stress fractured mind, where demons come and go as they please in motor neuron ruins. floating heads, speaking in held tongues like the sound of love, nothing no sound no one anywhere close, the words spill like battery acid and burn small acidic holes in the carpet. listening to this self titled album my uncle bought me on a whim at some tacoma sixth ave coffee shop, it was displayed and a new song was playing when we walked in, Perth... maybe... I don't know. I love it but I feel like I could ruin it if I talk more of it. Did any of my studying help? Where is the penmanship. The sleep button. A knife to sharpen lead pencils and rotten eggs to throw at garbage cans. I pick myself up with the promise of melatonin, solid rest. For a big whole day of huge expectations... Fucking.... GIVE YOURSELF A BREAK
and again... in my confusion I reset my alarm to give myself more sleep and less morning. pay a life counselor and play blackjack with monopoly money, convinced by peer pressure to witness a spectacle that I will try not to allow disappointment. fucking grammar.
"I've risked everything for this??"
Something needs to happen. Something huge. The taking over of something, a building, a city, a country. We should all be armed and taking over small countries. Or rioting. Or no: an orgy. There should be an orgy.
But this---this is obscene. How dare we be standing around, talking about nothing, not running in one huge mass of people, running at something, something huge, knocking it over? Why do we all bother coming out, gathering here in numbers like this, without starting fires, tearing things down? How dare we not lock the doors and replace the white bulbs with red and commence with the massive orgy, the joyous mingling of a thousand arms, legs, breast?
WE ARE WASTING THIS
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above this line was last night, and this is now, right now. 8:05:56 PM on September the 28th 2011, the year of the rabbit, representing hope, it is tender and lovely, the zodiac image dances and sways with celebratory movement. The pet of mythic moon goddess. "they like to communicate with each other in a humorous manner" They cannot bear dull life, they can create romantic spice and zest. Zest and gusto. I am the year of the sheep. Seems unfortunate, but apparently this means I have a symmetrical figure and that my tenderness allows others to feel warmth and comfort. My weakness is that I am puzzled by life and that I don't dare to openly express my love, and that I obsess over strange theories.
But I missed one third of one problem in my math unit test that I was stressing over. 98.75% on the test which pretty much drags my other test's lazy ass up to a passing grade. This I am excited about. The art history test, in the realm of ancient egypt was also an A, for which I am equally proud considering I feel like I actually learned something. Enough personal narrative. Delve back into myth and strange belief.
The labyrinth, the minotaur and the death of M.C Escher. Perverted feelings of entitlement, that undiscovered girl the one who expresses her virginity openly on national television, a raw marketing plow to increase the number of college viewers, hey he wore a shirt from our shitty little college... Wow! Well in other news, I will write a paper about the cause and effect relationship between elements that are seemingly unrelated. What causes death? Too vague perhaps. I will brainstorm and let lightning strike my fingertips when writing. That downer of a conversation yesterday worked as an enlightenment for me to get off my ass and create some good things out of all of this stress and confusion. The kitchen sink, the bag of bones or bricks, the not-serious suicide note on the altar of a pagan god, the relationship advice through wire telephone with cups and strings, where I am plugged in to some network behind my wildest craved dream of power, the shift and the struggle, where strings are pulled and yanked, tablecloths pulled out from under dishes and cups without the realization, until we notice the nice smooth wood and compliment the owner for such good taste. The greek artists and bronze age assholes who believed in the fall of troy and the myth of poseidon with a staff and a thousand god-sons. From the water aquatic scenes of distilled life. Red wine blues.
