Regardez Le Ciel

2011-08-27T03:53:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, I feel like I need to take a step back and reevaluate my life. I'm sitting in my underwear, drinking oceans of cran-raspberry juice for reasons that I'm too embarrassed to admit to anyone. Partially because I don't like the taste of plain cranberry juice, but partially because I can make really bad decisions. I don't understand how my decisions go...by. I don't think that made sense. It is completely and utterly baffling to me that the numbers of negative consequences is inversely proportional to the number of bad decisions that I make. My life should be falling apart at this point. At least, if I were straight, I think it would be.

I haven't written anything in a really long time. It used to be a catharsis for me, but as of late, I seem to think that I'm above creativity and expression of emotion. Instead, all of the things I'm not saying seem to be redirecting themselves to people. I find myself almost saying self-issued taboo phrases to people I've just met. And I'm falling. But he says I can't. And I'm telling myself I won't. But it's not the time and it's the place and things are strange and it just can't. And I wish time could just stand still, even if for a couple months. I wish things were different. But they're not. And they won't be. It's disappointing, but I'll learn to cut my losses and move on. I'll reevaluate my life.

Outside.

2011-01-20T23:09:00.001-08:00

And it's gorgeous outside. The wind swaying this way and that. Achy, broken trees ticking like cold metronomes. Leaves blowing past me. Swirling eddies, liquid death.
The air is frigid. I can't feel my fingers. As the chilled air fills my lungs, I can feel them expanding. Pulsing. Pounding. Or is that my heart? Something seems to swell. In. Out. In. Out. Breathing deep. Breathing in sleep.

Faint music drifts on the wind. Under my breath? I would never sing these songs to you. But yet, here they are. I'll say things I'd never say directing. Charming. Singing. A siren's song flitting this way and that. Enchanting. My, how so.

And oh, the great sights I see. Brilliant white beams of light streaming through the thick fog, piercing it like a million golden-white arrows. Little lines of frozen water crack and branch out along the side of the road. Millions of ice particles fill the air. Solid gold. Solid cold. But yet. The air is still. It's not raining. It's not sunny. It...
It just is.

And it's simply gorgeous outside.

2010-04-01T22:13:00.001-07:00

I just don't have time anymore.

I hate it.

Untitled #9

2010-02-16T21:07:00.000-08:00

I took a walk tonight. A deluge fell from the sky. It soaked through my shoes and into my skin. It sank through my bones in the marrow and settled there, deep in my soul. A shadow fell over my face ever so slowly, like a cloud over water.

I searched for a beacon in the shadow. Some saviour of this terrible me.
it never existed. it couldn't possibly.

This harvester of light stole it all away from here. This dark sanctum shrouded it all. But I still believe in the light. I don't believe that it's entirely gone. I still believe it's there. Somewhere. weeping...

Die alone.

2010-01-19T23:17:00.000-08:00

The storm outside was blasting the life out of the ground. Something seemed different. The sky looked furious. The zephyrs seemed to snap at the sun. The storm called me to come outside. People were dying. The sun said to me, "You must be a masochist for thinking I could love you. Invest in some bandages."
I shut my door and went to sleep. Because who could ever love unlovable me?

Outside, the sky raged and fumed. It cast down angels and raised demons on high. Rifts split open and time melted.
And I began to wonder if love was alive. A lie.

The angels began to sing hymns of hate ad nauseum. Holy chants had never felt so blasphemous.
The storm began to fester and seethe like an angry wound that rolled in from the sea.
I woke up from my slumber and looked outside. People were dying. I laughed. But no one laughs at God. Not even angels.

I sat down at my desk and opened a letter.

A letter to my future self --

Your past self ripped down the heavens and tore the clouds asunder to fix you.
And though I can't know for certain how it all turned out, please remember, we were created with the intention of being happy. Not to watch the world wither away to dust. So please, be happy. ~~For me.~~ For you.

I tore up the letter and fed it to the sky. Maybe it's better if I die alone.

Untitled #8

2010-01-19T22:19:00.000-08:00

I can't explain this state that I'm in. This state of existence, of terrible being.
You knew that I was broken pretty bad. You left me in silence.

And the reckless abandon that we had. You ran outside without your shoes and told me not to follow you.
Of course.
What a curious place we had found in that greenhouse in the yard. There were lights all around, silvery gray. Whispers of ghosts gone by. Small tendrils crawled their way out of a pot in the center of the room.

The petals unfurled, revealing a

fuck this shit.

What the fuck am I doing here? I hate this place. It's repulsive. The people are fucking pricks with no regard for anything except their grande no-fat lattes and their fake and bakes.
God, this place.

I can't explain this state that I'm in. I could tell you, but the telling gets old.
I fight with myself every day. I fight. I spar. Just jump on a bus. Go somewhere. It's not like you really need to do any of this --
NO. FUCK YOU. I DO.
This place doesn't allow for such freedom. Such happiness. No. It's a dark thing, a ravenous, hungry beast that sucks any scrap of anything less than superficial happiness out of you. It just doesn't lend itself to that. We aren't significant. Just little tin soldiers beating some little tin life, pretending like it matters. We're just floating in space.
I can't understand why we keep whispering when we mean harsh, brutal things.
You're not fooling anyone.
We should be screaming our lungs out all the time.

2010-01-13T23:19:00.002-08:00

They say that no good art came from happiness.

No good art seems to be coming from anything anymore.

Spilling.

2010-01-08T00:34:00.001-08:00

Hang on, help is on the way.

Untitled #7

2009-12-14T00:33:00.000-08:00

There's a girl who passes me in the hallway every day. She nods at me. I nod back. We continue on with our business.

Fleeting human contact.

She seems to know me, and every time she nods, I wrack my brain, but I can't seem to remember. Oh God, who is she?

I can't seem to keep everything straight. I don't know whom I've decided to like or to hate.
And I'm just waiting for the day when someone will slap me or shake me and tell me that it's not real. That it's understandable to forget.

But it never happens. The day never comes. I forget which habits I was supposed to break or to show.

The girl seems to like me, but I don't know. I can't relate to her. I'd like to get to know her, but Jesus, all the time it takes.
And maybe that one day will come when she'll slap me and say "Hey fucker, who are you?"

And I won't know the answer.
So until then, I'll just smile and nod and pretend like I know.

Orchestration.

2009-11-21T18:38:00.000-08:00

There are days, and then there are days like today. When it seems like everything is symbolic of my life and my entire existence, for better or for worse, and it makes me smile. Or frown. For better or for worse? I do not know. I don't think I ever will.

Walking, head bent, with my mind filled with thoughts to the brink. But managing. Somehow managing. And the wind blows, for the longest time. Watching the wind blow the leaves in little dances around my feet. Watching the world, in the cold, shivery way that it has, come alive. Watching as the trees sway, back and forth, like some kind of giant metronome. Watching as what I thought might stay, goes. Watching, watching watching, as my life happens.

Watching, doing, or making? And I wonder. My ideas are running around. I feel as though I could write pages and pages and pages of stories and plots and adventure. In my head. Onto the pages they would go, and make a masterpiece.

And I've been thinking. All throughout the night I thought, and drew mental images. Of people I know and people I don't. My head is full of strangers I've created whom I'm sure have interesting stories to tell if only they I would tell them. And people that would tell stories if only I could bring them to life. They are everywhichwhere. One of my biggest disappointments is that nobody will ever be able to see the things in my head as I do. I can never hope to create the art and the ideas I see and do them justice and make you understand that I think in colors, big and bold and loud and everything is Exciting. And you just want to stay because it it breathtaking.

I don't think I'm living up to my potential. Instead, I've found little potentials and I've been chasing them into the deep dark corners where they live and sometimes I forget to turn around and see where I've been going. Perhaps I am lost, but I am having an awfully big adventure. Shall I find my way back? What will I find? What if we could meet ourselves in the past and see how we'd changed? But perhaps that is for another day. Another day that isn't so blisteringly cold. So terrible and demanding. So fucking cruel.

Untitled #7.

2009-11-17T21:09:00.000-08:00

I took a walk tonight.

It was frigid; probably the coldest it's been all winter. Up the in sky, the moon shone like a pale bone. A sort of humanity left in the inky black.
I smiled at the moon. As if I knew her.

I found a quiet stretch of grass at the park my house and laid down, despite the residue from the earlier cloudburst. I began my quiet mental ascension to twilight. To a place where religion hasn't taken root- of course, my concentration breaks. I look up again. The clouds are stains upon the sliver of humanity.

She begins crying for things that she sees others do without crying.

The stains try to cover for themselves by scattering away from the tears.
The clouds crack open and drip. The grass is stained with the moon's lachrymose.

And off in the distance, I spot a dark, yawning chasm.

Invocation.

2009-11-16T21:02:00.000-08:00

The clouds burst into pieces, small sharp shards of shrapnel piercing the air. The sun cascades in through the window and shuns away from the sky. It darkens outside. The temperature drops. Ice crystals form on frosted window panes. Breath vapors cling to the air, visibly shaking in fear.

The swing that I'm sitting on begins to shake as well. A rumbling begins to shake the very earth itself. I draw an aegis of courage from somewhere deep in the depths of my soul and try to face what is bound to come.

The ground splits open. A yawning chasm opens. Blinding darkness spews forth, enveloping the sun. The rainbows are covered with dark, heavy tones. A prismatic spray of darkness issues forth from the gash and begins to send runners towards the swingset. I inhale the frozen air. My aegis is insubstantial, founded upon myth and legend, and crumbles like dust. The tendrils begin to creep up the poles.
Where is the light? Is it sobbing somewhere, surrounded by shadows?

The rainbows have become tainted with brilliant shades of black. The chasm has fixed its signs on the earth. The darkness has left this place in ruin.
Black clouds pool on the edges of the chasm as the slash of a mouth overflows with chromatic ink.

And so it was there, sleeping dormant deep inside of me.
It lay there, bubbling silently from the gash, shrouding the entire city.
They retreated back into the netherworld. Gone, but not entirely gone. The sun isn't quite as bright as it used to be. Those rainbows aren't as prismatic as they should be.

And that playground has never been the same.

Untitled #6

2009-11-02T00:19:00.000-08:00

And the broken man sat down at a table and hung his head in his hands.
His silence is stained with lachrymose. The sun, to him, is a stranger.

He goes to his familiar room. The room filled with books, and he tears out the pages, word by word.
The moon, to him, is a stranger.

It's almost like forgetting the name of your favourite book. Your favourite song.
It used to be so easy, but now you can't remember.

And the man at the table next to an open window feels the chill from the icy moon. She, to him, is a stranger. But like the name of your favourite book.

And the broken man shuts the window. He goes back into the familiar room and puts the shattered books back into their places.

And the broken man became reacquainted with the moon.

November.

2009-10-10T20:33:00.000-07:00

Rushing and racing and spinning in circles in life's fast forward motion.

And as we clung to hope, we fell to our knees. A thousand ancient spiders bit and scratched our legs. It seeped into our minds. It poisoned all our thoughts.

And now we move so fast that we forget our purpose. Racing and colliding so chaotic.
Spinning so fast that I'm frightened I might disappear in the blur of the

burning that caught on our legs that snatched us together while we weren't looking.
It sparks into emerald green spirals that twist on forever inside of your eyes.
And we began to laugh up a storm and melted away the speed, but as we cried, we tried to find the words that would

help with the decay of our hope. Upon the soft, spongy moss, we lay our heads and our hearts down. We smelled the earth and cried until we laughed and laughed until we cried.
And then we took our tears and mixed it with the burns that covered our legs.

And a soft November rain began to float down. The spiders curled.

Slow me down, November rain. Sweet rain.

And the burned legs did not move quickly. They did not twist or run in circles.

We are the king's third son, and we cannot sleep. The words that we searched for were not home inside their tombs.

The sweet November rain gave hope to our legs, praying that disease would leave us.

We are the king's first son, and we drove our hearse straight through the rain.

Answers in the Basement.

2009-09-13T01:03:00.000-07:00

The darkened house loomed before us like some black colossus, hoisting the night sky high above it. We glanced at each other, both shivering with anticipation. Or fear? We couldn't differentiate the two. My hand found yours, the distance between our fingers shrinking to nothing in an instant, as did any doubt. With firm resolution, we stepped onto the cracked driveway. It had long been weathered; tiny green weeks poked their leaves through each rift in the concrete.
Everything was covered in frost. It was deathly quiet; almost like a cemetery.

And maybe we should have hesitated just a moment there. We should have stopped to raise the question. Should we be doing this? But the night was contagious. Any stillness that was in the air seemed to have wormed its way into our brains, stifling the part that should have been catechizing the situation.

We reached the maw of the terrible beast and stepped inside. The air itself seemed to have become stagnant. Abandoned cobwebs drifted in the zephyrs that were stealing in through the door. We exchanged glances once more. Should we be doing this? Of course.

And so we stole into the quiet home in the world of dreams, our scarves wrapped around our necks like nooses.

We slipped in the door and slammed it quietly shut behind us. Turning around brought more than we expected. We were in a den of thieves. Little silvery blue will-o-the-wisps flitted this way and that, snatching darkness and swallowing it whole.

Quiet interludes of piano drifted up from the staircase positioned in the center of the room. Requiem. Nocturne. Bolero. Minuet. Serenades of unknown composers twisted upon mobius strips, writhing and slinking up the stairs.

Bravery must be catching. In the instant that I found firm resolution, you squeezed my hand, reminding me that I was anything but alone. Trampling the mobius strips, we began our journey.

Books. Books upon piles of books upon pianos propped up upon books. Our dream has come.
Our hands flew to cover gaping holes in our faces and our knees rushed to plug the air gushing from the floorboards.

Our hands set their priorities straight, and reached for tomes instead.

This is how we stole through the den of thieves and began to rummage for answers in the basement. We perused the questions in our minds and pondered the answers in the freshly decrepit pages.

They've named cities after us. They've built statues of us and put them underwater.
They've fought wars over us.
They say it's all our fault. What's all our fault?

I don't know.

And this is the story of how we found the little girl in the basement in the quiet house in the world of dreams. Her pianos glowed -- it was the oddest thing. They were filled with candles. Even curiouser, the flames were the same from the den upstairs.

Upstairs, the sun had passed through the glass. The dark was blacker than black. A quiet requiem began to drift through the dark, catching on radio signals that were snagged in our hearts.

And this is the story of the little girl in the basement, who had been born with silver lilies gleaming in her eyes. She was sleeping for eternity by morning with her scarf around her neck. The lilies began to wisp away, curling up over her eyelids and dissipating into the musty, bookish air.

Forever is a long time. I know.
What did we do? I don't know. I really don't know.

And this is the story of how the earth made the heavens and waters collide with such a fury, it was incorrigibly calm. This is the story of how we never discovered what made us so delightfully distasteful. This is the story of the quiet house in the world of dreams. This is the story of the little girl this is the story of how we stole this is the story this is this is this is.

It is so simple, the way the pieces all fit together.

The final piece, the final understanding. Here's a scarf.

No sound at all.

Shaken.

2009-09-10T18:01:00.000-07:00

We are the Broken, the Few, the Damned. We are the dust under your feet and the shimmering stars above your head.

We are the fallen birds with broken wings. We are the fists of vengeance that pummel. We are the forces of nature that buffet and raze. We are the swirling clouds that block the sun and rain justice down upon mankind.

We are the channelers of life and dispellers of death.

We are the relinquished spirits whose requiems were lost in the dark.
We are the bolts of energy crackling from the sky and the soft glow of the moon in the blackened evening.

We are the conjurers of dreams and obliterators of oblivion.

We are the Ruinous, and we are back for retribution.

Frightened.

2009-08-15T22:03:00.000-07:00

Sand dribbles from my clenched fist, running though the tiny rivulets and creases in my hand.

Minuscule rocks tumble to the ground.

I wish I could live in music. I think my life would be so much better if what I called home was the cradle of a soft, lulling flat sign in a song, rather than this shitty, fucked up bubble that prevents me from achieving my potential. Chains.

I hope it's everything I hope it to be.

Sighing songs from sad, little, twinkling stars make the trees weep.
Weeping willows already exist.

And it all seems so silly.

I can't take this anymore. I can't fucking take it.

Amid the falling snow, I catch glimpses of something beautiful. I can't quite see. Who the hell can see forever?
These little birds love the white sounds emitted from clouds. Chirp chirp.

Dreams are easy to achieve if hope is all I'm hoping to be.

Antisepholes.

2009-08-15T02:13:00.000-07:00

Please remember me. Remember me when I'm dead and gone underground. When I've faded from each singular soul's mind. When my stain fades from the human lace entirely. Please. I'm begging you.

One cold, wintry, blisteringly frigid day, I'll take you there. I'll shock and awe and amaze you. It's an awful, flickering, terrible, beautiful sight.

That place where the cool, green waters cause the golden empyrean kingdom to droop and the shivery, cold, dank earth to rise up.

And thus, I go to the place where the water makes the heavens and the earth collide.

And it's a sad place. I'm all alone there. It's cold.

And everything there seems to represent my existence, for better or for worse?

I stand beneath a cherry tree -- naked, bare, exposed. I reach out to touch a blossom and I detonate in a mixed cavalcade of emotion. It manifests itself in cherry blossoms. And I fall to the damp soil, pretty in pink. A thing of the most bizarre nature. Of the most peculiar stature.

Please forgive me. I apologize if I took up too much of your time.

Untitled #5

2009-08-12T16:31:00.000-07:00

Fuck you for doing this.

Fuck you for all the photographs you won't burn.
All the digital images you won't erase.
Trapping us together like rancid breath in a fucked up, snaggletoothed mouth.
Each photo a jagged, twisted, painful

memory.

Fuck you for calling us significant others.
Let's just say we were lovers and get the fuck out.

Fuck you for leaving me every morning.
I'd fall asleep with you
and wake up in the company of ghosts.

Fuck you for the things we did and didn't do.

Fuck you for every convoluted sunset.
Every cloud torn asunder by your love. How fucking romantic.
I'm under that same sky.
Those same stars.
And I hate it.

But most importantly, fuck you for loving me.
Fuck you for giving me everything.
For letting me give you everything.
There's one thing that I want to say, so I'll try to be brave.

Love is nothing but time and a friend that you lose. You expected it to be more.

I'm not sorry there's nothing to save.
Fuck you. Fuck you for everything.

and i love you.

Drift.

2009-08-08T02:14:00.000-07:00

I don't know how much longer I can keep this up.

I feel like I'm waiting for something that will never come.

This turns to that, and other eloquent phrases.

BOOM.

i wish i could help you, sad eyed girl. brown eyed girl. i can't. you seem happy. but i don't think you are. how could you be?

and i wish i could fill you up with air and lift you off your toes and fill you up with happiness and give you everything you want so you'll be happy

and then they'll be nothing left of me and i'll just

float
away

like puffs of a dandelion weed.

like bits of a dream.

i wish i could help you, mister mystery. you deserve so much, and you have a lot, but the one thing that you treasure the most, that you value with all of your being, that one little spark that people search for all of their lives, it's fading

and
i
can't
help
you.

i'm not supposed to. it's just not how it works. it's not like i could really do anything.

is it?

could i?

could i fill you up with happiness and wonderment and make you see everything for what is it, and maybe more? could i give you all that splendiferous awe and amazement at the beauty of life? but it's not your fault. no, it really isn't. but maybe if i try really hard, i can give you something

and maybe that something will fill you up and let me down and i'll

just
float away.

like magic dream bits.

like puffs of a cloud.

and i'm trying.
oh i'm trying and it's so hard it's apparent that i'm trying but trying only gets you so far

and maybe someday i'll finally

float

away...

Eternity.

2009-08-03T02:41:00.000-07:00

and i'll just keep going and going until everyone i love is dead.

Change.

2009-08-03T00:25:00.000-07:00

I've started a photo blog. We'll see how this works out.

Here's a link.

Solitude.

2009-07-29T03:49:00.000-07:00

Is anyone actually still out there?

Oblivion is a powerful tool of adaptation to reality because it destroys, little by little, the surviving past in us that is constantly in contradiction with it...

Why am I not dying?

2009-07-26T01:50:00.000-07:00

This life is too busy for me. I can't keep up with all of these events. There's too much going on. Too much to cram in my little head. Too much that I don't comprehend.

I've tried to write more, but it hasn't worked out. It all turns out the same. The same themes. The same obscurity. The same "ghosts." But I don't know what these ghosts are. Well, that's not exactly true. I do know. I just can't describe them.

That's a lie, too. I can. I just don't want to. At least, not right now.

I doubt anyone reads this. Well, maybe it'll provide good entertainment on those early morning crises that I seem to have so frequently. Because I'm so fucking pretentious.

Oh, well.

This is my life, and it's ending one minute at a time.

2009-07-05T16:00:00.001-07:00

I look at the sun and I look in the mirror, and I hope that someday, I won't be able to tell the difference.

Glimmer.

2009-07-04T02:37:00.000-07:00

It's unnaturally frigid outside for this time of year.
I wish things would stop. If only for one night.

I lay in the grass, watching the stars twinkling out some cryptic message.

It's so cold tonight...

These ghosts that have haunted me for too long are learning how to breathe. One glides down and lands beside me, light as a feather, but thickening. That voice. That incessant whisper in my ear that has followed me for far too long. And the eyes.

The eyes. So...brilliant. Like fireflies in a jar. But changed, somehow. Two gleaming pearls. Two scintillating whirlpools, sucking any scrap of warmth that might have remained in my body. I shivered as a gust of wind shook the night and buffeted the grass.

Neighborhood attempts to dream, while all around them, silently, my ghosts glimmer and shake.

The figure floats on the breeze, eyes rippling, trapped in limbo; not quite yet solid, but still ghostly. Ghastly existence.
It's a beautiful, flickering sight.

And with the first crack of the breaking dawn, I, like a specter, drifted into the night.

Can't I?

2009-06-07T19:05:00.000-07:00

stars above. the smell of dead leaves. the colour of damp earth stretches across the horizon. over the horizon. mist looms by itself over yards and streets. the smell of death pervades the air.

What am I saying?

2009-05-11T19:05:00.000-07:00

Woke up and wished that I was dead with an aching in my head.

2009-05-07T23:22:00.001-07:00

I'm shaking like a child.

Stormy.

2009-05-04T20:36:00.000-07:00

Thunder rumbles in the distance -- a quiet but fierce power. The trees are restless.

A flash of light illuminates hidden secrets in the flora. Foxfire dances in and out of the shadows.

And with a crack, the sky opens wide and spits out a deluge. Drop upon drop upon drop...
Streets fill with water. Drains overflow. Flowering trees are shattered and crash to the ground. Gale force winds buffet the flowers who were brave enough to venture forth. Should have stayed underground.

and not a ghost in sight

Stardust.

2009-04-26T21:25:00.000-07:00

The ghosts came back again.

In the pouring rain, I walked down my street. It was nearly pitch black, but the street lights were cold and brilliant.
And from every street corner, they came. Whispering. whispering...

and the time came. the dancers fell through the ice. tears fell up. down. raining.
it looks like acid rain tonight. this misery that they bring is ephemeral.

and a shockwave blasted through the city. the sky gleamed and changed to white. crack. crack. boom.
and the sky began falling. pieces of white. fragments of stars. stardust. moondust.

and the city froze. when such wonders fall glittering from the sky, how can one ignore it?

and somewhere. somewhere in the city, someone's dreaming ends. their eyes are wide open. crazed ambition fills their glassy gleam. their eyes fill with it.

and all of their blind ambition left them deaf with perfect vision...
how on earth did they end up in the fireplace?

I can't stand it anymore. I simply collapse. These ghosts will not leave me.

And a shockwave echoes through the city. The stardust falls.
Such wonderful, glittering misery.

Untitled #4

2009-04-16T21:14:00.000-07:00

Words colours figures twisting anguish softness reds and browns lace cloth clouds comfort time stops frame eyes spheres prints souls life feeling emotion looping dripping draping misshapen.

And it was beautiful beyond description.

Untitled #3

2009-04-07T07:04:00.000-07:00

I went for a walk again this morning. I kept expecting to run into someone I knew, or at least someone. I kept hoping that we would see each other from far away, then slowly draw closer, and each of us would wonder why the other was out so early. Then we'd begin talking, out of pure curiosity.
But I didn't see anyone.

This is a terrible place to meet people.

Night's Requiem.

2009-04-05T23:46:00.000-07:00

I took a walk again tonight. It was a frigid night.

There's a field in the neighborhood. I found myself there, for no particular reason.
There was frost on the asphalt.
Up in the sky, the moon gleamed in a pool of black ink. So bright. Pale as a bone. Cold as ice.

In the empty field, the moonlit grass stretched into a dark haze of trees. Not a soul in sight. Not even ghosts.

I laid down in the center of the field. The chilly night air blew through the grass, creating rippling waves.
And the ghosts descended. As did sleep.
When I woke up, the sun was barely tinting the sky a dark blue.
I couldn't stay there all night.
As I walked home, I kept my eyes on the brightening sky.
And as I walked past the cold, bright streetlamps, the night came flooding back.

The ghosts. Frost. Weeds. Grass. Bone. Frigid. Soul. Trees. Waves.

But then the vision became too vivid to bear.
I was on the ground. It was quiet as a graveyard.

And then I realized it.
There was no one here.

And as I lay on the ground, the ghosts descended again. I didn't move.
And I spent the dawn in the company of ghosts.

Early Morning.

2009-03-11T07:17:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning alone. I had slept in the presence of ghosts.

Outside, the morning's darkness was so cold and shivery. Silhouettes of monsters rose right and left.
No. Trees. Just trees.

I wonder if I'll see anyone. But doubt scampers in and out of the shadows.
Little clouds of exhalation form outside my mouth. Obfuscations of the dim light of the streetlights.

And all around, this city holds secrets that I need to discover. That I need to find. A hidden treasure here.
A secret there.

And even in the darkness, I can see every colour. I can see every shape, every twisting mass. Every single secret.

It's all around me. Like music in the cold morning air.

A Box of Clouds.

2009-03-01T14:04:00.000-08:00

A Box of Clouds

Characters-

Katie - A girl plagued by nightmares.
Damien - A child molester.
Living Mannequin - A part of Katie's dream world.

Note: There is no spoken word unless otherwise indicated.

Scene I

(Lights up on a podium, center stage, decorated in a way that is reminiscent of a carnival. March In A Minor begins to play. DAMIEN, wearing a mask, enters through the studio doors, carrying an old fashioned megaphone and a sandwich board sign with an old advertisement for a carnival on it. He carries them to the stage, places the sandwich board next to the podium, and places the bullhorn on the podium. He exits through the studio doors again, then enters with a large cage, big enough for a human to fit under, and LIVING MANNEQUIN, who is also wearing a mask, in tow. DAMIEN drags LIVING MANNEQUIN to the other side of the podium and quickly places the cage over her. KATIE, who is also wearing a mask, enters S.R. and crosses to the cage and begins pointing and laughing with the laughter in the song. DAMIEN picks up the megaphone and when the man in the song begins speaking, DAMIEN begins to address the audience as though he were the one speaking.

On the line "...to peel back your cranium!", DAMIEN crosses to LIVING MANNEQUIN, lifts the cage off, and then tears her mask off. KATIE mimes screaming when the recording screams. LIVING MANNEQUIN tears the mask off of DAMIEN. She begins choking DAMIEN, and the pair falls to the floor. All the while, KATIE is laughing with the recording. At the end of the song, the lights fade to black.)

Scene II

(Lights up on KATIE. She is lying unconscious center stage, with the only source of light being an old, yet very intricately designed lamp, which is resting on a nondescript desk D.S.R. A small chalkboard is resting up against the front of the desk -- visible to the audience -- with words that read "DO NOT TURN OUT THE LIGHT." Four signs, 'THIS WAY', 'THAT WAY', 'ONE WAY', and 'OTHER WAY', in respective order from U.S.L., are pointing offstage in four different directions. A loud thump startles KATIE into consciousness. Bleak sounding calliope music begins to play. The lights come up slowly.

As KATIE slowly begins to regain her composure, the thump is heard again. KATIE stands up and looks around, examining her surroundings. She starts to exit "THAT WAY", but is brought back onstage by LIVING MANNEQUIN. LIVING MANNEQUIN sidesteps her and exits "THIS WAY". KATIE tries to follow her, but something stops her; an invisible wall. She places her hands on the wall, then crosses to the desk and sits in the chair, frustrated. The thump is heard again, louder this time. She stands and begins to search in depth in the four directions.

KATIE exits "THAT WAY", then enters with a small ragdoll with scissors stuck in the torso. KATIE crosses to the desk, sits in the chair, and begins to examine it. A small girl's laughter echos around the room. KATIE stands, places the doll on the desk, and exits "One Way". The calliope music stops. KATIE stumbles back onstage, clearly distraught by something. The music resumes. KATIE regains her composure, then exits "Other Way". She enters with a small, ornate hand mirror. Upon further examination, she discovers that the mirror's surface is cracked and is missing a fragment.

The thump is heard once again. KATIE begins to storm off "THAT WAY", but is stopped by DAMIEN. He hands her a "Have You Seen This Child?" poster with KATIE's face on it. DAMIEN exits "Other Way". KATIE stares at the poster for a few seconds, then crumples it up, crosses to the desk, and yanks open one of the desk drawers. She makes as though to throw the poster inside, but is stopped by something. From inside the drawer, KATIE withdraws an envelope. She looks at the envelope confusedly, turning it this way and that, trying to make sense of it. Finally, defeated, she hands it to one of the audience members and motions for them to open it and read it.

AUDIENCE MEMBER: (Reading the letter) It's either this or that way. It's one way or the other. Try to find the pieces to fit inside the cracks. But the pieces don't fit together so well, with all the breaking and all the fitting back.

KATIE thanks the audience member by shaking their hand, then takes the letter back. She studies it very carefully, trying to decipher some clue from it. She thinks deeply for a few moments, then picks up the mirror. The thump is heard again. She looks off "THIS WAY" and notices something. She bolts off "THIS WAY", and is pushed back onstage by LIVING MANNEQUIN. From out of "OTHER WAY" comes DAMIEN. DAMIEN and LIVING MANNEQUIN meet center stage and begin to waltz. KATIE stands S.R., mouth open with horror. DAMIEN and LIVING MANNEQUIN's dance gradually increases in intensity and the music begins to skip. With each skip, DAMIEN and LIVING MANNEQUIN jolt as if they are marionettes whose strings are breaking, one by one. After all the "strings" have broken, DAMIEN and LIVING MANNEQUIN fall to the floor, unconscious, and the calliope music stops. KATIE runs over to them and checks their pulses.

KATIE starts to sob. She collapses to the ground in despair, then slowly becomes more angry than hopeless. She begins throwing a fit. She beats the bodies of LIVING MANNEQUIN and DAMIEN with her fists, then stands up and moves her tantrum to the desk. She shreds the letter into pieces, then throws it into the air. She jerks open one of the desk drawers and gasps. She slowly reaches into the drawer and extracts a mirror fragment. KATIE picks up the mirror off of the desk and holds the fragment to the hole in the mirror's surface. Absentmindedly, she starts to exit "ONE WAY", but trips over the lamp's cord and falls to the ground, dropping the mirror. She stands up, brushes herself off, then looks down. Her eyes widen. She picks up the dropped mirror -- the handle has snapped off. Furious, KATIE drops the mirror pieces and scoops up the lamp's cord in one fluid motion. She very visibly unplugs the lamp. As the lamp goes out, so does the spotlight.)

DAMIEN: (From the dark)There is no way out. You may think there could be a way out of this, but there isn't. You may think that all your problems can be solved by looking in the other direction. Well, you're wrong. Dead wrong.
Intentions may be good. Intentions may be bad. But they always end up coming back to haunt you.
Yours thoughts can fester in the darkest chasms of your soul. They'll keep screaming at you until the only you want is for them to get out. Your personal demons, well, they can scheme like professionals. But humans have this thing called hope. It can tear them apart. It can build them up. It can do marvelous things. It's no mystery why the lot of you tell yourselves that everything's going to be alright. (Beat) You should stop lying to yourselves.

Scene III

(Lights up on an abandoned playground. There is a small slide S.R. Various objects, such as chalk, a jump rope, ect. are scattered around the stage. KATIE, dressed in a jacket, a mid-length skirt, a tank-top, and sandals enters S.L. bouncing a small ball. Slide by The Dresden Dolls begins to play. At this point, all of KATIE's and the rest of the character's movements should become very fluid and graceful, as if the whole thing were a dance. The ball should be one that would be used for a outdoor game, such as four square or wall-ball. KATIE bounces the ball a couple times, then looks up and notices the slide. She drops the ball in front of the slide, climbs up the ladder to the top, and begins to slide down it. When she gets to the bottom, she accidentally hits the ball off S.L. She chases after the ball, exiting S.L. for a few seconds, but then backs up onto the stage again, followed by DAMIEN. KATIE begins to run away from him, but he catches her arm and makes eye contact on the line "...Wants to take her for a ride."

KATIE breaks away from DAMIEN and begins to run off S.R., but stops and turns to face him. She slowly crosses to him and looks at him tentatively. They embrace at the line "...And he tells her he'll take her away where it's safe..." and DAMIEN very noticeably crosses his fingers at the line "...And, of course, it is a lie."

They break apart and LIVING MANNEQUIN enters S.R., crosses to KATIE and removes her jacket, leaving her in the skirt and tank-top. KATIE crosses to Damien and begins to play pattycake with him. As this is happening, LIVING MANNEQUIN is standing upstage of the pair, sloppily applying lipstick, blush, ect. KATIE pays no attention to her. After a little while, they stop and KATIE motions for DAMIEN to bend over. She whispers something into his ear, then crosses to S.R. in front of the slide and begins mouthing numbers. DAMIEN appears irritated at first, but he hides it, crosses to the slide, and crouches behind it, although still very visible. KATIE stops counting and begins to search for DAMIEN. She enters the audience and looks up and down the aisles, but to no avail. Dejectedly, she turns back to the stage, spots DAMIEN, and excitedly runs to him.

She grabs his hand and pulls him U.S.L., picks up her ball, and begins to play catch with him. LIVING MANNEQUIN crosses to KATIE, takes her hand, and gently leads her to the slide. KATIE climbs to the top of the slide and LIVING MANNEQUIN removes her sandals. KATIE slides down the slide around the line "...But she's coming. She's coming. She's coming". LIVING MANNEQUIN crosses to center stage, faces the audience, and begins to address the audience as though she were the one speaking. At the line "...a good decade before the bell rang?", LIVING MANNEQUIN turns away from the audience, distressed.

At the line "As she starts to draw nearer," KATIE moves into the audience and hides behind an audience member, but is still very visible. DAMIEN appears irritated to see that KATIE has disappeared, but then glances into the audience, and his expression softens into a ominous smile. He crosses to KATIE and leads her by the hand to the slide. KATIE appears wary of DAMIEN, struggling somewhat against his grasp. DAMIEN half helps her, half pushes her to the top of the slide, then crosses to the bottom of the slide and crouches with his arms spread, as if to catch her.

At the beginning of the "Don't worry, I've got you" lines, KATIE begins to slowly slide down the slide. When KATIE is about halfway down the slide, LIVING MANNEQUIN notices the scene, rushes to KATIE's side, and begins pleading with her, but KATIE doesn't notice. When KATIE reaches the bottom of the slide at the last "Don't worry, I've got you", LIVING MANNEQUIN places herself between DAMIEN and KATIE. KATIE and LIVING MANNEQUIN make eye contact, then KATIE frantically tries to stand up and run away. Before she can run away, though, at the line 'The orange man's got you," DAMIEN throws LIVING MANNEQUIN aside, picks KATIE up and half drags, half carries her offstage. LIVING MANNEQUIN, paralyzed with horror, is unable to do any thing and simply stares after them. She dissolves into tears. Blackout.
The lights come up on the abandoned playground. On the last line (...Wants to take her for a ride), KATIE's ball bounces onstage. Blackout.)

Echo Gallery.

2009-02-24T00:04:00.000-08:00

Walk through this echo gallery. Shadows of individuals rest here, succumbed to their inner thoughts. And while the hall is a secret, the world's critical gaze judges those that reside inside.

Look at this girl. Jackie, her name was. Jackie, the Maiden of Anguish, you might call her now. She's just a statue now. And now, only in her wildest dreams is she human.
And from her rocky face, her dry eyes shed tears of pebbles.

Her face was sculpted from her body, a bust from the rest. The artist; herself.
She only wanted to look pretty for the world.

But now, the curator of the gallery covers them all in silky clothes to keep them from staining.
What's the point of looking pretty if nobody's watching anymore?

But she's not pretty anymore. No, she had a scarring accident. Someone tipped her over while visiting and her face received a fatal chip.

Horribly disfigured, she welcomes the curator's cloth. She might be taken down from the gallery, because who likes imperfection among perfection?
Isn't it sad that beauty is based on chips and flaws and dents?

But now, she sits in a pensive state. She wonders if she could have changed her destiny. Who knew that she would have sold herself to this awful place?

Eden.

2009-02-22T16:12:00.000-08:00

The spirits, they are restless. There is something ill at ease. I watch them from my window, quarreling with the wind.
Look into the garden.
The branches, they are swaying, dead twigs suspended in air. There is something ominous about them.
The spirits create a raging tempest of memories soon forgot. I watch it from my window -- a storm of swirling silver is mirrored in the glass.
The wind picks up. An unearthly whistling fills the air.
Thunder crashes.

The fall of water from clouds forms a silver sheet. It crashes upon the roses and strips them bare of colour.
It is often warned that weather is a force to be reckoned with. It is heavily laden with omens, both good and bad.

Go into the garden to calm the spirits. The rain pours from the sky like blood from an open wound into the garden, staining it a silvery-blue.
The petals, they have fallen from the roses to the ground. The bare branches shake in fear.
I look upon the ghastly sight of destruction by gales and rains.
My eyes fill with water. I've fallen to the ground.
The ground begins to shake. I'm as frightened as the trees.
A yawning chasm opens, enveloping the breeze.
I wonder if this chasm will swallow all my fears. The silver sheets of water drain slowly to the deep.
The petals, they have vanished. Swept away with the silver.
I'm left alone with the trees; what little use they serve. They quail in fear, huddling masses of brown and grey.

The weeping willows sob, their time has come at last. They fall into the chasm, into a dark vortex of silver and pink.

The spirits, they have vanished. Drawn into some endless pit. The weather is an omen -- the storm is not relenting.

The future is looking grim. My eyes have flooded over. I'm swallowing the wind, the water, and my tears.
The garden, it is helpless. It's drawn into the chasm. The silver sheets of water are ever relentless.

The spirits, they were restless. There was something ill at ease. I watched them from my window, quarreling with the wind.
Looked into the garden.
The branches, they were swaying, dead twigs suspended in air. There was something ominous about them.

Something ominous.

I never should have gone into the garden.

What We Had Was a Beautiful Tapestry.

2009-02-17T22:20:00.000-08:00

Don't I know you?

We measured the time with hands entwined, counting the moments that left us in a haze.
Alone...
You left me.
But of course I forgive you. I've seen how you live. You have fears and needs to appease. But we helped each other. We banished those fears. We filled those needs. And like a phoenix, we rose from the ashes of your former life. We picked up the pieces, rose up towards the sun, with ambitions and dreams wrapped around us like brightly coloured ribbons.
But the ghosts in the attic, they never quite leave.

I could have sworn I know you.
It's a distance that's filled with the greatest of ease. The distance between our fingers. We fit into each other like puzzle pieces, with your hand in mine.

With each passing day, the history we made drew us tighter and tighter together, confirming our belief that some sort of miracle brought us together in this celestial waltz. Rising up towards the sky, dancing through time and space. Through the colours of the seasons. Through the brightly coloured ribbons.

But somehow, this time spent together was ephemeral. The petals of time slowly unfolded, revealing what the fates had planned for us. Whether we liked it or not, we accepted it as part of Time's decree.

So we just held on fast while the moments we had faded away into the caverns of our minds. And all of the memories we had eroded to dust. All of the time and space between us grew into a huge chasm.

We learn to accept the past as lessons that were painstakingly and exquisitely crafted. As thread that we use to spin the stories of our lives. The tales of the love and hate, the happiness and sorrow, captured in thin lines. Brightly coloured lines. Forever immortalized in a tapestry to hang on our walls.
Because we don't realize how much faith we have in our lives unless our prizes have been somehow elusive.

Yes, I thought I knew you from somewhere...

Inkwells.

2009-02-16T22:12:00.000-08:00

I don't want to sleep tonight. I want to take a walk in the falling snow.

...there's no snow...

I want to lay in fields of green-turning-white.

For some reason, all the world is alive tonight. I guess the cold, in a strange, invigorating way, breathes life. La vie.
The wind picks up. The windows shake.
Loud, though. I guess I won't hear the dawn break.

I cannot bear it any longer. I dash outside.

Neighborhoods with sporadic trees. The world pulses. The rhythm of la vie. The rhythm of my pulse. Together, just one beating heart.

I throw my head up to the sky. Clouds of ink float above, quietly. My breath catches.
And strangely, slowly, all around, I watch the snow fall to the ground.
Each silent flake is like a drum, beating out an ephemeral cadence.

Morning light upon the clouds. Drops of light fall to the ground.

The drums are still beating. Puddles of light ripple from centers of gold.

I never heard the dawn break.

Beginnings.

2009-02-08T19:53:00.001-08:00

A labyrinth of moments, each different from the next. Everywhere I turn, a new beginning begins, but they never find a finish.
The walls are nothing.
I walk to the horizon.

Another maze. It's all so surprising, but entrance is granted.
I wonder if it's different.

It isn't.

Up in the sky, the moon is swept around. Swaying over the ocean. The waves keep crashing. The moon still keeps moving. Almost like clockwork. Like a wind-up doll.
And through it all, the maze keeps going.

Another patch of sky. The moon has vanished. Or shrank.
But now the stars sign. Twinkling out a life that could be mine.
If only their light could shine enough for me to make it through the maze.

Sudden darkness.
Glancing up to the heavens -- the sky has clouded over.
There's no spark of Leo or Orion.

Winds from far off countries have taken echos of their stories, but all that is heard is whistling. Crashing. Misting. As the moon comes down from dreaming, and the crashing waves stop sleeping, one can only wonder if this is only dreaming.

An unseen blockage is an illusion. A turn taken to begin a new beginning -- still looking for an answer, but never finding the finish. The wrong turn is taken, and lost is found.

Lost, a dark line is made, hopefully in search of the way back to the moment.
It could be left or right.
It could be in or out.
It's either this or that way.
It should be one direction.

But the turn that was taken, the turn that is being made, the turns to come, they don't hold the answer. The stars are gone. The ocean has melted into darkness. The moon is weeping somewhere.

This might be the end.
Or this could be just the beginning.

Passion. Freedom. Love.

2009-02-04T21:34:00.000-08:00

Tall grass waving. Where are the clouds going?
The afternoon is hazy. The river flowing.
And all the while, flowers are whispering.

Silver willows. Shades of blues. Green and golden. Summer snowflakes.
Stargazer lilies have closed their eyes.
Some are known as freedom. Some as passion. Some as love.
Passionate love.
And all the while, the clouds are drifting. Collecting. Breaking.

Tall grass waving. Luna smiles upon her children.
The world has gone to sleep.
And from all around, the flowers' secrets drift through the air.
Like wood nymphs. Will-o-the-wisps. Foxfire.
Stargazer lilies have turned their faces to the moon.

Dawn breaks.
Freedom.
Morning glories yawn for hours.
Roses sip their coffee.
And from all around, the flowers tell a story.
About the one the moon loves.

Tall grass waving. Where are the clouds going? The afternoon is hazy. The river flowing.
And all the while, flowers are whispering.

All in a golden afternoon.

Untitled #2

2009-02-01T22:37:00.000-08:00

I took a walk today.
I went to the park of an elementary school. I don't remember the name.
The playground was abandoned.

Sitting on one of the swings, I passed the time. Counting blades of grass. Watching the clouds change. Observing breath clouds.
I spent the day in the company of ghosts. I woke up alone.

It was dark.

I began to walk home. Drops began falling from the sky. The clouds were crying.
Streetlight by streetlight, I counted. I began to talk to you, saying things I would never say directly.
Lightning crackled. Thunder boomed. Everything froze.

I hate the seasons here.

The North Wind.

2009-01-27T19:57:00.000-08:00

A late January day, and it's a hazy shade of gray. Head bent, but ever onward. Bent legs, bent mind. Scorching heat encased inside biting cold. Where have the leaves gone? The trees look naked.

And the wind begins to blow. Birches, elms, and willows begin to bend. Out of the blue. The gray. Corpses of leaves blow past. The world, in its cold way, started coming alive.

And the trees began to stretch. Cold wind chills to the bones.

There's no one here. Anywhere.
And I felt cold. I felt lonely. I felt frightened.

Fleeting memories of people gone by. Unchained recollections sink to the bottom of the lake. Links break. Ropes snap.
And the moments stretch on and on. Almost as long as the trees.

And in an instant, it's gone. Pebbles to the bottom of a pond. Recalling anything is a chore if there is nothing left to remember. A difficult task, indeed.

Sad eyes are closed. Like gates. Out of sight, out of mind. Water pools at the edges of the eyes. Tears, one might say. But they never fall. They rest there, harbingers to what once was. Or what might have been. Or what is. Cool recollections meet cold wind.

White lace begins to dance down from the heavens. Curious. Cold wind meets cool lace. Scorching heat meets icy frost. Biting frost.

The lake is solid. The pebbles have iced over. Tears have turned to chilly glass. Eyes are frozen.
Blue clocks without hands.

Gone.

2008-09-21T23:04:00.000-07:00

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.

Incendiary Blooms.

2008-09-14T21:34:00.000-07:00

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..."

Fall.

2008-09-01T18:22:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-09-01T02:27:00.000-07:00

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.

Strange.

2008-08-28T22:41:00.000-07:00

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.

Between A Rock And A Stone.

2008-08-28T00:28:00.000-07:00

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.

Untitled #1

2008-08-25T22:51:00.000-07:00

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."

Lunar Tears.

2008-08-24T04:16:00.000-07:00

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.

When The Curtain Falls.

2008-08-18T22:37:00.000-07:00

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.

Night Reconnaissance.

2008-08-14T20:42:00.000-07:00

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.

In Sickness And In Health.

2008-08-13T02:51:00.000-07:00

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.

Idle Days.

2008-08-10T21:46:00.000-07:00

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.

Thrice.

2008-08-09T03:49:00.000-07:00

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.

The End In Retrospect.

2008-08-08T00:28:00.000-07:00

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.

The Last Days.

2008-07-22T12:49:00.000-07:00

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?

Med School (The New and Improved).

2008-07-20T17:33:00.000-07:00

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)

Ring Around The Roses.

2008-07-16T01:48:00.000-07:00

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.

Moving Pictures, Silent Films.

2008-07-13T23:42:00.000-07:00

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.

Dawn's Twilight.

2008-07-11T06:08:00.000-07:00

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.

The Fates And The Sword Of Damocles.

2008-07-09T00:41:00.000-07:00

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.

The Fallen.

2008-07-08T00:58:00.000-07:00

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?

Drained.

2008-07-06T00:51:00.000-07:00

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.

The Chronicles Of A Bohemian Teenager (Part VIII, Finale part I).

2008-07-02T20:05:00.000-07:00

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.

The Chronicles Of A Bohemian Teenager (Part VII).

2008-07-02T01:23:00.000-07:00

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.

The Chronicles Of A Bohemian Teenager (Part VI).

2008-06-30T22:48:00.001-07:00

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 Chronicles Of A Bohemian Teenager (Part V).

2008-06-30T01:20:00.000-07:00

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.

The Chronicles Of A Bohemian Teenager (Part IV).

2008-06-28T22:53:00.000-07:00

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.

The Chronicles Of A Bohemian Teenager (Part III).

2008-06-27T23:32:00.000-07:00

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.

The Chronicles Of A Bohemian Teenager (Part II).

2008-06-26T22:29:00.000-07:00

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.

The Chronicles Of A Bohemian Teenager (Part I).

2008-06-25T23:02:00.000-07:00

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.

Clandestine Secrets.

2008-06-22T00:41:00.000-07:00

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.

Fugue State.

2008-06-16T15:51:00.000-07:00

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.

Nox.

2008-06-09T21:42:00.000-07:00

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.

Rien.

2008-06-02T22:03:00.000-07:00

The mask is off. The mask made of lies and deceit and apologies.

I am free at last.

Nothing can stop me now.

All that you don't realize.

2008-06-01T14:52:00.000-07:00

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?

Will I's and What if's.

2008-05-30T00:22:00.000-07:00

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.

Pills.

2008-05-27T18:40:00.000-07:00

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.

Alouette.

2008-05-21T22:06:00.000-07:00

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.

Cease Fire.

2008-05-19T20:02:00.000-07:00

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.

Tink.

2008-05-17T18:00:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

Strings.

2008-05-13T21:17:00.000-07:00

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?

Splash.

2008-05-06T20:29:00.001-07:00

Splash. Drops of dew. Falling. Crying. It's in the rain. The sorrow. The anger. The hate. The fear. Who knows what else? Listen. Listen to the rain. Thousands of voices crying out in protest. Smashed to bits. Liquid glass. Irreplaceable. Here it comes again. The rain. Listen. Reflections of their souls. Angry souls. Fearful souls. Mystery. Reflect. Refract. Fractured into parts. Coloured parts. Hues of reds and greens. But most of all, tears of blue. Hear it in the rain. The incantation of hate. Sorrow. Cursing the souls of those that have turned against them. Souls. Blues. Greens. Reds. Ephemeral colours. Filling the oceans. Splash. Rivers of sorrow and hate. Streams of terror. Spread across the sky in a terrible arc. An arc of colours. Ephemeral colours. And all around them, the secrets. Whispered from ear to ear. From colour to colour. The joy and the rage. The hate and the sorrow. Tearing them apart. Analyzing them. All the while, destroying their purpose. Splash. The dew. Shining with the power of the sun in the morning light. Or is it twilight? Who can tell? Who can ever tell? Flash. The sky turns dark. Bang. A brightly coloured ball of light. Shining. Flashing. Who knows? Who will ever know? Arcing across the sky. A terrible arc. An arc of hatred. Of sorrow and remorse. Of liquid glass. Listen. Listen to the voices. Listen to what they say. Cursing those that have turned against them. The maze of moments. It locks them. Holds them. Binds them against their will. The ocean of hatred is swept around in motion, but without ever knowing the reason for the flowing. Flash. Darkened sky. Bang. Sphere of light.

It's either this or that way. It has to be. Joy or sorrow. They choose joy. Light fills the sky. No more are the colours. Gone, is the ball of light. The rain is repaired, never to fall again. Crying. Tears. But tears of happiness. Bit by bit, the flow of the rivers is stemmed. The ocean's hatred and fear is replaced by a shimmering sound. The sound of laughter. Bit by bit, the ocean dries up, leaving in its place, laughter. Unwittingly. The arc, band by band, is dismantled. Colour by colour. Hue by hue. And then it is gone. Vanished, from the moment the first drop touched the ground. Splash.

Revelational Epiphanies.

2008-05-04T19:30:00.000-07:00

Celebrations. There are revelers dancing around the Maypole. Rejoicing the destruction of a dangerous enemy. "She's gone!" they shout. They couldn't be happier. Right? They couldn't be happier. Look what they have; a fairytale ending. The one who killed her. He is praised. He seems happy enough. Because happy is what happens when all your dreams come true. Isn't it? Happy is what happens when all your dreams come true. "Speech! they shout. "Speech!"

He stumbles up to the front of the crowd. He clears his throat nervously and begins to speak.

"I couldn't be happier. Now that she is gone, happiness is spread throughout the land. We can stop living in fear. Though it is, I admit, the tiniest bit unlike I anticipated.

The crowd exchanged looks.

"But I couldn't be happier," he continued. "I simply couldn't be happier...Well. Not simply. Because getting your dreams, it's strange, but it seems a little, well, complicated.

The crowd stirs uneasily.

"There's a sort of...cost. There are a few things that get...lost. There are bridges you've crossed you didn't know you'd cross until you'd crossed them."

The crowd stirs again, louder this time.

"And if that joy, that thrill, doesn't thrill like you think it will--" he cuts off and pauses for a few moments.

"Well, with this perfect ending and the ballyhoo and celebrations, I couldn't be happier. Because happy is what happens when all your dreams come true."

"Isn't it?" he asked quietly.

The crowd is silent.

"Isn't it?" he demands, "What then? What is she, the Cruel One, was scared? What if she was alone and confused? What if she didn't know what she was doing? Are you happy? Are you happy knowing that you killed an innocent woman? Are you?"

The crowd is silent.

"Answer me!" he cries.

Finally, someone speaks.

"She had to be destroyed. She killed an unsuspecting civilian."

"You didn't answer my question! Are you happy with the idea that you might have killed an innocent woman?" he shouted.

"She had to be destroyed. This was our dream. We're happy..."

"You disgust me," he spat.

"...What were your dreams?"

My First Time.

2008-04-27T18:08:00.000-07:00

They don't realize I control the world. They don't realize that I manipulate their existence. I am chlorophyll. I am protein. I am those pearly white gates. I am that river of souls. I am that three-headed dog. I am that man with wings. I am the dead. I am the living. And I am everything in between.

Lazily, I etch oceans and carve rivers. I raise mountains and flatten hills. I trace shapes in the clouds and play with the wind. I create hurricanes and aggrandize dust devils. I create and I destroy.

This is my first time.

Letters.

2008-04-21T18:50:00.000-07:00

If an assessment of this play is to be made, please keep the following in mind. I wish to know things you liked and disliked, but more importantly, things that didn't make sense, confused you, or plot holes that you've discovered. All components will be used in the betterment of this play.

Please keep in mind that this is a rough draft. Edits will be made to set, plot, characters, ect. I should also point out that I have only mentioned character notes that are essential to the composition of the play.

Lighting Note
Each time a character reads a letter aloud, all lights should be off except a single spotlight on said character. Each shall go through the same routine during a letter scene. A spotlight will come up on the character writing. The said character will sign the letter with a flourish, stand and start reading aloud. Once they have finished, they will take an envelope out of the desk drawer, place the letter inside, and seal it with a wax stamp.

Set Notes
The main set should consist of three flats. On one side of each flat, there should be a panel that will make up the backdrop for the general castle. Different movable set pieces will determine which room is being presented. On the other side of the flats, there should be a town street backdrop, to give the illusion that there is a road running down the center of the stage.

Characters:

Claude-Madame Laguerre's spy. He does not actually interact with any character.
Laguerre-Queen of a neighboring kingdom. She has sent Claude to collect various tidbits of information from Perte's kingdom. Her name means "The war" and she should be very aggressive. Although her regal status is never mentioned, her garb should clearly reflect her royalty.
Perte-King of the kingdom Claude was sent to; does not know of any reconnaissance activities, but suspects something is amiss. Believes he can trust Claude. His name means "loss".

Dinner Guests/Monsieur Perte's Trusted Advisers/Members of the Court:

Madame Gourmandise-Literally, her name means "Gluttony." She should be very corpulent.
Madame Avarice-Her name means Greed. She should don expensive looking jewelry and garb.
Madame Orgueil-Her name means Pride. This character should act very snooty and condescending.
Madame Jalousie-Obviously, her name means Jealousy. She should act envious of the other women, and admire their clothing, jewelry, ect.
Madame Concupiscence-Her name means Lust. She should be very flirtatious, and very scantily clad (for said time period).
Monsieur Luxure-The name means Sloth. Often, he appears to be missing an article of clothing, simply because he is too lazy to finish dressing himself.
Monsieur Colére-His name means Wrath. A knife is often noticed tucked in his belt, boot, tunic, ect.
Monsieur Morte-His name means Death. He should appear very thin and gaunt.
Monsieur Confiance-His name means Trust. He is the goody-goody of the court, also a sort of adviser to the king. He is constantly worried about getting into trouble.
Monsieur Claude-This character should look and sound identical in garb, hairstyle, mannerisms, ect. to the aforementioned Claude. They are, essentially, the same person. This character does interact with the rest of the court.
Man-A commonplace, elegantly dressed man. Plays a variety of small male roles.
Woman-The female counterpart of Man. Also elegantly dressed. Plays a variety of small female roles.

*Note: Each time Man or Woman appears, they should be wearing a different costume to differentiate the change of character. They do not need to be drastic changes.

Opening scene: Claude's Bedroom Chamber

Three walls, the center containing a window. Each wall is slanted towards the center of the stage (i.e. center is straight, stage left and right are slanted inwards). The door is stage right. There is a small bed stage left, positioned with the foot of the bed facing the audience. A large chest is at the foot of the bed, with an large lock on the clasp. A simple wooden desk is positioned in the center of the room, covered in various pieces of parchment, along with an inkwell and a quill. A candle and a wax stamp are resting on the desk as well. There are a number of empty inkwells lying on the floor beside the desk.

Letters

Claude is hastily writing a letter at the desk. He finishes the letter, finally, signs it with a flourish, and examines the paper. He stands and starts reading the letter aloud. Almost as soon as he speaks, the flats will rotate to the city side. The bed and chest should be moved offstage when this happens, but the desk should remain. When the flats are rotated, a gap needs to be present between the center and stage left flat to form an alleyway.

CLAUDE: Dear Laguerre, everything is going according to plan. I have done as you instructed and infiltrated the palace. I have started to gain the trust of the king. But these were dangerous and tedious tasks, indeed. (Enter Monsieur Claude stage left). I have done many a thing I wish I had not. (Enter Man and Woman stage right. Man notices Monsieur Claude and leaves Woman's side to confront him. Monsieur Claude darts into alleyway, Man follows. Man falls out of alleyway, obviously dead. Woman is shocked, backs away. Monsieur Claude enters again, chases Woman and kills her. Exit Monsieur Claude. No one, except Claude, makes any sort of verbal noise.) I have deceived those that need not be deceived. No matter. I am strong. I am vigilant. But I digress. I am confident in my ability to earn the trust of the king. I am fairly certain this deed has already been accomplished, but I must do a few more things to ensure that the king's need for trust is satiated. I will await further instructions once this has been attained. Your humble servant.

(Examining letter) Yes, this should suffice. As long as I do not reveal my name, I shall remain safe from...Well, everyone. (Takes an envelope out of desk drawer and places letter inside. Seals envelope with wax stamp and hastily addresses it. Exit stage left. Blackout.)

(Lights up on Laguerre sitting at desk, writing. Signs with flourish, stands, reads aloud.)

MADAME LAGUERRE: Dear my humble servant, well done. When you return, you will be greatly rewarded. It does not matter what you do to accomplish your goal, so long as you are not caught. Kill who you need to kill. Deceive who you need to deceive. Their lives had to be sacrificed for the greater good. When you fully earn the trust of the king, send a letter posthaste. I shall await with further instructions. Your Queen(Exit Madame Laguerre. Close curtain, remove desk.)

(Enter Woman onto apron, dressed in peasant's clothing, looking cautious, as if she is in a place she is not supposed to be.)

(Entering from opposite side)
MONSIEUR CLAUDE: You! What are you doing here! You belong in the town, not the palace! Guard!

(Enter Man, dressed in guard uniform)
MAN: What is it, sir?

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: Take this peasant to the dungeons! (To Woman) Maybe that'll teach you to stay where you belong!

(Exit all)

(Curtain opens, revealing Claude holding another letter)
CLAUDE: Dear Madame Laguerre, I have succeeded. I have earned the trust of the king. I shall not bore you with the details, but know that it involved a peasant sneaking into the palace. I sent her to the dungeon, knowing that the king would appreciate the favor. It worked. His trust is mine. I shall await further instruction. Your humble servant. (Exit Claude, lights up)

(Enter Madame Avarice, followed by Madame Jalousie)

MADAME JALOUSIE: ...But Madame Avarice, you must tell me where you bought that beautiful necklace! Surely it wasn't made in this kingdom? I've never seen anything like it!

MADAME AVARICE: You're right. I was tired of the petty jewelry made in this realm, so I sent out a servant and I told him, I said, "Don't you come back until you've found something fit for a queen!" And of course, it had to look expensive! And, well, this is what he brought back. I was expecting something more ostentatious, but I suppose this will do. He said he bought it in the kingdom of Bartemand. I've never heard of it. Have you, Madame Jalousie?

MADAME JALOUSIE: Oh, no! Where do you suppose it could be? It must be very far away...

(Exit Madame Jalousie and Madame Avarice. Lights fade as they are exiting.)

(Lights up on Laguerre at a desk.)

MADAME LAGUERRE: Dear my humble servant, again, well done. Your next task is to collect information concerning Monsieur Perte's armada. Things such as tactics or weapons, anything of that nature. It is imperative that you are not caught. I must be discreet and sly if I hope to win this attack on Monsieur Perte's kingdom. Do not fail me. Your Queen.

(Spotlight off on Laguerre. Exit Laguerre. Lights up on Monsieur Claude sitting at a desk, reading Madame Laguerre's letter.)

MONSIEUR: "...Do not fail me. Your Queen." But how I am supposed to accomplish this? I don't know where the king keeps that sort of information. (Ponders. Then jumps up in excitement.) I know! Monsieur Confiance! He's the king's adviser! He knows almost everything there is to know about the king! (Exits while lights fade)

(Lights up in Monsieur Claude's chamber. In the desk's place, there should be a table set for two with the food already on the table. Multiple bottles of liqueur should be placed by the foot of the bed.)

(Monsieur Claude is sitting on bed, looking anxious. He jumps up and starts pacing, mumbling to himself. Knock on door. Monsieur Claude bounds to it and opens it. Monsieur Confiance is standing in the entryway.)

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: Why, hello Monsieur! So glad you could make it! Come in, come in!

MONSIEUR CONFIANCE: Yes, isn't it. Well, let's get this over with. I have things to do and people to see.

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: (Taken aback at CONFIANCE's abruptness) Oh, well! Sit down! Can I offer you something to drink? A flagon of ale, perhaps? I just bought it today!

MONSIEUR CONFIANCE: (Sitting down) Oh, uh--Certainly. One couldn't hurt, could it?

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: No, never! (Snatches up a bottle of ale and pours it into two metal flagons, handing one to CONFIANCE and placing the other at his own plate) Drink up!
(CONFIANCE takes flagon greedily and gulps in down in a matter of seconds)

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: (Shocked by CONFIANCE's actions) Oh! Would you like another flagon of ale?

(CONFIANCE nods, and fills his plate with food when CLAUDE's back is turned, eating ravenously. MONSIEUR CLAUDE picks up a few bottles of ale, turns around and is appalled again by CONFIANCE's gluttony. CLAUDE shakes his head, refills CONFIANCE's flagon, places the rest of the bottles on the table, and sits down. CLAUDE dishes up a small amount of food for himself. The meal is eaten in silence. CONFIANCE should consumes more ale than food.)

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: (After CONFIANCE has consumed a considerable amount of alcohol): So, you must be pretty close to the king, huh? I bet you know all sorts of things about him.

MONSIEUR CONFIANCE: (Drunk): Oh, yes, lots o' things! *Hic!* His fav'rit flower, his fav'rit wine...(Trails off)

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: So then you would know how to get into his bedroom chamber?

MONSIEUR CONFIANCE: Yeah...The only key is on a string aroun' his neck, he doesn't let anyone touch it --Wait, why would you need tha'?

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: (Backpedaling): No reason! I'm just curious, that's all!

MONSIEUR CONFIANCE: Nah, I know what yer tryin' ta do! *hic*(Stands, swaggers over to CLAUDE) Yer tryin' to sneak a present inta his room! It's his birthday soon, ya know? O' course ya do, tha's why yer askin'! Well, the king made tha' key hisself, ya know. Prides hisself in his metalworkin'. Doesn't usually let other touch the key, bu' maybe, if yer real nice about it an' compliment him, he'll let ya touch it. Dunno what good that'll do ya, though! (Laughs raucously and promptly falls over, passed out)

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: Oh dear. I'd better get you back to your chamber. (Helps CONFIANCE to his feet and then helps him towards the door. Exit CONFIANCE and CLAUDE as lights fade and curtain shuts.)

(Enter MADAME ORGUEIL and MONSIEUR COLÈRE onto apron.)

MADAME ORGUEIL: But really, you must try to fix your hair. It's disheveled and it looks terrible. But my hair, on the other hand, looks wonderful. See how it gleams in the light? See how perfect each individual curl is?

MONSIEUR COLÈRE: (Irritated) Yes, yes, that's nice. You're starting to annoy me. (Fingering handle of knife tucked into belt) Most people don't like to annoy me.

MADAME ORGUEIL: Really now! Now, if you had my patience, you wouldn't ever become annoyed. Honestly, you should try more to be like me. I'm perfect in almost every way. Some might even call me a goddess amongst humans!...(Trails off)

(Exit MADAME ORGUEIL and MONSIEUR COLÈRE. Curtain opens to reveal MONSIEUR CLAUDE pacing in his bedroom.)

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: How am I supposed to get that key? If he never takes it off, then how on earth am I supposed to get copy of -- (Steps on something soft) Ugh! (Reaches down and peels aforementioned object off of boot, holds it up and examines it) A piece of clay? How did this get in here? It must have fallen off Monsieur Confiance's boot. No matter. I'll just throw it -- wait a second. (Examines clay closer) That imprint looks familiar... (Glances at shoe, back to clay. Shoe. Clay. Shoe. Clay.) OF COURSE! (Dashes offstage. Curtain shuts)

(Enter MADAME CONCUPISCENCE and MONSIEUR LUXURE onto apron)

MADAME CONCUPISCENCE: Come ON, you slowpoke! I don't have all day!

MONSIEUR LUXURE: But it takes so much effort! It'd be so much easier just to lay in bed all day.

MADAME CONCUPISCENCE: Ooh-hoo. Yes, wouldn't it? That's not all we'd do in bed. (Beat) Well, hurry up, I'm not getting any...younger. (Chuckles)

MONSIEUR LUXURE: (Reluctantly) As you wish. But may I take a nap after this?...

(Exit MADAME CONCUPISCENCE and MONSIEUR LUXURE. Curtain opens to reveal MONSIEUR CLAUDE conversing with PERTE)

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: I've heard that you make wrought-iron figures. Is this true, sire?

MONSIEUR PERTE: Yes. It's true. Where did you hear that?

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: It doesn't matter where I heard it. I've also heard that your skill surpasses the master blacksmith's.

MONSIEUR PERTE: (Flustered) Well, I wouldn't say that --

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: I've also heard of an beautiful key you've created as the key to your bedroom. I have to see it for myself. May I?

MONSIEUR PERTE: I really shouldn't...(Considers options)
Oh, alright! But only because I trust you, Claude! Here it is. I made it myself. (Withdraws an intricate, wrought-iron key from on a string around his neck)

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: It's wonderful, sire.

MONSIEUR PERTE: (Beaming) I made it myself! No help from anyone else! No siree!

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: May I...touch it, your Highness?

MONSIEUR PERTE: I don't see why not. It won't do it any harm. (Whispered) Just don't tell anyone else about this meeting! (Offers key to MONSIEUR CLAUDE)

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: (Taking key) Oh, thank you, sire! (He presses the key in between his palms, as though praying)

MONSIEUR PERTE: Err, what are you doing?

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: (Fishing for a reason) Err, uh...I'm...praying to the gods! (Bows head) Dieu merci!

MONSIEUR PERTE: Why are you praying now?

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: Because it's not often one gets to touch the wonderful metalwork that our glorious King Perte makes! (King looks flattered)

MONSIEUR CLAUDE:(Removes key from palm, hands it back to PERTE) Here you go, your Highness.

MONSIEUR PERTE: Thank you, Monsieur Claude. Good day.

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: Good day, sire.

(Exit MONSIEUR CLAUDE and MONSIEUR PERTE. Curtain closes.)

(Enter MONSIEUR MORTE and MADAME GOURMANDISE onto apron)

MADAME GOURMANDISE: You wouldn't be so thin if you would eat more!

MONSIEUR MORTE: What's the point? We all die in the end. Nothing gives me happiness, and nothing will.

MADAME GOURMANDISE: Don't say horrid things like that! Food is my joy in life, maybe it will become yours! And another thing! I don't want to hear your gloomy talk about death! Why can't you talk about something cheerful for a change?

MONSIEUR MORTE: What's the point? I'm not happy. Why should I seem happy?

MADAME GOURMANDISE: Oh, honestly! (Storms offstage, MONSIEUR MORTE follows reluctantly. Curtain opens on MONSIEUR CLAUDE in the city at a blacksmith (Man).)

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: (Holding a piece of clay with an imprint of key identical to MONSIEUR PERTE's key) Now, listen closely, I need you to make this key imprint into a real key. Can you do that?

MAN: Yeah, but it'll cost ya.

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: Money is not an issue. (Takes out five sacks and tosses them at MAN's feet)

MAN: I'll see what I can do.

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: Good. (Hands MAN key imprint) I'll be back soon to pick up the key. (Starts to leave)

MAN: Just one thing...

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: Yes?

MAN: Why do ya want a copy o' the king's key? (At these words, MONSIEUR CLAUDE stops dead, turns slowly to face MAN.)

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: What makes you think it's the king's key?

MAN: (Pointing to imprint) Well, if ya look here, it has tha symbol o' tha royal fam'ly. (MONSIEUR CLAUDE rushes at MAN, dagger drawn.)

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: (Holding dagger at MAN's throat, through gritted teeth) It doesn't matter what I need that key for. What does matter is that you stay quiet and be a good little blacksmith. And you WILL stay quiet, if you know what's good for you. Got it?

(MAN whimpers)

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: GOT IT?

MAN: Yes! Yes!

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: Good. Because if I ever catch word that you've blabbed, it's the end for you.

(MONSIEUR CLAUDE releases MAN, MAN gasps for breath, MONSIEUR CLAUDE rushes to door)

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: Remember; your lips are sealed. Or else. (Draws finger across throat, exits)

(MAN stares at door, trying to catch his breath. Lights fade.)

(Lights up on CLAUDE sitting at a desk. CLAUDE signs with flourish, ect.)

CLAUDE: Dear Laguerre, it has come to my attention that I am not sure what to do if I am caught. I do not think I will be, rest assured, but I need to know, just in case. Enough of that. I have discovered a way into the king's chamber, where he keeps information on his army. I had the town blacksmith forge a copy of the key to Perte's chamber. (Takes out identical key on a string around his neck and fingers it) Unfortunately, he suspected that it was the king's key. After he finished it, I had to kill him. Soon, I shall gain entry into Perte's chamber and report back to you with information on his army. I will not fail you. Your humble servant. (Puts letter in envelope, stamps it, places it in jacket pocket. Claude exits, curtain closes.)

(Enter MADAME AVARICE and MADAME ORGUEIL onto apron.)

MADAME AVARICE: Surely you don't expect me to believe that your jewelry is of finer quality than mine!

MADAME ORGUEIL: Yes, I do! It's true, as well. I can prove it.

MADAME AVARICE: There's no way! My servants carefully select my rings, necklaces, brooches, bracelets, and earrings! I punish them if it isn't fit for royalty! It's finer than your little trinkets!

MADAME ORGUEIL: (Outraged) How dare you! Well, we'll just see about that!

(Exit MADAME AVARICE and MADAME ORGUEIL. Open curtain and lights up on king's chamber. It should be similar to CLAUDE's room, but it should have items that indicate it belongs to royalty.)

(Door handle jiggles. Door opens and MONSIEUR CLAUDE pokes his head in. Seeing there is no one in the room, he enters, closes the door quietly, and walks over to the desk and starts looking at the papers inside and on it. Lights fade.)

(Enter stage left (from no specific doorway) MONSIEUR PERTE followed by MONSIEUR CONFIANCE.)

MONSIEUR CONFIANCE: Your Majesty! Your Majesty!

MONSIEUR PERTE: Huh? (Turns around) Oh, yes, what is it?

MONSIEUR CONFIANCE: (Out of breath) There was...I saw...

MONSIEUR PERTE: Well, what is it? Spit it out!

MONSIEUR CONFIANCE: I saw someone sneaking into your chamber!

MONSIEUR PERTE: What?! Who was it?

MONSIEUR CONFIANCE: I don't know, sire! The door closed before I could get a good look at them!

MONSIEUR PERTE: (Furious) No one is allowed in my chamber! NO ONE! (Storms offstage, followed by MONSIEUR CONFIANCE.)

(Lights back up on MONSIEUR CLAUDE rifling through the desk.)

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: Where on earth could he keep those papers?... (Picks up a sheet, examines it) Aha! Here we are! Let's see what else we can find...

(Knock on door, MONSIEUR CLAUDE stops and stares at the door. Another knock. MONSIEUR CLAUDE grabs a stack of papers, knocks over a candlestick, accidentally drops the letter he wrote earlier (this should be obvious), and frantically looks for a place to hide. He spots the chest by the foot of the bed, rushes over to it, and climbs inside. The door bursts open and MONSIEUR PERTE and MONSIEUR CONFIANCE enter the room. MONSIEUR PERTE spots the disheveled desk and roars in fury. He stalks over to it and rummages through the papers violently. He notices the letter that MONSIEUR CLAUDE dropped, picks it up, and opens it. He reads it, and his face registers shock and horror.)

MONSIEUR PERTE: (Gravely) Monsieur Confiance, I fear we have a traitor in our midst.

MONSIEUR CONFIANCE: (Nervously) W-who do you think it could be, sire?

MONSIEUR PERTE: I don't know, but I intend to find out.

(Exit MONSIEUR PERTE and MONSIEUR CONFIANCE, taking the letter with them.)

(MONSIEUR cracks the lid of the chest up a tiny bit to see if the king and CONFIANCE are gone. Seeing that they are, he clambers out of the chest, and exits silently and swiftly. Lights fade.)

(Lights up in corridor, court members crowding around a piece of parchment posted on the wall. Enter MONSIEUR CLAUDE stage right)

MADAME GOURMANDISE: Oh, how splendid! A banquet just for us! His majesty is so kind! (Start, to exit stage right)

(Slowly, the crowd around the parchment disperses.)

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: Excuse me, Madame, what's going on?

MADAME GOURMANDISE: See for yourself! (Laughs and exits)

(Slowly, the crowd around the parchment disperses.)

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: (Pushing towards the paper) Excuse me, pardon me.

(Once he reaches the paper, everyone should have left. He should be the only one reading it.)

MONSIEUR CLAUDE: (Reading aloud, scanning over everything) "...There is to be a royal feast in three days. Everyone in the royal court is to attend. King Perte has a very grave matter to discuss with everyone. Signed, Monsieur Confiance."

(Stunned) Oh, no. This is not good. Not good at all...I must write to Madame Laguerre for advice. (Exits stage left in a cloud of confusion. Lights fade, curtain closes.)

(Enter CLAUDE onto apron from stage left. He does not go through the aforementioned letter process.)

CLAUDE: Dear Laguerre, I need your help. I was foolish, and I left a trail. I was almost caught. But I am not suspected, nor am I in trouble. I am writing to you because the king in holding a feast in three days. This is directly after the incident I mentioned. I fear this may be used as some trick to worm me out. What should I do? Your humble servant. (Exit CLAUDE stage left.)

(Enter MADAME LAGUERRE stage right)

MADAME LAGUERRE: Dear my humble servant, do not fret. You may have blundered, but so long as your name is not questioned, you shan't be caught. As for the feast. Do not eat anything. King Perte may be oblivious, but he does suspect something. He may try to poison the food. I repeat, do not eat anything. Hopefully, someone else will be framed in your stead. Your Queen. (Exit stage right.)

(Curtain opens on the feast scene. There is a long banquet table, covered with all sorts of food and drink. MONSIEUR PERTE is seated at the center of the table, MONSIEUR CONFIANCE to his right. MONSIEUR CLAUDE is seated at the very end of the table, the furthest from MONSIEUR PERTE.)

MONSIEUR COLÈRE: So, Your Majesty, tell us what you wished to discuss.

(Others express their concurrence.)

MONSIEUR PERTE: (Holding up a hand to silence the guests) Not yet. I wish to save it until after the meal has been eaten.

MADAME GOURMANDISE: I agree! This food looks delightful!

MONSIEUR COLÈRE: (Distraught) Oh, all right.

MADAME ORGUEIL: (Haughtily) You should learn some respect!

(Guests start arguing)

MONSIEUR PERTE: Please, please! Let's not quarrel! We came here to eat, and so we shall. Dig in!

(The guests start eating and conversing amongst themselves. MONSIEUR CLAUDE doesn't talk to anyone, and doesn't eat or drink. He puts the cup to his lips, but does not drink. He raises his fork to his mouth, but discreetly slips the food away.)

(Enter CLAUDE stage right onto apron.)

CLAUDE: What happened next at the meal, I shall never forget. (Turns to watch the meal.)

(The meal is finished, and the guests give the impression that they couldn't eat or drink anything else.)

MONSIEUR PERTE: (Calling offstage) Frederick, the wine!

(MAN enters stage left, dressed in servant's clothing and carrying a single goblet and a bottle of wine. He places the goblet in the center of the table, uncorks the wine, and pours it into the goblet. He places the bottle next to the goblet.)

MAN: Anything else, your Highness?

MONSIEUR PERTE: No, that's all, Frederick. You are dismissed.

MAN: Thank you, sir. (Exits stage left)

MONSIEUR MORTE: Surely you do not expect us to drink any more! We'll stuff ourselves to death!

MONSIEUR PERTE: (Smiling deviously) Ironic words, Monsieur Morte. For you see, today I visited the town alchemist. I told him that I needed a poison that would act quickly and would cause an excruciatingly painful death.

MADAME AVARICE: But why would you need that?

MONSIEUR PERTE: (Smiling wider) I'll tell you why. Three days ago, I received word that someone had broken into my private chamber. When I arrived upon the scene, my desk was askew and papers were strewn everywhere. It was obvious there were looking for something. Upon further examination, I discovered this. (Withdraws MONSIEUR CLAUDE's dropped letter.)

MADAME CONCUPISCENCE: (Laughing) A piece of parchment?

MONSIEUR PERTE: Yes, a piece of parchment. But this isn't just any piece of parchment. It's a letter. Addressed to Queen Laguerre. In it, the writer is asking what he shall do if he is caught.

MADAME ORGUEIL: Caught doing what?

MONSIEUR PERTE: Spying.

(At this word, all guests shift uncomfortably.)

It seems that the writer was searching my room for our battle tactics and other information on our army, and was supposed to report back to Queen Laguerre. It seems we have a traitor in our midst.

MONSIEUR LUXURE: (Yawning) But what does this have to do with the wine?

MONSIEUR PERTE: It has everything to do with the wine. You see, I have had my eye on someone for quite some time now. I suspect that they are the turncoat.

CLAUDE: As Monsieur Perte told us of his plan, I felt my heartbeat increase.

MONSIEUR PERTE: I have poisoned their meal. And just in case they were sly and chose to pretend to eat, I have poisoned their cutlery as well. This poison is a unique kind. It can be ingested or absorbed though the skin, and it will have the same affect either way. If they have chose to pretend to eat, then I must say they have missed out on a delicious meal, indeed.

(The guests murmur amongst themselves nervously)

CLAUDE: My palms started to sweat. Was it the poison, or was it nerves?

(The guests exchange looks of accusation, shock, and fear.)

MADAME JALOUSIE: You still haven't told us what the wine has to do with this.

MONSIEUR PERTE: Ah, yes. The wine. It, of course, contains the antidote. By drinking it, the perpetrator will save himself from a grisly death, but at the same time, reveal his true identity. Either way, they will die. It's just a matter of how.

(Silence)

CLAUDE: My mouth was filled with a bitter taste and my vision swam. Was it the poison, or was it from watching a delectable meal be eaten right in from of me? I don't know.

(Silence)

MONSIEUR PERTE: (Urgently) If that spy does not show himself, there will be a death at this table!

(MONSIEUR CONFIANCE jumps up, snatches the goblet and drinks it down.)

CLAUDE: I was so busy trying to remain calm that I did not notice Monsieur Confiance jumping up and gulping the wine down.

MONSIEUR PERTE: (With mild shock) Confiance! You? Surely not!

MONSIEUR CONFIANCE: Yes, your majesty! I was drinking one night, and someone asked me about your key! I told them how to get it! I'm sorry! I don't remember who it was! Anyway, I thought you knew?

MONSIEUR PERTE: This is most unfortunate, indeed. I trusted you. No, I did not know. That was simply a facade. No matter, you've poisoned yourself.

MONSIEUR CONFIANCE: W-what do y-you mean?

MONSIEUR PERTE: Oh, the food and cutlery wasn't poisoned. No, that would have been too obvious. It was the wine.

(MONSIEUR CONFIANCE's eyes bulge out, and he falls on the floor, writhing in pain. Curtain shuts.)

CLAUDE: I wasn't ever discovered. Monsieur Confiance took the blame, just as Madame Laguerre said would happen. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to report back to Madame Laguerre.

(Spotlight off CLAUDE. Curtain opens into the corridor. All dinner guests are standing spread out in the dark, holding letters. CLAUDE joins them.)

(Spotlight up on CLAUDE. He withdraws a letter from his jacket pocket.)

CLAUDE: Dear Laguerre, I have evaded discovery. Someone else took the blame for me. I shall continue to collect information and report back to you. I will be more careful, as to ensure this does not happen again. You humble servant. (Folds letter and stands with hands folded behind his back, looking at audience.)

(This next bit is done in a round. When a person starts speaking, a spotlight will go up on them.)

MADAME GOURMANDISE: Dear Madame Douleur, I have evaded discovery. (MADAME AVARICE starts reading here) Someone else took the blame for me. I shall continue to collect information and report back to you. I will be more careful, as to ensure this does not happen again. You humble servant. (Folds letter and stands with hands folded behind her back, looking at audience.)

MADAME AVARICE: Dear Monsieur Sang, I have evaded discovery. (MADAME ORGUEIL starts reading here) Someone else took the blame for me. I shall continue to collect information and report back to you. I will be more careful, as to ensure this does not happen again. You humble servant. (Folds letter and stands with hands folded behind her back, looking at audience.)

MADAME ORGUEIL: Dear Madame LaHaine, I have evaded discovery. (MADAME JALOUSIE starts reading here) Someone else took the blame for me. I shall continue to collect information and report back to you. I will be more careful, as to ensure this does not happen again. You humble servant. (Folds letter and stands with hands folded behind her back, looking at audience.)

MADAME JALOUSIE: Dear Monsieur Maladie, I have evaded discovery. (MADAME CONCUPISCENCE starts reading here) Someone else took the blame for me. I shall continue to collect information and report back to you. I will be more careful, as to ensure this does not happen again. You humble servant. (Folds letter and stands with hands folded behind her back, looking at audience.)

MADAME CONCUPISCENCE: Dear Madame Lafamine, I have evaded discovery. (MONSIEUR LUXURE starts reading here) Someone else took the blame for me. I shall continue to collect information and report back to you. I will be more careful, as to ensure this does not happen again. You humble servant. (Folds letter and stands with hands folded behind her back, looking at audience.)

MONSIEUR LUXURE: Dear Monsieur Traîtrise, I have evaded discovery. (MONSIEUR COLÈRE starts reading here) Someone else took the blame for me. I shall continue to collect information and report back to you. I will be more careful, as to ensure this does not happen again. You humble servant. (Folds letter and stands with hands folded behind his back, looking at audience.)

MONSIEUR COLÈRE: Dear Madame Tromperie, I have evaded discovery. (MONSIEUR MORTE starts reading here) Someone else took the blame for me. I shall continue to collect information and report back to you. I will be more careful, as to ensure this does not happen again. You humble servant. (Folds letter and stands with hands folded behind his back, looking at audience.)

MONSIEUR MORTE: Dear Monsieur Conflit, I have evaded discovery. Someone else took the blame for me. I shall continue to collect information and report back to you. I will be more careful, as to ensure this does not happen again. You humble servant. (Folds letter and stands with hands folded behind his back, looking at audience.)

(Lights fade after the last "Your humble servant" is spoken". Curtain closes.)

FIN.

Belligerence.

2008-04-13T23:45:00.000-07:00

Think of it.
Life is simply moments in a zoetrophe.
Spinning together to make up our insignificant lives. Our hopeless endeavors.

Why do we still try? We have struggled for thousands of years. We have always fought. There has always been killing. Destruction. Hatred. Nothing beneficial really comes from any of it. We have advanced in scientific technology. For what purpose? To make more weapons. For killing. What good comes of hope? Of joy? Of happiness or love? Is there some grand scheme that no one has discovered? Perhaps God doesn't have a plan for us. Perhaps there is no God. Or what if, perchance, there is no Satan either? Perhaps there is no us, no human race. We are all dreaming this. Sort of a surrealistic moment. A surrealistic series of moments. There is no you. There is no them. There is only me, and who I make up. I have perfect control over everything, everyone, and anyone that happens. The subconscious takes over. Once we learn to control the subconscious, we have absolute control over reality. But once we master the subconscious, it is no longer the subconscious. Alas, the woes of man.

Something has changed within me. And to be quite honest, I am not the same. I am tired of playing by the rules of someone else's game. I want to make up the rules. If it is my world, why is it that I cannot choose how life is governed? I am through accepting limits because someone says they are so. Some things I cannot change but until I try, I will never know. If I end up losing everything I am frightened of losing, then it is my fault. But if I do lose everything that was dear to me, then what do I have to lose? I want to fly. I want to soar. I want to see the tops of the clouds and climb the thermals. And to those that would ground me and shatter my dreams; take a message back for me. Tell them that this is mine. They cannot change it. I have nothing left to lose.

On and on. Does anybody know what we are living for? Close your eyes and leave it all to chance. This seems a fair comparison to how the human race is carrying itself. Topping the bill. Owning the kill. Wanting to be the best, but not exactly quite certain as to how. Yet, we still find the will to carry on. Discovering. Examining. Existing. When will we be free of this vicious cycle? One day, we'll fly away, to leave all of this chaos to yesterday. But living from dream to dream is not a wise decision. We must not dwell on soon-to-be's or possibilities, but what is present. Now.

We find ourselves hurtling through space on a stone of immense proportions, fighting and loving and breathing and thinking and existing. Revolving around a huge ball of fire. We are all smashed together onto one colossal rock with nowhere else to go. Man is undying, and therefore he will die endlessly. He will never truly stop existing because somewhere, there will be a small piece of the human race. But at the same time and place, it will constantly die. For this is the curse of mankind; to perpetually quarrel with itself. It is a hopeless battle, filled with despair and pain and fear. But it is also filled with hope and joy and love.

All right, enough. So be it. Let all of mankind be agreed, it is opprobrious. Obliteration is what it was created for, and it will cast itself unto oblivion until the end of time.

Little White Truths.

2008-04-06T11:13:00.000-07:00

So what? I lied. Lots of people lie. I'm sure if you asked anyone, they would be able to tell you their most recent lie, what it was about, and why they told it. I'm think I'm not the only one. Fuck, I know I'm not the only one. But I also told the truth. You think I'm just a little fucker who only manipulates everyone around him. You think I'm awful. You think I don't deserve to live. Maybe I don't. Maybe I do. Who knows? Maybe I should just take this gun lying on the bed, put it against my head and pull the trigger. Or maybe I should continue with my pathetic excuse for a life, pretending that I never had this talk. Continue being the selfish, manipulative bastard that you think I am. It seems everything I do, you detest me more and more. With every word I speak, you wish you could cut out my tongue, just to make sure that I don't say anything ever again. But I also told the truth. Can't you see? Can't you see that I'm only trying to survive? You. You think I do this for fun. You think I do this just to get a kick out of seeing others squirm in discomfort. Yes, I lied. So what? Stop saying that. I told the truth. Stop it. I'm only doing this to ensure my sanity. Do you really think I would tell them that without a motive? Do you really think I'm happy? Fuck you. I'm not. Every day is a struggle. I don't know which way to turn. Creating confusion and chaos is the only way I can lower everyone to my level.

You know, they say good things come to those who wait. I've waited my entire life. Where the fuck is mine? Why am I not happy? And for the last time, shut the fuck up. I know I lied. But I also lied to myself. It's not my fault. Well, in a way, yes it is. But how can you blame me? How could you say that this is my fault? I never wanted to believe that you could lie, and that friends could deceive. I wonder what it's like to be like you. You, with your perfect friends and your perfect family and your perfect everything. You are exquisite in every way. But you hate everyone. Why? Not everyone is as lucky as you. Sometimes, fate falls short. Sometimes it forgets to gift the rest of us because it's too busy spending time gifting petty things to people like you. How can you say you've made a difference in the world? How can you say you've made a difference to anyone? You're so fake. You're so materialistically demanding. You want things. You need things. You don't care about anyone. You wouldn't care if the whole fucking world blew up and you were the last human left on Earth. As long as you had everything you wanted. Stop it. For the last fucking time, I know I lied. Fuck. You are not special. You are not significant. You are not a unique snowflake. You are simply part of this filth called society. Part of the uniformity. Part of hell. This is your life, and it is ending, one minute at a time. Fuck. If you tell me that I lied one more fucking time, I am picking that gun up off the bed and firing two warning shots. Into your head. I am not joking. When do I ever joke? I have to find the will to carry on this conversation. Do you know how much self-control this is taking? You little bastard. I'm only doing this for you. Yes. What a surprise. No, I'm not lying. What did I fucking say? That's it. You're dead to me. Yes. Dead. Literally. Bang! Bang! Ah, that's much better. Now I won't have to listen to your twittering little voice again. Never again will you accuse me of lying. Oh no. Never again. I told you. I never joke. Nor do I ever lie. I told you, I'm not lying. I told you, I told you, I told you, I told you, I told you. Stop accusing me! Bang! Bang!

Ephemeral Winds.

2008-03-30T21:45:00.000-07:00

Ribbons burst out, swirling around like snakes in a whirlpool. They fly into the air, golden in hue, twisting and whirling as if their lives depend on it. As if they had lives. What is the so-called "spark of life"? Explosions. The ribbons fly every-which-way. Tearing to shreds. The little clockwork soldiers come to life. Slowly, deliberately, they march. And march. The wind with the ribbons twist them into faint images that are unknown to this world. The cherry blossoms fall like snow from the ethereal trees. The wind. It whips them around in vortexes of pink and gold. The tears of the goddesses fall like crystals, shimmering and shining in hues of blues. Splash, splash. The rhythm of the ribbons cause the tears to fly. Upside down. Goodbye for the last time, they called to me. Up, up, back up, they flew. The ribbons repaired themselves. The cherry blossoms cried tears of crimson. They, too, flew up. Merging with the clouds. Cried, the clouds did. Tears of red and blue. Ribbons of gold. Ephemeral colours. Crash. Crash goes the glass. Fragments. Boom. The glass goes flying. Shredding the cherry blossoms. They cry. Tears of crimson. Tick-tock go the clockwork soldiers. But they aren't really clockwork. They aren't really anything. Simply images formed by the ribbons. Goodbye for the last time, they called to me. Implosions. I want it. Crash. Bang. The ribbons are drawn taut. They snap. Splinters of gold. In the air, merging with the tears. The tears of blue and red. Splinters of gold. Ephemeral colours. Tick tock. Boom. Crash. The glass shatters. Into fragments. Every-which-way. Then the darkness comes. Covering everything in a shroud. No more are the ribbons. The clouds are gone as well. Vanished. No more are the colours. The tears of blue and red. Splinters of gold. Ephemeral colours. No more. No more. They all vanish. The ethereal trees. Wither. Down, the tears fall. Tears of blue and red. Ephemeral colours. Darkness. No more. Nothing moves. All is quiet.

Sunlight. Piercing the veil like a knife. Shimmering sunbeams. The clockwork soldiers fight the darkness. Fight. Boom. Crash. Showers of red. And tears of blue. Ephemeral colours. The sunbeams repair the ribbons. Golden ribbons. Shimmering. Flashing. Scintillating. They glow with the power of a hundred stars. Golden stars. The goddesses dry their tears. Crystal tears. Tears of blue. The swirling cherry blossoms halt their waltz of sorrow. No more fear. No more tears. Tears of crimson. The clouds materialize. Extracted from the heart of the clouds is the pure essence of life. Life. Life given to the clockwork soldiers. They aren't really clockwork. They aren't really soldiers at all. They are human. Just like you and me.