6th annual!

Happy New Years. Time to reflect.
"New Years Blog (5th annual)

I have resolved to not fall in love anymore.  I simply neither have the time nor patience to lie on my floor grasping my chest out of love pangs. All the energy that goes into my previous devotions will be spent otherwise on education, art, and books, (for all creative purposes, not art for the sake of love.)

Purify, as intangibly as possible.  Deeds will be done because of pure motivation, and solely for that singular motivation.  No ulterior motives, manipulation, or hiding the truth. Blunt. White. Pure.

Depress less. Smile more.

Quit cutting my hair.

Drink more water.

Be taken seriously. (Always a resolution of mine).

Look better in pictures.

Be pleasantly surprised (also always a resolution of mine. Though this time it will not involve love).

Pay dues to my idols.  Someway, somehow, I am going to do something about my heroes.

Ali's Good Things of 2009:

twitter, cats, the color yellow, skirts and dresses, kissing, my friends, watercolors, sockeye salmon, George, resale stores, scented candles, my bed, mythology class, all the trips, strangers, when people stop being strangers.

Ali's Things that can go to hell in 2009:

24 hour celebrity death coverage on television, sex, mononucleosis, breakups, hookups, myspace, REL 110, commuting, people moving away, liars, death, navy blue."

 

And here's the results. Well, we can all ignore the first one. Clearly. See: the last, I don't know, 12 entries. -10

 

I didn't do much lying. No scheming. There have been a few moments I can't really let slide, but I'm human. +1, -2

 

I'd say I spent 2010 exactly 50% happy and 50%depressed. It is better than 49-51. +5

 

Hair is doing good. I may finally have long blond hair. +5

 

Yikes, I kind of forgot about the water thing. I do take vitamins regularly though. I am proud of myself for that. +0

 

I wasn't exactly taken seriously more, per se, but I did sort out and give the boot to the people who don't take me seriously. Or I yelled at them.  +3, -2

 

I was pleasantly surprised this year. I have met some wonderful people, and have had wonderful and unexpected moments. +1

 

I am still working on paying dues. +x 

 

1+x. Cool. Well, it's a positive slope at the very least. 

 

Now for this year. 

 

Graduate. It's not reaaaallly in question, but I want to so badly. 

 

Take more risks. (not life threatening ones.)

 

Treasure dignity, and quit misplacing it. 

 

Become the most popular girl in school. Just kidding. But I wish. 

 

Successful show.  

 

Keep on with the honesty, pleasant surprises, and water drinking. 

 

I think that's good enough. 

 

 

2010 hits-eBay, watercolors, micron pens, 70's R&b, black eyeliner, graphite, teeth, sculpture, best friends, moments that mimic movies, Harry Potter, Voldemort, action films, recycling, yellow blue, lingerie, youtube, yahoo! answers, falafel, emoticons.

 

2010 misses-  Avatar, Amazon, oil painting, facebook, networking, geodesic domes, statistics class, crackheads, being "in a relationship", pizza (:(), boots, me writing blogs that aren't poems, emoticons. 

Deer Flies Rally aka squabble sala(n)d

Does the word Portland make you sick?
Because I don't feel safe outside the Midwest.
I refuse to remember the last time I put myself in a promissory circumstance,
in fact, I only take matador stances because
a challenge is better than talking.
Problem is, pale and yellowed lace doesn't hide shades of red, lust, or green too well.
I'll never be blue
If you ever decided to look over here
seriously, ever,
you see that my growing nose is spinning red hands through my teeth
and starting fires on my jeans.
It's true.
Polygonal graph me or whatever.
That's where I'm finally going to be off the charts.
 This is all way too many characters to put in a text message, and I haven't proofread for proper placement of emoticons.
And I don't actually have a voice,
well I do,
but it's only audible to other bitches (canine).
Day dreaming is a really nice defense until the realization of what scares you irrationalizes the make-believe.
Since I'm never going to make you believe anything,
I'm gonna go buy that bull a drink and flash him my red stockings.
Too bad I turn into a yellow bellied breed of squash in an hour.

are you leaving already? said a new friend. "no i'm not, im just leaving."

I was standing on my stilts
with a line of sight
right to the lumber where your stomach should be.
It helped you mouth monogamous melodies about you and your pride.
I listened.
With my mouth open
but sometimes shut,
eating only the ones I wanted.
But we all know how I feel about food.
And just when I thought I could only shoot lasers of hate from my eyes,
a string of sewn hearts with green grass fired,
burning everyone's haircuts into monks.
Still on my stilts, I saw their faces frown and turn to walk away,
so I trimmed off their toes
to show them how it feels to be left.
All they did was look into their trinket's face,
and cartoon spaghetti some promises.
I want to do it again next weekend.
I want to do it again tomorrow.
Or, maybe, never again.
Let me check just one more time.
Probably never again.
I can't look at my homepage.
I can't touch my dresser.
George hurts.
I swear to God,
or I guess to words,
that I'm never going to do this again.
Resolute because if I ever so much as blink a fancy,
I'm dismissing it as a toy pony,
and I'm allergic to horses.

History : Supermodels :: Baby : Bathwater

I've had a ton of thoughts today. This is one of 'em.

I like to learn about everything, except history. Not because it's hard, or it's impossible to teach in a benevolent way, but it's useless. Let me explain.

 If I sit around and talk about the past, people are going to tell me to get over it. I think they call it "dwelling." History is like a supermodel, nice to look at once in a while, but essentially pointless and unattainable. The clause "we have to learn so we don't repeat history," doesn't work in the way it ought to, because if logic were really behind the necessity, we'd logically be applying time and effort to the present (where things are actually happening. That much I'm sure). Moreover, we can never exactly repeat anything, and even in a more broad perspective, the entire world is at fault for making the same mistakes. There have been rainy days where I tell myself I'll wear boots, but I don't and end up with cold and wet socks, again. I may never learn. Imagine if there hadn't been a WWII, because, you know, the first one was "the war to end all wars." Things might be different. Don't get me wrong, I am not attempting to abandon the previous second, and the second before that, etc., because that's outrageous and impossible. Even though that's slightly contradictory to the meaning of "present," time is a conundrum anyway, and I'll argue it to tears, but all in all, it's relative, and it would make sense to operationally define "the present" as a discrete interval of,  like, 10 minutes (not the infinite amount of tiny fractions of time that happen in between every moment.) Just, in all practicality, what does history do for anyone? To those I know that love a certain period of time, it makes them yearn to be a part of that, which is as reckless as wishing to be a 9,000 headed dragon on moon Miranda; it simply cannot occur. I cannot knock day-dreaming, it is an important part of my existence, but bereavement for yesteryear is not useful to anyone. (Not like the childish foot-stomp about "When are we going to need this in REAL life?" It's all real life.) If the human experience is unique, culturally relativistic, and requires rationale and morality to thrive, all of which is decidedly personal, where is learning about Franklin Pierce going to fit in deciding whether to pull the trigger, pack my bags, kiss that one, call my mom, or lend a hand? I'm sorry, it's just that we can't complain that the world is ending so soon, and there isn't enough time, and life is so short, when we squander what we so desperately cherish. I'd rather make a dollar than think about a dollar I lost or spent. I'm sure, capitalistically-time-is-money, this argument is golden.

So, Dear Education system,
While I see that your merits are noble, having us pour over thousands of pages of what happened before our greatest-greater-great grandcestors were conceived, people should probably know the capital of Iraq, and start appreciating their contemporaries.

That's all. Carry on turkeying and thanking.

I'm thankful for all those who read this and/or look at my art; my heart beats for you. And I'm thankful for the people in my life, for whom things are worth creating, and air is worth breathing. And my little princess Spence, because she's watching me type this and if she knows how to read, she'd be mad I left her out. And know I'm thankful all the time, not just pre-christmas-gluttony-slaughter-day-oh-yeah-football-and-i-think-i'm-thankful-for-...-too-much-tryptophan.

b

I want to be the best at something
I want to be your best something
your best friend, your best kiss,
your best that, your best this,
the best at colors,
the best at similies,
the best text messenger,
the best disease,
the master of tickeling,
or baking cakes,
a pro word-former,
with no mistakes.
I'd be just perfect,
I'd be your perfect,
in the interest of everyone
I'd be the number one.
The go-to,
the big cheddar,
my eyes would sparkle,
and I could pull off leather.
I'd live upon a pedestal
and be solicitous for the long haul.
But darn reality knocks me down,
I blunder and slip
and make you frown.
I'm sorry and flawed,
but I know it's human,
it just sucks to not
matter in anything you're doing.

Orange, bleu, jaune Paul. Yellowblue.

I try to practice what I would say if you asked me what I was thinking
but my eyes go lazy and I just say, "You know."
In case you don't though,
here it all is.
You're so lucky that when I say I want to glue a bunch of kittens to your body
and feed you crackers from a sandwich bag
that I don't want you as a pet.
Free reign, totally liberal
and adorable.
Since I don't believe in clocks,
just dehydration,
I think I'm going to live at least six hundred more years
and when you halt from boredom,
I'd unquestionably interrogate your pals
and see if I could build you a pyramid.
See, 'cause I got I.M Pei in a cage
and he's got a little wheel and a chewing stick,
and at night he whispers in French,
"juste comment construire un haut en bas la pyramide de verre."
 It'll be better than Paris,
and just like a stained glass window.

j/w, o.k.

This is always the month I remember most.
I can't throw those in a dumpster.
I can delete the songs on iTunes,
and cut you out of the photos,
but there's the fucking radio
and your facebook friends.
You always had more facebook friends.
Am I still special?
What do you do with the songs?
Do they match your new in a relationship?
Or do they die in the park too?
Maybe you think of them as a mistake to learn from.
How long's this going to last?
('cause I think she's a cunt).
But trust me,
I'm worse, promise.
I'd be shocked and jealous if she surpasses my transgressions.
w/e, j/w. k? ttyl.

truth

I find myself parking always at the same place
where I definitely made some decisions.
And when I talk about that place
I can tell by the look upon your face
that you've made some decisions as well.
Thus
I'm seducing my cell phone
and sticking around
'cause a song told me to
and scratching in my notebook
some 'versaries
and insecurities
and maybe some pro's and con's.
Con's
my hands are milksops
and can't use lighters
I seem to remember absolutely everything
and I'm starting to hate
everything west of the Mississippi River.
Pro's
there's only one
that when you're patting your pockets
for the heart you can't seem to find
or you left it at home,
well, God screwed up
and gave me two,
so you can have it,
if you want.
And do what you will:
eat it out,
know it by,
change or stand it still
but whatever, it's yours,
and I'm still parked right here,
sitting and drawing,
waiting for you to appear.

Sorry, that's just how it's got to be.

It's just about autumn, and I've decided to use this as a bit of a springboard for New Years. I guess I'll check in on my resolutions and things to do before I die.


Resolutions.


I have resolved to not fall in love anymore.  I simply neither have the time nor patience to lie on my floor grasping my chest out of love pangs. All the energy that goes into my previous devotions will be spent otherwise on education, art, and books, (for all creative purposes, not art for the sake of love.)
Oops. Nope.

Purify, as intangibly as possible.  Deeds will be done because of pure motivation, and solely for that singular motivation.  No ulterior motives, manipulation, or hiding the truth. Blunt. White. Pure.
Actually, I haven't been manipulative much at all, if at all. I have lied little. And I've even been working on telling the immediate truth.

Depress less. Smile more.
Ha, well, I have had a quicker bounce-back time, if that counts, that is, if you don't count most of July and August. Whatever, I mean, summer gives everyone this stupid mentality that I don't function well around.

Quit cutting my hair.
Doing well. Taking good strides in grooming. Maybe too many strides in vanity though.

Drink more water.
Yes. Got a gallon right here.

Be taken seriously. (Always a resolution of mine).
Not really. Being completely honest, I feel more like entertainment to people than a friend or various other titles. I guess being a joke is nicer than being an enemy, but I've got to be an ali, too. And as much as I love silly, I've got these hearts? And they're my sleeves, and sometimes snickering stings.

Look better in pictures.
Not yet, but a little maybe. 

Be pleasantly surprised (also always a resolution of mine. Though this time it will not involve love).
I was pleasantly surprised this year. I took more risks. I am still taking more risks.

Pay dues to my idols.  Someway, somehow, I am going to do something about my heroes.
I've been reading all their autobiographies. I probably shouldn't have bought them second hand, but they are well-loved.


So, checked my bucket-list. Nothing. I did kiss a girl though.




Here's the deal. Art is going to be more concomitant. I'm going to do more trusting, but equally as much second guessing. I think I'm going to stand up for myself, too. It probably isn't too late to start that.

like, love, miss, hate

I like that there's a girl named "Ali" in the tabloids, because there are some really funny headlines.
I like when you make food and it stays at the right temperature in time for you to enjoy it.
I like selling old books on eBay (strangely).
I like that the weather is starting to act like Autumn.
I like when I need a particularly sized battery, and I can find one without having to buy them.

I love the sound of cars driving through the rain for an early morning commute.
I love not living in the city.
I love inside jokes.
I love having conversations.
I love being scared by movies or stories.
I love looking at faces.

I miss May.
I miss when the only question was "Where?"
I miss the possibility of spontaneity.
I miss being able to dance.
I miss when I didn't have to shave my legs so often.

I hate the words "possibly" and "maybe".
I hate Summer.
I hate"red tape".
I hate when people act like something is mutual when it is only benefiting them, obviously.
I hate when people give up on anything. (Still and always).
I hate how long it takes for mosquito bites to go away.  

Ideally. Ide(ali)

Advertise here!
 Well I would, but I can't afford it.
But if I could, it'd say
 that I wish I had a wooden porch
that we could rot on
the last night before you leave town.
Dark and lit by buzzing bulbs
we'd fasten then disengage,
rinse and repeat.
Well we would, but I don't have one.
So I'd get notice through
a hundred sixty characters
ending with colon, hyphen, backslash.
And I wish I could sing and strum,
Well I would, but I'm a painter.
So this could be a song
maybe in 3/4
that'd look perfect on your hard drive.
It can't be on a marquee, 
frosted in a cake,
burned into your grilled cheese,
or professed on amplitude modulation.
And I'd love to keep my phone on loud
so I could wake up and say goodbye.
I would but I have had trouble sleeping.
And since I keep my phone on silent by my head
while I'm asleep
I won't know 'til the morning that
you've left.

The things I want to do, transitive.

I want to send you pictures of my cat,
and make you Windows 8. No, just to be safe, Windows 9, too.
And give you the paper that I shot a bullseye on.
I want to tell you my secrets, and maybe make up some of our own.
I want to draw on you while you're sleeping, and for you not to be upset about it.
And then think about all the devious, mischievous, manipulative things I'm capable of,
and shred them. 'Cause I don't want to do them. Not to you.
I want to discover something for you. If not a brand new color, then a second or third edition of a book.
And there's an image that I just have to perfect for you.
I want to look pretty for you. Or maybe it's for me to feel like it is for you.
Either way, I'd find my "season" and dress accordingly.
I want to impress you with my mental math skills.
Or set up the new flat screen TV, 'cause I'm just not that dainty.
And capture each of the three kinds of clouds and trap them in little jars.
And you'd never run out of AA batteries, because I'd always check the inventory.
I wouldn't let any toothpaste caps in a 30 ft radius get mucky,
and your sponges would never start to smell.
I always want to say goodnight, 'cause what if the world ends?
I want to watch porn with you, and maybe try something new.
But maybe not because it's great now.
I just want to be nice, okay?

for anonymous

I'm here! And here also! And right here! And right there! And there. And there and there. And over there! And over here! And out there! And in here! And here for you. And there for you. Always here. Over and out.

ubiquitous ali

You write a blog, and I tidal wave hello.

Maying and probably not concerning, but actually concerning many:

Do you know? Really. Contemplate the inflection on every one of those words. Do. You. Know? Do? You. Know?


I'm waiting for your reality slap. I've gotten so many that my face is crusty and tattered, held together by thread of my own making (hopes, dreams, sugar, spice, everything nice). You are a virgin. Your face is a virgin.

Triviality in the second decade is acceptable to surface feeders, intertidal zone. And there's an open ocean who doesn't notice, and doesn't care. But, the deep ocean. It's not where you are.

In the deep ocean, no one knows. And that's okay and right and just. There is no, "I know."

But you answered "Do I know what?" not "No. I don't."

Virgin face salt water slapping raw your skin and getting deep enough to where you have to cry and make the decision to be confident about your deformed face, or cover it up with makeup. It's rape and your purity's intact with concealer and rouge. Makeup artists dwell on land. You love your wounds and cherry's gone, and you get to sink or swim.

You get to sink or swim. But not float. Never float. Makeup artists float. Virgins float. They need protection of air. Envelopes and security and kisses but that's all. Swimming's lucky. It means you're fit. Understand that swimming is eternal. Stopping only for submarine sandwiches. Sinking is like falling from a helicopter. Except there's salty waters tickling your sores and pores and gangrenous face. And you're going to drown.

You will, no exceptions for you. No sudden swim lessons, or inner tubes. The sea will drip into your lungs and asphyxiate and anchor you to the mysterious ocean floor.

So. Do you know?

Signed,
Floor scavenger.

Elegant vocabulary and the iconography of smiling.

The onset of this condition is
unlike any other sensation;
From every appendage
pulls taught towards my core
And the remedy
is remedyless;
they exist concomitantly,
the high-thread count curative,
hitches of linens here and there,
and the inundating blight itself!
It's the feeling of release
when you clench your teeth.
Or the jollity and deliverance
of letting go a balloon.
And yet, it feels
like every internal organ
is being separately hanged
for execution of heinous crookedness.
The nooses weave all the way to my geometric center,
my midpoint a tangle.
But it sounds like pink,
and looks like Saturday evening chatter
in a crumby pizza shop.
It's the flavor of hair pulling,
and matte finish black,
and cigarette cellophane;
the split between wailing and coming clean.
Still I'm on the hill
but I'm not alone.

No one bothers to polish silver at this age.

Walking in from the rain a I sat down on a sexual milk crate and it kissed my inner thighs while I spread black plastic bags on the floor. After sitting and smelling the sultry air, it combined old wood floor with unscented candles, I walked down the hall to the room with unsorted odds and ends. This was the room that no effort was in. This was the room where nostalgia lived; the kind of nostalgia that works very well untouched. She sat in the middle of the floor and let her eyes circle the room. A set of encyclopedias, old cookbooks, extra chairs, Christmas wrapping papers, and trophies from the 1970's. In the North East corner of the room, unobtrusive, rested an urn. Blue swirled with black, and a gold stripe. I approached the urn and opened it, as if I wasn't sure what was inside, even though I knew. I stuck my hand in as far as I could reach. I wish I could say it made me feel closer to a relative, or God, but it didn't. It felt like an ashtray. The kind that's after a very long night. I withdrew my hand and went back out in the rain. Any remnants were washed to the concrete. I followed them to the sewer and watch them descend.
I walked back inside and again and perched on the sexual crate. It was red and passionate and it reminded me of a spaghetti. I thought of my spaghetti and my arms pulsed in preparation for implosion. Any second they'd collapse inward and the spaghetti would never get to stick to them again. My face got red like it used to when I got bashful, and I went to the kitchen and got out a blade. I spread out my fingers on the black plastic bag, and sliced into the skin of my fingers, to the bone, as if I were cutting an avocado, where the bone is the pit, and I circle around it, and peel off the skin, muscle and fat. I wondered if there was any residue left from the urn.

I don't really like the word "Bucket"

Things I want to do before I die. Numbered, as it will be easier to
reference as I check them off. I mean this in an entirely
positive-goal-setting way, and I do not mean in any way that as I
finish these things I am closer to death.  No self destruction, just
things that I want and need to do.

1. Turn in a piece of professional writing in the font, Wingdings.
2. Get on a train, and just, go.
3. Slow dance to the songs on my slowdance list.
4. Wallpaper a room.
5. Get an antique bathtub.
6. Lay in a field/meadow with flowers in the purple-pink spectrum.
7. Tell my deepest desire to someone, and have them not react negatively.
8. Act in something or another as a femme fatale.
9. Get a pet tarantula.
10. Pay homage to my heroes.
11. Find out if whales are, in fact, real.
12. Maybe be in a Lord of the Flies situation...maybe...
13. Publish something, (successfully)
14. Grow cabbage.
15. Make borscht.
16. Enjoy borscht.
17. Find a situation where one of my ridiculous skills applies. (I.e.
calculator improvisation, extemporaneous construction)
18. Grow my hair long.
19. Go to a premiere/opening of something, where I have to wear a gown.
20. Never ride in a helicopter.
21. Eat another meal in France.
22. Give each of my friends something they have always wanted.
23. See Kafka's home.
24. Use the word "consolidate" in a cool way.
25. Have a showing of art where everything looks shabby, makeshift, and tacky.

I had this dream.

First thing's first. I haven't put things up here lately for two reasons. The first reason is that I have been working on a website to show my arts. This is it. The second is that I actually have been writing things and having elaborate ideas, but I all the sudden had an urge to censor them. It wasn't like a "mature audience only" thing, 'cause this one is going to be for mature audiences, but more of  a "wait, ali thinks this?" I don't know if embarrassed is the right word, I think I'm just not ready to tell the internet box.  Either way, I had this really wacky dream. I am going to describe it as it happened, as well as I can, probably with pictures as well.

I was in the science building at my school, but it was made of darker brick and dark, rotting wood.  There were a wide set of stairs leading up to the double door entrance.  I went up the stars slowly, and went into what seemed to be a biology class where we were doing dissections of some unreal creature.  The room was a dark, muted green, and poorly lit.  I sat in the back and apparently was a new student.

I was told to go find supplies, scalpels, I think, and I went down a staircase on the left wing.  When I got the stairs, however, I was in a sort of basement-warehouse. Cement floors, tons of cardboard boxes stacked every which way, and it smelled like a mixture of birdseed, rain, and disinfectant.  There were a few older women in pink and purple surgical scrubs walking about this warehouse, and they yelled that I shouldnt be down there. As I looked around for a way to exit, I saw a brown dog chasing a tabby cat. The stairs in which I had come down, had partially disappeared, in that, the lower steps no longer were there, so I couldn"t reach the rest of them.

I started to run through the warehouse looking for an exit, when I ran into (literally) a male figure who was taller than me and had a warm demeanor.  He took me up a dark staircase that outside light was peeking through, like dawn light, and everything had a smoky-yellow look. We went into an empty biology classroom, with high lab tables with black surfaces, and glass and wood cabinets filled with beakers, and preserved organs in opalescent liquid.  He smelled pretty good, clean mostly, but good. He picked me up and sat me on one of the tables so our faces were even, we took of our outer layers of clothes, and we had sex like that. He found me a lab coat to put on, because my shirt was no longer present, and we walked back to the class where I was supposed to bring supplies.  The students in the classroom looked happy to see us together, as we were arm in arm, my head leaned against him.

The class ended rather quickly and I was by myself again going down the wide, entrance stairs to a patch of lawn on the left.  The sun set immediately, and everything was a ruddy, purple-orange.  The sky looked like bombs were dropping, and a group of students were playing with a giant, red, green, yellow, and blue parachute-sheet.  In unison, they would fling the sheet upward, and then pull it down quickly, creating a little bubble where you could hide until the air escaped.  I let go, and my part of the parachute flew up into the air, and the professor pushed me onto the parachute, where I consequentially flew into the air and landed on my head. 

I was suddenly in a very dim and shadowy room full of people that, in this situation, I suppose, I knew quite well.  We were all about the same age, though I was one of the oldest.  We were gathered in sort of a last-soiree-ever, because we knew that we were about to fight in a battle.  Whatever we were about to fight was not human, or at least partially unhuman, they were dressed in jade-green, and approached us in groups of three very slowly.  We were outrageously outnumbered, and we knew this, and suddenly two mutual friends decided they would get married, although, situationally, we knew this was against the law.

Another thing that was against the law was breaking glass. However it was hard not to do because none of the glasses we had were made with flat bottoms.  If a glass broke or you had been married, you would be stabbed in the back until you bled to death.  I guess there was also a loop-hole in which you could be married if you had a child, and I tried to convince a lady that I had a daughter, and that is why I considered being married. Though, I had no evidence of this desire to marry until that point.

The enemy began to attack, and many people, including myself, moved to the back of the dark room, in sort of a stampede, because we were the weaker of the group.  Though, outside, and technically behind us were creatures a bit like fat goblins that were pretty powerful and they were prepping their attack.  The enemy launched something like fire at our group and we somehow turned them into bushes and they fell to the ground. 

The floor dropped out below us and the strongest levitated, but most of us fell into an abyss that was bright and gold.  We could slightly see the strongest levitating, and fighting the approaching enemy, but eventually, they faded out of view as we fell down.

I awoke.

Wacky right? Not embellished at all. Seriously. And not even hiding any details, I really didn't recognize any of these people, though they seemed to have familiar traits, like haircolor or scent.

"If...then" hypotheses. Speculations.

"If you want something badly enough, then it will happen."

Is that true? But couldn't it also mean that one will not necessarily get that particular happening, that maybe it will just be the chance for that opportunity to happen. I am  making sort of a cosmic inquisition. In which case, it may work out better for me if I were Spanish circa, oh I don't know, 1470?

"If you want something badly enough, and you happen to be a Spanish Christian in 1470, then the possibility of happening will be presented in a situation."

But I'm not that religious. In that, I've never killed anyone, and moreover, I wouldn't do it based on a higher power. I guess faith directly applies. Having faith, I'm told, invests a little bit of a positive reputation among cosmic-worker-bees.

"If you want something bad enough, especially if you are involved in the Spanish Inquisition, and you have faith, then the situation in which your if-want comes true will take place."

So what about the "then"? Can I manipulate..no, I hate that word, can I pull strings with the then portion? I guess not really. That is the part up to the beehive, but the likelihood percentages...is it 50%? 30% Can I sway it to 75, maybe 60% by batting my eyes or constructing a pout? I am not saying all-out ruttish persuasion, but if I happened to blink my eyes graciously...Well, here's where I'm at..

"If you want something badly enough, may or may not be a Spanish Inquisitor, have faith, and wear mascara, then there is possibly a more than 50% chance that you will receive the opportunity to have your if-want coming true."

I should probably just ask.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat...

I know that I have mentioned before the importance and significance of hand-holding, at least to me. It disgusts me when I see it only because I see it as a sign of happiness in love. Unhappy couples don't hold hands. Jubilant, love-electrocuted folks lace fingers. When will this happen? My hands do not seem equipped for holding.

(Can I mention the oddity of the conversation I am overhearing? It seems to be a tutoring session involving algebra word-problems.  This particular one involves plotting consumption of hamburgers and marginal utility.)

There is this mythological hero that I have. He's really great. And someday, unexpectedly, he's going to hold my hand, and have a picnic with sandwiches and ants. The ants are okay, they just want to picnic also. It will feel right, and we will go whale watching (to prove whales exist. I am skeptical.), and collect important things. I suspect he will look good in any light. And he will even like my feet. And he wont make me swim. Ever. He will also know when I'm joking, and when to laugh at me. We will take each other as seriously as we should, and live a harmonious co-existance. Raunchily, I would hope he understands my sex-drive. So, darling, I know you exist, and please know that I also exist and have discovered your presence in this universe. (It is important to distinguish among universes, because in one, we are already together. In another we are both dead. In yet another, he doesn't know I exist. IN a possible other, we are interspecies- Groundhog and Lobster, star-crossed lovers...) Most importantly, we will hold hands.

Aside from the possible innuendos and inside jokes, this music video. Makes me more cheerful. Silly.

From the overheard conversation previously introduced, I now can't stop picturing hamburgers on a graph. I will make this picture. Or try to, on my shoddy Microsoft-paint-for-Mac-freeware.

Options.

I actually almost always write the post titles first. Not today.

I feel like a bad person, yet at the same time I'm vindicated by the fact that nobody's perfect. It's inappropriate, however, to use that in an argument. It makes me facetious. And I refuse to apologize for that. At least when it prevents me from clubbing a face. But I'm not a bad person, not entirely, at least.

Several years ago, I used to think "gray areas" were a great place to be. I no longer agree with that at all. Yet, I wouldn't be in black nor white, either. I think I'd be in sea-foam green. Call it ridiculous, but there is a third option among the black/white, gray, and sea-foam green, that is, that black/white is defined, gray is intentionally undefined, and sea-foam green, is, well, inconclusive. Ambiguous and equivocal. It's the difference between holding hands, eating chocolate, and laying on a park bench and comparing seasons. I did not hold hands with anyone today, tangibly.

The backlight of my screen is making my onset migraine headache much worse than it needs to be; I suffer for you, readers! Just letting you know. And I love you. As much as I love honesty and kept promises (that's a ton, note previous entries).

Still thinking about a title.

Final thoughts. Why do something completely differently than you're used to, hoping for better results? It  is like making pancakes when you UNQUESTIONABLY prefer waffles. And the first batch always sucks. I did tangibly eat waffles.

Hi hey, hello.

How long has it been now? There's something different about the concept of "estranged." It's not one of those normal-loss feelings, where you wave goodbye, weep, and carry on.  It's different because they're still bumbling about someplace. And it's sort of uneasy to think that they may never think of you, and sort of eerie that they might.  I think the hardest thing is dealing with artifacts. Once a pair is estranged, their artifacts become headstones. And there's not much use for headstones except for making you sad, or rubbing. I guess the rubbing would materialize in real life in perhaps recycling and making it into a new artifact. I heard that if you dance on a headstone, you're likely to be possessed by the spirit of that headstone.  I think I'm going to line up my artifacts and dance upon them and see if any of you come back. Then again, maybe they're buried for a reason. And if I did dance, I'd have to get an exorcism.  And I'd never be the same. Not that I have been the same since, well, the departures in the first place. I keep coming back to that sinking feeling, my digestion percolating at the idea that I could see one of you again. I might be dead to you, but we're still alive. So, I guess, I miss you. The kind of miss that makes my arms weary and lax; where I could see you at the grocery store or bowling alley, and I'd have to look away.


For you:

Picklepuss Pearl  

By: Jack Prelutsky  

I’m Picklepuss Pearl, and I’m not very nice,

I’m not made of sugar, I’m not made of spice,

my attitude’s awful, my temper is vile, 

I have no idea what it feels like to smile.

I’m Picklepuss Pearl, and I’m nasty and sour,

my wretched expression can wither a flower,

it takes but a blink of my miserable eye

for laughing hyenas to break down and cry.

If I fix your face with my permanent frown,

your stomach is liable to turn upside-down,

my stare is so cold it turns water to ice,

I’m Picklepuss Pearl, and I’m not very nice.   

And for you:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ms0RtYGEhY4

Pretty Blonde Problem.

What's with blonde bombshells and their sexual wattage? It seems like they eat other girl's boyfriends for a snack. She can morph into whatever the boy may like, political preference, smoker/nonsmoker, she'll drink what the boy is drinking, and she can hold her liquor. Her hair is always shiny, no matter the weather, and they don't get split ends.  Her ass always looks perfect, in jeans, sweatpants, bathing suits, thongs, everything.  She doesn't have annoying habits, and if she does, a guy can overlook it, because when she flicks her golden locks he melts and forgets everything else. How do you solve a pretty blonde problem?

Damn it.

bananafish and winckelmann

this is probably a work in progress.

you're the seymour to my sybil

"the most beautiful thing

ever to have been created

by human hands."

bless your father for fondling your mother. 

and coming up with you!

kiss the arches of my feet

and let's not leave the beach today. 

or ever. 

Few and Far Between.

That is how my blogs have been lately. I haven't wanted to write a thing about what has been going on. I'm worried I'll jinx it. For example, and ice cream cone. Ice cream, hooray! But suddenly you think about what if the ball of cream just rolled off the cone and onto the cement? Or worse, in the mud! With a priest watching! And it does fall. And he hears you swear. And you are so upset you don't ever get ice cream again.  Well. If you hadn't thought about it, it may never have happened. So there. My lips are sealed.

And I suddenly remember some words I was awfully familiar with. I wrote my best story about it.  Asomatognosia. The lack of awareness of the condition of part or one's whole body.  It is most interesting, when it is a pair of people experiencing this condition in one person of the pair.  One feels, or in this case, does not feel it, and the other person also refuses to feel it.  It's most unfortunate.  Perhaps the most deplorable portion of the condition is waking up post-revery realizing that the condition is still in effect.  Hence, my story title, "The Katzenjammer." A hangover from the condition in which you, and in my mind, another person, are unaware of the condition of your body.  I think in layman's terms, human affection is effective. Unless in dreams, and then it's just unfair.

The lighting in my bedroom is terrible.  At least it's not a cold dark, and instead it is a pleasant dark.  Soft, and like a hug. It doesn't feel like a basement at all. And it shouldn't.  I'm on the top floor.

It's almost another month.  What an unsatisfying statement that was! I will follow it up with a more important one.  On 26 April, 1986, the disaster at the Chernobyl Powerplant happened. As neat as nuclear power seems to be, let us never forget the huge risks involved, and for how long the consequences may last. Remember Chernobyl.

I refuse to get into anything else. Gag order. Here's a picture. (Of my beloved?)

applegize.

First of all, I had no intention of not writing since February.  In fact, I believe I have written 3 blogs since my last.  Good 'ol bloggy blogspot, though, seems to be ignoring me. Obscene. Watch, all the sudden they are going to show up, and I'll be redundant and look like a dunce. To conical hats! Whatever, here's a poem.

I wish I were a bricklayer,
bricking a perfect wall.
Or a paper-pusher in a visor.
Just not what I am at all.

My sentence structure's boring,
my fashion doesn't match.
I cannot get a suntan
and I cannot throw or catch.

I wish I were a deep sea diver,
restoring sunken boats.
But I cannot even swim in pools.
I cannot even float.

I wish I weren't so whimsical,
or looked into the stars.
Maybe I should be a scientist,
or learn to work with cars.

I cannot seem to self-improve.
I don't really get much better.
I won't ever be a "girl of dreams,"
Some guy will have to settle.

Settle for a dreamer.
An unmatched, tacky dreamer.
With cheap knowledge
and the desire to rhyme "femur" with "dreamer."

You're so, so pretty.
And I'm so, so plain.
And sadly on the inside,
I'm really quite insane.

So instead of writing a love poem,
which I'd really like to do,
I'm apologizing for my lacklusters,
and my mediocrities to you.

letters make words, words make phrases, phrases make phases.

I have always said, slightly in jest, "If being addicted to sleep aids is wrong, I don't want to be right." However, I am now addicted to them.  I cannot sleep without them, and I pretty much must have them in one way or another.  Sometimes I come home in the afternoon and take them, and then when I wake up, I take them again. Basically, if I have no plans, I take sleeping pills and peace out.  I need to quit, but I don't know how.  I hate sleeping without them, I have really bad dreams.  The kind where you get raped, and have your skin peeled off, or get dissected, imprisoned, starved to death, beaten, and frankly, just die.  It started with saying, these pills will prevent these bad dreams, but now, I'll take them with only one thought before hand, "Did I drink alcohol tonight? I wouldn't want to disappoint anyone if I died tonight."
Half of me is self sustaining, I consider whether or not my choices will kill me.  And I keep making plans and getting involved in things so I am continually committed to something, so I'd feel guilty if I died by accident.  And I perpetuate. But the other half just wants to go away. Somewhere where no one knows me, where no one has a story about me, where no one can laugh or insult me, or reject me, or ask anything of me ever. That is what my nights are. Little vacations. But they're just sleeping pills. 10$ for a month, 30 nights of bliss. Sometimes 36 hours, if I take two in a row.

When I die, I don't really care what happens.  But I think that will be the only time I will be ready to be forgotten.  It's my biggest fear, to be forgotten, probably why I just up an decided to become an artist one day, after I tried to die.  "Oh wait, no one even knows who I am, I better draw pictures." Thus, I'm alive. But the things that hurt me the most are the people that have forgotten me. My ego is that big.  (Actually, psychologically speaking, I think that people recognizing me is probably the only affirmation I accept. Compliments are in one ear out the other.) But when I'm gone, no more of that.  Not a funeral, not a wake, not a cremation, I want to get donated to a laboratory, where I become a specimen. A soulless number. And when the scientists are done, then I'll ascend into the sky and please the world for 24 hours as the full moon. And then I'll die again, and become a little frog.  Not a special one, but one that you might find one day while camping, and cook over a fire. Or a nine year old would take as a fling of a pet. But then I'd become more things that begin with "f." Being "A" was enough for me.

Wouldn't it be funny if I found out I was immortal? How cruel the irony if that were true.

compare contrast, bipolar.

You,
I've never hated someone so much,
I want to die on your front steps,
and leave a trail of blood and such,
and tell your mom your secrets.

But you,
I want to write you songs,
and push you on  swing sets.
Or parallel park, so you don't have to,
And buy you lots of flowers.

And back to you,
I wish you the worst,
and hell, and a gas shower.

As for you and your pretty face,
I wish you'd sit and pose
so I could draw your pretty face
and tie it with a bow.

You, you suck
Your time has come
to jump into a river
all tied up
and bound and gagged
while vultures devour you liver.

And me and you will sing and dance,
and buy ourselves a sheep
and build a cake
and play kazoos
and smile until we sleep.

And when you sleep
I hope you never dream,
just think of ghastly nightmares
and torturing, ghastly, screams.

While we will sleep so pleasantly.
On clouds of love and clovers.

And you will watch me die and bleed
on your floor, over and over.

And we'll walk down some aisle someday,
and I'll invite your mom.
And everything will just suck for you
broke, sick, shit, disease and despair, and Vietnam.

You and I will shine our shoes
and braid each other's hair
and drink and talk about
how wonderful it is
when life, it turns out fair.

'Cause you'll be in a sorry state,
with your sorry job,
and your sorry mate,
and it'll be dark and bleak and
we'll never speak.

Until one day you see us
at an estate.
You'll say I look pretty
and I'll say
I hate you.

6a^2

Hi hello.
I got this thing item for you and yourself.
It is a surface area.
It is not a volume.
It is large and soft.
Feel free to do anything you like with it,
please, just don't call it ugly.
You may draw upon it with washable inks,
and you may cut it open.
Just do not call it ugly.
You may tell it everything you are thinking,
 but do not call it ugly.
You may hit it and quit it.
You may ejaculate upon it.
Just do not call it ugly.
This surface area is ugly.
Do not call this surface area ugly.
This surface area hates the obvious.
But this surface area loves you.
This surface area will do your laundry.
It is ugly.
It is a surface area.
It is not a volume.
It is not a mass.
It is a surface area for you.
I got this for you.
I have a surface area for you.

YOU CAN'T FIRE ME I QUIT

LOL, love ali. 

Memory is A Funny Think. Thing.

I don't really have a photographic memory. But some things stick in my head like it happened yesterday. It happened today.  It's not entirely clear. It smelled like a heater that's been on too long and french fries.  I think goldenrod really suits you.  I don't remember the size of the hand that waved at me.  I should know it though. I tried to capture it in pen and ink, but your legs are missing. They might be on another page. So I looked for them.  And I found instead the drugs I tried to sell to the bank to repay my debt.  Fancy that the Teller said, she had already been prescribed those! Otherwise she'd have gladly wiped out the debt.  So I set some gloves and a bracelet on fire.  It wasn't warm.  But it did smell like french fries.

I dreamt that my forehead began to decay, it turned black like ashes.  Then luminescent centipedes crawled out of the decay.  They squirmed and tickled down my face. And they were not pretty. Neither was I, half decayed.  And nobody came to scoop up my parts that kept crumbling. I woke up calling for my mom.

I think with memory at least, I get addicted to certain ones that never happened.  Well, not like in the sick delusional sense, just the perhaps ones. Is it you? Was it you all along? Will it ever be you? You're so pretty!

Losing touch.

This seems like it used to be an outlet.  Now, not so much. Over time, I feel as though Here Lies got its own personality. And I think it started to clash with mine, honestly.  Moreover, I have, frankly, had no desire to talk about the events of my life in metaphor. Don't take that in a pathetic way, Nothing mentionable has been happening.  And I mean that in nothing absolutely mentionable, nor positively unmentionable has been happening. Lord knows I like to blog about my various unmentionables.

But things are solidly simple. Pretty plateau, bland.  The highlights of my day are delusional outlooks on the future, and daydreams.  I dig my routine, and a few times a week breaking it, just because.  I've gotten really into taking vitamins. But I feel like the make me smell less like a human, and more like a vegetable.  And as my logic goes, this is why I have become undesirable to humans.  Perhaps if I took shark cartilage (I wouldn't, sharkys are pretty badass and are animals) I would appeal to a more aggressive, outgoing crowd? Right now, I think I attract earthworms and barnacles.  Simple, monochromatic, earthly little things.

Slumpin'.  I feel like a metric ton.  I even wrote a poem about it.  I think it'd make a better song.

The Metric Tons.
I swallowed and anvil,
and since I used to be bulimic,
(I'm recovered now),
I can't throw this up.
And it's so heavy,
it makes me spin
and sweat
and remember
When my tons slumped into the couch
after hinting
on the bleachers at the big game
or the lockers
before the sock hop and milkshakes.
Would you like to dance?
And hold my hand?
Though, I know your calendar
is tighter than my stockings,
just say okay,
write me in
and throw it away.
And slide me another anvil
with some silence to apologize
for a fortnight.
While I spin, sweat, and salivate
some more...
Catch it all in a colander
and drain it atop
The Frozen Lake
and observe it freeze and adhere
to all my other discarded times,
and collect data of my tons.
Dreaming about my real identity,
Rhinoceros Girl.

I've...missed you, I mean, I don't even know who you are.

I wrote a blog a while ago about knowing that distinct feeling right before a break up.  I now intend to write about the feeling about writing about the feeling right before a break up, or right after, and during.

It's really difficult, frankly. It's like when you aren't wearing glasses when you need them a whole lot, and you have been drinking whiskey all night on an empty stomach, so everything is just this woozy blur and words come really slowly.  Your wpm is unusually slow and you stumble of the spelling of words like "of."  Or is it "ov"? I don't really know.

And while you're on an illiterate tilt-a-whirl the only thing that you can seem to hear or make out of your surroundings, are reruns of unbelievably bad and corny television shows.  You know the one's with freeze-frames at the end, and where the characters started out as 9th graders and now they are like, married, and have grandkids?

And I'm neither hungry, nor full, yet food sounds great.  And I absolutely refuse to look nice.

What's funnier is that, like the blog I made allusion to, there was no breakup, no nothing.  All imaginary.

'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,

Nor customary suits of solemn black,

Nor windy suspiration of forced breath…

Oh Hamlet.  Oh yeah, one more thing. I sigh a lot more and make indescribable, rather, un-spellable, huffing noises.