When I first saw that ad in the newspaper, I choked and spat hot coffee all over my lap. Swearing and more choking ensued. Glancing once more at the ad, I made my resolution in an instant. I tore the paper up and threw it in the fireplace. A bit superfluous, considering that the torn paper was already illegible. Still, it gave a sort of satisfaction to burn away a memory of you.
In the bathroom, the mirror was cracked. It was split right down the middle, its shimmering surface scarred by ugly brown lines. I could have sworn it wasn't like that before. Split right down the middle. As if for two people. There was a flash of fists, and knuckles burst. Blood slowly dripped onto shattered, gleaming fragments of what used to be the bathroom mirror. I watched my reflection in the pieces as they were slowly swallowed up by a sea of red.
Up in the bedroom, your possessions were scattered about the room, as if they were forgotten toys in a child's nursery. There's no use trying to hide it. I collapsed on the floor, sobbing. A tiger is never going to change its stripes, I guess, but Jesus -- what a mess.
Maybe this really isn't as heard as it seems. Maybe I'm just weak. But it's hard with no one here to help me through it.
I wish you had a number where you are.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Incendiary Blooms.
I walk down the city streets at night; the lights are so cold and violent. A shrill, fluctuating call echos into distinction. The flashing lights of a firetruck appear in the distance. It's a marvel. All this hatred and horror in the world, and then there are these men. Rushing to save someone's life.
It's sad but true, life is bound to get you down. Anyway, the world is pretty...
I've spent years of my life, worrying about these little fires I've started. Apparently, being strong doesn't mean you need to be flame retardant. But these little cinders and embers have made me stronger, so I guess a crucible was necessary.
It's sad but true, life can turn your smile into a frown. Anyway, the world is pretty upside down...
But lying in my hospital bed, recovering from the scorching fires and singeing embers, a question is called into play. In order to dress the wounds, one must call into question how authentic they are. So how real are they? As tears stream down my flame-licked face, I remember what you said. "He just likes playing hospital." But then again, it's like you said; "there's no such thing as accidents."
It's sad but true, but the gleaming white of the hospital floors won't tell you how to combat misery. Anyway, the world is pretty happy without you.
But it's like you said; "Nobody deserves to die for you, but you were awful firm when you said they had to like you or they had one other choice...
The fuzzy television, the gleaming window, and red roses. Flash. Swimming pictures, red confusion.
I suppose, if I rock should hit my head and I remember what you did, there will be orange and red flowers licking and flicking at your heels.
And memories of a torched apartment come flooding back. The shattered window. The blooming roses of fire. As I had walked into the apartment, peeling the mittens that had frozen to my wrists, I swear I heard a voice come from the kitchen.
"Oh, god..."
"Oh, god..."
"Oh, well..."
It's sad but true, life is bound to get you down. Anyway, the world is pretty...
I've spent years of my life, worrying about these little fires I've started. Apparently, being strong doesn't mean you need to be flame retardant. But these little cinders and embers have made me stronger, so I guess a crucible was necessary.
It's sad but true, life can turn your smile into a frown. Anyway, the world is pretty upside down...
But lying in my hospital bed, recovering from the scorching fires and singeing embers, a question is called into play. In order to dress the wounds, one must call into question how authentic they are. So how real are they? As tears stream down my flame-licked face, I remember what you said. "He just likes playing hospital." But then again, it's like you said; "there's no such thing as accidents."
It's sad but true, but the gleaming white of the hospital floors won't tell you how to combat misery. Anyway, the world is pretty happy without you.
But it's like you said; "Nobody deserves to die for you, but you were awful firm when you said they had to like you or they had one other choice...
The fuzzy television, the gleaming window, and red roses. Flash. Swimming pictures, red confusion.
I suppose, if I rock should hit my head and I remember what you did, there will be orange and red flowers licking and flicking at your heels.
And memories of a torched apartment come flooding back. The shattered window. The blooming roses of fire. As I had walked into the apartment, peeling the mittens that had frozen to my wrists, I swear I heard a voice come from the kitchen.
"Oh, god..."
"Oh, god..."
"Oh, well..."
Monday, September 1, 2008
Fall.
There needs to be a season in which every fallen thing rises. Every man, every trampled flower, every forgotten toy, and every shred of shattered dignity rises again, with soft wings. Just feel what it's like to be alive again. Just for one season.
Listless Turmoil.
Humans plan. They plan when to speak. They plan when to sleep. They plan when to eat. And they tear each other apart. Genocides. Mass killings. Rape. Murder. Theft. They burn one another to the ground, just to top the bill. It's a mundane existence. Most marriages are simply for gratification. Men looking for satisfaction. Women looking for money. And for a while, they're happy. But then the insecurities begin to eat away at them. A little squabble here, a little domestic violence there, and what do you know? The wife's dead and the husband's in jail.
Animals plan too. When to sleep. To hibernate. To hunt. And they tear each other apart as well. Some eat their mates. Some kill each other to prove who's the top dog. They rip them to shreds over a mate that they'll probably end up killing anyway. Sound familiar?
Both are capable of emotion. Of hate. Of happiness. Sorrow. Love. Joy. Anger. Jealousy. Hubris. The list goes on and on.
But a virus isn't. And a virus doesn't. It doesn't plan when to strike. It doesn't feel hate for each individual it infects. It doesn't feel sorrow. It doesn't celebrate the fact that it's killed hundreds of people. It isn't even aware of what it is doing. It just is. It simply exists for its purpose.
Sometimes, I wonder if that existence would be better than the current state of the human race.
Animals plan too. When to sleep. To hibernate. To hunt. And they tear each other apart as well. Some eat their mates. Some kill each other to prove who's the top dog. They rip them to shreds over a mate that they'll probably end up killing anyway. Sound familiar?
Both are capable of emotion. Of hate. Of happiness. Sorrow. Love. Joy. Anger. Jealousy. Hubris. The list goes on and on.
But a virus isn't. And a virus doesn't. It doesn't plan when to strike. It doesn't feel hate for each individual it infects. It doesn't feel sorrow. It doesn't celebrate the fact that it's killed hundreds of people. It isn't even aware of what it is doing. It just is. It simply exists for its purpose.
Sometimes, I wonder if that existence would be better than the current state of the human race.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Strange.
I had a dream last night. You again. You were there, but elusive again. I never saw your face clearly, but I feel like I know you.
Strange how I know you.
We were dancing. Spinning and whirling, like two bright pinwheels caught in a whirlwind of colour. But we danced through the colour, both followed and led. We spun and we twirled. For days, it seemed, and with every passing day, we grew tighter and tighter. Our ambitions worn loud and clear, as ribbons twisting around us.
Strange how I know you.
Months pass, and we're still dancing. Not tired, but invigorated, even. The colours seems to energize us, like the sun fuels a flower. And just as a flower unfolds, so did the petals of time. Because dreams can only last for so long. Slowly, we eased down. Slowly, the whirlwind died down. Slowly, we stopped. You look at me, and yet, I still cannot see your face. Not a word is spoken, but I know what you're saying. And of course I forgive you. So we hold on tight as dreams fade to dust. As painstakingly carved music slowly melts away. And in a instant that lasts forever, it's gone.
Strange how I know you.
Strange how I know you.
We were dancing. Spinning and whirling, like two bright pinwheels caught in a whirlwind of colour. But we danced through the colour, both followed and led. We spun and we twirled. For days, it seemed, and with every passing day, we grew tighter and tighter. Our ambitions worn loud and clear, as ribbons twisting around us.
Strange how I know you.
Months pass, and we're still dancing. Not tired, but invigorated, even. The colours seems to energize us, like the sun fuels a flower. And just as a flower unfolds, so did the petals of time. Because dreams can only last for so long. Slowly, we eased down. Slowly, the whirlwind died down. Slowly, we stopped. You look at me, and yet, I still cannot see your face. Not a word is spoken, but I know what you're saying. And of course I forgive you. So we hold on tight as dreams fade to dust. As painstakingly carved music slowly melts away. And in a instant that lasts forever, it's gone.
Strange how I know you.
Between A Rock And A Stone.
Run away with me. To those fields filled with knee-high grass that tickles your legs. With flowers that are as tall as you and I. Where the sun shines brightly every day and there isn't a cloud in the sky.
Run away with me. On a bus, where they can't tempt us. To a place free from society. Where no one can understand the pure bliss of being alone, because no one has ever been there.
Run away with me. To escape the strife of every day life. To escape the droll humour of bland individuals. To the only places where death and taxes aren't infinite.
Run away with me. To a place that doesn't exist. To a place that won't ever exist.
Because in an ideal world, humanity wouldn't exist.
Run away with me. On a bus, where they can't tempt us. To a place free from society. Where no one can understand the pure bliss of being alone, because no one has ever been there.
Run away with me. To escape the strife of every day life. To escape the droll humour of bland individuals. To the only places where death and taxes aren't infinite.
Run away with me. To a place that doesn't exist. To a place that won't ever exist.
Because in an ideal world, humanity wouldn't exist.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Untitled #1
Beyond the window screen rests the world. The two squirrels that usually chased each other around the tree are sleeping. Exhausted from the endless game of tag. The flowers have closed their petals, shying away from the moon, as though embarrassed to show their face. The wind blows softly in the sultry summer evening. And then the rain begins to fall.
The boy watches it all from inside. Although it is nearly impossible to see any of it, he knows it is there. He turns on some light music to break the silence. As he mills about his room, he sings along. He doesn't mind that his voice isn't perfect. He doesn't mind that his voice is carrying. He's enjoying himself, and that's all that matters.
As he watches from the window, the faint, soothing smell of ozone and rain floats in through the window. The boy sits back down and sighs. He has the beginnings of a headache. And he begins to cry. He cries until his cheeks are red and hot and soaking wet.
For he has realized that's it's all fruitless. It's beauty in the shit. And that is all it is; shit. No one will remember him when he dies. No one will notice his absence a few years later. He hasn't done anything noteworthy, nor will he in his entire lifetime. It's just one smooth line to a bleak finish. His superficial relationships will mean nothing when he is dead and gone. Time is redundant. All the races are simply racing to one big finish. So then what's the point of hanging around anymore?
And then it hits him. It doesn't matter in the end. It matters in life. There may be no life after death, no heaven, no reincarnation, but it doesn't matter. There is no point in being miserable during a point in your life when you should be having the time of your life. Slowly, the boy regains his composure. He wipes away his tears. He is firm in his resolution; he will continue existing simply for the pleasure of existing.
"Damn it," he thinks, "All this crying has made my headache even worse."
The boy watches it all from inside. Although it is nearly impossible to see any of it, he knows it is there. He turns on some light music to break the silence. As he mills about his room, he sings along. He doesn't mind that his voice isn't perfect. He doesn't mind that his voice is carrying. He's enjoying himself, and that's all that matters.
As he watches from the window, the faint, soothing smell of ozone and rain floats in through the window. The boy sits back down and sighs. He has the beginnings of a headache. And he begins to cry. He cries until his cheeks are red and hot and soaking wet.
For he has realized that's it's all fruitless. It's beauty in the shit. And that is all it is; shit. No one will remember him when he dies. No one will notice his absence a few years later. He hasn't done anything noteworthy, nor will he in his entire lifetime. It's just one smooth line to a bleak finish. His superficial relationships will mean nothing when he is dead and gone. Time is redundant. All the races are simply racing to one big finish. So then what's the point of hanging around anymore?
And then it hits him. It doesn't matter in the end. It matters in life. There may be no life after death, no heaven, no reincarnation, but it doesn't matter. There is no point in being miserable during a point in your life when you should be having the time of your life. Slowly, the boy regains his composure. He wipes away his tears. He is firm in his resolution; he will continue existing simply for the pleasure of existing.
"Damn it," he thinks, "All this crying has made my headache even worse."
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Lunar Tears.
Poor little moon. Sad little moon, in the big, black sky. You're all alone, sans some stars. But they aren't much comfort. When the morning comes, you watch them trickle away like grains of sand in an hourglass. Running out, one by one. Falling softly, like snow. Please don't hang your head and cry.
And when the sun comes out and chases away the stars, you remain. You feel like dying. But you don't. You sleep. Simply sleep. And when you do, the tears fall. Not stardust, but little moonstones. Falling softly, like snow.
You may sleep, but you will never die.
And when the sun comes out and chases away the stars, you remain. You feel like dying. But you don't. You sleep. Simply sleep. And when you do, the tears fall. Not stardust, but little moonstones. Falling softly, like snow.
You may sleep, but you will never die.
Monday, August 18, 2008
When The Curtain Falls.
Airplanes crashing. Fires flashing. Lights in the sky. Lightning crackles. A small bang, then a massive boom. Hundreds dead. Debris fall to the ground like a forgotten child's toy. But does it really matter?
Dark alleys lit by dim lamps. Misty clouds hang like a drape over a window. Think about how many women have been raped here. Screams echo. The fear is almost tangible. But does it really matter?
Splash. Splish. Ribbit. Petite frogs beat out a living on their lily pads. How sad. A burning lake lit by a giant mass on incandescent gas. The frogs won't stand a chance. Who cares?
And there she stands. That poor, bespectacled woman. She's about to hang, but she singing. Guess she's not afraid. What's that she's saying? "...All I ever wanted was a little bit of love to take the pain away. But I love you to death. I guess this is what I get." But it's too late now. That poor woman. There she goes. Snap. And her glasses clatter to the floor. I guess it doesn't matter anymore.
Fireworks in the air. Bang. Ka-boom. Flashes of gold, silver, and red. Spirals of green and blue. Pinwheels of orange and yellow. The happiest time of their life. Watching from the top of a grassy hill, surrounded by flora. Only caring about the present. But they'll grow apart. They'll find someone new. They'll grow old. And eventually, they'll die. And it doesn't really matter.
The woman plays it perfectly. The man struggles to even hold the bow. The woman's strings glisten with harmonic sound, while the man's screech like a banshee. Smirking, the woman shows off. She'll get what she has coming to her. But she doesn't matter. Who cares?
Holding a marble to the sun. A vast comparison. But to be able to view the world through a tiny bead of glass is beautiful. Blends of orange and gold tint the world into a perpetual sunset. Breathtaking. And it doesn't matter.
A little girl is celebrating her ninth birthday with her best of friends. As they laugh, they promise each other they'll be friends forever. But they'll grow apart. They'll find new friends. Chances are they won't ever see each other again. But I suppose it doesn't really matter.
And then there's him. Watching the fireworks from the city. Wondering if there's someone out there, waiting for him. And as he watches, he wonders. About life. About death. Whether or not he'll ever do something noteworthy. Whether he'll be famous. And then he realizes it doesn't matter. It didn't ever matter. And it won't ever matter.
Because we are superficial. We are minuscule compared to the rest of the universe. We are simply ants on a hunk of rock the revolves around a huge ball of incandescent gas. Nothing happens when we die. Nothing good or bad comes of our actions. It doesn't really matter what we do in this life.
Because, ladies and gentlemen, we are floating in space. That is all.
Dark alleys lit by dim lamps. Misty clouds hang like a drape over a window. Think about how many women have been raped here. Screams echo. The fear is almost tangible. But does it really matter?
Splash. Splish. Ribbit. Petite frogs beat out a living on their lily pads. How sad. A burning lake lit by a giant mass on incandescent gas. The frogs won't stand a chance. Who cares?
And there she stands. That poor, bespectacled woman. She's about to hang, but she singing. Guess she's not afraid. What's that she's saying? "...All I ever wanted was a little bit of love to take the pain away. But I love you to death. I guess this is what I get." But it's too late now. That poor woman. There she goes. Snap. And her glasses clatter to the floor. I guess it doesn't matter anymore.
Fireworks in the air. Bang. Ka-boom. Flashes of gold, silver, and red. Spirals of green and blue. Pinwheels of orange and yellow. The happiest time of their life. Watching from the top of a grassy hill, surrounded by flora. Only caring about the present. But they'll grow apart. They'll find someone new. They'll grow old. And eventually, they'll die. And it doesn't really matter.
The woman plays it perfectly. The man struggles to even hold the bow. The woman's strings glisten with harmonic sound, while the man's screech like a banshee. Smirking, the woman shows off. She'll get what she has coming to her. But she doesn't matter. Who cares?
Holding a marble to the sun. A vast comparison. But to be able to view the world through a tiny bead of glass is beautiful. Blends of orange and gold tint the world into a perpetual sunset. Breathtaking. And it doesn't matter.
A little girl is celebrating her ninth birthday with her best of friends. As they laugh, they promise each other they'll be friends forever. But they'll grow apart. They'll find new friends. Chances are they won't ever see each other again. But I suppose it doesn't really matter.
And then there's him. Watching the fireworks from the city. Wondering if there's someone out there, waiting for him. And as he watches, he wonders. About life. About death. Whether or not he'll ever do something noteworthy. Whether he'll be famous. And then he realizes it doesn't matter. It didn't ever matter. And it won't ever matter.
Because we are superficial. We are minuscule compared to the rest of the universe. We are simply ants on a hunk of rock the revolves around a huge ball of incandescent gas. Nothing happens when we die. Nothing good or bad comes of our actions. It doesn't really matter what we do in this life.
Because, ladies and gentlemen, we are floating in space. That is all.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Night Reconnaissance.
I really love this time of night. The world is wrapped in a shroud of yellow haze. Nothing looks tangible, and anything seems possible.
I'm just waiting for the day when the garden gnomes come to life and the pixies appear at twilight.
I'm just waiting for the day when the garden gnomes come to life and the pixies appear at twilight.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
In Sickness And In Health.
My friend, despite her best efforts, gets shakes in the night. She moans and she groans and screams when she wakes. Sometimes, she can't wake, but somehow she does, and it just goes to show that you can't trust the diagnosis. They say that she's born with it. It's predispositional.
My friend has problems with winter and autumn. The doctors give him prescriptions, and they shine bright lights on him. They give big mirrors and tell him to stare. They're try to cure something that might not be there. They say he can't help it. They say it's genetic. They say you can catch it, but sometimes you're born with it.
My friend is forgetful. He forgets where he lives, who we are, who he is. They do all sorts of tests and exercises to make him remember. The doctors say he hit his head while getting out of bed, but I don't believe them. We don't live in a fairy tale world where children's rhymes are plausible.
My friend is sad. She's a wreck, she a mess. The doctors have done all sorts of tests, but they've decided it had something to do with grandfather's grandmother, who was saving war soldiers that probably infected her. Still, through her misery, she manages. She strips in the city for cash, and gives them her best shows.
My friend has problems with blubber and image. She thinks she's too fat, but it's dangerously low. Vomiting would solve all her problems, or so she thinks. She hasn't gone to the doctors, but the diagnosis is obvious. They say you can catch it, but sometimes, you're born with it.
With me, I'm well. I mean well. Well, I mean I'm in hell. But I still have my health -- at least that's what they tell me. But if wellness is this, what in hell's name is sickness? I've gone to the doctors, but they can't tell me what's wrong. But I know there's something there, and I've been wondering what is inside of me. I can't run from it. I can run from the pity. I can run from my life. I can run from the law. I can run from the country. I can run from the city. I can run into debt. I can run from it all. I can run for the office. I can run from responsibility. I can run until I'm gone. I can run using every last ounce of energy. But I cannot run from myself.
My friend has problems with winter and autumn. The doctors give him prescriptions, and they shine bright lights on him. They give big mirrors and tell him to stare. They're try to cure something that might not be there. They say he can't help it. They say it's genetic. They say you can catch it, but sometimes you're born with it.
My friend is forgetful. He forgets where he lives, who we are, who he is. They do all sorts of tests and exercises to make him remember. The doctors say he hit his head while getting out of bed, but I don't believe them. We don't live in a fairy tale world where children's rhymes are plausible.
My friend is sad. She's a wreck, she a mess. The doctors have done all sorts of tests, but they've decided it had something to do with grandfather's grandmother, who was saving war soldiers that probably infected her. Still, through her misery, she manages. She strips in the city for cash, and gives them her best shows.
My friend has problems with blubber and image. She thinks she's too fat, but it's dangerously low. Vomiting would solve all her problems, or so she thinks. She hasn't gone to the doctors, but the diagnosis is obvious. They say you can catch it, but sometimes, you're born with it.
With me, I'm well. I mean well. Well, I mean I'm in hell. But I still have my health -- at least that's what they tell me. But if wellness is this, what in hell's name is sickness? I've gone to the doctors, but they can't tell me what's wrong. But I know there's something there, and I've been wondering what is inside of me. I can't run from it. I can run from the pity. I can run from my life. I can run from the law. I can run from the country. I can run from the city. I can run into debt. I can run from it all. I can run for the office. I can run from responsibility. I can run until I'm gone. I can run using every last ounce of energy. But I cannot run from myself.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Idle Days.
The innumerable number of experiences I could have daily is incomprehensible. Ridiculous. I could go fly a kite. Meet someone new. Bungee jump. Do things I cannot even fathom, because I have conditioned not to be able to fathom them. But I am here, idling my days away. I am dressing the same way, speaking the same way, thinking the same things, reacting the same way, and so on and so forth. And it is getting very tiring indeed. I grow weary of this bubble. I was to see something new. Meet someone new. Do something new. I want to be new. I want to leave this all behind, somehow. Leave it all behind, and bring with me the ones I hold dear. But I cannot, because of legal restrictions, amongst other reasons. Variety is the spice of life, they say. My pasta has been seasoned with oregano for far too long. It's time to add something new. Some parsley. Bay leaves would be a nice touch.
But I digress. I am not stating that I know how to do this. I am not declaring that I have all the answers. I don't know how to force myself into seeing the potentials of each and every moment of my life, or how to take advantage of them. I am just tired of the same wheel spinning. The thread being woven. I want to add some colour. I am tired of letting things that I cannot control dictate my life.
Very tired, indeed.
But I digress. I am not stating that I know how to do this. I am not declaring that I have all the answers. I don't know how to force myself into seeing the potentials of each and every moment of my life, or how to take advantage of them. I am just tired of the same wheel spinning. The thread being woven. I want to add some colour. I am tired of letting things that I cannot control dictate my life.
Very tired, indeed.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Thrice.
It used to be so easy. Now this fucking mess we're in -- what can I do?
Walking through the city at night. Mindless, more or less. Not a care in the world. The winter leaves blanket all my doubts. All the glimmering, neon lights on glistening streets gather in the dark. There's a stilted stillness growing in my heart. Something is not at ease. It's tied to a brick with cement in it's shoes, sinking down. Down. Down. A landslide slowly rushing to the sea.
If you could only give me time to ease my spinning head, I'm sure I could if I would only try. Try. Try. I'm burying secrets in the soil, fed by all the reckless shit you fed me. All our stories we could have told are unwinding. I am the soil left unsettled by all these stories you leave behind. There's no beginning with us now; only ends. All our paintings, our beautiful paintings of sunsets on the ocean, they're burning. And you. You're burning down each bridge I wish to cross. Burn, burn. Burn.
Walking through the city at night. Mindless, more or less. Not a care in the world. The winter leaves blanket all my doubts. All the glimmering, neon lights on glistening streets gather in the dark. There's a stilted stillness growing in my heart. Something is not at ease. It's tied to a brick with cement in it's shoes, sinking down. Down. Down. A landslide slowly rushing to the sea.
If you could only give me time to ease my spinning head, I'm sure I could if I would only try. Try. Try. I'm burying secrets in the soil, fed by all the reckless shit you fed me. All our stories we could have told are unwinding. I am the soil left unsettled by all these stories you leave behind. There's no beginning with us now; only ends. All our paintings, our beautiful paintings of sunsets on the ocean, they're burning. And you. You're burning down each bridge I wish to cross. Burn, burn. Burn.
Friday, August 8, 2008
The End In Retrospect.
Split it. Down the middle. The tower. The sky. And ground. The world. Our world. You can have Germany, I'll take Australia. You can have North America, but keep you hands off Europe. The public stares. Watches. You, the anachronism. I say "Just let her crash and burn, the attention just encourages her."
But I'm sick. I might be catching, so don't touch me. You'll start believing you're immune to gravity and such.
You can do it!
God --
A, B, C --
Posture!
Walk it!
Do it sideways!
You can do it!
Posture!
Straight line!
Now!
J, K, L --
Good!
Left foot!
Right foot!
Do it the way I showed you!
Posture!
Good!
Q, R, S --
Walk!
Left foot!
Good!
You can do it!
Straight line!
Posture!
That's right!
X, Y, Z!
Good!
How strange, though. There's this thing that's like talking except you don't talk. Silent whispers. Filling a void. Dying of shock. Relinquishing what once was for what now is. Oblivion, a powerful tool.
But I digress. The public is insane. Bonkers. Mad. Everyone is texting like there is no tomorrow. Don't get me wrong, I love communicating. I just hate all the shit we're missing.
But fight it all you want, it's fruitless. It's all in the way of progress. That statement's truth or falsity is moot.
Mad world. Every time you turn around, your soul is sold to the highest bidder. Then they turn around and merger. Merger, merger, murder. The one who mergers most can and will take it all.
But I digress. Furthermore. Nevermore. I'm split down the middle, like our world. And the full set, half off the price they're asking. I'm half biology and half corrective surgery. I'm half underwater. A fraction left up to dispute. I suppose you'll notice something funny if you spend too much time here. But if you listen closely, you'll manage to notice the difference between the halfs and the half nots. This half runs as fast as it can run, but the other comes tumbling after.
Forever relinquished to madness's clutches. You never will find the magic words to change this fact.
But I'm sick. I might be catching, so don't touch me. You'll start believing you're immune to gravity and such.
You can do it!
God --
A, B, C --
Posture!
Walk it!
Do it sideways!
You can do it!
Posture!
Straight line!
Now!
J, K, L --
Good!
Left foot!
Right foot!
Do it the way I showed you!
Posture!
Good!
Q, R, S --
Walk!
Left foot!
Good!
You can do it!
Straight line!
Posture!
That's right!
X, Y, Z!
Good!
How strange, though. There's this thing that's like talking except you don't talk. Silent whispers. Filling a void. Dying of shock. Relinquishing what once was for what now is. Oblivion, a powerful tool.
But I digress. The public is insane. Bonkers. Mad. Everyone is texting like there is no tomorrow. Don't get me wrong, I love communicating. I just hate all the shit we're missing.
But fight it all you want, it's fruitless. It's all in the way of progress. That statement's truth or falsity is moot.
Mad world. Every time you turn around, your soul is sold to the highest bidder. Then they turn around and merger. Merger, merger, murder. The one who mergers most can and will take it all.
But I digress. Furthermore. Nevermore. I'm split down the middle, like our world. And the full set, half off the price they're asking. I'm half biology and half corrective surgery. I'm half underwater. A fraction left up to dispute. I suppose you'll notice something funny if you spend too much time here. But if you listen closely, you'll manage to notice the difference between the halfs and the half nots. This half runs as fast as it can run, but the other comes tumbling after.
Forever relinquished to madness's clutches. You never will find the magic words to change this fact.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
The Last Days.
The sky turned white today. Everyone froze. It was snowing.
I asked you how to keep from getting cold in the snow. Out we went. We faced the falling snow. What a show! With our hairdryers pointed towards the heavens and our fifty foot extension cords, we must be quite a sight.
You always had a way with words.
You took me to the beach. It was snowing there too. What a sight! We chased after one another, sprays of powder white all about. We dropped to our knees, awakening our inner child. We made snow castles and sandmen. Snowball fights became sand fights, while somehow merging the line between the two.
You took me to the forest. Elegant pines were dressed in robes of white for the occasion. What a show! We ran through the branches, showers of crystalline ice embracing us.
You took me to the lake. I was worried at first. Would it break? But I soon forgot that worry. We ran and slid. Pirouetting, skating, flying through the air. Two lithe figures having the time of their lives. Nothing else mattered, because clandestinely, the world was in love.
There was no Hitler. No Holocaust. No Hiroshima. No heaven or hell. The world wars were just lovers fighting. No Chernobyl.
This is it. Just us. The sky is falling. Shattering our beliefs, shaking our faith. Our last days together. Sharing them in the snow, making the best of what we have.
But the truth can't save you. Neither can lies. The sky is falling. Will you leave me hanging before I've grown old?
The sky is falling. The world was in love. The truth can't save you. You'll be leaving.
Is there no way to stop the truth from leaking?
I asked you how to keep from getting cold in the snow. Out we went. We faced the falling snow. What a show! With our hairdryers pointed towards the heavens and our fifty foot extension cords, we must be quite a sight.
You always had a way with words.
You took me to the beach. It was snowing there too. What a sight! We chased after one another, sprays of powder white all about. We dropped to our knees, awakening our inner child. We made snow castles and sandmen. Snowball fights became sand fights, while somehow merging the line between the two.
You took me to the forest. Elegant pines were dressed in robes of white for the occasion. What a show! We ran through the branches, showers of crystalline ice embracing us.
You took me to the lake. I was worried at first. Would it break? But I soon forgot that worry. We ran and slid. Pirouetting, skating, flying through the air. Two lithe figures having the time of their lives. Nothing else mattered, because clandestinely, the world was in love.
There was no Hitler. No Holocaust. No Hiroshima. No heaven or hell. The world wars were just lovers fighting. No Chernobyl.
This is it. Just us. The sky is falling. Shattering our beliefs, shaking our faith. Our last days together. Sharing them in the snow, making the best of what we have.
But the truth can't save you. Neither can lies. The sky is falling. Will you leave me hanging before I've grown old?
The sky is falling. The world was in love. The truth can't save you. You'll be leaving.
Is there no way to stop the truth from leaking?
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Med School (The New and Improved).
Med School
Characters
Piper - A peppy med school dropout. A firm believer in unethical medical practices, she takes sick pleasure at other's injuries. She runs a back alley hospital. Although her practices are risky, they get the job done. She feels most alive when operating.
Isis - A regular of Piper. She admires what Piper does, and only wishes to become her assistant.
Sebastian - Piper's operating guinea pig, reluctantly. He is the third one of his kind.
Chris - A very logical man. He has a knack for sticking his nose in places where they don't belong.
Setting: Piper's apartment, which she calls her office, operating room, and examination room. Various medical tools are scattered around the room, many of which are rusty, old, and outdated.
Scene one
(Lights up on PIPER and SEBASTIAN in PIPER's apartment. SEBASTIAN is lying on an operating table. PIPER is at the kitchen counter, rifling through a drawer full of tools. She pulls out a curved needle, a spool of thread, and some pliers.)
PIPER: (Turning to SEBASTIAN) Now, let's get that scrape stitched up!
SEBASTIAN: It isn't a scrape, Piper! I was stabbed!
PIPER: Now now, the doctor knows best! (With a devious grin) Want to play a game?
SEBASTIAN: What? Now -- (He cries out in pain, for PIPER has just inserted a few fingers into his wound)
PIPER: Guess how many fingers are in your scrape!
SEBASTIAN: (In pain) Piper, what are you doing?
PIPER: Do it! I'll give you extra!
SEBASTIAN: Piper, are you crazy?!
PIPER: Do it!
SEBASTIAN: I don't know! Uh -- two?
PIPER: Yeah! Okay, guess how many more I can fit in there! Then again, guessing gets you nowhere...
SEBASTIAN: PIPER, NO!
PIPER: (Pouting) Fine! You're no fun.
SEBASTIAN: (As PIPER begins to stitch up the wound) I'm starting to think that - ouch! - that maybe this isn't such a good idea. How many people - ah! - did you say were helping you before me?
PIPER: Just two. Hold still! Why?
SEBASTIAN: What happened - ow! - to them?
PIPER: It wouldn't hurt if you wouldn't squirm so much! As for the others, well...They were...uh. Indisposed.
SEBASTIAN: What do you mean, "indisposed?"
PIPER: Well, let's just say they weren't as tough as they should have been.
SEBASTIAN: Should have been? SHOULD have been? Where are they now?
PIPER: Oh, they're dead.
SEBASTIAN: DEA -- OUCH!
PIPER: There! All finished!
SEBASTIAN: Piper, why are the others dead?
PIPER: How are you feeling?
SEBASTIAN: That's beside the point. Answer my question.
PIPER: No, you answer my question.
SEBASTIAN: I -- (Sighing) I'm about as rapturous as a rapist with a set of sutures where his magic johnson ought to be.
PIPER: Wonderful, wonderful!
SEBASTIAN: (Incredulous) I was just stabbed, you stuck your hand into the wound, and now you won't answer my question. How is that wonderful?
PIPER: (With sudden rage) Now, listen here, Sebastian! I am paying you half of what I earn off my other patients! Half! The others only got a quarter! I took you in off the street! I know your past! No one else will even think of hiring you! So don't you dare question me! (Back to her regular, peppy self) Oh, two down now, but who's counting anyway! (She laughs and SEBASTIAN stares at her in shock. The doorbell rings) Oh, the doorbell! Come in!
ISIS: (Entering stage left) Piper, I need your help.
PIPER: Oh, hello, Isis! I was just stitching Sebastian here up, but we're finished now, aren't we Sebastian?
SEBASTIAN: You still haven't answered -- (He falters as sparks fly from PIPER's eyes)
PIPER: (With contained fury) Aren't we, Sebastian!
SEBASTIAN: (Meekly) Yes.
PIPER: Good, good! Now, what seems to be the problem?
ISIS: (Nervously) Well, a few weeks, my boyfriend and I were fooling around, and, well, one thing led to another, and... (Taking a deep breath) I'm going to be very up front about it. I need an abortion. (Producing a coat hanger from within her coat) I brought this, but I'm not sure how to do it. I don't have very much money, so I can't go to a hospital, and, well, you were the first person I thought of. Can you help me?
PIPER: (Chuckling) Oh, honey, honey. Put that hanger away. You've got better options. Trust me, I know them. Now, your job pays you during pregnancy leave, no?
ISIS: Why does that matter? I can't have this baby, that's why --
PIPER: Answer the doctor, darling. She knows best.
ISIS: I think it pays. But why does that matter? I'm not having --
PIPER: Why, to keep your income steady! Now, are you certain you don't want this baby?
ISIS: I'm positive.
PIPER: Well, how does a nine month long vacation and a two foot coffin sound?
ISIS: (Unsure) But how does -- Piper, that's brilliant!
PIPER: (Flattered) Oh, well, I do try!
(Lights down)
Scene Two
(Lights up on PIPER at the kitchen sink, washing some tools. SEBASTIAN is sitting at the table, nursing a wound on his finger)
SEBASTIAN: (Examining his finger) You know, I think the infection is getting better. It's stopped oozing, at least.
PIPER: Well, that's good. How are the stitches coming along?
SEBASTIAN: Fine, fine. I think you could probably remove them soon.
PIPER: See, I told you! My work is guaranteed to last the length of your recovery. (Pause. With solemn air) They were killed.
SEBASTIAN: What?
PIPER: (Avoiding eye contact) One was shot seven times in the stomach. Even I couldn't save him. The other's throat was slit. He never came back.
SEBASTIAN: Who?
PIPER: The two before you.
SEBASTIAN: The two before -- (Trails off) Oh. Them.
PIPER: (Teary-eyed but bitter) I used to go to med school. Imagine that. All my childhood, I wanted to be a doctor. I saved every penny, quarter, dime, and nickel I found so I could go to med school. When I got there, though, it wasn't what I had expected. Everyone took unnecessary precautions. They were all too serious. So I started doing things my own way. Unfortunately, the people there didn't take too kindly to my sense of humor or my methods. "Unethical" is what they called them. "Practical" is what I called them. So they kicked me out. Every dream I ever had was shattered in a matter of days. But I was still determined to pursue a medical career. It was my passion. Since I couldn't operate on hospital patients, I had to find my own. I'd been dying to find out the hard way. So I started sending my friends out to the alleyway. They'd get injured, and I'd fix them up with experimental methods. In return, I'd pay them. But it had disastrous results.
SEBASTIAN: That's...that's awful. Why are you telling me this?
PIPER: I felt as though I owed you an explanation. (Pause) You've all I have left, Sebastian. Stay. For me. Please?
SEBASTIAN: (After a long pause) Alright, Piper. I -- I trust you. If it helps you, I'll do it. As long as I'll still get paid, of course.
PIPER: (Relieved) Of course. (Doorbell rings) Come in!
ISIS: Hello, Piper.
PIPER: (Back to her peppy self) Isis, nice to see you! What's wrong this time?
ISIS: Oh, no, nothing's wrong...
PIPER: (Faltering a little) Then why are you here?
ISIS: I -- I want to become your assistant.
PIPER: I don't quite follow you, my dear.
ISIS: Your assistant. What you do is wonderful. I want to do the same.
PIPER: Oh, honey. You're serious?
ISIS: I'm serious.
PIPER: You know, in some states, they say you can burn for this.
ISIS: Well, I'll burn that bridge when I get to it. Will you take me?
PIPER: (Pause) Why not! But it'll cost you.
ISIS: How much?
PIPER: Fifty bucks ought to cover it.
ISIS: Alright. I can handle that.
PIPER: (Businesslike) Okay. Let's start in with a test of your intelligence. Name some bones.
ISIS: Any bones?
PIPER: Any bones.
ISIS: Um...There's a femur. That's a leg bone, isn't it?
PIPER: Mm-hmm.
ISIS: (With some hesitation, but picking up speed) And there's the...cranium! The mandible...the radius and ulna! The clavicle, the ribs, the sternum...The metacarpals, the metatarsals, and the phalanges. The coccyx, the scapula, the...fibula and tibia! And the pelvis and vertebrae!
PIPER: (Shocked) You -- you just named almost all of the main bones.
ISIS: (Embarrassed, but proud) Yes, I -- I suppose I did, didn't I?
PIPER: That's good enough for now. Now, let's test your zest for the counter-productive.
(Lights fade)
Scene three
(Lights up on ISIS and PIPER operating on various patients. There is a waiting room line in the kitchen. After the two finish with a patient, another one comes to take the previous one's place. SEBASTIAN is acting as a nurse, bringing patients into the operating room and helping them out.)
PIPER: (Voiceover) And so it began. A little hospital of our own. What I'd always dreamed of. Isis learned quickly, picking up tips from me and even discovering a few methods of her own. Sebastian no longer was our guinea pig; we had real patients. He helped them find our hospital and acted as a nurse as well. I didn't view my work as a game anymore. What we were doing almost had a professional feel to it. It's not a bad thing to get professional. It's got a nice ring, at least.
Whenever the medical world would discover some new method of treatment, Isis and I would find some way to perform it. We'd been taking tips from the government, and we were getting damn good at hiding it.
(The lights go out, as if a blackout occurred)
ISIS: What's going on?
PIPER: I think the power's just gone out. It must be the storm outside. Damn it! Sebastian, will you get some candles? I can't see a single thing I'm doing!
PATIENT: Maybe we should wait to finish the operation until the power comes back on and you can see clearly...
PIPER: (With a bit of her old spark) Nah! Don't sweat it! I've got aim like a mack truck!
PATIENT: Wait, but --
ISIS: Hush! The doctor knows best!
PIPER: (Beaming) Good girl.
(The two continue to work on the patient while PIPER's voiceover is played)
PIPER: (Voiceover) So the next time that you need medical work done for cheap, just stop by our hospital. My work is guaranteed to last the length of your recovery, so if anything goes awry, just come back and we'll fix it right up. If you happen to show up and I am unavailable, my partner Isis would love to take care of you. She's a nice, considerate girl. She's thoroughly reliable. (Pause, with particular relish) And she goes to med school.
(Lights fade)
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Ring Around The Roses.
You say that you need a new brain, but what you need is a new body. Your brain is encased in skin that houses a heart that quits, knees that buckle, and lungs that collapse. Whereas your brain feels as if it has lives a hundred lives before.
The days come and go like sailors. You watch them as they drift away into the horizon. Every second spent staring at the line between sky and sea is a second lost. How cliché.
By the time you discover this, the water has risen. At least it's below your chin. At least it's neither sink nor swim. At least the water is beneath your chin.
Everyone is avoiding you like the plague. You look down at the floor and see blood. You look up and everyone is staring at you. What for? Then you realize the blood is probably yours.
You are walking through the forest. A shout reaches your ears. You turn around just in time to see a hunter trip over some roots. The gun went off. It was a mistake. Warmth spreads from the pit in your stomach, slowly turning into a burning sensation. You are lying motionless on your back, and your legs aren't taking any more requests. Those disobedient wrecks. It seems it's an accidental death.
But there is no accidental death when you are the antelope in the lion's den.
The days come and go like sailors. You watch them as they drift away into the horizon. Every second spent staring at the line between sky and sea is a second lost. How cliché.
By the time you discover this, the water has risen. At least it's below your chin. At least it's neither sink nor swim. At least the water is beneath your chin.
Everyone is avoiding you like the plague. You look down at the floor and see blood. You look up and everyone is staring at you. What for? Then you realize the blood is probably yours.
You are walking through the forest. A shout reaches your ears. You turn around just in time to see a hunter trip over some roots. The gun went off. It was a mistake. Warmth spreads from the pit in your stomach, slowly turning into a burning sensation. You are lying motionless on your back, and your legs aren't taking any more requests. Those disobedient wrecks. It seems it's an accidental death.
But there is no accidental death when you are the antelope in the lion's den.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Moving Pictures, Silent Films.
There is something in the dark. In the corners of the house, where light shies away. Something that I cannot see. Something I cannot define. But I am certain that it is there. I have heard it, ticking away. Plotting my demise. I've told others about it. They don't believe me. But it's there. Not a trace of doubt in my mind.
In the early hours of the morning, when the sun hasn't risen yet, it's there. I'm terrified to leave the security of my bed. Terrified of what it might do. It's there when I eat. The food I eat may not be food. The air I breathe may not be air. The water I drink may not be water. Maybe it's poisoned. It would be convenient for It. Perhaps every breath I take, every morsel of food I consume brings me that much closer to death.
Misfortune appears to be its sustenance. A dropped plate, a stubbed toe, and I swear I can hear laughter. Faint enough so it might not be real, but loud enough to be audible. The laughter becomes louder each time a rapid succession of incidents occurs. I cannot determine where the laughter originates, because it seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. It's unnerving.
In the night, when I turn off the lights to rest, It is there. Drawing horrid, shuddering, bubbling breaths. As if it were trying to suck the very air out of the room, or perhaps my soul. Further under the covers I hide, desperate to avoid any interaction with him -- her -- it. Whatever it is. It, because I have no images to piece together, nor do I want to imagine what monstrosities hide in shadows.
When the lights have turned down and the world is falling asleep is when the nightmares come. The awful, twisted nightmares. One in particular stands out. Perhaps this is due to the fact that It appeared after said nightmare. Perhaps it is due to the fact that it was absolutely nerve wracking.
It had started off seeming normal. A plain, weather worn hotel was my place of residence for the night. My petite room consisted of a small bed facing the door, a bedside table with a tea tray, and a bathroom. On the floor I was located on, the rooms were arranged in a square pattern around a square hold in the center of the floor. Through the hole grew a large tree. Palm, or some other indoor tree. Anyway, from my location in the bed, I could see the staircase, along with any person or thing that happened to climb said stairs. As I was just settling into my bed, I heard a scratching upon my door. Wondering who could be calling on me at this hour, I opened the door. At my feet sat a feline that I recognized belonged to the hotel owner.
"I'm thirsty," purred the cat. "Do you have anything for me to drink?" Now, because reality in dreams does not always correspond with the reality of the world we exist in, this seemed perfectly normal. It didn't seem like anything out of Alice In Wonderland. It didn't appear that I had happened upon the world's first talking cat. No, it seemed as natural as eggs are eggs. But in this tricky world of ours, sometimes eggs aren't always as sure as eggs. Sometimes there are two yolks. Sometimes there isn't a yolk. Eggs have deformities. Eggs aren't always sure as eggs are eggs.
Anyway, I let the cat in and shut the door. I picked up a teacup from the tea tray, filled it with lukewarm tea from the speckled teapot and placed it on the floor next to the bed. "Thanks!" yowled the cat. After a few seconds on drinking, though, the tinkling sound of breaking china reached my ears. Looking down, I saw that the cat's paw was soaked with tea, and the teacup was cracked in two. Had it tried to pick it up? I never found out, because at that instant, the door burst open with a bang and the cat and its drink, teacup and all, vanished with a hiss.
I was thrown up against the wall, pinned by some unknown force above the bed. Slowly, I slid down the wall, but still pinned. The door slammed shut. Yet I was still pinned. The door burst open. There was something on the stair. Bang! The door slammed shut. Bang! The thing was closer. Bang! I heard the dying yowl of a cat. Bang! The cat was now dead, tied by its tail to a branch of the tree. The thing on the stair was closer still. Bang! The sound of metal upon metal reached my ears. Bang! The thing, which was close enough to be distinguished, held something large and glimmering in its hand. A butcher knife. It simply looked like someone wearing a large cloak with a shrouded face. Carrying a butcher knife.
I began to struggle against my invisible bonds, but to no avail. I was stuck here until whatever was holding me became bored of playing cat and mouse. The door didn't slam again, giving me a clear view of the thing's movements. It didn't walk, it seemed, but shimmered in and out of reality. It would fade out for a few seconds, but reappear closer than it had been. Then it occurred to me; I had a voice. I began to shout for help. For a few seconds, my voice made a crackling sound, sort of like television static, and then petered out. I was, essentially, mute. With a phantom cloak carrying a butcher knife floating towards my room. As the thing entered the door frame, the door began to slam again. As it hit the cloak, however, it was blasted off its hinges.
The door hit the wall next to me, just inches from my head. The cloak faded out, and reappeared next to the bed. It leaned down, putting its face uncomfortably close to mine. Although there was no face, as I could clearly see now, its breath stank of something putrid. And from that pitch black hole of a hood issued a laughter that would haunt me for months to come. The same, tittering, bubbling laugh. The knife it was holding suddenly splintered, pieces flying every which way. I raised my arms to cover myself from shrapnel. But somehow, they missed me entirely. I lowered my arms, realizing that no harm had come to me. My arms were free. My body was free, I realized. I looked at the hood again. Slowly, I curled my fingers in, one by one. As I drove my fist into where the head should be, it vanished. Like smoke dissipating in the air.
I awoke with a start, covered in sweat. And the same bubbling laugh that I had heard in my dreams echoed about the caverns in my head. Until I realized it wasn't in my mind anymore. It was real.
In the early hours of the morning, when the sun hasn't risen yet, it's there. I'm terrified to leave the security of my bed. Terrified of what it might do. It's there when I eat. The food I eat may not be food. The air I breathe may not be air. The water I drink may not be water. Maybe it's poisoned. It would be convenient for It. Perhaps every breath I take, every morsel of food I consume brings me that much closer to death.
Misfortune appears to be its sustenance. A dropped plate, a stubbed toe, and I swear I can hear laughter. Faint enough so it might not be real, but loud enough to be audible. The laughter becomes louder each time a rapid succession of incidents occurs. I cannot determine where the laughter originates, because it seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. It's unnerving.
In the night, when I turn off the lights to rest, It is there. Drawing horrid, shuddering, bubbling breaths. As if it were trying to suck the very air out of the room, or perhaps my soul. Further under the covers I hide, desperate to avoid any interaction with him -- her -- it. Whatever it is. It, because I have no images to piece together, nor do I want to imagine what monstrosities hide in shadows.
When the lights have turned down and the world is falling asleep is when the nightmares come. The awful, twisted nightmares. One in particular stands out. Perhaps this is due to the fact that It appeared after said nightmare. Perhaps it is due to the fact that it was absolutely nerve wracking.
It had started off seeming normal. A plain, weather worn hotel was my place of residence for the night. My petite room consisted of a small bed facing the door, a bedside table with a tea tray, and a bathroom. On the floor I was located on, the rooms were arranged in a square pattern around a square hold in the center of the floor. Through the hole grew a large tree. Palm, or some other indoor tree. Anyway, from my location in the bed, I could see the staircase, along with any person or thing that happened to climb said stairs. As I was just settling into my bed, I heard a scratching upon my door. Wondering who could be calling on me at this hour, I opened the door. At my feet sat a feline that I recognized belonged to the hotel owner.
"I'm thirsty," purred the cat. "Do you have anything for me to drink?" Now, because reality in dreams does not always correspond with the reality of the world we exist in, this seemed perfectly normal. It didn't seem like anything out of Alice In Wonderland. It didn't appear that I had happened upon the world's first talking cat. No, it seemed as natural as eggs are eggs. But in this tricky world of ours, sometimes eggs aren't always as sure as eggs. Sometimes there are two yolks. Sometimes there isn't a yolk. Eggs have deformities. Eggs aren't always sure as eggs are eggs.
Anyway, I let the cat in and shut the door. I picked up a teacup from the tea tray, filled it with lukewarm tea from the speckled teapot and placed it on the floor next to the bed. "Thanks!" yowled the cat. After a few seconds on drinking, though, the tinkling sound of breaking china reached my ears. Looking down, I saw that the cat's paw was soaked with tea, and the teacup was cracked in two. Had it tried to pick it up? I never found out, because at that instant, the door burst open with a bang and the cat and its drink, teacup and all, vanished with a hiss.
I was thrown up against the wall, pinned by some unknown force above the bed. Slowly, I slid down the wall, but still pinned. The door slammed shut. Yet I was still pinned. The door burst open. There was something on the stair. Bang! The door slammed shut. Bang! The thing was closer. Bang! I heard the dying yowl of a cat. Bang! The cat was now dead, tied by its tail to a branch of the tree. The thing on the stair was closer still. Bang! The sound of metal upon metal reached my ears. Bang! The thing, which was close enough to be distinguished, held something large and glimmering in its hand. A butcher knife. It simply looked like someone wearing a large cloak with a shrouded face. Carrying a butcher knife.
I began to struggle against my invisible bonds, but to no avail. I was stuck here until whatever was holding me became bored of playing cat and mouse. The door didn't slam again, giving me a clear view of the thing's movements. It didn't walk, it seemed, but shimmered in and out of reality. It would fade out for a few seconds, but reappear closer than it had been. Then it occurred to me; I had a voice. I began to shout for help. For a few seconds, my voice made a crackling sound, sort of like television static, and then petered out. I was, essentially, mute. With a phantom cloak carrying a butcher knife floating towards my room. As the thing entered the door frame, the door began to slam again. As it hit the cloak, however, it was blasted off its hinges.
The door hit the wall next to me, just inches from my head. The cloak faded out, and reappeared next to the bed. It leaned down, putting its face uncomfortably close to mine. Although there was no face, as I could clearly see now, its breath stank of something putrid. And from that pitch black hole of a hood issued a laughter that would haunt me for months to come. The same, tittering, bubbling laugh. The knife it was holding suddenly splintered, pieces flying every which way. I raised my arms to cover myself from shrapnel. But somehow, they missed me entirely. I lowered my arms, realizing that no harm had come to me. My arms were free. My body was free, I realized. I looked at the hood again. Slowly, I curled my fingers in, one by one. As I drove my fist into where the head should be, it vanished. Like smoke dissipating in the air.
I awoke with a start, covered in sweat. And the same bubbling laugh that I had heard in my dreams echoed about the caverns in my head. Until I realized it wasn't in my mind anymore. It was real.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Dawn's Twilight.
Sometimes I just want to go walking. In those early hours between midnight and dawn, when the world hasn't woken up and the sun hasn't risen yet. I hope that, one day, the day I pick to go walking, I'll see someone else out. Shying away from the warmth of sleep. I'll wonder why he's out so early, and maybe we'll start talking. But I know it'll never happen.
I guess this is a terrible place to meet people.
I guess this is a terrible place to meet people.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
The Fates And The Sword Of Damocles.
I used to rule the world. My world, at least. You remember that cartoon that you would watch when you were young with the dancing mushrooms and the ice fairies and waltzing hippos and alligators and Micky Mouse as the magician? Fantasia, I think it was. Remember how seas would rise when that anthropomorphic rodent gave the word? A simple motion of the hand. Do you remember at the end of that ludicrous segment when the mouse had to pick up the pieces of what he'd done?
Every man is his own god. God is dead. I am my own god. Excuse me. I was my own god.
One minute, I held the key to life itself. The wicked and wild wind. The winds of change. They blew everything familiar apart. Like a depth charge. You can't argue with something that works in your favor, can you? People could not believe what I had become.
They call you Lady Luck, but there is room for doubt. Sometimes you have a very unladylike way of running out.
One minute, I held the key. The next, the walls had collapsed. I discovered that my kingdom stood upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand. Everything came crashing down.
I need you to be my sword and shield. I need you to defend me and fight for me, because I cannot do it myself. I need you to be my mirror. I cannot tell what is right and what is wrong anymore. I need you to show me.
There are those who wait to put my head on a silver platter. I am just a sole survivor. A marionette dangling on a single string. Oh, who would ever want to be God?
I believe there is a term for this. The sword of Damocles. You see, Damocles had no control over his life. He was simply a courtier, nothing of significance. After exclaiming that the king was very fortunate and expressing his jealousy of his wealth, the king offered to switch places for a day. Damocles gladly obliged. During dinner, he greatly enjoyed being treated as a king. However, halfway through the meal, Damocles happened to glance up, noticing a sharpened sword suspended by a single strand dangling above his head. Immediately, he requested to leave his temporary term as king.
You see, Damocles discovered that being in a position of power is not all it's cracked up to be. There are senses of impending doom, noticeable or otherwise. In the end, though, it comes back to bite you in the ass. If only I had learned this sooner.
There is never an honest word spoken. Lies. The lot of them. I have to save my hide. I was safe for a while. But that was when I ruled my world.
For some reason I cannot explain, I know St. Peter won't speak my name. My time grows short. And even though I have escaped the sword of Damocles, the Fates are still in possession of my life-thread.
And will they cut it with a pair of scissors? Oh no. That would be too kind.
The sword of Damocles is only fitting.
Every man is his own god. God is dead. I am my own god. Excuse me. I was my own god.
One minute, I held the key to life itself. The wicked and wild wind. The winds of change. They blew everything familiar apart. Like a depth charge. You can't argue with something that works in your favor, can you? People could not believe what I had become.
They call you Lady Luck, but there is room for doubt. Sometimes you have a very unladylike way of running out.
One minute, I held the key. The next, the walls had collapsed. I discovered that my kingdom stood upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand. Everything came crashing down.
I need you to be my sword and shield. I need you to defend me and fight for me, because I cannot do it myself. I need you to be my mirror. I cannot tell what is right and what is wrong anymore. I need you to show me.
There are those who wait to put my head on a silver platter. I am just a sole survivor. A marionette dangling on a single string. Oh, who would ever want to be God?
I believe there is a term for this. The sword of Damocles. You see, Damocles had no control over his life. He was simply a courtier, nothing of significance. After exclaiming that the king was very fortunate and expressing his jealousy of his wealth, the king offered to switch places for a day. Damocles gladly obliged. During dinner, he greatly enjoyed being treated as a king. However, halfway through the meal, Damocles happened to glance up, noticing a sharpened sword suspended by a single strand dangling above his head. Immediately, he requested to leave his temporary term as king.
You see, Damocles discovered that being in a position of power is not all it's cracked up to be. There are senses of impending doom, noticeable or otherwise. In the end, though, it comes back to bite you in the ass. If only I had learned this sooner.
There is never an honest word spoken. Lies. The lot of them. I have to save my hide. I was safe for a while. But that was when I ruled my world.
For some reason I cannot explain, I know St. Peter won't speak my name. My time grows short. And even though I have escaped the sword of Damocles, the Fates are still in possession of my life-thread.
And will they cut it with a pair of scissors? Oh no. That would be too kind.
The sword of Damocles is only fitting.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
The Fallen.
Whatever happened to fair dealings? And pure ethics? And nice manners? Now every son of a bitch is a snake in the grass. They double cross you at every possible chance. Why is everyone now a pain in the ass?
We are a strange society, indeed. Kindness is scorned. The good guy never wins. Why not? Whatever happened to "May I, please?" and "Yes, thank you" and "How charming"? The honest are left behind in the dust in the race. Because everyone else decided to strap a saddle on life's horse, rather than riding bareback. To cheat in life's race. When will they get down off their high horse and stop judging us? And the honest fall off. Well, the fallen are the virtuous among us. If they judge us, we're all damned. No one will ever love you for your honesty. They'll love you for your looks. Your money. But never for your honesty and kindness. No one will ever love you, honestly.
It seems all you read about is rape, theft, drugs, and murder. People will sell themselves on street corners to fund their drug addiction. Women will dress in revealing outfits in order to increase their sex appeal. Men will pick out women solely on their appearance. Men grow cold as girls grow old. They all lose their charm and looks in the end. Is there no decency left?
Holy shit.
What a shame.
Whatever happened to class?
We are a strange society, indeed. Kindness is scorned. The good guy never wins. Why not? Whatever happened to "May I, please?" and "Yes, thank you" and "How charming"? The honest are left behind in the dust in the race. Because everyone else decided to strap a saddle on life's horse, rather than riding bareback. To cheat in life's race. When will they get down off their high horse and stop judging us? And the honest fall off. Well, the fallen are the virtuous among us. If they judge us, we're all damned. No one will ever love you for your honesty. They'll love you for your looks. Your money. But never for your honesty and kindness. No one will ever love you, honestly.
It seems all you read about is rape, theft, drugs, and murder. People will sell themselves on street corners to fund their drug addiction. Women will dress in revealing outfits in order to increase their sex appeal. Men will pick out women solely on their appearance. Men grow cold as girls grow old. They all lose their charm and looks in the end. Is there no decency left?
Holy shit.
What a shame.
Whatever happened to class?
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Drained.
Insomnia has hit hard these days. Not only has sleep left me, but my ability to write as well. I am lacking inspiration. It may just be a side effect of writing eight consecutive entries. I am not used to this. I may just be drained mentally and physically.
Or my writer's block has come back.
I do not recognize myself anymore. I look in the mirror, and blood vessels have replaced the whites of my eyes. Recently, somebody asked me if I had a black eye. Standing with a straight back has become a challenge. I look and feel more disheveled than I ever have in my life.
There is a weight in my limbs that I have never felt before. I feel like they are dragging me down. Down into something that I cannot define. There is a pressure in my chest that was not there before. I am not sure where these maladies came from, but I wish they would vanish, and in lieu of their absence, inspiration would be left as a baby on my doorstep.
Or my writer's block has come back.
I do not recognize myself anymore. I look in the mirror, and blood vessels have replaced the whites of my eyes. Recently, somebody asked me if I had a black eye. Standing with a straight back has become a challenge. I look and feel more disheveled than I ever have in my life.
There is a weight in my limbs that I have never felt before. I feel like they are dragging me down. Down into something that I cannot define. There is a pressure in my chest that was not there before. I am not sure where these maladies came from, but I wish they would vanish, and in lieu of their absence, inspiration would be left as a baby on my doorstep.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
The Chronicles Of A Bohemian Teenager (Part VIII, Finale part I).
Toystore from hell. Awful, terrible place. Outside. Thumbtack rain. Clink! Clink! Puddles of plastic and metal. Shock of incinerated puppets has worn off. Worry. Worry starts. Overpowering everything else. Consuming. What have I done?
Cityscape. Used to it. Morphing. Melts. But differently, this time. Into one grand being. Taller, taller, wider, and dark. Oh, how dark. Void of all light. Seems to absorb it, in fact. Doesn't reflect. Just outside the gate, I peer into the courtyard. Underneath the gathering thunderstorm. Through the iron bars, I see a fountain. But of course, as per usual, not usual at all. Spewing forth liquid dark. Rippling, terror, fear. In the topmost tower, a light burns dim. Someone. Hopefully, it isn't you. Cognizant of necessary actions, I step forth into the umbra of the castle. Just like the Glass Cathedral. Doors open. Sans sound. Second thoughts. Never trust anything that you cannot see where it keeps its brain. But just like the Glass Cathedral, I step inside. The Chateau closes its mouth.
Inside, just as black as the brick outside. At least. Is it brick? Brink. Verge of madness. So many strange, off-beat things. Cannot think clearly. Clearheadedness has committed suicide.
No. I will go on. I must go on. For...someone's sake. I am plagued by something I cannot define. As eyes adjust, stilted darkness becomes not so stilted. Grand Chateau, lobby. Sweeping staircases left and right, joining at a balcony hallway. Enormous chandelier. What's the point? Pitch black anyway. And rooms. Oh, the rooms. Doors to my left, doors to my right, doors on the floor. Ceiling. Walls. Staircases. Everywhere. Portals to another world, for all I know. Filling my lungs with oxygen, I start up the stairs.
Trapdoor. Damn. Halfway up, the stair swings open. And I fall. Fall. Through suffocating darkness. Darker than the house itself. If that's possible. Marshmallow splat. Stand. Light behind a door. Behind a wooden door. A voice. Old, certainly. Man or woman? Seeing no other exit, I enter. Light floods the darkened chamber behind me. In front of me, an old woman. Wispy, white, scraggly hair. In a rocking chair. She looks at me.
There was a boy. A very strange, enchanted boy. They say he wandered very far. Very far. Over land and sea. A little shy, and sad of eye. But very wise, was he.
And then one day. One magic day, he passed my way, and while we spoke of many things, fools and kings, this he said to me --
A voice emanates out of the chamber behind me. Your voice.
"If this is the life, why does it feel so good to die today?"
The door, which I had left open, slams shut. The old woman cackles. Door. Other wall. I start towards it. Woman, with surprising speed an agility, blocks my path. Crazed.
Where do you think you're going, Dearie!
Disregard age. Thump! Threw her aside. Like a puppet. Run. Door opens, before I even touch it. Stop. Glance at woman. She's a puppet. Strings attached. Slap-dash makeup. Pained eyes. Painted eyes. Slash of a grin. Awful flashbacks of Toyshop From Hell. No. Stop. I bolt out the door, careless of what lies beyond the haven of this well-lit room.
Will-o-the-wisps dance like a hundred thousand fireflies in this room. Illuminating light switches. Great. I flip each and every one. Light floods the room, blazing shadows in the corner. The will-o-the-wisps seem agitated. Moving faster. Sparks fly from flying sparks. Moving towards me. Bzzt! Bzzt! They're charged with electricity. Shocking.
Another door. Off like a shot. Avoiding airborne electric chair. Door springs open on a spiral staircase. Winding up and down. Split moment decision. Up. Fell to get here. Must ascend to arrive at the light in the topmost tower. Figures, however. Ghosts float up the stair, like silent moving pictures. Loyal phantoms of the in-house staff. Regardless of floating spectres. The dead are better than joining their ranks. Up, up, up, up, up, up. Does it ever end? Bolting up and up. Regardless of what horrors lie in wait.
Cityscape. Used to it. Morphing. Melts. But differently, this time. Into one grand being. Taller, taller, wider, and dark. Oh, how dark. Void of all light. Seems to absorb it, in fact. Doesn't reflect. Just outside the gate, I peer into the courtyard. Underneath the gathering thunderstorm. Through the iron bars, I see a fountain. But of course, as per usual, not usual at all. Spewing forth liquid dark. Rippling, terror, fear. In the topmost tower, a light burns dim. Someone. Hopefully, it isn't you. Cognizant of necessary actions, I step forth into the umbra of the castle. Just like the Glass Cathedral. Doors open. Sans sound. Second thoughts. Never trust anything that you cannot see where it keeps its brain. But just like the Glass Cathedral, I step inside. The Chateau closes its mouth.
Inside, just as black as the brick outside. At least. Is it brick? Brink. Verge of madness. So many strange, off-beat things. Cannot think clearly. Clearheadedness has committed suicide.
No. I will go on. I must go on. For...someone's sake. I am plagued by something I cannot define. As eyes adjust, stilted darkness becomes not so stilted. Grand Chateau, lobby. Sweeping staircases left and right, joining at a balcony hallway. Enormous chandelier. What's the point? Pitch black anyway. And rooms. Oh, the rooms. Doors to my left, doors to my right, doors on the floor. Ceiling. Walls. Staircases. Everywhere. Portals to another world, for all I know. Filling my lungs with oxygen, I start up the stairs.
Trapdoor. Damn. Halfway up, the stair swings open. And I fall. Fall. Through suffocating darkness. Darker than the house itself. If that's possible. Marshmallow splat. Stand. Light behind a door. Behind a wooden door. A voice. Old, certainly. Man or woman? Seeing no other exit, I enter. Light floods the darkened chamber behind me. In front of me, an old woman. Wispy, white, scraggly hair. In a rocking chair. She looks at me.
There was a boy. A very strange, enchanted boy. They say he wandered very far. Very far. Over land and sea. A little shy, and sad of eye. But very wise, was he.
And then one day. One magic day, he passed my way, and while we spoke of many things, fools and kings, this he said to me --
A voice emanates out of the chamber behind me. Your voice.
"If this is the life, why does it feel so good to die today?"
The door, which I had left open, slams shut. The old woman cackles. Door. Other wall. I start towards it. Woman, with surprising speed an agility, blocks my path. Crazed.
Where do you think you're going, Dearie!
Disregard age. Thump! Threw her aside. Like a puppet. Run. Door opens, before I even touch it. Stop. Glance at woman. She's a puppet. Strings attached. Slap-dash makeup. Pained eyes. Painted eyes. Slash of a grin. Awful flashbacks of Toyshop From Hell. No. Stop. I bolt out the door, careless of what lies beyond the haven of this well-lit room.
Will-o-the-wisps dance like a hundred thousand fireflies in this room. Illuminating light switches. Great. I flip each and every one. Light floods the room, blazing shadows in the corner. The will-o-the-wisps seem agitated. Moving faster. Sparks fly from flying sparks. Moving towards me. Bzzt! Bzzt! They're charged with electricity. Shocking.
Another door. Off like a shot. Avoiding airborne electric chair. Door springs open on a spiral staircase. Winding up and down. Split moment decision. Up. Fell to get here. Must ascend to arrive at the light in the topmost tower. Figures, however. Ghosts float up the stair, like silent moving pictures. Loyal phantoms of the in-house staff. Regardless of floating spectres. The dead are better than joining their ranks. Up, up, up, up, up, up. Does it ever end? Bolting up and up. Regardless of what horrors lie in wait.
The Chronicles Of A Bohemian Teenager (Part VII).
Red madness. Rose moon. Stretching. No heat. No cold. Just more. More. More. Ring around the rosie. A pocket full of posies. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down. Ker-plump. Dust mushrooms. Whoosh! On my back. Looking at the moon. I blink. It winks. Distinctly. And it all dissolves. Melting, like before. When will this end?
Visions of sugar plum fairies greet my eyes. The Steadfast Tin Soldier. Pinocchio. Other puppets. Slap-dash makeup. Twisted grins. Pained grins. Terrified eyes. Cannot bear to look. So many. Tinkerbell. Tinkertoys. Tinkering. KA-FLUMPH! Click. Click. Click. Click.
Creak to life. Manmade. Not controlled. Dancing bears. Painted wings. Waltzing marionettes. Familiar sparks a flower in my mind, catching into a wildflower blaze. Things I almost remember. And that girl. The poster. Her voice. And a song, someone sings. Once upon a time.
Tink. Tink. Tink. Tink. Clink. Clank. Err. Err. Click. Click. Boing! Err. Err. Tink. Tank. Clink. Clank. A cacophony of toyshop sounds. Dancing in three-four time. Around. What goes 'round, comes 'round, and 'round, and 'round, and 'round, and...
BANG! CRACK! Something breaks. Poster Of A Girl halts her vocal requiem. Ring around the rosie. Pocket full of posies. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down. Earthshaking, at that. Forsaking. Someone holds me safe and warm. Horses with painted wings prance through a silver storm. Figures dancing gracefully, across my memory.
Who is holding me? Prodigious marionette. Familiar sparks a flower in my mind, singeing the petals of my cerebral cortex. Glowing dim as an ember. Soon fanned into a wildflower blaze. Silver storm of ice hits full force. Dousing the conflagration in an instant. Cold recollection hits. It is you. Shock. Who are you? Scramble like an egg. Away. You collapse, lifeless as a puppet. Ironic. You are a puppet.
The floor show has begun again. Poster Of A Girl begins her bolero. Dancing bears. Waltzing marionettes. Familiar sparks a flower in my mind, catching into a wildflower blaze. Strange, puppets. All around me, familiar faces. Worn out faces. Slap-dash. Faster, faster. Vite, vite! Allegro! Halt. A puppet on a lonely string centerstage. Look up. In the eye. Pained eyes. Painted eyes. Slap-dash. Slash of a mouth opens.
Never an honest word. But that was when I ruled the world.
It snaps. If puppets could snap. Resumption occurs. Faster, faster. A whirlwind of familiar faces. I cannot bear to look. You are gone. No one holds me safe and warm. Awful sight. I stand, leave to exit. Door. Flaming red exit. Another crack. I look. They've all stopped. Puppet on a lonely string.
Please don't leave. We don't want to die.
It was the wicked and wild wind. Blew down the doors, shattered windows. Scooped me up. Ran out that door like a speeding bullet. Puppet On A Lonely String screams. Unearthly, to say the least. From the bowels of Hell. Tortured scream. Pained eyes. Painted eyes. Slap-dash. Whirlwindish cacophony. Whisked out of the stage.
Then you appear. No longer a puppet. Puppetmaster.
You've disappointed me.
What was I supposed to --
You do realize what you've done?
I -- What?
You've killed all I held dear. Look at them. They're all dead.
And they are. Every last one. Burned. Charred. Incineration. Internal flame. Unearthly scream, indeed. Awful sight. But still. "Puppets?" I question.
This cannot go unpunished. The next time you see me, I shall not be quite so cordial. I shall be aiming to break you or kill you. Whichever comes swifter.
Off like a shot. Again. Swerving this way and that. Looking for something. You are lost. "Wait!" I call. "I didn't --" But you are out of sight. I am terrified. No choice but to take the brunt. Hope for the best. Where the fuck am I? Puppets? Fleeting human contact, I think. I am lost. You are lost. But for a moment, we were lost together.
I wonder who you are.
Visions of sugar plum fairies greet my eyes. The Steadfast Tin Soldier. Pinocchio. Other puppets. Slap-dash makeup. Twisted grins. Pained grins. Terrified eyes. Cannot bear to look. So many. Tinkerbell. Tinkertoys. Tinkering. KA-FLUMPH! Click. Click. Click. Click.
Creak to life. Manmade. Not controlled. Dancing bears. Painted wings. Waltzing marionettes. Familiar sparks a flower in my mind, catching into a wildflower blaze. Things I almost remember. And that girl. The poster. Her voice. And a song, someone sings. Once upon a time.
Tink. Tink. Tink. Tink. Clink. Clank. Err. Err. Click. Click. Boing! Err. Err. Tink. Tank. Clink. Clank. A cacophony of toyshop sounds. Dancing in three-four time. Around. What goes 'round, comes 'round, and 'round, and 'round, and 'round, and...
BANG! CRACK! Something breaks. Poster Of A Girl halts her vocal requiem. Ring around the rosie. Pocket full of posies. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down. Earthshaking, at that. Forsaking. Someone holds me safe and warm. Horses with painted wings prance through a silver storm. Figures dancing gracefully, across my memory.
Who is holding me? Prodigious marionette. Familiar sparks a flower in my mind, singeing the petals of my cerebral cortex. Glowing dim as an ember. Soon fanned into a wildflower blaze. Silver storm of ice hits full force. Dousing the conflagration in an instant. Cold recollection hits. It is you. Shock. Who are you? Scramble like an egg. Away. You collapse, lifeless as a puppet. Ironic. You are a puppet.
The floor show has begun again. Poster Of A Girl begins her bolero. Dancing bears. Waltzing marionettes. Familiar sparks a flower in my mind, catching into a wildflower blaze. Strange, puppets. All around me, familiar faces. Worn out faces. Slap-dash. Faster, faster. Vite, vite! Allegro! Halt. A puppet on a lonely string centerstage. Look up. In the eye. Pained eyes. Painted eyes. Slap-dash. Slash of a mouth opens.
Never an honest word. But that was when I ruled the world.
It snaps. If puppets could snap. Resumption occurs. Faster, faster. A whirlwind of familiar faces. I cannot bear to look. You are gone. No one holds me safe and warm. Awful sight. I stand, leave to exit. Door. Flaming red exit. Another crack. I look. They've all stopped. Puppet on a lonely string.
Please don't leave. We don't want to die.
It was the wicked and wild wind. Blew down the doors, shattered windows. Scooped me up. Ran out that door like a speeding bullet. Puppet On A Lonely String screams. Unearthly, to say the least. From the bowels of Hell. Tortured scream. Pained eyes. Painted eyes. Slap-dash. Whirlwindish cacophony. Whisked out of the stage.
Then you appear. No longer a puppet. Puppetmaster.
You've disappointed me.
What was I supposed to --
You do realize what you've done?
I -- What?
You've killed all I held dear. Look at them. They're all dead.
And they are. Every last one. Burned. Charred. Incineration. Internal flame. Unearthly scream, indeed. Awful sight. But still. "Puppets?" I question.
This cannot go unpunished. The next time you see me, I shall not be quite so cordial. I shall be aiming to break you or kill you. Whichever comes swifter.
Off like a shot. Again. Swerving this way and that. Looking for something. You are lost. "Wait!" I call. "I didn't --" But you are out of sight. I am terrified. No choice but to take the brunt. Hope for the best. Where the fuck am I? Puppets? Fleeting human contact, I think. I am lost. You are lost. But for a moment, we were lost together.
I wonder who you are.
Monday, June 30, 2008
The Chronicles Of A Bohemian Teenager (Part VI).
Sadness. Madness. Badness. No marshmallow splat. No prismatic spray of crystals. No flash of light. Just warped reality and shifting turns. Melting rainbows. Dripping buildings. Bloop. Bloop. Bloop. Bubbling. Like a witch's cauldron, and this is her twisted spell of vengeance. It is all gone away, puddles. Gone, then.
The sight is more eerie than Deserted Town. Because no town. Just dust. Painted red. Dust and pulverized rock. Miles upon miles. Streeeeeeetch. Dark red heavens. Stained with the blood of the innocents. Pale moon, even. Tinted pink. Nothing for miles. Flat expanse. Wait. No. Something. There. In the distance. Runnnnn. It is a building. Large. Very large. A cathedral? Yes. And blue. A sharp contrast between puddle of azure and sea of crimson. And glass, at that. What is it? How is it? Creeeeaaaaaaak. If glass doors made sound, it would be that. Cautions. Warning sirens in my brain. Never trust anything where you cannot see its brain. I step inside.
Mirrors. Everywhichwhere. Slam! If glass doors made sound, it would be that. Trapped in a Pharaoh's tomb. No choice but to venture forth into the unknown. Mirrors. Smoke and mirrors. Up. Down. Allaround. Mind-bending. Not mending. But odd, reflections. Not normal. Something not quite right. Makes me feel awful. Sick, even. I look at another twisted. My appearance is normal. Wait. No. It can't be. There is something amiss. I cannot place my finger on it. Then, like train wreck. I am not me. I am a collage of everyone. All I look to. All I value. Awful tremors. Another mirror. I am fat. Ugly. Hideous. Third. Stupid. Childish. Immature. Fourth. Fifth. Sixth. Seventh. All terrible. Fears. My fears. The eighth one. I cannot bear to look. There is a severe lack of something. People. Friends. I am abandoned. And I feel as well. Where is everyone? Why have I only seen you? I feel fat and ugly. I am fat and ugly. I feel like a collage of everyone around me. I am a collage of everyone around me. Deeper and deeper into the cornmaze of mirrors. Running. Crying. Sobbing. Avoiding the mirror's gaze of self-depreciation. Running. Running. Crying. Sobbing. Where am I? What is wrong with this place? Clearheadedness has left for lunch. Into a ball. Crying. Feeling worthless. I am worthless.
Dawn approaches. Flaming red sun raises its flag of victory over the horizon. Heating the barren landscape. The Glass Cathedral. I am still trapped. In a maze of my own insecurities. Lost. Lost. Still teary eyed. Avoiding my reflection as though it were the Plague. Ring around the rosie. Pocket full of posies. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down. And I do. Collapse. Hopeless. Despairing. Then it dawns. Glass. It shatters. Glass. Glass. That is all it is. Glass. Breakable. I rise like the sun. I face a mirror. I am a collage of everyone. Crack! Pain in the fist. Cracked reflection. Normal reflection. I am fat. Ugly. Hideous. Crack! Not anymore. I am abandoned. Crack! Ouch. Crack! Crack! Crack! Tintinnabulation of broken glass is music to my ears.
I hit a wall. Paper thin. Shatters like a sheet of paper. Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash!
Boom! Crash!
Boom! Crash!
Boom! Crash!
Boom! Crash!
Boom! Crash!
Boom! Crash!
Boom! Crash!
Boom! Crash!
Boom!
Wall after wall after wall. We all fall down. Laughing giddily. Haaaaaaaaaaa! I am not sliced to ribbons by falling glass. Miraculous. I stand over the rubble of the Glass Cathedral. Good riddance. Spit. Hope. Like oxygen.
Like a spectre, you rise. Out of the Glass Cathedral of Despair. What?
Well played, Sir.
Thank you.
Have you any idea where you are going?
No. Do you?
Not in the slightest.
And with a devious grin, you take off like a shot. Booooooooooooooooooooom! Running. Again. A wild goose chase. "Wait!" I call. There is something familiar about the way you look. I cannot place my finger on it. Ah, well. No matter. How to leave this wretched place is another matter. Ah, well. Fleeting human contact, I think. I am lost. You are lost. But for a moment, we were lost together.
I wonder who you are.
The sight is more eerie than Deserted Town. Because no town. Just dust. Painted red. Dust and pulverized rock. Miles upon miles. Streeeeeeetch. Dark red heavens. Stained with the blood of the innocents. Pale moon, even. Tinted pink. Nothing for miles. Flat expanse. Wait. No. Something. There. In the distance. Runnnnn. It is a building. Large. Very large. A cathedral? Yes. And blue. A sharp contrast between puddle of azure and sea of crimson. And glass, at that. What is it? How is it? Creeeeaaaaaaak. If glass doors made sound, it would be that. Cautions. Warning sirens in my brain. Never trust anything where you cannot see its brain. I step inside.
Mirrors. Everywhichwhere. Slam! If glass doors made sound, it would be that. Trapped in a Pharaoh's tomb. No choice but to venture forth into the unknown. Mirrors. Smoke and mirrors. Up. Down. Allaround. Mind-bending. Not mending. But odd, reflections. Not normal. Something not quite right. Makes me feel awful. Sick, even. I look at another twisted. My appearance is normal. Wait. No. It can't be. There is something amiss. I cannot place my finger on it. Then, like train wreck. I am not me. I am a collage of everyone. All I look to. All I value. Awful tremors. Another mirror. I am fat. Ugly. Hideous. Third. Stupid. Childish. Immature. Fourth. Fifth. Sixth. Seventh. All terrible. Fears. My fears. The eighth one. I cannot bear to look. There is a severe lack of something. People. Friends. I am abandoned. And I feel as well. Where is everyone? Why have I only seen you? I feel fat and ugly. I am fat and ugly. I feel like a collage of everyone around me. I am a collage of everyone around me. Deeper and deeper into the cornmaze of mirrors. Running. Crying. Sobbing. Avoiding the mirror's gaze of self-depreciation. Running. Running. Crying. Sobbing. Where am I? What is wrong with this place? Clearheadedness has left for lunch. Into a ball. Crying. Feeling worthless. I am worthless.
Dawn approaches. Flaming red sun raises its flag of victory over the horizon. Heating the barren landscape. The Glass Cathedral. I am still trapped. In a maze of my own insecurities. Lost. Lost. Still teary eyed. Avoiding my reflection as though it were the Plague. Ring around the rosie. Pocket full of posies. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down. And I do. Collapse. Hopeless. Despairing. Then it dawns. Glass. It shatters. Glass. Glass. That is all it is. Glass. Breakable. I rise like the sun. I face a mirror. I am a collage of everyone. Crack! Pain in the fist. Cracked reflection. Normal reflection. I am fat. Ugly. Hideous. Crack! Not anymore. I am abandoned. Crack! Ouch. Crack! Crack! Crack! Tintinnabulation of broken glass is music to my ears.
I hit a wall. Paper thin. Shatters like a sheet of paper. Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash! Crash!
Boom! Crash!
Boom! Crash!
Boom! Crash!
Boom! Crash!
Boom! Crash!
Boom! Crash!
Boom! Crash!
Boom! Crash!
Boom!
Wall after wall after wall. We all fall down. Laughing giddily. Haaaaaaaaaaa! I am not sliced to ribbons by falling glass. Miraculous. I stand over the rubble of the Glass Cathedral. Good riddance. Spit. Hope. Like oxygen.
Like a spectre, you rise. Out of the Glass Cathedral of Despair. What?
Well played, Sir.
Thank you.
Have you any idea where you are going?
No. Do you?
Not in the slightest.
And with a devious grin, you take off like a shot. Booooooooooooooooooooom! Running. Again. A wild goose chase. "Wait!" I call. There is something familiar about the way you look. I cannot place my finger on it. Ah, well. No matter. How to leave this wretched place is another matter. Ah, well. Fleeting human contact, I think. I am lost. You are lost. But for a moment, we were lost together.
I wonder who you are.
The Chronicles Of A Bohemian Teenager (Part V).
Splatter. Smatter. Shatter. Marshmallow splat again. Through the oil figure of a town. Ghostly, in the sense of abandonment. I stand. There is something strange about this place. Apart from no one existing. There seems to be a whisper echoing through the town. Desertedly. Je sais que tu n'aimes pas ta realite... Why, and how? No one here, voicing their thoughts of a brain unknown. Never trust a thing that you can see where it keeps its brain. But I wonder, nonetheless. And winder, wandering through the streets. Searching for something that I cannot define. What am I looking for?
Loud siren. Bee-whoop! Bee-whoop! Bee-whoop! Bee-whoop! Does it ever stop? What is it signaling? Nerve-wracking. Body-wracking. Spasms throw me to the ground. From what? It is a mystery. How. How. Echoing fades. Siren gone. In the stark silence, I hear the whisper. Je sais que tu n'aimes pas ta realite... Eerily clear. Where is it coming from?
I stand again. No marshmallow splat this time. Scraped knees. Bloody elbows. Leaking ketchup onto my skin. I wipe it away. No bandage. No point. I remember what I am looking for. I know how it feels, looking on the bright side... I try to pay no attention to it, but it is everywhere and nowhere at once. Splish. Splash. Slosh. Crack. Thunder? But rain, most certainly. Pouring in cats and dogs. Lots of them. I run for the nearest building, seeking shelter from the deluge of the cloud tears. Something has made them sad. ...When there is no bright side.
Inside, I begin to shake myself to rid of wet water. But I am dry. No residue. No wet. Not even marks. How strange. Cherche pour l'affiche d'une fille. What? Why? I am ready to leave. But it dawns, in the sky, that I do not know how to leave. So I look for the poster of a girl. Door to door, like a girl scout searching for her missing friend. But there is no one. Finally, the end. The rain is finished. No more tears. Poster of a girl. Je sais que tu n'aimes pas ta realite... I do not know where to go from here. Blowing in the wind. What? That is...?
And there it is. The poster of a girl. Like a tumbleweed, pirouetting across the street. I give chase. There is nothing significant about it. Blue eyed, brown, shoulder length haired girl. Perfect features. Her face, at least. All that is shown. Familiar sparks a flower in my mind, catching into a wildflower blaze. Who is this? Then she speaks. Je sais que tu n'aimes pas ta realite...But why are you running from yourself? I drop her, and she blows away. You. Where are you?
And then I see you. At the edge of town. Running. What are you looking for? Why are you running? Clearheadedness abandons its child outside my mind. Fablishwongledook. Who? Can't I stop and sing? This is insane. I think? Why are you? How are you? Existing, I mean. Fantastic. You didn't answer my question. Hey, come back! A conversation in my head. How, this town? That beach? Those woods? That painting? That music? What is this? Then I realize my mouth has trapped my words in a bear trap of teeth. Je sais que tu n'aimes pas ta realite... Wait!" I call. And miracles happen. Angels sing. You stop. Turn. Face me. I catch up. What you say shocks me more than these realms. If this is the life, why does it feel so good to die today? Grow up and blow away. Where am I going? I do not know. Am I dying? Not really. Who am I? It doesn't matter. What does matter is what you decide matters.
The city stretches. Longer, longer, pushing me away from you. Back to before you turned. You turn back and continue running. No, you are not. The city is still stretching. How do I stop? You fade into distant dust. What was that? Fleeting human contact, I think. I am lost. You are lost. But for a moment, we were lost together.
I wonder who you are.
Loud siren. Bee-whoop! Bee-whoop! Bee-whoop! Bee-whoop! Does it ever stop? What is it signaling? Nerve-wracking. Body-wracking. Spasms throw me to the ground. From what? It is a mystery. How. How. Echoing fades. Siren gone. In the stark silence, I hear the whisper. Je sais que tu n'aimes pas ta realite... Eerily clear. Where is it coming from?
I stand again. No marshmallow splat this time. Scraped knees. Bloody elbows. Leaking ketchup onto my skin. I wipe it away. No bandage. No point. I remember what I am looking for. I know how it feels, looking on the bright side... I try to pay no attention to it, but it is everywhere and nowhere at once. Splish. Splash. Slosh. Crack. Thunder? But rain, most certainly. Pouring in cats and dogs. Lots of them. I run for the nearest building, seeking shelter from the deluge of the cloud tears. Something has made them sad. ...When there is no bright side.
Inside, I begin to shake myself to rid of wet water. But I am dry. No residue. No wet. Not even marks. How strange. Cherche pour l'affiche d'une fille. What? Why? I am ready to leave. But it dawns, in the sky, that I do not know how to leave. So I look for the poster of a girl. Door to door, like a girl scout searching for her missing friend. But there is no one. Finally, the end. The rain is finished. No more tears. Poster of a girl. Je sais que tu n'aimes pas ta realite... I do not know where to go from here. Blowing in the wind. What? That is...?
And there it is. The poster of a girl. Like a tumbleweed, pirouetting across the street. I give chase. There is nothing significant about it. Blue eyed, brown, shoulder length haired girl. Perfect features. Her face, at least. All that is shown. Familiar sparks a flower in my mind, catching into a wildflower blaze. Who is this? Then she speaks. Je sais que tu n'aimes pas ta realite...But why are you running from yourself? I drop her, and she blows away. You. Where are you?
And then I see you. At the edge of town. Running. What are you looking for? Why are you running? Clearheadedness abandons its child outside my mind. Fablishwongledook. Who? Can't I stop and sing? This is insane. I think? Why are you? How are you? Existing, I mean. Fantastic. You didn't answer my question. Hey, come back! A conversation in my head. How, this town? That beach? Those woods? That painting? That music? What is this? Then I realize my mouth has trapped my words in a bear trap of teeth. Je sais que tu n'aimes pas ta realite... Wait!" I call. And miracles happen. Angels sing. You stop. Turn. Face me. I catch up. What you say shocks me more than these realms. If this is the life, why does it feel so good to die today? Grow up and blow away. Where am I going? I do not know. Am I dying? Not really. Who am I? It doesn't matter. What does matter is what you decide matters.
The city stretches. Longer, longer, pushing me away from you. Back to before you turned. You turn back and continue running. No, you are not. The city is still stretching. How do I stop? You fade into distant dust. What was that? Fleeting human contact, I think. I am lost. You are lost. But for a moment, we were lost together.
I wonder who you are.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
The Chronicles Of A Bohemian Teenager (Part IV).
Canticle, santicle, panticle. Through the river and over the woods. Between thorny roses and sweet smelling sunflowers. Upon closer examination, they aren't sunflowers at all. For there is no sun. They are shadowflowers. Thriving on shadow. Perpetual moonlight. Dashing through the forest of plants. Trying to keep up with you. But you run, run, run. And I try, try, try. How do you manage?
I jump over streams and push thornwhips aside. I try to clear a log, but my foot catches in a nook. I brace myself, expecting a facefull of thorny terror and eyefulls of sand. But the impact doesn't come. I open my eyes. I'm falling, again. Tumbling, freewheeling, through an endless diamond sky. Not sky. Something. But not sky.
And everything comes crashing halt. Sans pain and ouch. How? Closed eyes on marshmallow impact open like gates. There you are. On a giant piece of canvas. Ice-skating? But paint. Somehow. Feet like bristles sweep, causing ripples of coloured liquid ice to spread. Are you painting? Qu'est-ce que vous faites? Je ne sais pas. Je veux savoir.
Over I go, stepping on rippling flower petals of reds, blues, greens, and inbetweens. Is it solid? I think. Curious eyes turn towards the horizon. You've finished this painting of silken imagery. Before astounded eyes, a box appears with a simple stroke of a bristlefoot. You step. It grows. Tall. Tall. You jump. "Wait!" I call. But you don't hit. Not even marshmallow soft splat. You fall. In, in, in, leaving rippling prisms in your wake. I climb and jump. How strange, this world is. I think of enigma-you. Fleeting human contact, I think. I am lost. You are lost. But for a moment, we were lost together.
I wonder who you are.
I jump over streams and push thornwhips aside. I try to clear a log, but my foot catches in a nook. I brace myself, expecting a facefull of thorny terror and eyefulls of sand. But the impact doesn't come. I open my eyes. I'm falling, again. Tumbling, freewheeling, through an endless diamond sky. Not sky. Something. But not sky.
And everything comes crashing halt. Sans pain and ouch. How? Closed eyes on marshmallow impact open like gates. There you are. On a giant piece of canvas. Ice-skating? But paint. Somehow. Feet like bristles sweep, causing ripples of coloured liquid ice to spread. Are you painting? Qu'est-ce que vous faites? Je ne sais pas. Je veux savoir.
Over I go, stepping on rippling flower petals of reds, blues, greens, and inbetweens. Is it solid? I think. Curious eyes turn towards the horizon. You've finished this painting of silken imagery. Before astounded eyes, a box appears with a simple stroke of a bristlefoot. You step. It grows. Tall. Tall. You jump. "Wait!" I call. But you don't hit. Not even marshmallow soft splat. You fall. In, in, in, leaving rippling prisms in your wake. I climb and jump. How strange, this world is. I think of enigma-you. Fleeting human contact, I think. I am lost. You are lost. But for a moment, we were lost together.
I wonder who you are.
Friday, June 27, 2008
The Chronicles Of A Bohemian Teenager (Part III).
The sea. From the music to the sea. What an interesting switch. Oh well. Not as if I don't enjoy it. But then, the distance. Out in the sea. What's that floating in the water? Oh, Neptune's only daughter. Branches breaking. The hiss of wind blown sand. I glance behind me, only to discover a myriad of prodigious trees. Palm, Spruce, Pine, Cedar, Beachwood, Willow, and Rose. And then there's you again. Running into the mixed forest.
I spring up. Dash to the edge of the forest. And there I find a sign. Scribbled? Scrambled. Splattered. Reads "If you go there, you're gone forever. If I go there, I lose my way. If we stay here, we're not together. Anywhere is nowhere."
Don't know what to make of this. I look at the ocean. Where is Neptune's only daughter? She has vanished. I look back at the forest. Hiss of sand blown wind. Thump. Thump. Thump. The trees lay down. A sand path materializes, following you. Wham. Whump. Whoomph. Behind me. The ocean is boxing up, shrinking into a compact box. Whamph. Lid closed. There's Neptune's daughter. A black void behind her. Snatches the box, and vanishes into the void, taking the sky with her. All that remains is the forest.
I don't know where I am anymore.
And then I spy you, dashing in between the trees. Looking everywhichway. But dashing, nonetheless. "Wait!" I call. Fleeting human contact, I think. I am lost. You are lost. But for a moment, we were lost together.
I wonder who you are.
I spring up. Dash to the edge of the forest. And there I find a sign. Scribbled? Scrambled. Splattered. Reads "If you go there, you're gone forever. If I go there, I lose my way. If we stay here, we're not together. Anywhere is nowhere."
Don't know what to make of this. I look at the ocean. Where is Neptune's only daughter? She has vanished. I look back at the forest. Hiss of sand blown wind. Thump. Thump. Thump. The trees lay down. A sand path materializes, following you. Wham. Whump. Whoomph. Behind me. The ocean is boxing up, shrinking into a compact box. Whamph. Lid closed. There's Neptune's daughter. A black void behind her. Snatches the box, and vanishes into the void, taking the sky with her. All that remains is the forest.
I don't know where I am anymore.
And then I spy you, dashing in between the trees. Looking everywhichway. But dashing, nonetheless. "Wait!" I call. Fleeting human contact, I think. I am lost. You are lost. But for a moment, we were lost together.
I wonder who you are.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
The Chronicles Of A Bohemian Teenager (Part II).
I am stuck in minor chords. In between bar lines, sharps thrive. Turning notes into a cacophony of sorrow and terror. I am hanging by a thread. No. It is just a crescendo. It slowly dwindles. Snaps. I am falling, between staccatos and diminuendos. How I am avoiding stabby-sharps, I do not know. How I am avoiding impalement, I do not know. And suddenly I am floating. Flying. Levitating. Is this lucid dreaming? Is this Bohemia? I do not know where I am anymore.
I am lost.
Suddenly, there is someone. Running along the bar lines. Running away. Leaping over notes. But running, away. Away. "Wait!" I call. Fleeting human contact, I think. I am lost. You are lost. But for a moment, we were lost together.
I wonder who you are.
I am lost.
Suddenly, there is someone. Running along the bar lines. Running away. Leaping over notes. But running, away. Away. "Wait!" I call. Fleeting human contact, I think. I am lost. You are lost. But for a moment, we were lost together.
I wonder who you are.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
The Chronicles Of A Bohemian Teenager (Part I).
Lying in a grassy lawn, surrounded by the chattering masses. Yet, encased in a bubble of my own, impervious to the many distractions of mankind. For I am reading. Reading, but not comprehending. Sleep has begun to take me. Words swirl on misty pages, an epitaph for my consciousness. Oh, flow, Morpheus, slow. Words of twilight swim, goblins, and carnivals. Or is it a dream? Am I already asleep? I do not know.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Clandestine Secrets.
When did we become so worried about individuality? The sheer number of ideas floating around the average man's mind is astounding. But how many of them are unprecedented? With six billion people in the world, how many could possibly be original? We claim to be individual in almost every aspect of our lives. We say that we have original styles, original mannerisms, original anythings and everythings.
You may have thought of something new, something not yet known to this world. But chances are, someone else in another part of the world had the same idea at the exact same time as you. And chances are they've patented it before you. Because that's all that really matters anymore when it comes to originality. It doesn't matter who thought of it first, it's who patented it first. If you happen to have the same idea or thought as someone else, and are not cognizant of the shared concept, several troubles may arise. If you voice said idea after it has already been stated by someone else, you are called a liar. A cheater. A plagiarizer. A mimic. Simply because you had the same idea. It seems that's all we are focused on anymore, individuality.
The sheer number of possibilities each day holds boggles my mind. The number of experiences I could have daily is innumerable, astonishing. And I'm here, typing a blog. We live trapped in an infinity matrix, living the same moments over and over. We see the same things and think the same things. We react the same way to each situation. Every day follows a gentle flow through a series of peaks and troughs. Each focus of every day is to get through said day, just to live another day. Occasionally, one may break out of this matrix, stepping out of their comfort zone, and they may start to do things sporadically. But what of the matrix, then? Have you not made it a habit of doings things sporadically? Of reacting differently to each situation?
I'm not saying I have all the answers, nor am I saying I know how to break out of this infinity matrix. I don't know how to force myself into seeing the potentials of each moment. But I do that it doesn't require fitting a mold. I do not need to watch what I say or do for fear of shaking things up. I have no need, nor do I want to temper my life to fit the expectations of a corrupted society.
You may have thought of something new, something not yet known to this world. But chances are, someone else in another part of the world had the same idea at the exact same time as you. And chances are they've patented it before you. Because that's all that really matters anymore when it comes to originality. It doesn't matter who thought of it first, it's who patented it first. If you happen to have the same idea or thought as someone else, and are not cognizant of the shared concept, several troubles may arise. If you voice said idea after it has already been stated by someone else, you are called a liar. A cheater. A plagiarizer. A mimic. Simply because you had the same idea. It seems that's all we are focused on anymore, individuality.
The sheer number of possibilities each day holds boggles my mind. The number of experiences I could have daily is innumerable, astonishing. And I'm here, typing a blog. We live trapped in an infinity matrix, living the same moments over and over. We see the same things and think the same things. We react the same way to each situation. Every day follows a gentle flow through a series of peaks and troughs. Each focus of every day is to get through said day, just to live another day. Occasionally, one may break out of this matrix, stepping out of their comfort zone, and they may start to do things sporadically. But what of the matrix, then? Have you not made it a habit of doings things sporadically? Of reacting differently to each situation?
I'm not saying I have all the answers, nor am I saying I know how to break out of this infinity matrix. I don't know how to force myself into seeing the potentials of each moment. But I do that it doesn't require fitting a mold. I do not need to watch what I say or do for fear of shaking things up. I have no need, nor do I want to temper my life to fit the expectations of a corrupted society.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Fugue State.
Minuet -
Bouncing as lightly
As a bubble floating on
A small breath of wind.
Leaves that waltz in time
With zephyrs, without any
Care for the weather.
Bolero -
Flames that lick the air
Cannot differentiate
'Twixt joy and sorrow.
Eerie, but modest
In the sense that only a
Small inferno can.
Serenade -
Softly, so soft that
At first, you don't even hear
The deluge of notes.
Then, as the river
Flows on, the light harmonic
Finale echoes.
Nocturne -
Reminiscent of
The black night, when the pale moon
Sails across the sky.
Hauntingly somber,
It speaks to those long deceased
That watch shining skies.
Requiem -
Lost in the sands of
Time lies the spirit of an
Innocent child.
It wanders the vast
Desert, wailing like the
Tortured, untamed wind.
Bouncing as lightly
As a bubble floating on
A small breath of wind.
Leaves that waltz in time
With zephyrs, without any
Care for the weather.
Bolero -
Flames that lick the air
Cannot differentiate
'Twixt joy and sorrow.
Eerie, but modest
In the sense that only a
Small inferno can.
Serenade -
Softly, so soft that
At first, you don't even hear
The deluge of notes.
Then, as the river
Flows on, the light harmonic
Finale echoes.
Nocturne -
Reminiscent of
The black night, when the pale moon
Sails across the sky.
Hauntingly somber,
It speaks to those long deceased
That watch shining skies.
Requiem -
Lost in the sands of
Time lies the spirit of an
Innocent child.
It wanders the vast
Desert, wailing like the
Tortured, untamed wind.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Nox.
Occasionally, I'll find a large expanse of grass and just lay in it for hours on end. Listening to the sounds around me. Sometimes I'll lie on my stomach, close me eyes, and just listen. Straining my ears to hear Flora's secrets.
Other times, I'll lie on my back and watch the sky, watching Jupiter's cloud paintings as they merge into shapeless blobs. Occasionally, Iris will wake from her long sleep and dash across the sky, splashing Jupiter's domain with colour.
As Hespera makes her way into the world, I watch Astraeus's children appear, one by one. Selene slowly inches her way across the night sky, taking her time. But I don't mind.
In times likes these, I hope that Hypnos and Morpheus send me gently into a carefree sleep.
Other times, I'll lie on my back and watch the sky, watching Jupiter's cloud paintings as they merge into shapeless blobs. Occasionally, Iris will wake from her long sleep and dash across the sky, splashing Jupiter's domain with colour.
As Hespera makes her way into the world, I watch Astraeus's children appear, one by one. Selene slowly inches her way across the night sky, taking her time. But I don't mind.
In times likes these, I hope that Hypnos and Morpheus send me gently into a carefree sleep.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Rien.
The mask is off. The mask made of lies and deceit and apologies.
I am free at last.
Nothing can stop me now.
I am free at last.
Nothing can stop me now.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
All that you don't realize.
I don't get you. Your strange actions. Your thoughts. I just don't. Can't. Won't.
I want to give you everything. I want to make you happy. I want to make all your problems vanish like seeds on the wind. Gone, but with a beautiful ending. I want to know you. I want to fix everything. Give you the perfect life. But you wouldn't be happy. You just wouldn't.
You. I want to give you advice. The perfect life. Banish your bad reputations. I want to solve all your problems as naturally as the moon waxing and waning. I don't know you. I can't read you. You're a mystery to me.
I don't know what to say to you, laconic-boy. magic-dreamer boy. What do you say to anything you say? It's so clever. perfectly timed. well executed.
Wake up and give a shit.
I want to give you everything I can. bags of laughter. satchels of wonder. barrels of happiness. I want to give you everything you need to succeed. give you everything and then I'll float away like puffs of cotton from a cotton tree. but maybe you already have everything...
float away
like puffs of cotton.
like bits of a wish.
I don't know what to say to you, crazy-boy. preconceived-notion-boy. Everything you do makes me grin. Sometimes it's just out of pure happiness. or out of spite. or maybe out of empathy.
I guess freedom smells like that to some people.
I want people to see you for who you are. not who you seem. but if you don't let anyone see who you are, that will never change. So gone are my chances. not gone. just diminished. so I'll give you what I can and then float away like puffs of cotton from a cotton tree.
float away
like puffs of cotton.
like bits of a wish.
I try so hard but I'm struggling it's visible and I know but I'm trying and I'm going to keep trying no matter what.
But who I am to try?
I want to give you everything. I want to make you happy. I want to make all your problems vanish like seeds on the wind. Gone, but with a beautiful ending. I want to know you. I want to fix everything. Give you the perfect life. But you wouldn't be happy. You just wouldn't.
You. I want to give you advice. The perfect life. Banish your bad reputations. I want to solve all your problems as naturally as the moon waxing and waning. I don't know you. I can't read you. You're a mystery to me.
I don't know what to say to you, laconic-boy. magic-dreamer boy. What do you say to anything you say? It's so clever. perfectly timed. well executed.
Wake up and give a shit.
I want to give you everything I can. bags of laughter. satchels of wonder. barrels of happiness. I want to give you everything you need to succeed. give you everything and then I'll float away like puffs of cotton from a cotton tree. but maybe you already have everything...
float away
like puffs of cotton.
like bits of a wish.
I don't know what to say to you, crazy-boy. preconceived-notion-boy. Everything you do makes me grin. Sometimes it's just out of pure happiness. or out of spite. or maybe out of empathy.
I guess freedom smells like that to some people.
I want people to see you for who you are. not who you seem. but if you don't let anyone see who you are, that will never change. So gone are my chances. not gone. just diminished. so I'll give you what I can and then float away like puffs of cotton from a cotton tree.
float away
like puffs of cotton.
like bits of a wish.
I try so hard but I'm struggling it's visible and I know but I'm trying and I'm going to keep trying no matter what.
But who I am to try?
Friday, May 30, 2008
Will I's and What if's.
Will I lose my dignity?
Someone show me a way to get out of here.
What if I don't wake up tomorrow?
Cause I constantly pray I'll get out of here.
What if someone finds me out?
Please, won't somebody say I'll get out of here?
What if someone discovers a snag in this perfect web of lies I've spun?
Someone give me my shot, or I'll rot here.
What if no one cares?
Show me how and I will, I'll get out of here.
What if they already knew?
I'll start climbing uphill and get out of here.
What if I can't do this anymore?
Someone tell me I still could get out of here.
What if I die tomorrow?
Someone tell Lady Luck that I'm stuck here.
Will someone even notice?
Gee, it sure would be swell to get out of here.
What if I'm crazy?
Bid the gutter farewell and get out of here.
Will someone care?
I'd move heaven and hell to get out of...
What if I never find my purpose?
I'd do - I don't know what to get out of...
What if my life never has meaning?
But a hell of a lot to get out of...
What if I never succeed?
People tell me there's not a way out of...
Will I die alone?
But believe me, I've got to get out of...
Who the hell am I, anyway?
Here.
Someone show me a way to get out of here.
What if I don't wake up tomorrow?
Cause I constantly pray I'll get out of here.
What if someone finds me out?
Please, won't somebody say I'll get out of here?
What if someone discovers a snag in this perfect web of lies I've spun?
Someone give me my shot, or I'll rot here.
What if no one cares?
Show me how and I will, I'll get out of here.
What if they already knew?
I'll start climbing uphill and get out of here.
What if I can't do this anymore?
Someone tell me I still could get out of here.
What if I die tomorrow?
Someone tell Lady Luck that I'm stuck here.
Will someone even notice?
Gee, it sure would be swell to get out of here.
What if I'm crazy?
Bid the gutter farewell and get out of here.
Will someone care?
I'd move heaven and hell to get out of...
What if I never find my purpose?
I'd do - I don't know what to get out of...
What if my life never has meaning?
But a hell of a lot to get out of...
What if I never succeed?
People tell me there's not a way out of...
Will I die alone?
But believe me, I've got to get out of...
Who the hell am I, anyway?
Here.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Pills.
Have strep throat?
Take these pills. They'll cure it.
Not enough vitamin C or iron?
Take these pills. They'll give you some.
Have an STD?
Take these pills. They'll keep it in check.
Depressed?
Take these pills. They'll cheer you up.
Don't like your personality?
Take these pills. They'll change it.
Don't like your life?
Take these pills. They'll end it.
Take these pills. They'll cure it.
Not enough vitamin C or iron?
Take these pills. They'll give you some.
Have an STD?
Take these pills. They'll keep it in check.
Depressed?
Take these pills. They'll cheer you up.
Don't like your personality?
Take these pills. They'll change it.
Don't like your life?
Take these pills. They'll end it.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Alouette.
Trapped in figurative cage, I have no escape. Morosely staring at the heavens, they beckon to me. Calling me back up to where I belong. Back to the stars. The dreams that I dream are only wishes, forcing reality into a cage of its own.
But why live life from dream to dream, and dread the day when dreaming ends?
Clipped wings make melancholy days.
"Why are you so sad?" they question. Like broken clocks. Stuck on the same hour, telling nothing but that.
"Wouldn't you?" I reply. "I don't belong."
I remember mother that day. Her crying woke me from my dreams. She told me father was sleeping in a place far, far away. That he'll be watching us from far, far away.
I never saw him again.
Pruned wings make indignant days.
Lust turns to disgust. A heart of gold into dust.
It gets old. It goes away.
At first you're excited, then you're less than delighted. By the end of each day, you want to drop dead.
I try to make the best of what I have.
Shattered hopes make hopeless days.
Her eyes were burning holes through me.
She said, "If I fall asleep and never wake up, promise me you won't try to wake me."
I can't handle waiting. Anticipating. So I pray that she wakes.
The lights have begun to burn down.
I lie down beside her, and in this gloom, we become one.
I cannot take it.
Oh darling, leave me be.
What will we make of this?
She never wakes up.
I'm shaking like a child. Sobbing.
You try to break this spell that's wrapped around me.
Every attempt misses. You never wake up.
Oh darling, leave me be.
There is a solemn silence in the air. Void of all pain. All suffering.
I tumble to the ground. Gasping for breath, my vision begins to swim. The ground beneath me seems to shift.
I awake with a start. Staring dumbstruck ahead of me, I begin to cry.
One day, I'll fly away.
But why live life from dream to dream, and dread the day when dreaming ends?
Clipped wings make melancholy days.
"Why are you so sad?" they question. Like broken clocks. Stuck on the same hour, telling nothing but that.
"Wouldn't you?" I reply. "I don't belong."
I remember mother that day. Her crying woke me from my dreams. She told me father was sleeping in a place far, far away. That he'll be watching us from far, far away.
I never saw him again.
Pruned wings make indignant days.
Lust turns to disgust. A heart of gold into dust.
It gets old. It goes away.
At first you're excited, then you're less than delighted. By the end of each day, you want to drop dead.
I try to make the best of what I have.
Shattered hopes make hopeless days.
Her eyes were burning holes through me.
She said, "If I fall asleep and never wake up, promise me you won't try to wake me."
I can't handle waiting. Anticipating. So I pray that she wakes.
The lights have begun to burn down.
I lie down beside her, and in this gloom, we become one.
I cannot take it.
Oh darling, leave me be.
What will we make of this?
She never wakes up.
I'm shaking like a child. Sobbing.
You try to break this spell that's wrapped around me.
Every attempt misses. You never wake up.
Oh darling, leave me be.
There is a solemn silence in the air. Void of all pain. All suffering.
I tumble to the ground. Gasping for breath, my vision begins to swim. The ground beneath me seems to shift.
I awake with a start. Staring dumbstruck ahead of me, I begin to cry.
One day, I'll fly away.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Cease Fire.
Those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it.
Over.
And over.
And over.
And over.
A vicious cycle.
Over.
And over.
And over.
And over.
I sit here, counting down until the next cataclysm that I know has already happened.
Over.
And over.
And over.
And over.
A vicious cycle.
Over.
And over.
And over.
And over.
I sit here, counting down until the next cataclysm that I know has already happened.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Tink.
Characters:
Svetlana
Katya
Svetlana's Mother
Young Svetlana
Valodya
Soldier/Ferryman/Townsman
*The couple that is frequently dancing is actually the characters of KATYA and VALODYA.
(A eerily haunting "music box" waltz starts to play. A soft blue light comes up. A couple, dressed in ball outfits waltz on stage, dancing in time with the music. A small girl starts to laugh. The couple dances for a bit, and then waltzes offstage. The little girl starts to cry. Lights fade.)
(Lights up on the outside of a shabby looking bakery.)
KATYA: Out! Out! Shoo! Get out! I don't ever want to see your wretched face around here ever again! Shoo! Get out!
(A teenage girl is thrown backwards out the bakery door. A few personal belongings are thrown at her face. She starts to peruse the items to confirm she has everything.)
KATYA: That's the last time you've burned the bread in this bakery!
SVETLANA: (Horrified) My music box!
KATYA: (Closing door) Hm? What?
SVETLANA: My music box! I need it!
KATYA:(Irritated) Oh, yes. That. Stay here. I'll get it. (Exit through door)
(SVETLANA sits dejectedly on the ground, wiping away tears.)
KATYA:(Enter through door, and in considerably softer tone and expression) Here. Take it. (Holds out a small, ornate, square music box.)
SVETLANA: (Standing) Thank you, Katya. (Takes box dejectedly, and starts to collect belongings)
KATYA: (Reassuring and comforting) Listen. Sveta. It's not the end of the world. You'll find a new place to live. And a new job. I promise.
SVETLANA: But why? Why do I have to go? Do you not like me anymore?
KATYA: No, no, no, no, no. It's not that I don't like you -- and I do, but I just can't have you burning the bread and the pastries left and right!
SVETLANA: I can't help it! It's just so boring. All you do is sit around and watch bread rise! I can't stand it! And what if I can't find a job?
KATYA: (Exasperated) Sveta, trust me. I'm sure you'll be fine. When I found you wandering the streets of Moscow when you were a little girl, all you had were the clothes on your back and that little music box. You still managed. It's a pity you can't remember anything, though.
SVETLANA: May I please stay?
KATYA: No. Now go.
SVETLANA: Please?
KATYA: No! Now off with you before I chase you out myself!
(SVETLANA slowly collects her things and starts to exit stage left.)
KATYA: Good luck! Maybe we'll see each other again some day!
(SVETLANA waves goodbye to KATYA, KATYA exits through the door. SVETLANA continues on her way, hanging her head dejectedly. Exit SVETLANA stage left. Lights fade.)
(Lights up on a forest scene, enter SVETLANA stage left)
SVETLANA: Where should I go? It's not as if I have a home...
KATYA: (Offstage, as though SVETLANA is remembering it) When I found you wandering the streets of Moscow when you were a little girl, all you had were the clothes on your back and that little music box...
SVETLANA: (With dawning realization) ...Of course! Moscow! Maybe someone remembers me back there. (Exits stage right)
(Lights fade)
(Lights up, enter SVETLANA stage right)
SVETLANA: (Out of breath) Phew! I wonder how close I am to Moscow. It can't be much further. Never mind that, I need to take a break. (Sits down and leans against a tree. Slowly takes out the music box from bag, begins to sing melody under her breath.) Where did you come from? And why can't I remember anything? (Opens music box, lights down sharply)
(Music starts to play, soft blue light up, aforementioned couple waltzes into the center of the stage and continues to dance throughout the flashback. Spotlight up on stage left, where a little girl is talking to an older woman)
YOUNG SVETLANA: But Mama! Why do we have to go?
SVETLANA'S MOTHER: Hush, Sveta! It's just a vacation, don't complain! We'll be back soon.
YOUNG SVETLANA: But Mama!... (Spotlight off)
(Spotlight up on stage right, where a young girl is talking to an older woman)
YOUNG SVETLANA: But Mama! Why do we have to go?
SVETLANA'S MOTHER: Shut up! They'll hear you! We have to get out of here!
(YOUNG SVETLANA begins to cry)
SVETLANA'S MOTHER: I told you to shut up! (Slaps SVETLANA, causing SVETLANA to cry even harder. SVETLANA'S MOTHER cries out in frustration, grabs SVETLANA'S arm and starts to pull her offstage. Spotlight fades.)
(Blue light fades, couple waltzes off, music fades.)
(Lights slowly up on forest, which should look exactly how it did before SVETLANA opened the music box.)
(SVETLANA seems to be in a trance, staring at the music box. Suddenly, she wakes up, jarring the music box shut.)
SVETLANA: Wha-? I certainly don't remember that happening. Then again, I don't remember a lot of things.
(Standing) Well, I might as well get going again. (Picks up things and walks off stage left. Lights fade.)
(Lights up on city set. SVETLANA wanders onstage, looking around in wonderment. She stops and, looking dazed, leans against a wall and slides down it.)
SVETLANA: Why does this look so familiar?...(Irritated) Oh, I wish I could remember something. Anything. (SVETLANA begins to look in her bag for some food. She pulls out a piece of fruit, and stops when she pulls out the music box. She stares at for a while, then lets out a sigh of frustration.) Where am I?...
(Opens music box slowly, lights drop suddenly. Melody begins to play, blue light up, couple waltzes to centerstage. Spotlight on stage right on YOUNG SVETLANA and SVETLANA'S MOTHER.)
SVETLANA'S MOTHER: Have you got everything?
SVETLANA: Yes, mama! Where are we going?
SVETLANA'S MOTHER: It's a surprise, Sveta. If I told you, it would ruin it.
SVETLANA: Aww, c'mon! You can tell me! I'll still act surprised!
SVETLANA'S MOTHER: No, Sveta.
(Spotlight off stage right, spotlight on stage left on YOUNG SVETLANA and SVETLANA'S MOTHER.)
SVETLANA'S MOTHER: Run, Sveta! Run! Get out of -- (Gunshot. SVETLANA'S MOTHER'S eyes glaze over, and she falls to the floor. YOUNG SVETLANA continues to run, sobbing hysterically. SOLDIER runs onstage to SVETLANA'S MOTHER, checks her pulse, and continues running. Spotlight fades. Couple waltzes off, blue light fades.)
(Lights up on SVETLANA slumped against wall, unconscious. TOWNSMAN enters, sees SVETLANA, rushes over to her, and checks her pulse. SVETLANA wakes with a start, panics, grabs her things and begins to run offstage.)
TOWNSMAN: No, wait! Are you alright?
(SVETLANA glances over her shoulder, looking terrified, and runs offstage. TOWNSMAN stares after her. Lights fade.)
(SVETLANA runs onstage and promptly collapses, panting.)
SVETLANA: Who was that? I feel like I'm seen him before. (Realizes she is still clutching the music box, stares at it in mild horror) And this! There's something strange about this. (Begins to open music box) I shouldn't, but... (Opens music box with full resolution)
(Melody begins to play, blue light up, couple waltzes onstage. Spotlight on stage right)
YOUNG SVETLANA: (Excited) Mama, where are we going? How are we getting there? When are we coming --
SVETLANA'S MOTHER: Svetlana, be quiet! We'll get there when we get there!
YOUNG SVETLANA: But --
SVETLANA'S MOTHER: Shush!
YOUNG SVETLANA: But I --
SVETLANA'S MOTHER: NO!
(Spotlight fades, spotlight up stage left)
YOUNG SVETLANA: (Crying) M-mama? What am I supposed to do?
TOWNSMAN: (Seeing that YOUNG SVETLANA is crying) There, there now. Stop crying. What's the matter? These are dangerous times; a little girl like you shouldn't be out by herself. Where's your mother?
YOUNG SVETLANA: I-I don't know where she is.
TOWNSMAN: What happened to her?
YOUNG SVETLANA: Well, she was telling me to run away, and then there was this really loud bang, and then she just sort of fell over, and then --
TOWNSMAN: (Sharply, solemnly) Did she give you any directions? Anything you were supposed to do?
YOUNG SVETLANA: (Pulling out two ferry tickets) She gave me these papers, but I can't read what they say.
TOWNSMAN: (Reading tickets) Alright. Here's what you're going to do. Are you listening? (YOUNG SVETLANA nods) Good. You're going to go to the town port, do you know where that is? (She nods) Point to it. (She points offstage) Right. Show them this ticket when you get there and tell them that you need to get to this ship. Got it? (She nods) Right. Now, I need you to be a big girl because I can't come with you. Now, wipe away those tears, everything will be alright. Good luck! (Spotlight fades, couple waltzes offstage, blue light fades.)
(Lights up on SVETLANA, who looks ahead, dumbstruck)
SVETLANA: Damn it! I was so close to remembering what happened! (Beat) There's something not right about this music box. (Tentatively opens music box. Lights down, melody begins to play, blue light up, couple waltzes on. Spotlight on stage right. A boardwalk is leading up the the edge of a ship. FERRYMAN is standing at the bottom on the boardwalk.)
Damn my motivation. Or lack thereof. I shall finish this at a later hour.
Svetlana
Katya
Svetlana's Mother
Young Svetlana
Valodya
Soldier/Ferryman/Townsman
*The couple that is frequently dancing is actually the characters of KATYA and VALODYA.
Tink
(A eerily haunting "music box" waltz starts to play. A soft blue light comes up. A couple, dressed in ball outfits waltz on stage, dancing in time with the music. A small girl starts to laugh. The couple dances for a bit, and then waltzes offstage. The little girl starts to cry. Lights fade.)
(Lights up on the outside of a shabby looking bakery.)
KATYA: Out! Out! Shoo! Get out! I don't ever want to see your wretched face around here ever again! Shoo! Get out!
(A teenage girl is thrown backwards out the bakery door. A few personal belongings are thrown at her face. She starts to peruse the items to confirm she has everything.)
KATYA: That's the last time you've burned the bread in this bakery!
SVETLANA: (Horrified) My music box!
KATYA: (Closing door) Hm? What?
SVETLANA: My music box! I need it!
KATYA:(Irritated) Oh, yes. That. Stay here. I'll get it. (Exit through door)
(SVETLANA sits dejectedly on the ground, wiping away tears.)
KATYA:(Enter through door, and in considerably softer tone and expression) Here. Take it. (Holds out a small, ornate, square music box.)
SVETLANA: (Standing) Thank you, Katya. (Takes box dejectedly, and starts to collect belongings)
KATYA: (Reassuring and comforting) Listen. Sveta. It's not the end of the world. You'll find a new place to live. And a new job. I promise.
SVETLANA: But why? Why do I have to go? Do you not like me anymore?
KATYA: No, no, no, no, no. It's not that I don't like you -- and I do, but I just can't have you burning the bread and the pastries left and right!
SVETLANA: I can't help it! It's just so boring. All you do is sit around and watch bread rise! I can't stand it! And what if I can't find a job?
KATYA: (Exasperated) Sveta, trust me. I'm sure you'll be fine. When I found you wandering the streets of Moscow when you were a little girl, all you had were the clothes on your back and that little music box. You still managed. It's a pity you can't remember anything, though.
SVETLANA: May I please stay?
KATYA: No. Now go.
SVETLANA: Please?
KATYA: No! Now off with you before I chase you out myself!
(SVETLANA slowly collects her things and starts to exit stage left.)
KATYA: Good luck! Maybe we'll see each other again some day!
(SVETLANA waves goodbye to KATYA, KATYA exits through the door. SVETLANA continues on her way, hanging her head dejectedly. Exit SVETLANA stage left. Lights fade.)
(Lights up on a forest scene, enter SVETLANA stage left)
SVETLANA: Where should I go? It's not as if I have a home...
KATYA: (Offstage, as though SVETLANA is remembering it) When I found you wandering the streets of Moscow when you were a little girl, all you had were the clothes on your back and that little music box...
SVETLANA: (With dawning realization) ...Of course! Moscow! Maybe someone remembers me back there. (Exits stage right)
(Lights fade)
(Lights up, enter SVETLANA stage right)
SVETLANA: (Out of breath) Phew! I wonder how close I am to Moscow. It can't be much further. Never mind that, I need to take a break. (Sits down and leans against a tree. Slowly takes out the music box from bag, begins to sing melody under her breath.) Where did you come from? And why can't I remember anything? (Opens music box, lights down sharply)
(Music starts to play, soft blue light up, aforementioned couple waltzes into the center of the stage and continues to dance throughout the flashback. Spotlight up on stage left, where a little girl is talking to an older woman)
YOUNG SVETLANA: But Mama! Why do we have to go?
SVETLANA'S MOTHER: Hush, Sveta! It's just a vacation, don't complain! We'll be back soon.
YOUNG SVETLANA: But Mama!... (Spotlight off)
(Spotlight up on stage right, where a young girl is talking to an older woman)
YOUNG SVETLANA: But Mama! Why do we have to go?
SVETLANA'S MOTHER: Shut up! They'll hear you! We have to get out of here!
(YOUNG SVETLANA begins to cry)
SVETLANA'S MOTHER: I told you to shut up! (Slaps SVETLANA, causing SVETLANA to cry even harder. SVETLANA'S MOTHER cries out in frustration, grabs SVETLANA'S arm and starts to pull her offstage. Spotlight fades.)
(Blue light fades, couple waltzes off, music fades.)
(Lights slowly up on forest, which should look exactly how it did before SVETLANA opened the music box.)
(SVETLANA seems to be in a trance, staring at the music box. Suddenly, she wakes up, jarring the music box shut.)
SVETLANA: Wha-? I certainly don't remember that happening. Then again, I don't remember a lot of things.
(Standing) Well, I might as well get going again. (Picks up things and walks off stage left. Lights fade.)
(Lights up on city set. SVETLANA wanders onstage, looking around in wonderment. She stops and, looking dazed, leans against a wall and slides down it.)
SVETLANA: Why does this look so familiar?...(Irritated) Oh, I wish I could remember something. Anything. (SVETLANA begins to look in her bag for some food. She pulls out a piece of fruit, and stops when she pulls out the music box. She stares at for a while, then lets out a sigh of frustration.) Where am I?...
(Opens music box slowly, lights drop suddenly. Melody begins to play, blue light up, couple waltzes to centerstage. Spotlight on stage right on YOUNG SVETLANA and SVETLANA'S MOTHER.)
SVETLANA'S MOTHER: Have you got everything?
SVETLANA: Yes, mama! Where are we going?
SVETLANA'S MOTHER: It's a surprise, Sveta. If I told you, it would ruin it.
SVETLANA: Aww, c'mon! You can tell me! I'll still act surprised!
SVETLANA'S MOTHER: No, Sveta.
(Spotlight off stage right, spotlight on stage left on YOUNG SVETLANA and SVETLANA'S MOTHER.)
SVETLANA'S MOTHER: Run, Sveta! Run! Get out of -- (Gunshot. SVETLANA'S MOTHER'S eyes glaze over, and she falls to the floor. YOUNG SVETLANA continues to run, sobbing hysterically. SOLDIER runs onstage to SVETLANA'S MOTHER, checks her pulse, and continues running. Spotlight fades. Couple waltzes off, blue light fades.)
(Lights up on SVETLANA slumped against wall, unconscious. TOWNSMAN enters, sees SVETLANA, rushes over to her, and checks her pulse. SVETLANA wakes with a start, panics, grabs her things and begins to run offstage.)
TOWNSMAN: No, wait! Are you alright?
(SVETLANA glances over her shoulder, looking terrified, and runs offstage. TOWNSMAN stares after her. Lights fade.)
(SVETLANA runs onstage and promptly collapses, panting.)
SVETLANA: Who was that? I feel like I'm seen him before. (Realizes she is still clutching the music box, stares at it in mild horror) And this! There's something strange about this. (Begins to open music box) I shouldn't, but... (Opens music box with full resolution)
(Melody begins to play, blue light up, couple waltzes onstage. Spotlight on stage right)
YOUNG SVETLANA: (Excited) Mama, where are we going? How are we getting there? When are we coming --
SVETLANA'S MOTHER: Svetlana, be quiet! We'll get there when we get there!
YOUNG SVETLANA: But --
SVETLANA'S MOTHER: Shush!
YOUNG SVETLANA: But I --
SVETLANA'S MOTHER: NO!
(Spotlight fades, spotlight up stage left)
YOUNG SVETLANA: (Crying) M-mama? What am I supposed to do?
TOWNSMAN: (Seeing that YOUNG SVETLANA is crying) There, there now. Stop crying. What's the matter? These are dangerous times; a little girl like you shouldn't be out by herself. Where's your mother?
YOUNG SVETLANA: I-I don't know where she is.
TOWNSMAN: What happened to her?
YOUNG SVETLANA: Well, she was telling me to run away, and then there was this really loud bang, and then she just sort of fell over, and then --
TOWNSMAN: (Sharply, solemnly) Did she give you any directions? Anything you were supposed to do?
YOUNG SVETLANA: (Pulling out two ferry tickets) She gave me these papers, but I can't read what they say.
TOWNSMAN: (Reading tickets) Alright. Here's what you're going to do. Are you listening? (YOUNG SVETLANA nods) Good. You're going to go to the town port, do you know where that is? (She nods) Point to it. (She points offstage) Right. Show them this ticket when you get there and tell them that you need to get to this ship. Got it? (She nods) Right. Now, I need you to be a big girl because I can't come with you. Now, wipe away those tears, everything will be alright. Good luck! (Spotlight fades, couple waltzes offstage, blue light fades.)
(Lights up on SVETLANA, who looks ahead, dumbstruck)
SVETLANA: Damn it! I was so close to remembering what happened! (Beat) There's something not right about this music box. (Tentatively opens music box. Lights down, melody begins to play, blue light up, couple waltzes on. Spotlight on stage right. A boardwalk is leading up the the edge of a ship. FERRYMAN is standing at the bottom on the boardwalk.)
Damn my motivation. Or lack thereof. I shall finish this at a later hour.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Strings.
With a gargantuan crash, the earth is shaken. Can you feel the ground beneath you shift?
Slowly, they creak to life. Groaning with disuse. Twirling and spinning. Somewhere in the distance, a record starts to play, spinning out a haunting melody that is only heard in dreams. Nightmares. Horrific daydreams.
Gracefully, they waltz, in 3/4 time. See how they spin and dance? Orbiting around one grand celestial being. Their lithe limbs brushing, skin against skin.
They spin and turn. Turning like the pages of a book. Gliding this way and that. The dance crescendos in intensity. Whirling and whipping and sliding and gliding. Scuffing the floor with their feet.
Somewhere, in the distance, something goes horribly wrong.
The record, in all its glory, cracks in two. A cacophony of noise begins to pervade the air. The neck and bell of the phonograph, with as much grace and curvature of a swan, begin to droop. Melting. Liquefying. Falling apart, bit by bit.
There has been a disharmonious dissonance in the air. Shredding, tearing, biting. Two graceful figures stumble. Their strings entwine, twisting and wrenching. They break, they unwind.
Two marionettes, used, finished, and broken, tumble to the ground.
With a gargantuan crash, the earth is shaken. Can you feel the ground beneath you shift?
Slowly, they creak to life. Groaning with disuse. Twirling and spinning. Somewhere in the distance, a record starts to play, spinning out a haunting melody that is only heard in dreams. Nightmares. Horrific daydreams.
Gracefully, they waltz, in 3/4 time. See how they spin and dance? Orbiting around one grand celestial being. Their lithe limbs brushing, skin against skin.
They spin and turn. Turning like the pages of a book. Gliding this way and that. The dance crescendos in intensity. Whirling and whipping and sliding and gliding. Scuffing the floor with their feet.
Somewhere, in the distance, something goes horribly wrong.
The record, in all its glory, cracks in two. A cacophony of noise begins to pervade the air. The neck and bell of the phonograph, with as much grace and curvature of a swan, begin to droop. Melting. Liquefying. Falling apart, bit by bit.
There has been a disharmonious dissonance in the air. Shredding, tearing, biting. Two graceful figures stumble. Their strings entwine, twisting and wrenching. They break, they unwind.
Two marionettes, used, finished, and broken, tumble to the ground.
With a gargantuan crash, the earth is shaken. Can you feel the ground beneath you shift?
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