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prisms of a sharp mind... voices who are dreams calendar singular deepest flower up comes yesterday up comes yesterday
Exhaling a Red Soul
...crumpled collapses into the dark
Hello all!

So sorry for the EXTREMELY long hiatus. Lots has happened with the buyout and following move. Yes, I'm free from Ft. Myers at last. But alas, not Florida. I moved to the Tampa area which oddly enough has even less shopping than Ft. Myers.

For those of you who have the time...Collapse )

So that's the quick and dirty, or not so quick, of it. I'm thinking of putting some of the paper ramblings on here, maybe I'll do that later.

Just wanted to put a shout out to all my LJ friends. I wish you all the happiest of holidays, and I hope you all have a kick ass New Year! I've really missed everyone and I hope I can get back into the swing of things now. I'm going to try and do some back-tracking of people's entries, just so I'm up to speed. This may take some time though and I still have an immense amount of unpacking to do.

Love to you all!

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Current Location: still orbiting the center of the universe

2 poets put on purple thought ~*~ What say you poet!
My Mom's ex is buying the house. Yay. Well really, YAY! But somehow I'm still, er, um, I don't know. Yes, it's the I don't know feeling. Does anyone else get this? You're just not quite right. I have to tell you that I can't even imagine moving somewhere in Florida, getting another shitty job, etc, etc, etc. I can't imagine it; I can't believe it's going to happen. Call me crazy but I feel like something else is going to happen. We aren't staying here of course, but to just go from one shade of crap to another doesn't feel right. And when I say that I mean that I feel that for once the worse case scenario is NOT the inevitable. You can get the feeling that something's not right, but inevitable. This just feels like it's wrong all the way around, both in and of itself as well as to whether it's likely to happen. Ahh, I'm rambling.

We went to St. Pete yesterday and saw a bunch of sad, overpriced little houses. The town seemed nice enough, but there was something ghostly about it all. Everything seemed to be dead with just this vague sense of life that once existed. Or maybe it was just me. I was trying to exist on less than four hours of sleep which I just can't do. I'm not really existing; I resemble more of a zombie rather than an extremely tired person. I was trying to write about what it was like to be that tired on the way back to Ft. Misery:

I don't know why I do this to myself. I can't concentrate and it's very difficult to communicate in anything but one syllable, monotone words. Excitement is not a possibility. Concentration is a figment of the imagination. Your body starts to ache like you have a fever. You suddenly become paranoid that everyone is out to annoy you and they're doing a terrific job of it. And then of course you get terribly snappy, ready to decapitate with one bite. YAP, YAP - like a dog warding off strangers. After which you feel awful for biting someone's head off which makes you irksome that they provoked the beast within in the first place.

That's the best I can do on four hours of sleep. Sleep is incredibly important. I've always known this. You especially realize this when you hear about stories like a friend of mine. She told me about a friend of hers who apparently couldn't sleep for almost a whole week, at least five days. When he finally fell asleep, unfortunately his wife came in shortly after to wake him for dinner and he ended up killing her, their kids, then himself. I can actually relate to this story in the sense that if someone wakes me up when I'm still in that exhausted phase, I feel like decking somebody. You want to see me grumpy, just wake me up in the morning. But I digress. Being exhausted gave me a great excuse to be thoroughly unenthusiastic about the houses we saw and the area in general - at least there was something good about those measly four hours.

I can't tell you how much I miss New York. I love New York. If anything has ever bewitched me in my life, it's that city. I've been in love with that place since I can remember, and I've wanted to move back ever since I moved away. I can remember back in Christmas of 2003 I went for a visit. It was the first time in nearly two decades that I went to see the Christmas show at Rockefeller Center. We just spent half a day in the city doing the more touristy things like seeing Times Square, St. Patrick's, the big tree *sigh* The funny thing was that I didn't feel sad, or the overwhelming pining I usually do in the midst of microscopic moments with the fleeting thing of my heart's desire. I just walked around all day with this "knowing". I knew that this was my home and I would be parted from it for awhile again, but ultimately I'd be back. A feeling of calm just overcame me and I was neither super happy or sad which was nice considering the circumstances. It can be hard given the thing you most want and still enjoy it with the knowledge that it's only a temporary gift.

I have to just end this with the fact that I'm really still exhausted. I've been really tired for the last week or so and I don't like it. I suppose staying up till 2am every night doesn't help but still. I'm actually going to go to bed before midnight tonight. It must be snowing in hell.

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Current Location: orbiting The Center of the Universe

1 poet put on purple thought ~*~ What say you poet!
On the floating, shipless oceans
I did all my best to smile
til your singing eyes and fingers
drew me loving into your eyes.
And you sang "Sail to me, sail to me;
Let me enfold you."
Here I am, here I am waiting to hold you.
Did I dream you dreamed about me?
Were you here when I was full sail?
Now my foolish boat is leaning, broken lovelorn on your rocks.
For you sang, "Touch me not, touch me not, come back tomorrow."
Oh my heart, oh my heart shies from the sorrow.
I'm as puzzled as a newborn child.
I'm as riddled as the tide.
Should I stand amid the breakers?
Or shall I lie with death my bride?
Hear me sing: "Swim to me, swim to me, let me enfold you."
"Here I am. Here I am, waiting to hold you."

Song to the Siren ~ This Mortal Coil


Another group discovered in college. (The song was actually written by Tim Buckley.) It's so disgustingly, tragically romantic. Definitely swoonworthy. *sigh* You must listen to this song, if at all possible by candlelight, drinking a glass of your preferred red, and smoking a cigarette.

Seriously though, everyone must hear this song so please go here and click on the fourth picture from the left on the bottom of the screen which should bring you to a track listing for It'll End In Tears. Just click on Song to the Siren.

Well crap. I just listened myself and it's not the whole song. Oh well. At least you get the idea.

Current Mood: content content
silenceofsound: Song to the Siren - This Mortal Coil

5 poets put on purple thought ~*~ What say you poet!
So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell,
blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail? A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?

And did they get you trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees? Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change? And did you exchange
a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?

How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl,
year after year,
running over the same old ground. What have we found?
The same old fears,
wish you were here.

- Wish You Were Here ~ Pink Floyd



I was just sorting through my music trying to come up with a mix for a friend of mine. Her birthday is next month and I thought I'd put together something fun. Actually I'm trying to base it around Soft Cell's Sex Dwarf - funny song in case you couldn't tell from the title. That and Space's Female of the Species - absolutely fun and fab!

You know how it gets when you're making a mix, you just start rifling through everything and the cows of the past decide it's time for a visit back home. I love Wish You Were Here, a lot. I love the lyrics and just the guitar riff throughout. Unfortunately, or maybe not, I used it in a previous mix (an actual tape, I'm showing my age). This was when I was in a long distance relationship with the first guy I ever had a "great" conversation with. It's a long story.

Funny how time really does change everything because I used to be so, excuse me, SO damn bitter about that one. Ufff, he was a doozy. But I can look back now with, fondness, hmmm yes. I don't know if I would consider him a "great" love especially with the way it transformed over time, but boy was it ever intense. I have to say that I had one of the best weeks of my life when he came to visit me for a vacation. I've never been so romantic with someone and probably never will again. I mean we would literally stare into each other's eyes for hours, like two inches from each other. I'm just not that....aaaaack! I was almost going to pull a fucking Britany, "I'm not that innocent," excuse me while I throw up. As I was saying, perhaps I'm a bit jaded now and just couldn't react properly to a certain amount of that cornball, sickly sweet, lovey dovey bullshit. Honestly I'd probably just laugh if some guy did half the crap we did. Not that I don't like romance, but if you lay it on too thick it just stops being real for me (plus there's a certain "Who the fuck are you?" factor I was overcome with when meeting this same ex years later so romance has lost a bit of it's believability when the person you thought you loved turns out to be a complete stranger). Not that you can't be intense. Fuck, I don't know. I hope you get my meaning because I probably don't entirely. Maybe I'm just that bitter bitch, but I don't think it's that simple.

I digress more than a little. Basically this is a great song regardless how you take it, although learning more about Pink Floyd's history it has certainly taken on an even more morose lingering in the heart, then again almost all their music does after learning about Syd Barrett. One word, haunting. Still, Wish You Were Here always tends to make me feel, well not necessarily good, but hmmm, in a weird way a little less lonely.

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Current Mood: nostalgic
silenceofsound: Wish You Were Here - Pink Floyd

2 poets put on purple thought ~*~ What say you poet!
You know there are those moments when you see something and a little voice in your head says, "Uh-oh, look at that. You better do something to avert the coming disaster. Quick do it now before it's too late!" And by disasters I'm talking about leaving a drink on the edge of a table, or walking to quickly through a room bare foot that's chockablock with furniture. Stuff like that where that voice gives you the vision of the drink stained carpet, or a curse-inducing stubbed toe. That's what I've been doing with my computer.

Since I got this laptop I've been throwing caution to the wind and shootin' from the hip - I've been surfin' with no security software, at all. Finally the amoebas came home to slog up my machine last week.

Last, what the heck was it, Friday? Maybe it was Saturday. Doesn't much matter anyway. I sent the odd email, did a bit of searching on my current obsession, (ahem) avoided writing as usual. Then I went and had some dinner leaving my precious little beast humming with two programs running. I came back from dinner and a little TV to log back in only to find that there were 17, SEVENTEEN programs running and thought, WTF?

I managed to log in and was treated to a display of about 20 IE (Internet Explorer - AHHHHHHHHHHHH! I should really just uninstall that wicked child now) windows along with some other apparently downloaded and newly installed programs, which I never downloaded and certainly didn't install. I tried to work my magic for five hours that night, which ended at 3 in the AM. I continued for another three hours the next day until finally deciding that enough was enough, I concede, it's time for a format and reinstall.

I managed to back up a couple of neglected files to my Seagate external (looooooooove that thing, actually things. I have two, yay me!) BUT could not do a backup of my Firefox profile. Little damn gremlins somehow prevented me from viewing my Application Data file, so I couldn't figure out how to get to the damn profile. This of course sent me into whinings about my Bookmarks. Specifically my OBA bookmarks. I've spent waaaaaaaaaaaaay too much time searching for interesting little articles and pics and amassed a nice, chunky folder filled with gold dust that I could sprinkle on my eyes when I was feeling down - all lost, wraaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh! At least that's what I thought.

After going through the format and reinstall there is of course the obligatory installation of other sundry programs that I just can't live without like itunes and Semagic. I think the first thing I had installed was actually Firefox. I refuse to use IE. Of course after that gigantic WASTE OF TIME, I installed Ad-aware and Pc-cillin. Unfortunately I've ended up learning things the hard way, but at least I can be taught.

And now finally for the climax and wondrous part of my story where I can expound on the fan-frickin-tasticness of Firefox. Firefox is a Zarquon frood! (Sorry, just watched Hitchhiker's the other day and Beeblebroxian slang has been swaggering around my head). Especially Firefox paired with Foxmarks. Now I hadn't really paid that much attention to all the hoopy extensions. The only one I used with any kind of regularity was StumbleUpon - super cool! I knew I had set up Foxmarks, but for some reason I thought I had to manually back them up every so often. But I was so happily wrong! Turns out Foxmarks automatically uploads changes to your bookmarks to the server EVERY TIME you make a change to your bookmarks! WHOOPEE! All those lovely little links have been saved. I was about ready to do some back flips when I discovered this. So for the record, Firefox is awesome! If you aren't using it, download now! You won't be sorry.

As to those little malcontents who fucked up my machine. It's amazing what people will waste their time doing. Don't get me wrong, I sort of understand the hacker mentality. I've known a couple, ones who were visited by men in blue suits and dark glasses when they were 15 and asked not to use a computer again. So I get the anti-establishment thing, the challenge of hacking the unhackable thing. But this is frackin' (only six more days to season three!) ridiculous. There are better ways to change the world. In fact they aren't even changing the world, just aggravating it if anything. But never so much aggravation as to actually make any meaningful difference in how people operate other than, damn I shoulda installed that antivirus (although the thought of, "Shit, next time I'm getting a Mac" did cross my mind more than once. This of course is meaningless coming from someone like me who has pined after a Mac for almost ten years). For some of the time I was trying to avert complete hard drive annihilation I have to say I actually enjoyed myself. It was a challenge that I am of course far too ill-equipped to handle. Still I understood what was going on (bastard actually disabled the Task Manager and my Start > Programs, then on top of it hid the executable for System Restore - fucker, but I actually say that with a certain amount of admiration. I know, I'm sick.), I just didn't know how to fix it.

So that is part of the reason why I've posted a whole big bag of nada in the last week.

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Current Mood: chipper chipper
silenceofsound: Precious Things - Tori Amos

What say you poet!
I finally got to poking around McSweeny's just now and came across this wonderful piece from John Hodgman. Truly amazing. Here's a snippet:

...I would explain to my adoring students that stories hold power because they convey the illusion that life has purpose and direction. Where God is absent from the lives of all but the most blessed, the writer, of all people, replaces that ordering principle. Stories make sense when so much around us is senseless, and perhaps what makes them most comforting is that, while life goes on and pain goes on, stories do us the favor of ending.

There is so much more to this piece that if this piqued your interest you should be prepared for a certain amount of somber contemplation. This is the kind of writing that has a huge "awestruck" quality for me.

Current Mood: Awestruck
silenceofsound: Stripped - Depeche Mode

3 poets put on purple thought ~*~ What say you poet!
Just like that my mood has been pricked by a needle and I'm deflating across the room with a wheeze. My Mom was thoughtful enough to let me know about this story. I also came across this more telling story as well. I graduated from East, shit, more than a couple of years past ten ago. Why oh why am I so not surprised.

Hmmm let's see, I came away from Green Bay with the feeling that there isn't a single person from my experience that I'd cross the street to piss on if they were aflame. Harsh I know, especially from a pacifist but I'm still a bit wincey about the whole thing. Here's a small, I repeat SMALL, example of my experience there. I was a mouse. I did nothing to no one. I was the alien dropped from planet New York and everyone knew it and treated me as such. I remember one day when this guy that was in one of my classes who I never spoke to, not so much as even looked at walked up to me and whispered "Fucking bitch" in my ear as I was going to my locker. I guess the fact that I merely existed warranted this branding of a Hester Prynne assessment. I remember my desire, my one true wish during my time at East, heck my entire time in Green Bay, was just to be ignored. The blessed/cursed silent treatment was better. To be rendered nonexistent was more appealing that to exist as pariah.

So, now we have a couple of kids who from first glance appear to be counted as members of the tormented. Foolish boys they are because they don't realize that that particular flavor of pain will end. It will cease to be. But it's hard to see past eternity when you're 17 and everyone hates you. All these people keep asking why. Then the blaming begins with Tom, Dick, Harry, or all three. Tom being the parents of the students, Dick being the teachers, Harry being the media and society at large. Every adult who carries with them an awkward, battered, younger self that has been buried under "better times" knows the truth. They know that it is the proverbial "victims" of this story that are to blame. The very students who might have come to a violent end had most likely been inflicting little deaths on these boys every day for years. What did they expect? Especially in this day and age where we all seem to be surrounded by violence of some form.

But then I think, they're all just kids. Where did they learn such intolerance and cruelty? So maybe it is the parents. And I can remember too when teachers who could see my desperation for relief from my classmates would just go "on the turning away". Finally there is the saturation of what is acceptable, are you acceptable, are you thin enough, do you have white enough teeth, do you have the right friends, do you say the right things, do you have these gadgets which are required for you to be acceptable in the eyes of society. So maybe it is all three that are to blame for the "kids" who act like wild dogs at a feast when someone "other" is dropped into the pen. I don't know. What I do know is this must end. As to how I have no idea because from the dawn of time humans have been prejudice and cruel to each other.

People will disagree with me, and they have every right to and I understand why. But I feel most sorry for these boys because their lives now are pretty much over. If only they could have held on just a little longer they would at least be free of the dogs. But it's so very hard to hold on, and even if you do hold on something inside you is still murdered in those formative years. So I do feel very sorry. All of this has reminded me that I still hold quite the bitter taste in my mouth for that time at East and in Green Bay.

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Current Mood: Bitter

What say you poet!
You know, I thought I left earthquakes behind when I moved to Florida from San Francisco. I guess I was wrong. I was sitting on the couch knitting when I suddenly felt the cushions on which I was sitting (just the cushions mind you) were bouncing ever so slightly. Then the door to the bedroom was started to shake. A quizzical look came over my face as I thought, hmmm that's odd. Promptly after which I thought, earthquake? Naaaahhhhh. My Mom who was in the bedroom came out to shoo the cat from the door only to discover no fur ball banging on the door. We then simultaneously thought, haunted? Naaaaahhhh. For about the next ten minutes we discussed how odd it was and the possible explanations each seeming more impossible than the others. Eventually the experience faded from our minds.

Two, or maybe three days later my Mom announced that I was correct in my original inkling of, you guessed it, earthquake. Apparently a six pointer was detected out in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. We both made a couple of morbid jokes about a tsunami hitting Fort Myers Beach and flood insurance. It would be the metaphoric cherry on top for our mutual sundae of misfortune that our house which is STILL for sale would get washed away by a tsunami caused by an earthquake.....in Florida - WTF? According to that article I linked to it occurred "mid-plate". I didn't realize that was possible. For Christ's sake! Well, I shouldn't be so damn dismal. No tsunami (where's a redwood I can KNOCK down) has befallen us so I should be happy. Yay.

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Current Mood: still chipper

What say you poet!
Just got Assassination Vacation from the library. I first came across Ms. Vowell by watching her appearance on The Daily Show plugging said book. Since then I've found that she is, for lack of a better way to put it, what I want to be when I grow up. She's smart, funny, and a great writer. Here's a choice quote from a Daily Show appearance, "I talk about going to his [George W. Bush] inauguration and standing there crying when he took the oath. Cause I was so afraid that he would wreck the economy and muck up the drinking water. Like the failure of my pessimistic imagination at that moment boggles my mind now." Flippin' hilarious. She also is a regular at McSweeny's which I recently discovered through John Hodgman (whose treatise on hobos I highly recommend, although not all in one sitting otherwise you're liable to loose all your teeth and hop the nearest railway car). Plus she's on the board of directors for 826NYC. Once I win that lottery and move to Brooklyn I will most certainly volunteer here!

So yes, I count Sarah Vowell as one of my heroes. Now I'm not planning on doing any kind of political commentary, at least professionally. I have nooooooooo desire to be a pundit. But her writing is engaging and entertaining. I guess that's my hope for myself. Plus smart. Or I guess educated. It's not that I think I'm dumb, but there's a lot I missed out on by not finishing school. I'd really like to go back. For now I'm making my own attempts at homeschooling myself. I'm trying to read all those books I should have read instead of watched in high school. Funny how I took these "literature" classes that really turned out to be film classes and poor ones at that.

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Current Mood: chipper chipper

What say you poet!
Woo-hoo! Battlestar Galactica starts on Oct. 6th! I'm so excited. Just came across these on the web:

http://www.scifi.com/battlestar/webisode01/

They're some sort of Webisodes of content that should bring us back into the fold of what the hell happened so many months ago. If you haven't seen seasons 1 & 2, go out and either rent or buy them NOW! Watch them all, then watch the Webisodes and finally tear your hair out in anticipation of season 3.

All I can say is the last episode of season 2 I kept saying to myself, "This isn't happening. Baltar is dreaming. He's going to wake up any minute. This isn't happening. This CAN'T be happening. When the fuck is Baltar going to wake up!"

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Current Mood: bouncy bouncy

What say you poet!
I've thought about this so many times in the last couple of weeks. When I first saw Adaptation I thought it was okay. Actually I didn't care for it all that much. I even sold the damn DVD. I didn't hate it, but it just didn't really move me.

Now, with a bit of writing experience under my belt I think of the movie often. It's hilarious actually. I wonder if non-writers appreciate the movie as much. How could they? I certainly didn't. Perhaps that's a testament to my own ignorance, or inability to see outside of my own experience which could very well be true especially during the time in my life when I saw it. Still there's a certain....er...um...wisdom(?) that you gain from sitting in a room facing a solitary void that you must fill with bits of your spirit. Unless you've lived that experience, you don't know how frustrating it is, how insane it is that you put yourself through it, and how it seems that this very act of insanity is what your entire Universe hangs upon. Everything and nothings seems to matter when you're trying to write.

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Current Mood: contemplative

2 poets put on purple thought ~*~ What say you poet!
I've been attempting to do that thing called "writing" for the last couple of hours. All I seemed to have accomplished is a bunch of shizer.

Crapity crap, crap, crap.

Current Mood: annoyed annoyed

What say you poet!
I've been thinking about how much more work it is to not write. How much torture it is? And why the hell do I do it?

I guess there's the expectation...mmm, no not expectation, desire I suppose, there's the desire to write like a genius every time I sit down, not that I ever write like a genius. But there's just this pressure to do well. And I feel that I can't, I guess. Maybe that's it. I think I suck. But I don't really. Don't get me wrong, I don't necessarily feel comfortable with the moniker of "writer" just yet. Still, I feel that what I do happen to write isn't completely hideous, publishable I don't know, but not hideous to where you just want to curse and rip it to shreds. Maybe not that I think I suck, but I feel I suck. There is a difference.

Well, what have I been thinking today....

Stories, characters, fiction, nonfiction....what am I going to do?

Fiction does appeal to me but I don't feel big enough for that, get me? Definite feelings of intimidation there.

Nonfiction, personal essays, well I've got a ton of them in me considering my history. Characters abound. I was thinking about how I see the central protagonist of any story of mine would always be female, but then being the type of person that likes to stretch her boundaries I immediately forced myself to think in terms of male characters, who would they be, what would I want to happen to them. Ex-boyfriends came to mind from the start. I've surely dated some real characters. Boy you can say that again! I was thinking how there are characters everywhere. For instance at the store, the customers, each of them has a story and I started wondering what they would be.

Another thing on my mind, the idea of doing a documentary about mental illness, especially from the perspective of how my family has dealt with it (my Uncle was diagnosed manic depressive/borderline schizophrenic and he's been in an institution since he was 19, he's in his 50's), but also how our society deals with it. I was watching Morgan Spurlock's 30 Days the other night. He spent 30 days in jail. What I found surprising and appalling was the fact that it's estimated that there are more mentally ill patients housed within prisons versus those housed in actual mental institutions. That just shouldn't be. Most people have no idea what it's like to be mentally ill. I don't claim to, but at least I have an idea from being around my Uncle. My manager once said to me something to the affect that "Oh, they're in their own world, it's like a dream for them" I could wax philosophical and say that's the way it is for everyone, but that's for another time. I suppose my Uncle is in his own world, but it's not a dream, it's a nightmare. I can't really imagine, I don't think anyone can really comprehend it. One thing I know for sure, it's no picnic in your mind when you're mentally ill.

I've found that having a mentally ill family member can create the dynamic of having an alcoholic in your family. While many families lock away and forget, or just plain forget, about their mentally ill relatives my Grandparents were totally dedicated. They never took a vacation since my Uncle has been in the hospital except for one week when they visited me when we first moved to Wisconsin. Other than that they went no where because every weekend, pretty much until my Grandmother got sick, they would visit him at the hospital or take him home if he was good. It was a wonderful thing of them to do, but very codependent. It wouldn't have hurt for them to take even one weekend a year to themselves. That's just my opinion. Maybe I'm a selfish bitch, oh well.

I'd just love to get some of the thoughts from my family about what it has meant to them having a mentally ill brother/son/Uncle.

There's so much about my family that I find fascinating. The last time I was in New York we visited Yonkers and drove past my old house where we all lived with my Grandparents. It was my twin sister Aunts (not identical), my Mom, and I and it was an amazing moment when we drove down our old street. There was this outpouring of memories that was like a ball that they tossed between each other. First my Aunt Barbara remembers something about getting stuck in the snow on the corner, and then my Aunt Nancy picks it up from there about how she came to help her. My Mom remembered my Grandmother standing at the top of the stoop looking down. This ball of memory and emotion was going back and forth, traveling through time and I was carried along by the sound of their voices and the memories whether happy or frustrating were all exhilarating. I so wished I had had a camera or tape recorder to capture that moment.

Memories for me that day were absent. Nothing looked the same to me. It was like any other strange town. The house was completely changed, my old school looked nothing like I'd remembered. That's something else that's fascinating, how a few years can completely change how you look at things, how you see them. You wonder then how does how you think about things change? There is no snapshot in your mind that you can return to of how you thought about this, that, or the other unless of course you wrote in detail every thought down, but still, there's feelings that accompany thoughts and it's rare that you accurately capture that, the state of your mind and your heart. Images that you see with your eyes are more distinguishable, than a description of how you think. I guess that's a writer's job though.

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Current Mood: thoughtful

3 poets put on purple thought ~*~ What say you poet!
Today was a sucky day. More work trouble. Par for the course.

So of course, searching for signs again...listening to the rumblings of the ocean due to Ernesto....clouds sweeping in from the gulf, obscuring most of the sky

and I thought, "I suppose it'd be too much to ask for another. On top of that it's wicked cloudy."

I was just going to go inside and then there it was...again. A break in the clouds and that spark of light.

I'm holding on to these because they're all I have right now. I feel like everything is falling apart, practically speaking. I have a shred of hope that I'm holding to tightly. I don't know if these are signs, or if I live in the shooting star capital of the world. I choose to take them as signs for now. Signs that everything is going to be ok, everything won't fall apart. At least I'm still reading, at least I'm still writing.

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Current Mood: hopeful hopeful
silenceofsound: Sing Me - Bent

1 poet put on purple thought ~*~ What say you poet!
I've written something and I'm terrified. Part of me wants to show it to someone. To get feedback, get that ball rolling. But I'm terrified. What if they think it's awful? What if it is awful? I happen to kind of like it, so if it's awful what does that say about me? Do I feel I could do better? Probably. I could go on editing this damn thing for the rest of my life and turn a four page story into an epic, but I feel like I need to be finished with this before I can move on and I want to move on. I want to write about something else. Plus, I would like to cross my fingers and see if I can get the damn thing in print and I think it's not half bad - but then I go back into the, "Well if it's crap then you have no judgment, fuck" phase. Aargh! I must take this step and show it to to someone.

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Current Mood: terrified

4 poets put on purple thought ~*~ What say you poet!
I guess everyone is considering some of the reading I've done here on LJ. It's reassuring in the sense that I'm not the only one tripping in the dark. Still I ask, is this the nature of our times, or is it the nature of humanity? And yet, I know there are people who it didn't even occur to them that they were lost or that there was anything missing in their lives. I wonder, do they not question because there is nothing missing, or are they in denial? Denial of the fact that they are releasing the dove of their dreams to take up the cross of materialism or whatever idea our mass media culture has brainwashed into them? Is it that? Or do I just think too much?

All I know is that I'm trying to put down that cross. In fact I've let it fall, but it seems to have gotten tangled in my feet (unfortunately I need food, water, and shelter), so I'm still dragging.

(This was actually written a couple of days ago. I thought I would add to it, but I'm not in the mood now. So there.)

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2 poets put on purple thought ~*~ What say you poet!
I can feel it.

To quote Kate:

But every time it rains,
You're here in my head,
Like the sun coming out--
Ooh, I just know that something good is going to happen.
And I don't know when,
But just saying it could even make it happen.


I'm going to try and get back on LJ now. Nothing was working out, and I'm not saying that anything has changed in that department. But I have changed. I am changing. I choose it. I asked for a sign, a star...again, last night. And yet again a day late, it arrived. Just now.

So I was outside having my last cig for the day with my gin after a bloodletting onto the screen. I cried again, not wanting to. This is my job now. Examining all those bits of the past and sorting them out by colour. These are my paints now. My broken pieces, ragged and dripping. Will the work end as a pleasant picture or will it be visceral? The ruling is still out.

But I digress. I was outside. Feeling lost again. As I had so many times before I closed my eyes and imagined him here, or me there. King and Queen of the Universe, of our hearts. Resting in the presence of him in my mind with my eyes closed. Then I opened them to where I am, which isn't here or there. I looked at the sky briefly, with the thought of stars always in the back of my mind whenever I look at them. I've seen so many. Something brushed my ankle and I was spurred to move. I looked away from the sky and walked down the length of the house. Out of the corner of my eye I caught something glittering. My head swiftly turned only to see a fading star trying to push it's light into my presence, but not succeeding very well. Just as I was about to turn away from this little star that could....I saw it. It blazed forth for me. Streaked so low as that other night I was seeking signs. I saw it and I smiled. I knew that so many little moments leading up to this moment...upset just one and I wouldn't have seen it. Just one and I'd still be adrift. But I found an anchor.

I feel that I'm on the right track. Sometimes I'm so afraid, but I fight the fear. I must hold to my dreams, shout into the storm. I can't give up.

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silenceofsound: Now I Must Remember - Bent

4 poets put on purple thought ~*~ What say you poet!
A big sorry to those of you on my friends list. You all have been posting these really great, meaningful posts and I've been just kind of sitting here. I've kind of had the worst week and I just can't seem to come up with any really coherent thoughts. The ones I posted on obasc I've been sitting on for over a week, and thankfully squeeing doesn't require much brain power. I hope to get my head on straight once I get this job situation worked out. I just wanted to say that I hear you all and you've given me muuuuuuuuuuuch to think about! Love to you all!
3 poets put on purple thought ~*~ What say you poet!
Some bad things today:

- did not write, bad me
- wasted too much time trolling for icons
- too much wallowing
- too many cigarettes
- too much gin

Some good things today:

- found some great icons
- was able to sign up for UKNova - super good! (Note to self, to actually note to thynk2much that I should be able to download Fantabulosa all on my own now - kick ass!) (Note to others reading this: I would love suggestions on Brit series that I might enjoy that I can download from UKNova, cheers!)
- exercised full 1.5 hr today with girlfriend in tow
- found awesome screenwriters blogs including the fabulous John August
- discovered two great screenwriting contests with deadlines of May 1st (Note to self, get ass in gear.)

5 for 5, not bad I guess

One last thing to add is a quote from this entry from John August's blog:

I kind of hate writing, but I love having written. I would rather do almost anything than sit down and write a scene. But having written it,then reading it back? Pure gravy.

I like this quote in the sense that it is "Pure gravy” when you sit down and read something you’ve written and find that it’s good. It’s a wonderful feeling; there’s nothing like it. But I don't hate writing - not at all. It's just...intimidating I guess. It's getting over that fear of....whatever, and actually sitting down and beginning - that's the challenge.

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Current Mood: okay okay

6 poets put on purple thought ~*~ What say you poet!
Came across this in the New Yorker. Hilarious. I especially love:

Mel sayeth, “If another centurion pulleth me over, I shall say unto him, ‘Shalom,’ and kiss his hiney.”

and

His spokesperson proclaimeth, “Oy,” and fainteth.

silenceofsound: Sing Me - Bent

What say you poet!