3 years

breathe in

wild mood swings. listened to this song and just, genuinely, started crying.



it might be the snow. it might be that time of the month. but it's sad.

i've been thinking about him lately. stupid, i know. something that is so historically and fundamentally wrong shouldn't be lingering, especially nearly 3 years after the last episode. and i still walk down the street, see him riding in cars, staring through shaded windows, sitting in darkened shadows.

i know now that its not him that i want, not that collection of knives and briars that cut so deep and nestled under my skin for the past thirty millenia. i know that i just long for that feeling of wonder and warmth that for just a moment made me bright and ascendant. i know i am just afraid that never again will i be that whole.

not even whiskey is making me feel better.

breathe out

the politics of snow are interesting. the politics of who benefits and who loses, the politics of sleeping smiles and empty stares.

politics is empty.

nebulize

pink - who knew

crying at airports

breathe in

fantastic tantamount to nothing

breathe out

skies of clearest crystal

nebulize

garbage - happy home

did you ever wonder why old fashioned's are made with bitters?

breathe in

i always did. i always wondered why anyone would mix perfectly
good bourbon with a substance that engages a gag reflex
in much of the population. regardless, during the years
i spent in the bar industry, i still would see it lauded as
a classic cocktail appreciated by true connoisseurs of
spirits and wino's everywhere. it was also interesting
to notice that anyone who ordered the drink usually wasn't
a day under 40, which leads to my next point. the mutual consensus
of anyone in my peer group who tried the concoction was like
watching rosie o'donnell fuck julian macmahon on
nip/tuck, revulsion.

comparatively most modern drinks, those that seem to be
the most popular among people in my age group, usually have
less of an obvious alcoholic taste and more artificial
or fruity flavorings(i.e. juices, soft drinks, energy
drinks etc.) even the old standard of beer has evolved,
most popular american beers having toned down the flavor
of the hops in favor of a smoother, less bitter flavor. (this
i disagree on. give me a pale ale any day over that bar tap
mass produced american swill.)

so, you may ask, why post something like this in the rants
and raves section, when you could have posted in the general
section or something like that.

and so begins the rant.

i realize that our gay forefathers, those that opened the
door for the newer generations, mine in particular, to
actually feel somewhat safe in coming to terms with their
sexuality, fought a hard struggle. they struggled for
acceptance, for respect, and for equality. some died,
some were sacrificed, some even lost their souls in the
mix and i, as well as many others, are forever grateful.

i just ask that you please stop with the bitter crap.

most of the people that write articles, questions, and
comments on the magazine pages just at a quick glance seem
to be over 40. i have no problem with most of them and have
found some insightful and amusing things. i have a problem
with the fact that a few of these frequent posters have now
lumped the younger generation as represented on this site
as a bunch of narcissistic sex obsessed materialists that
only care about cock size, body hair, and how many times
they went to the gym this week. you also glorify yourself
with holier than thou morality editorials which condemn
people for attempting to ask a simple question in order
to better understand the attitudes shared by this community.
i have seen several posts that push envelopes of morality
and could spark intelligent discussion but then are beat
down by bitter queen in the corner screaming accusations
of grotesque and idiocy. the impression given, as i see
it as being a relative newcomer, is that unless i devise
a question or a post that relates to something within a narrow
range of topics that seems to center around asking sage
advice from the wizened elders of the FRIENDS
OF DOROTHY foundation about whether i should
dump my boyfriend or that it is anathema and subject to all
manner of flames just short of the (my personal favorite)
horribly fashionable pNw3d!!!!.

now i don't expect you to like everything that i write,
and intentionally i do mean some of my opinions that i post
here and on other places around the net and in the world around
to flat out piss people off, but that does not give you license
to scream out your self-given geriatric authority from
the rooftops. every message posted on this system, and
those posting them, deserve the right to post and be heard
regardless of the vulgarity or simplicity of their sentiments
or opinions.

so please refrain from comments like the following:
'you must be one of those guys'
how do you know? you really can't make a judgment based
on 2 sentences of someone who's only persona you know
from a shrunken face pic and a headless torso.
'obviously you don't know
what you are talking about'
maybe thats why they posted in the first place. next time
educate before you insult.
'being that i am 300 years old let
me tell you
what i think'
your age doesn't matter. in all honesty that hot 21
year old you jacked off to in the chat room last night could
be 75 and have 4 small children tied up in his closet and is
looking for an accomplice. when you preface an opinion
like that all you do is make a feeble attempt to add hollow
weight to what ultimately, in my mind, becomes a hollow
statement.

now, before the shovels and torches and garden hos come
out and the mob starts to chant 'sink the psycho',
i don't mean this for everyone, just the few people
that i have seen post time after time with scathing remarks
and gross assumptions that often have been unwarranted
and unwanted. does that mean that i will block their comments?
hell no! opposition makes life interesting. it means that
i will use their bitterness induced ignorance as a weapon
against them. point out that the same man that is complaining
about how shallow someone is is the same person begging
to get a big cock up his ass, minimum 7", on his profile,
followed by the words 'no fats or femmes'.

in a world that is constantly changing and growing, growing
smaller in some cases, we should respect anything that
anyone takes the time to sit and put into text regardless
of how offensive, incorrect, asinine, or vulgar and use
it as an opportunity to grow ourselves or help another do
the same.

the point? swallow the bitters yourself, pretend like
you like it, and join the party. the bar is out of bitters
and a twist of lime really doesn't do anything to the
flavor, other than make it look pretty. find a new vice,
a new flavor, and come and join the party.

this bar doesn't make a drink called old fashioned
anymore

revoloutions of ruin

breathe in

flipping through the middle section of only revoloutions today. for those of you who haven't heard of this wicked creation or haven't heard enough, its a 'novel' that tells a story from two perspectives, written in a disjointed verse, and that every 8 pages you turn the book upside down and read the other side of the story. its a love story basically, cataclysmic and raw with all the fire of two teenagers out to destroy the world, or create one of their own.

regardless, i love the book.

i want to feel that fire again, and i alluded to that in my last post.

sometimes i go through these apathetic phases. i become cruel and distant to the ones i love and enigmatic and untouchable to those that i possibly could. maybe its this time of year, with my years old curses of tim and dave come to kill my emotions just as they did so long ago. the only passions are in the novels i read or in the words that i write, or the melodramitc crazy soap that i can't believe i watch every day but do it anyway because its just too damn fun.

sam says i will never leave you, reflected in hailey's eyes at one point. i want that.

i do think its that time of year, the end of the cycle where all of us tend to step back and take a look at ourselves and our 12 months of missteps and mistakes. its not like i couldn't walk 3 blocks and get laid fantastically, or ask one of about 5 people i know that would be interested to go on a 'date' tomorrow afternoon. i just miss passion. i write about it on my other blog in the form of fractured fables and apocalyptic prose in my fiction, or in the scathing commentary of my opinions i post there too.

another friend says it best. i'm a passionate person with nothing to be passionate about right now.

breathe out

fiction... soon... grrr.....

nebulize

skin - trashed

an explanation

breathe out

the post just below this is from another site that i have recently started posting little tidbits on. lets just say, they made psycho angry!!!!!!

nebulize

gavin degraw - chariot

crawling through windowells

breathe in

so today i fought the good fight, the blood of my enemies on my hands and lips as i strode victoriously home through the winter chill, a smile on my face.

actually it was cold and my face had frozen into a smile resembling that creepy botox cat lady in new york.

sure, i was sent home from work for playing hookey yesterday, a days suspension my punishment for missing a day of work when i haven't even had so much of a black mark on my record. well, at least not for the past 4 months.

now, for those of you who are unindoctrinated in the fine art of the mental health day, let me give you some pointers. i call it

THE ROVE METHOD

1. the war on terror rule : when making up an excuse, make sure it is plausible but hard to authenticate. things like 'my grandmother died' can be researched by a vengeful coworker or nasty employer in only a matter of minutes online and can potentially cost you your job if they are proven to be false. for example, my excuse was a car accident on the way to work. yesterday i got a flat tire, then the spare blew out as well. sure i live within walking distance but it was butt cold. now that is technically a car accident, i just happened to add to the implication that there was another car involved by my omission of the circumstances behind the accident, which also leads to the next point.

2. the bush administration rule: do not go into detail about the circumstances unless asked, and even then be as vague and ambiguous as possible. to fix the dead grandmother problem above usually a simple change of syntax can cover your ass (i.e. dead grandmother becomes a death in the family). in my situation, i said it happened 5 minutes away from work, which is actually how long it takes to drive to work from my house so technically i gave up the location, but at the same time that gives me a good 12 block radius to work with in case questions come up later.

3. the wmd conspiracy rule: have an unrelated third party involved who can corraborrate your story while also absolving you of any wrongdoing. by using a 'patsy' unknown to your employer or co-workers as a witness there is an added level of credibility, yet still unverifiable by your potentional detractors and accusers. through, once again, ambiguous language, i suddenly wasn't the driver during said accident, but my roommate was. therefore any police involvement or documentation no longer is my responsibility and legally i have no right to take that paperwork to work to 'prove' my story. and in my situation i can always say that my roommate handed over the paperwork to their insurance company and didn't make copies.

and finally...

4. the rumsfeld rule: if even after following the preceding methods there still appears to be doubt on your intended audience DENY DENY DENY. Create a cloud of confusion supported by unrelated subjects and subtle jabs at their moral character that turns them from the agressor to the defender. use subtext to poke at their moral character, to capitalize on their fears and to ultimately cast enough doubt to make them even question why they were questioning you in the first place. this tactic can should only be used as a last resort for it requires a lot of follow up and makes your actual transgression appear paltry if your true intentions are uncovered.

hope that helps any potential truants in the audience.

questions? comments?

take it up with my press secretary.

does the beef salute the butcher?

breathe in

the other day i re-read the midnight meat train by clive barker. every time i read clive barker i get inspired myself, his style and themes reminding me of some of my own writing. i write this with a sort of assumption that you, my one or two intelligent readers, have had the pleasure of reading the story itself, which is effectively a treatise on secret worlds, secret identities, on the craziness that pervades our everyday lives given form. i wish i could be kaufman, indoctrinated in a baptism of blood into the world that lives beneath ours yet affects ours so much. then a thought came to me.

the city fathers are in fact a direct metaphor for the gay community.

a society of cannibals that lives just below the surface, that have been there since time immeasurable, feeding on those that they give life to not out of hunger, but out of need. the first father that talks to kaufman says that he despises the taste, but then only a moment later smiles wickedly as the gore of that nights feast trickles down his breast. presented as grotesque caricatures, but definitely human, the fathers sustain society, represented by the hulking other that lurks in the shadows just out of sight, through a grotesque ritual unspeakable by those that it benefits.

every night, just on the fringes, queers run amok just under the surface of popular culture, interacting beneath the gaze of the straight majority yet right in front of their eyes. we pull their strings, our music evolving into their music, our trends becoming their trends. in modern times it can be traced back to the dot-com boom, the gays being at the forefront with catchy ideas and a broader technical knowledge than others at the time. and the concept goes beyond culture, the gay community being outcast and frowned upon and therefore always striving for acceptance through financial and professional success. that success, although translating to a mediocre level of acceptance, always seems to be miscredited, or, to warp the old adage, it seemed behind every good man was a good fag.

to go back to the similarities, the most baffling part is that the surface world denies, even criminalizes, the very machine which keeps it going. and it may not be homosexuality in particular, but sexuality in general. the taboos of bondage, rough trade, group sex, fetishism (in all its forms, too numerous to mention), looked at as anathaema yet always lurking. and maybe it is homosexuality because many homosexuals embrace these things as a part of life, sometimes as part of their everyday routine. and that scares the majority. in effect, they may as well be hanging from a hook in a slaughterhouse subway car, fresh for consumption by the very things they fear, the very things that keep them alive.

breathe out

enough with the book report babble. i did find that the film for the story is in production, slated for a 2008 release with clive barkers full consent. not really much info yet, but hopefully it will be a triumphant reminder to all the saw and japanese ripoff fanboys out there that there really aren't any new stories, just new ways of telling them.




and just a side note. in the story in the hills, the cities clive barker originated the line stolen by trent reznor in sin: "i told you, i don't want to see another church; the smell of the places makes me sick. stale incense, old sweat and lies...."

if you listen, mr 'i'm clean like jesus now' reznor has stolen a lot from mr. barker, but he still makes good music.

nebulize

nin - help me i am in hell

communism in winkie country

breathe in

so i settled it. and its done. officially i am an ass...unofficially i'm still an ass. but the whole wicked scandal really sums it up.

i'm just not "popular".

i wish i could "defy gravity".

breathe out

the strangest thing of all.... you can't pirate showtunes... interesting.....

nebulize

peeping tom - mojo (again i know)

its an ordinary day...

breathe in

something feels hollow. i don't know quite what it is yet (feer the creep), but i just know that something isn't right here.

no this isn't another ill thought out semi-political tirade. its just me. being frumpy. sometimes i just want to be frumpy, to sit at home and be this way.

and i have this nice little place to share it all with you.

breathe out

why do i focus so much on going to the bar? why do i focus on this endless pursuit of spirits and acceptance. mabye its in my rearing. maybe its society. maybe i just want a beer.

nebulize

peeping tom - mojo

angry johnny

breathe in

this morning i read something horrible. maybe i'm on a theme here (see previous post). hopefully by linking my myspace page to this i might get a little bit more attention to some of my angry, if not always personal, ramblings.

http://www.johnnygosch.com

if you aren't scared you should be. this could be any one of us. when the whole jeff gannon/ johnny gosch thing was going down i wish i would have been more attentive to the story, but at that time, from what i remember, my life was all about pogo and when was the next time i would see my billy.

i've read similar stories for years, even seen a few spoofs of the sort on saturday night live and other type shows, but i never really thought of the depth that it can really go, or read about the real tragedy that has happened to countless people across the country because of the machinations of an elitist few.

brings up the thought: they don't want gay marriage to be legalized because then they would have to admit their crimes to themselves. by legitimizing the few, that condemns those secret elite even more in their shame and their hypocracy.

nebulize

skunk anansie - milk is my sugar

filth; a world of hurt

breathe in

been meaning to write something meaningful. i walk home from work with nothing but random thoughts running through my head. i look at the seemingly abandoned house on the corner of 8th and forever, sometimes a single light on in the corner window and wonder if the burden engine burns silently in that corner, calculating the fates of the last 300 worlds. i see the pinball machine shrouded in a rotting bedsheet on the porch of a mansion, the yard destitute compared to the houses that glisten in the sun with wealth and starshine on either side, and wonder what devilish mechanism put the fear in the owners to set the device outside to fight the elements.

so many ideas, so many opinions. so much.

then i see things like this



sickness. pure sickness. i felt dirty for having watched.

i cringed when i saw the kid snicker at the back of the crowd. i felt hopeless as people seemed to back away in the face of three semi-authoritative mall cops. sick sick sick.


breathe out


where are we going? i know that by far we can't run around and start throwing up 'police state' banners on the steps of every capitol, but it still makes me wonder if we are not headed for another dark ages of sort. it makes me feel like we are running right back in to the 60's, a time of seemingly liberal ideals but staunchly conservative, if not fundamentalist, opposition. in a way, we are slowly unravelling the tapestry of freedoms that we have woven over the past 40 years, once again criminalizing the counterculture while advertising it with cardigan sweaters in a gap ad or in the latest fall out boy video.

racism, true homicidal lynching redneck racism, is coming back with a fury. bigotism, with all the trappings of testosterone and fear, is resurfacing. in general, hatred is knocking on our door. the police state may be a ways off, but a state of fear has definitely set in. hatred is born in fear (feer the creep). sure i use the words, i actually long to stand in the middle of the intersection in my house and scream 'stupid nigger' at the next escalade driven by a cel phone talking member of the darker race that tries to run me over while i cross. i want to scream 'fucking queer' at the next little foppish popped collared faux-hawk looking 21 year old that sneers at me when i go up to order my 10th vodka 7. i want to yell 'shitbagger fogey' to the pissbag wearing geriatrics that call me at work and expect me to respect them for their age when in honesty they probably haven't respected anyone for their whole lives. but my bigotry and racism is mine, not motivated by fear. i'm motivated by just a lack of even an ounce of compassion for anyone, or anything.

maybe i am a part of the problem. maybe i should do more to change that which upsets me rather than just add to the problem.

maybe i should be perfect, but that is for other saviors. not me.

fighting with shards of glass

breathe in

i heard a great concept on, of all places, ellen. yes i know that makes me even more gay than i care to admit, but damn that show is great. anyway. they were talking about things that you want to do in life. about goals. about doing things that you have always dreamed. one woman, a very intelligent and thought provoking woman, said that the first thing that she wanted to accomplish was to learn how to say no.

now we aren't talking about nancy reagan and tipper gore. we are talking about a normal no. the power to say no when someone asks you to, lets say, lend them 5 dollars when you don't have it, but you know they need it. to say no when you really mean it, when you really want to, and not feel guilty for refusing to do a good deed when in truth it may in fact hurt you or the person asking for the favor.

i said no tonight to going out to the bar, and my phone has not stopped ringing.

the gay movement complains that the general public sees us as sinners, as drunks, as addicts, but when i think of the peer pressure and the lifestyle that a large segment of the gay population lives, i have to agree. now, i know that i'm prone to self loathing, but i don't want to include myself in that group. i want to be an individual. i don't want to live at the bar.

the other day i was picked up at 10am to go to a bar when i really didn't want to go, when i honestly had better things to do. i went. i couldn't say no. but it made me reflect. do i want to end up one of these people. do i want to end up at the neighborhood tavern on any free day i have, getting shitfaced before half the world has had their first coffee break. i've honestly been there, and all it is is depressing.

breathe out

i need to start doing 'other' things. maybe i will start chatting online again, or maybe i'll do something else.

anyone want to be my personal trainer.

nebulize

conjure one - extraordinary ways

proud to be without a color

breathe in

all over the news, all over the television, all over the streets, all i saw was pink. pink scarves, pink shirts, pink socks, pink wigs. and gay pride was months ago.

today was the race for the cure here in the mile high city, a festival of estrogen and self-appreciation for a select community of the downtrodden similar in celebration to the cinco de mayo festival, oktoberfest, the american idol tryouts, and, dare i say, gay pride. when a group of people, no matter how good their intentions, choose to market themselves as icons of supreme do-good-ness, somehow it just seems to sicken and sadden me.

yes, breast cancer is a horrible and fucked up thing, ruining families, communities, and individual lives to boot. we all understand that. and yes, we know that it's a battle best fought with donations and fund raisers, such as the traffic stopping fuck up i saw today. i guess what really gets me are just a few things. where was the non-stop local coverage of aidswalk? where were the legions of reporters at the pride festival? where was the coverage for the stem cell rally at the capital a few weeks ago? where, in fact, is the testicular cancer walk, or the prostate cancer walk, or the 'there are 14 homeless people dying if not dead under any random viaduct next to the platte river' walk. what it all amounts to, to me, is just a bunch of over-educated and boastful career housewives striving desperately to show that somehow in the big scheme of things that they make a difference.

and it pisses me off.

i recognize that breast cancer is a horrible terrible fucked up thing, but i also realize that most of these people are people that are well off enough to pay for their treatments, for their diagnosis, when i have know people with hep c to quietly rot in the alley because of unpaid medical bills.

if everyone that walked today walked up to their nearest shelter, their nearest blood bank, their nearest homeless center, maybe then i would think better of this.

of course this comes from me, who doesn't do anything. at least i don't pretend i'm good. after all evil people usually are just ineffectual and harmless. and i intend to stay that way.

breathe out

i should start doing this more again... makes me feel better.... now i'm ready to tie one on... muhahaha...

nebulize

skunk anansie - glorious pop song

there are fields of fire behind your eyes

breathe in

i have seen a lot today. i have seen the past 5 years summed up in 2 minutes of video. rather than rehash things that have been repeated thousands of times, i have found a couple of things that give a different perspective.

first: the end



second: the paradigm

"Self-reinforcing cycles are engines of change, for better or worse. They get more and more extreme, until either some new constraint enters to impose a new equilibrium, or they crash. Hurricanes suck up energy from the heat in the sea, and grow bigger, sucking more energy, which makes them bigger still, until they hit land and blow themselves out. Addicts keep taking more of what they’re addicted to, until they hit bottom, whether the addiction is to alcohol or heroin or military intervention.

This quality of systems does not bode well—either for the children of Beirut or those of Haifa. Europe and the UN might make some weak attempts to intervene, but as long as the U.S. is cheering the Israeli government on, no serious constraints will be imposed. And why shouldn’t we cheer them on, when Israel’s addiction to force as a solution is the mirror of ours? We’re the big guy and the small guy, standing each other drinks at the pub and throwing the chairs at anyone who threatens us, until we smash the place.

It is this very self-reinforcing cycle that keeps power in the hands of the neo-cons, whose answer to every fear and insecurity is more force. Force which creates more fear, which generates more violence, which requires more force to keep down. It’s an inherent aspect of being caught in this sort of system that as it begins to spiral out of control, and starts to break apart, the only solution you can see is more of the same. An alcoholic gets fired for drinking on the job, and drinks more to forget. Iraq is not working out well for Bush and the neocons, so bring in more troops, or expand the war—Lebanon, Syria, Iran.

You can’t change a self-reinforcing system by changing amounts. Recovering alcoholics know this, generals and politicians don’t. Try to limit yourself to one drink before dinner, and somehow you still end up behind the wheel of the car that careens into the bus full of schoolchildren on the road. Tell yourself that you are using a measured, limited response for well-thought out political aims, and you still end up with blackened torsos and the severed limbs of infants in smoking piles on the motorway.

Here’s some other things we know about these cycles—they are expensive. They consume resources. Drinking up the children’s milk money down at the local. Starving every social program to fund our military. And when they crash, they often fall hardest on the undeserving. The drunk behind the wheel rolls out of the crushed car, unharmed, while the family of five lies dead. The policy makers are not cringing in tenements as bombs fall, or crying over the bleeding body of their most beloved child. Nor are most of those who support the policies. Yet.

To change the system, you need to change the paradigm, the way you frame the situation and think about it, the deep assumptions that shape your viewpoint. That’s Donella Meadows’ most effective way to intervene—changing the world view and the constructs that support the system. It’s also, generally, a hard and painful process. A new paradigm, a new construct of self and world, goes against everything we know and believe. If I’m telling myself that I’m a fun-loving, party kind of a gal—how painful to instead admit that I’m an alcoholic! If I’m justifying the deaths of children by telling myself that I’m bringing democracy to the region, or safeguarding my sister’s children in Hadera, or fulfilling God’s plan, how painful to look at the broken bodies on the pavement and say, “I did that. I have blood on my hands.”"

read the full article here

some of you may think that my posting of dr. strangelove is a dark attempt at comedy, but i post this in all seriousness. this is the place where we are heading, this is the road that the construct has led us down. i have been immersing myself in my own dark world, my post apocalyptic vision of a world in an endless spiral of rage and pain and hope, with heroes that aren't quite heroes and villians that have reasons to act on their rage. and i now see that all i write comes from the headlines, all i dream acts out on the stage of my mind as a revival of the stage of the world.

my darkness doesn't come from an angsty childhood or repressed desires. my darkness comes from the world without, from the lips of a puppet president, from the eyes of a dying infant, from the bodies of the countless dead. the death of this world has infected our hearts, maybe mine moreso.

i hope the next world is better.

breathe out

darkness in your breath old monkey... darkness in your breath

nebulize

requiem for a dream

three days of smiling silence

breathe in

it's already fucking september. another year has flown by and nothing has changed. i had my spring romance. i had my summer fling. i lost a friend. i gained a few pounds.

last year at this time were the last days of disco, albeit in my mind everything was ok. everything changed the last week of september last year, and i should have used that opportunity to improve myself, to improve others. but i didn't. i went back in to the same routine of deception and degeneration.

at least my pants still fit.

breathe out

as quoted from podiatry.com:

'Prevention is the best defense against gout. Medication (e.g., small doses of NSAIDs, colchicine, allopurinol [Zyloprim®], probenecid) may prevent continued accumulation of uric acid in the joints and further attacks. Avoiding alcohol and rich foods that are high in purine (e.g., scallops, sardines, red meat, sweetbreads, gravy, cream sauces) also may help to prevent the condition.'

no i don't have the gout. but i know someone who does.

everywhere i go i see a cycle of alcohol and alcoholism, of lies and lethargy. i guess half of the disease is motivated by fear. the other half, in my mind, is motivated by sloth. i do believe it's a disease, i don't believe that it's incurable. the cure, in my mind, is support, is creating a better self image, is to shift your priorities to something other than where your next drink is coming from. you don't need aa to do it. you don't need a therapist to do it. you need a realization that you are responsible for your own actions, and you need to admit that you have a problem.

sounds a little preachy, huh?

now if i could only say it, and if others would back me up.

nebulize

tori - hotel

crawling through tight windowells

breathe in

i have never quite been good at this. i had a friend recently who has expressed the same feelings that i feel right now, and i made fun of him. it is still sorta strange.

but i can tell you now, there is such a thing as a relationship without sex.

breathe out

i get good gut feelings about things. if law enforcement would have listened to me 10 years ago this whole jon-benet thing would have been solved. look to an old man who crashed their party a few nights before. look to fingerprints on the 2nd floor. ask this creepy karr guy where he got all his super top secret info from. oh and someone has a guilty conscience, look for an unsolved murder in montana and then karr will go to jail.

maybe i should start putting all my predictions on here. that would be cool

justifiction of self

breathe in

no one told me that life would be so much like high school.

nebulize

i'm not okay - my chemical romance

randomness and idiocy

i only left scars on her bad side

breathe in

i'm bored. i feel like i have wasted the past 2 days. sure i've had fun. i've had a few dramatic and confusing things that have come sliding silently through me. other than that it's all been rather blase`. maybe that's why i haven't really written anything in the past week, becuase there hasn't been anything inspirational, everythings just been plain rational, and thats not fun.

and now i'm just writing this as an excuse to not do laundry.

breathe out

mark z. is coming out with a new book. i called the tattered cover and they should have copies on the release date. i haven't contacted barnes and noble yet. the book is called only revoloutions, with a website of the same name. looks just as fucked up fabulous as house of leaves so it will most likely be my obsession for the next six months after i get it.

nebulize

revoloutions of ruin - only revoloutions

rememberance

ventilate


First they had bound his hands with twine. It was rough and it was only a few hours before his wrists had begun to bleed from his struggles. The cloth they had put in his mouth had begun as white, but now was a mixed brown and yellow, the color of sweat and blood. He had lain prone in the damp concrete cell for what had seemed like an eternity, their voices echoing in the dark hallways as they discussed what to do with him, and where to put him when they were done. In his mind he catalogued their voices, memorizing each intonation, each slight variation in dialect and pitch. One of them lisped, each s and t melding, words sounding more choked on then spoken. He imagined a pock marked flunky, rags barely covering his shoulders, open sores on his arms and legs leaving a trail of mucus as he walked. There was a woman with them as well. She spoke eloquently occasionally, but mostly sounded as if she tried too hard. Her face was soft in his mind, hiding years of beatings just as the stolen Paige uniform covered the marks of the stun sticks which had burned her thighs. She had been the one to suggest they just let him go.

Footsteps rang out in the empty hall outside his cell. There was a whirr of machinery, the sound of a keypad being depressed, and then the door was open. A musty yellow light poured in obscuring the bulky shadow that loomed above him. He heard others in the hallway, waiting outside the door, and a voice in the distance. “Grab him. Make sure you don’t put your hands near his face.” It was the woman.

Firm hands picked him up. From all around there was the smell of sandalwood, of dragons breath, the type of smells that the groundlings used to cover up the muck of the sewage they were forced to bathe in. He was lifted, almost gently, over this giants shoulder his gut embraced by a well muscled arm. Now he could see there were six of them, three men and three women including the one that now held him. He would have had to stretch to see their faces, and that was still too painful due to the wound on his neck. To his right the woman addressed him.

“If you do not fight you may live to see another sunrise. I swear that on my father.”

The woman turned and briskly walked down the corridor, followed by the others, the giant bringing up the rear. Other cells lined the hallway, their doors a thick dull metal with a single opening near the bottom for food and other pleasantries. They passed one where he heard, between sobs, a child singing a song that he had heard only months ago when they had traveled through the Cormanian highlands. It was a nomad song called Mary Madonna. As they passed one of the procession in front of him banged on the door, the voice falling silent. That is the man with the lisp, he thought to himself. That is the man that said he wanted to see my insides.

They walked for quite a while, the corridors of the dark prison twisting and turning in on themselves. They are trying to confuse me, he thinks, trying to make sure I don’t know where I am when we get to wherever they are taking me. After a time he heard the sound of machinery in the distance, shouts behind that. They were close to a factory.

“Put him in there,” the woman barked.

The giant turned to an open doorway and casually threw him to the ground. When he landed he heard a crack from his hip, but he bit his tongue to ignore the pain. Before he had his bearings he heard the metallic slam of the door and footsteps in the corridor.

“Leave me for a moment, I want to address him alone.” More footsteps fading, the smell of a cigarette burning. “Are you hurt? He set you down pretty hard.” Her voice was different now, softer.

“I’m okay. Nothing the medicrats couldn’t fix in a few moments.” He rubbed his hip, and then realized his head was bleeding again, the wound from his capture reopened by the impact.

“Where is he Tethriel?” The voice not only sounded softer to him, it sounded familiar.

“Who are you?” Beads of sweat began to trickle down his brow. They had talked before they came to the city, made a promise that if they were captured that they were on their own. The image of Jason running as the mob carried him away, beaten and bruised, was still etched into his skull. Suddenly he was filled with contempt, the thought of that elegant bastard running through the dark alleys never to see him again sending him reeling.

“I’m a friend, Teth. I always have been. I’m not surprised you don’t recognize my voice, it has been a long time. What is it now, two, three worldsets? You were my favorite the last time, you know that right?” He could hear her smiling.

One beat. Images flashed behind his eyes, scenes of faces and people and places, ones he knew he hadn’t seen but yet were so familiar. He saw the rise and fall of a great city, a thousand years flash through in but an instant. He saw the knife.

“Does that help?” There’s the sound of a keypad, and the familiar whirr of gears.

Vyvyan smiles, the shotgun at her side touching her shins. And in one moment Tethriel remembers.

“It’s good to see you again, Vyv.” There is the sound of the twine on his wrists and legs ripping, the smell of oranges as the wounds on the back of his neck and his bruised body heal themselves. “What took you so long?”

three days

ventilate

The domes of the Equivicol shone brightly against the noonday light, a glimmering beacon of stability snuggled into the horizon between brothels and murder tents. From somewhere below were the chants of the Paige Guard as they ran their patrols, the sound of stun sticks and children echoing through the alleyways up to his open window.
It had been three days since he had arrived in West Adria. Three days since he had last seen Tethriel carried off by the Seeker mobs. He still wondered if even now the poor boy sat wasting in one of their cells, awaiting whatever tortures the masses have clung to in the face of the Magnates subjugation. The boy had been an asset, that was never in doubt. But he was a casualty that had been foreseen and almost welcomed as the last days had come ever closer. Better to perish now than to witness the horrors of the remaking of the world.
The small room was equipped only with the necessities, both governmental and personal. A bed, a table, one chair, and of course the prerequisite camera and vid feed. A reporter droned in the background, singing the glories of the Magnate and his recent administrative visit to the Cormanian Boundary to deal with the Nomad issue. The roar of the supplicant crowd almost completely drowned out the low howl of the incoming shells in the background. Somewhere overhead an airship announced another victory in Irktuska, the quiet calamity of the Magnate’s voice followed, thanking his constituents for the opportunity to serve them in this glorious cause.
He went back to the window and sat at the table, gazing at the dome, and the sea beyond. The night before he had ordered a bottle of spirits and had drank most of it. He poured the last draught in his glass and swallowed it in one drink. He wondered what she would think if she was here, if she could share in his liquid banquet of discontent. She would probably smile and finger the trigger of her gun, thinking fondly of the days gone by when they drank to celebrate, not to grieve. He felt the hilt of the knife to his side, concealed by a worn cotton cloth that hung from his waist. It wouldn’t surprise him if she were there somewhere, walking the alleys below, stalking him, waiting for him.
Loudly, the vid screen beeped, an incoming message already displaying on the silver-blue screen.
WE HAVE THE BOOK. IT IS ONLY A MATTER OF TIME NOW. PROCEED AS INSTRUCTED. MORE TO FOLLOW.
Smiling, he set down the glass. At least Ariel was still alive, still wandering the wastes to the west. It had been two years since he had seen her face, these messages his only correspondence. No hello, no how’s it going, always the plan. She did tell in detail of her detainment in the northern tower about 4 months ago, told of Michael’s warning to him. That was the longest, still only about the length of a paragraph. Jonas was with her though, the witless fool. He wonders if Jonas still knows nothing of the plan, nothing of their true purpose. The knife whistled at his side, as if tuning in to his thoughts.
The bells of the Equivicol marked midday, the hollow sound bouncing off the arcology walls into his open window. Beyond the transparent wall another airship, one of the military cruisers, opened fire into the open sea causing a ripple of fire and smoke. From below the water a black shape emerged and the airship fired again, this time causing an explosion that eclipsed the black shape entirely, and then it was gone. The airship made an exaggerated figure eight and was joined by another before both flying off into the western sky.
Another victory for the Commonwealth. Another step on the road to the end.
He hadn’t packed that much, the sum of his belongings arranged neatly on the unused bed. A change of clothes, an automatic pistol, a black box to protect the ammunition, and a satchel overflowing with yellowing parchment. He walked to them now and gathered them up in the rust colored satchel that hung from his shoulder to his waist. In the corner of the room a rat smiled up at him before making its way under the pale green carpet to its fabulous subterranean home. There were still some creatures that thrived in this world, and that thought lingered in him as he opened the door to the fermented hallway that had welcomed him three days before. Three days from now the hallway would more than likely not be there anymore, and that thought, more than anything else, was the one that made him smile.

bliss of another kind

breathe in

welcome back. almost three months since my last post. three months since things have been turned slightly around. things always come in threes.

breathe out

the world changes when you go away. i wasn't here. some pitiful creature that filled my shoes was here, singing the praises of domesticated fornication and false hope. there is a sinister nature present in the modern day relationship. it actually made me go back and want to be rose walker again. i wish i had multicolred hair and a calvin klein model in my recent past. i wish i was on a plane to the english moors in search of my prone mother and my even more crippled sister.

for a while i was happy. for a while there was a light in the world that shone brighter than my own vague fae spirit. but i wasn't ready for the world behind the mirror, the razorblades and the hooks that i had long ago pulled out of my calloused heels.

this time i'll take it slow. this time i'll dream first, then act later.

breathe in

i have written some pretty cool stuff in the past couple days. needs some editing. stay tuned.

oh. by the way.....


nebulize

lamb - wonder

the truth about bloody revenge

breathe in

i know its been a while. i know i have let all 3 of my magical constant readers down. i know that i should have fixed my computer a while ago. but now i have someone that will let me use theirs so i can cancel my internet service!!!!! i won't, but its a thought.

as some of you may have heard i am happily in a relationship, and no thats not why i haven't been posting. he is special and he gives me kisses and bitemarks. we're sorta retarded and gross actually.

breathe out

my newly reinforced interest in video games has gotten me to pay attention to what is happening in that world again. 500 for a ps3. unfortunately, i think not. maybe me and my monkey will get one together. and maybe i'll take out a loan so i can afford that and still eat.

nebulize

ani difranco - untouchable face

i like pizza

breathe in

aa is good. aa keeps me happy.

aa is playing kingdom hearts right now behind me.

nebulize

the presets - are you the one?

the bad habits of leprosy

breathe in

i shouldn't be awake right now... it took me 4 tries to write this so bear with me god awful humans

hojo.org is a bad place. go to portalofevil.com and read about it..

nebulize

scrood bi u - loa

eyes on the balcony

breathe in

i write stories. it's what i do. i spin a yarn about this boy and this cock and who had whose mouth on his whatsit and all the other juicy details. let's tell a true story.

right now i just feel alone.

and thats the truth. choo choo.

nebulize

joan osbourne - ladder

and there is sweet pain

breathe in

it comes in waves. this little bit of autobiographical stuff. it comes and i exaggerate.

it comes.

nebulize

bt- dark heart dawning

the best of friends lie dormant... and then lie some more

breathe in

love is a complicated monster. i say monster not because i'm afraid of love, not because i shun love, but because i don't truly understand love. i come to realise that because of love i have become frightened and sheltered and that i cower in corners waiting the next unexpected turn, waiting for the next scare. i say monster because it is the fear that i understand, its the horrible fear that i accept.

i don't like it when my friends are in love.

i doubt it. i get jealous. i get mad.

as c would say... this is something that could be grand, but i don't have the patience or the motive to go any further. i'm just a little intimidated.

breathe out

it's fun to believe. its fun to pretend. its fun to go out and get blitzed.

nebulize

tori - famous blue raincoat

i ate her calf muscle and all i got was a blood bourne disease

breathe in

i think that i've said this before, but i will say it again. i wouldn't have a job without the existence of stupid people. of course at the same time, a lot of stupid people wouldn't have jobs if it wasn't for the low expectations and the merciless bottom line of employers like mine.

i never said what i did was lofty and/or intellectual.

breathe out

i find myself all kinds of interested in this show on cannibalism on the history channel right now. and right before i was watching the musical version of reefer madness.

coincidence? i think not.

skin scarred and sweetly singing sin

breathe in

there was this t shirt i always wanted to buy. it had the profile of some dude with liberty spikes and underneath it said 'i used to be punk once'. i really liked it, should have gotten it. but no i had to get the bugfucker shirt, or the other one that said satan instead of pepsi. or even that ghastly afro shirt that i never even put on once.
an old friend told me a while back that i'll always be punk, because punk doesn't mean having leopard spots in your hair or wearing a dog collar, it doesn't mean listening to tdk or tlpd, it means denial of conformist reality, it means a slighty skewered kaleidescopic paradigm shift.
it means i never really had to have liberty spikes.
case and point, some homo wanna be a the off key bar singing beasties with liberty spikes is not punk. he probably played football in high school.

breathe out

i came within 10 feet of a police officer tonight. it made my stomach churn.

nebulize

garbage - the boys wanna fight

*sigh*

life and death on the seventh cornice

breathe in

i think when i have a pic post, cause i can do that now, i'll follow my theme by having it be a sigh.

like *sigh*

so....

*sigh*

fraud and the upside down benefits

breathe in

i've decided that it doesn't really pay to bitch about work. sure, to most of us work is the thing that keeps our belly's full and our mouths full of vodka, but after you put in your 8 hours or so it should be the end. so then why do i go out with work friends and proceed to talk about work for about 13 drinks? it just doesn't make sense. of course, nothing good ever comes of getting that drunk with work friends. somehow somebody's mouth ends up where it shouldn't, or a hand or some other body part i don't even know the name for.

so i won't talk about work. although lately going out has been a lot of work.

breathe out

i find that since i got out of my last situation that there is a myriad of others that seem to be lying at my feet waiting to be picked up. its too easy to fall into addiction, avarice, sloth and any number of mortal sins after your soul has been wiped clean by late night contemplation and riding the bus with winos at midnight. sure, my purity hasn't returned, although i have thought about getting that surgery that will replace your hymen, but i feel and have felt for the past few weeks that in a sense i have been cleansed. now i just need to clean my room and we'll be golden baby.

breathe in

i need to go see a concert. live music. something. anyone know of something hot to do next friday night let me know.

nebulize

garbage - metal heart

straight, never forward

breathe in

its been a while friends. i can be shy if i want to. i miss you all. and short sentances usually hide the truth so its all fun.

i need to bite my tongue every time he talks about rent. you know who. that jobless thing that doesn't realize that i've paid good money to live here. that thing that makes me cringe.

WHO ARE YOU????

its alright really. i just smile and nod and hope that the next life is better than this. hope that maybe one day i fall and no one catches me and sweet oblivion gives me a kiss and a hug and says its gonna be ok...

breathe out

tequila mockingbird has the best les singer in 8 million years. its true... thirty helens agree.

nebulize

my chemical romance - helena

thirty and four

ventilate

'i assure you, sir, the offices are quite busy this season, as you may well assume. the presence may not be available for weeks, even months.' the paige's voice trembled as he spoke, the wavering sounds echoed by clumsy footsteps on ages old brittle tile. ' i have strict orders, sir, i hope you know. i - i can't let you pass without the proper paperwork.'

jason paid the boy no mind, his sights instead favoring the ornately carved golden doors at the end of the immense seeming hallway. the enormity of the gallery, as is every other in the labyrinthine passages of the complex, was an illusion laid out by some long forgotten architect, buried by centuries and holy conspiracy. in actuality, it was a mere hundred steps, maybe less. the distance, and the appearance thereof, were not important. in this world the numbers and meters of men were as uncertain as mortality, as irregular as the far-flung home of a spattered drop of blood. time had taken its rightful throne over the rebellious nature of space and under its rule all the integral constants had become warped and malleable. and then there was the deception, and inherent inaction, that the grigori had propogated, but that is another story.

the paige, nevertheless, musters the last of his loyalty and steps in front a mere ten paces away from the door. 'i am afraid, sir, that this as far as you shall go.' from his right side, jason draws something that could be a blade, a revolver or even a stun stick. to a killers eye it could be many different things, but in truth the end result is all that really matters.

there was a flash of light, a smell of lillies, then nothing. as the body sank to the floor the paige let out one last sigh, as if contented by a tall glass of water, and then was blissfully silent.

jason opened the doors.

and then there is me

breathe in

and then there is me. something small and something glorious. but it's still just me.


happiness to those that find it and unhappiness to those that don't.