bears ohh my

2009-04-11T14:59:00.000-07:00

"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts…"
-William Shakespeare

I started writing a couple of days ago with the hope to come to an understanding not of myself, but of where I am right now. What part I am playing? But the unthinkable happened: writer's-fucking-block! It is –in my opinion- the intellectual equivalent of blue balls. You want to get there (the release) but somehow, you simply can't. Luckily today, I feel more inspired, therefore I shall go on…

All the world is a stage they say, I agree. We are all playing a part in this very improvised play, we get to play many even. We play and change characters as we go. Some days we play the lover, others the bad guy, the dreamer, the narcissistic, the victim, the disappointed, the winner, the proud, etc. Some days we're consumed by sadness, some by fear, sometimes we're kind and even considerate, sometimes we're not. But to have the ability to play many parts is what makes it so exciting -to be part of this, the ultimate play.

I say this –to myself- I have played many parts. I still am. Every time someone throws me a curve, it changes the course of my "very own" character. Sometimes it's not even a person, sometimes just a situation –believe me- I've been in many awkward ones. I'm starting to think, awkwardness is my comfort zone. Mood changes and passive-aggressive behavior: hallmarks of my very own character. Am I happy with that? Fuck no, but then again that's me.

How unpredictable life is? People ask as well… Funny I ask myself that very same question. And I ask again: unpredictable? Hmm? Sometimes I feel like I've been living an experience twice-which sucks! Why didn't I learn my lesson the first time around? Why do I have to wait for the second, third, even fourth time? And when I think about it, I believe maybe it's just a pattern, my pattern. I'd hate to think I follow one though, but maybe I do. I guess not so "unpredictable" after all. Ultimately, I just want to find my home, whoever that is. I want to stop knocking on random doors but more often than not, when I feel I'm so close to the one, so close I can reach for the knob, I feel like I'm living another fucking déjà vu and the door is way too familiar...And then I do something that puzzles me, I turn around and walk away. Why ?

Will I ever let somebody love me again?...My fear is that no one really knows me, and they can't love me unless they truly know me. I want them to love me for who I am, the whole fucking package, with all my flaws. Maybe they try and I'm just too hard to understand…That is when my intimacy issues kick in and I acknowledge I have many. Yes, I am still a fucking mess. I do wish someone would come along, shake me up and say: STOP ALREADY! I do love you, you fucking mess!! I just want to finally believe them.

But this I know: I strive everyday to gain more knowledge, not just about me- but the role I'm playing. I crave to know more, and little by little I do –in fact- know more, but sometimes I am horrified to realize I've been walking around with what I only thought were clean underwear….until someone always points them out to me and once again I say to myself…Oh FUCK!

"And when the crowd becomes your burden
And you've early closed your curtains,
I will wait by the backstage door
While you try to find the lines to speak your mind
And pry it open, hoping for an encore
And if it gets too late, for me to wait
For you to find you love me, and tell me so
It's ok, don't need to say it…"

-Fiona Apple

*DISCLAIMER: I do acknowledge that this may not make sense to anyone else but me, well maybe one other person. Then again this is "my" outlet. Mine, alone…but perhaps yours too…

"…Shut up!"

seventeen crushes crushed into one

2009-03-25T13:24:00.000-07:00

Someone close to me died unexpectedly and it got me thinking about death, about life. How fragile and how short it is -though at times it feels incredibly long. How fleeing it is, how random, and yet how lovely.I always thought I had a very fucked way of looking at death, a fucked up way of dealing with it. I didn't. I always feel that people who have died just sort of go on a permanent vacation and they're just not around.

Not dead. Call it denial, call it whatever you'd like, but I guess it is the way my own self-defense mechanism works in order to help me deal, in order for me to be strong for the people around me, and I usually become that person -the "strong-asshole-who-everyone-thinks-is-an-insensitive-fuck", I'm the one who always grieves alone, and I do. As I stood inside a church today, it finally hit me. I never really feel that bad for the person who passes away, I don't feel bad at all actually.

I feel bad for those around me, those alive who suffer. I cried, and not sobbed, tears rolled down my face as I stared at that void in that big room with the smell of incense and I felt such an emptiness, I felt powerless -which to me is by far the worst feeling to be felt. How I wished I could heal their pain, how I wish a word, a smile, a hug, a shoulder to cry on, could take it all away. But there I was, absolutely fucking powerless. As every one of my tears rolled down my cheeks I wish I could pull them back into my eye socket, like a vacuum, like crying in reverse, and every drop was a reminder of that "powerlessness".

Every time I felt them fall, I thought they were mocking me, for there was nothing I could do. I don't want to bring people back from the dead, I know that to die is to have lived. All I want is to take their pain away somehow, but then again to feel pain is also to live. It's all part of it, and it just simply comes with the territory. I saw raw emotion, it was palpable -incredibly sad, and yet beautiful.

I saw a mother who lost a child, and I don't have children, but loosing one has got to be... there just simply isn't a word to describe it, there just simply isn't one. I saw raw pain, it was real and in the middle of it all I saw love, the most beautiful kind.

The irony of it all I thought, to come to grieve a deceased to simply reassure myself that love is just as real as the pain. To have shared, to have lived, to have laughed, to have loved and to be loved in return makes it all worth it.

I had to go there to be able to say I need to enjoy my life more, I need to share more, I want to laugh, I want to smile to strangers on the street, I want to hug a friend, I want to taste some food, I want to smell a flower, I want to dance, I want to sing, I want to cry and not feel sad, I want to cry simply because I am happy, no matter if tomorrow never comes, I feel happy now.

This moment is unique and by the time I'm done writing this, it will be gone.

It is that special. I'm not a religious person -at all. Faith is something I guess I just don't have much of, but I do believe that somehow, that soul is somewhere better. I don't think, I can NOT think "This is it for them". There's got to be something after this, I wonder -not wonder, I believe

bird of pray

2009-03-23T22:16:00.000-07:00

"I am visited by a recurring image of myself as a frog in a witch's cauldron, surrounded by baby carrots and other vegetables, splashing around in the gradually boiling water, unmindful of the fact that I am slowly becoming… soup."

Today was an awkward day, from the first thing I did -I read, to my sitting here in front of the computer screen with my fingertips on the keyboard with an incredible urge… to write. Today I have come full circle –from dawn 'til dusk and in between, many thoughts and many dreams. Much analyzing to sort out the confusion of it all or simply to confuse what I fear is too clear?

What am I searching for? I ask myself constantly. I am a fucking emotional nomad. I search, I find, I exhaust, I bore, I move, I search, I find, I fear, I feel, I ran away, and find again, I simply move, keep moving, I must keep moving. Why? I ask. I was always comfortable with my feelings about it all. I used to think I wasn't afraid to feel… and suddenly, here I am, fucking fleeing. I am a fugitive of my own feelings…How fucked up!

The thing is, I feel like I am ultimately searching for the pot of gold a the end of the rainbow (interesting choice of words), but it's true, I'm looking for that thing we tend to always build our hopes and fucking dreams on… and little by little I am realizing that I am searching for the ideal, but is it all a fucking fantasy? Is it? (I've got to figure it out!) When I'm getting so close, so close I can almost be blinded by the gold –the fucking jackpot, the rainbow itself vanishes taking everything with it. I wish I had a map, a compass, a watch, and a timeframe. I wish to be armed with all the equipment I need for this very cruel and tedious quest, but I don't.

I am so tired, I won't lie. The odds are definitely against the person who searches. But I am that explorer, and my life is the land in which I'm searching. I'm beginning to think, I simply love the quest, that tiring fucking quest –and I just don't want to admit it.

When I ask my friends, my fellow explorers, since we all seem to be looking for the same thing, I figure we could compare notes, but more often than not they look confused, more so than me and I give that weird laughter, not the one you give when someone makes a joke, no, not that one. Not the something-is-funny-I'm-honestly-laughing laughter, I give the is-it-just-me-or-are-we-living-in-opposite-worlds? laughter and move along to the next topic. Apparently, the pot of gold is real to me and no one else. I just don't want to end like Columbus, dying not knowing I found more than I was looking for.

It's hard sailing against the ocean's tide. It's manageable for now, with my raft still in view of the shore. I wonder if the day will come where I'm no longer in view. I fear the day when I'll be too far away… Maybe it's like a mirage of an oasis in the middle of the desert, am I craving it so bad? I'm so afraid. I fear I'm so desperate, I may have hallucinated the whole thing. And then again I see a smile, and in the depths of those eyes I see the pot, the pot of gold. I put on my boots, and keep moving, I must keep moving.

I find a place to eat, and then I read the disclaimer…

"THIS IS A GREAT FUCKING PLACE, THE COOK IS A REAL CUNT AND THERE ARE BOOGERS IN THE SOUP. WE EAT HERE EVERY DAY."

(The irony of my world)

I am finally a perspicacious explorer. Love is just an ocean away, one day I'll see another shore, and make it to the end of the rainbow, and that pot will be as real as all of the seven colors I see and follow. I have to believe it will there waiting to be found, waiting for me to find it. I will find it, I will. I now see it all, and understand

yours in chirst

why i feel like a pea drench in the soup of life

2009-03-22T19:30:00.000-07:00

I have to confess I loathe my generation [I was born in 1990] and have always looked to people older than me for solace; and now that I have grown older I acknowledge the younger generation is one to be reckoned with. Its just most people born between January 1983 and December 1990 are just a waste of time. Of course there are expectations, ive got friends of my age group, but well, lets not be picky, shall we? I’m here to make a point. See I’ve been thru different social contexts, from French provincial suburban west end types to “hip & Trendy” Birdy Num Num” boredom types and ive come to the ultimate conclusion that something wrong happened.

Too young to be baby boomers, first-time punks, provos, situationists, fluxus, punks, new wavers or whatever, we grew up in the worst decade ever, the 80’s, only to enter and even lamer decade, the 90’s. my “ge-ge-generation” is just a watered down version of the previous one, with more political correctness and conservatism disguised as pseudo-transgressism added to the mix.

Lets get more precise – my main trouble came with my current and relative recent place of residence, my Brisbane generation, I am being raised in the post-discriminate utopia that everybody was born equally-talented as an artist and fashion designer. When did this shit happen – im sorry Brisbane I love but for the sake your and baby Jesus’ mental health I need you to realise just because your under 30 or have a bob hair cut dose not give u the right to call yourself and artist. Kay?

I still remain positive through all this however although I do believe that the sooner QAG’s community art program dies in a car crash so horrific it causes a ban on all motor vehicles the happier art will be. Im all for helping the little man, unless that little man is missing his left arm and right foot which in turn is compelling him to create art.

Again I am really positive about people who were teenagers through the 80’s, they have far more style and sharpness than the bleak outlook for those assigned to my crew. Admittedly their music is a little over hyped and not the most aesthetically pleasing.... .....but all the same if you were looking trouble and your about 19 enjoy Radiohead, Bjork and Camille. You came to the right place.

Yours in Christ