as my last official post, at least for the semester, (who knows, maybe i'll keep this blogging thing up) i suggest that everyone read Neil Gaiman. if you like fantasy and comedy, he is a great writer. i just finished Annasi Boys -i strongly recommend it.

in the upper-left corner of my mind there is a spark
flickering
it came out of a dream i had last night
and doesn't seem to want to leave.

they're already singing christmas songs...
it's not yet thanksgiving.

let the commercialism flow...

i've got my mind on things that have no meaning

i've got my eyes on you

well, there is always a reason

a reason to keep being 

the girl across the road

waiting for the traffic to stop

in a green wool coat

and swaying perfectly in the cold breeze

when she walks she keeps her head down

eyes on the road

and is gone

somewhere i don't know

there is nothing as disgusting as fake perfection

like bright plastic,

like frozen food

like that shit you hear on pop radio

i want something real,

strong and alive.

remember when life was worth living?

don't let if fade away,

there's still time left...

the cheese sandwich she had smelled strong and quite disgusting
who eats those kinds of things?



i had the inclination to leave...
but of course i stayed.


i always stay...

Melvin was very popular
Everyone wanted to be near him
They gathered in a huddle around him
He looked good, clean and sharp
Smiling blandly, with his eyes half closed
Dreaming
When they cut him open
They poked through his insides and probed
Curiously
Wondering what they'd find
Melvin didn't really mind
For one thing he was dead
And since it was either a biology lab table
or be made into bacon
it really didn't matter anyway.

turn down the lights, placate the drunk,

kill the telephone

i don't want to spit this one out 

and have you rape me later on 

now ladies and gentlemen

i used to be a notorious killer

and then i became the world's greatest dancer

always asking what the truth was

and never waiting for an answer 

now it's the clay inside this heart of stone

and the concrete in my head

i know there's a fine line 'tween the living and the dead

and i used to go to slasher films

and leave feeling pretty free

it's really quite cathartic 

to see yourself up on the screen

and i've been driving the nails

firmly in your tree

you've been talking to your father 

on behalf of me

nothing at these checkpoints

i care to defend 

why do i raise the hammer up

and drive the nails again?

now in the graveyard of my secrets

there's a hope buried beneath 

all this talk of peace and righteousness 

has got me weary beyond belief 

and there's an unwanted mistress

in my bed late at night

she says "i know you're a criminal,

you've been on death row all your life."

and i've been driving the nails

firmly in your tree 

you've been talking to your father

on behalf of me

nothing at these checkpoints

i care to defend

why do i raise the hammer up

and drive the nails again?

-bill mallonee 

something in my head stirring,
certain in uncertainty
hopeless dreaming
neverending light


there isn't really anything to say,

say something anyway

the sky can't make up her mind
she's drifting in and out of sunlight
letting down snow and rain
and closing
above my head
as i walk with my head down
wondering

waking up in the early morning, out of dreams

no where to go today

nothing to do 

perfect

well, she was drinking a latte
and i told her that we should fall in love
she said what
i said never mind
she said like the nirvana album?
i said yeah
and she looked at my funny
i thought maybe i could kiss her
if she didn't run away

she ran away

falling up into thin atmosphere

clouds long and trailing pink from the sun

homework getting to be too much

out into the dark world where the wind is cool

and the smell of pine is strong

here you can think, uninterrupted 

here you can dream, endlessly 

here you can be.

when the sky is blue and bright, you can feel good and drive and listen to the shins
when the sky is wet and raining, you can feel bad and drive and listen to radiohead

but when the sky is gray like slate and unyeilding there's not much to feel... not much to listen to either... maybe the news.

sometimes it's better not to say anything.

and maybe just listen to the strokes...


you want to be cool,
but cool people don't think...

i've got problems too

it's not just me standing there in black
with the wind blowing through me
and that dark look on my face


i'm somebody

snow blanketing the hard ground

and laying thick on my car


i'm not sure how i feel about that...

the voice like an old, persistent motor
was rattling on, never dying
and he was listening, listening, listening
and dreaming, dreaming, dreaming
the words
if they meant anything
he couldn't tell you what
he could tell you that if was hot
and stiff and stuffy
and the air was thick
and the walls were closing in
around him
the ceiling was falling down
on top of him
but he could see outside
the deep, dark sky
and the sharp, piercing stars
and feel the cool, night breeze
as it flew through the trees
running through the wet grass
that motor never dying behind him
sputtering
if there was a river rushing fast
with the full moon hanging low over it
he would jump in
and cause more than a ripple
less than a wave
and swim to the other side
and pull himself out
the water dripping off his skin
he might lie on the shore
and look up at the sky
see a fast falling star
and make a wish.

weekend's almost over... but it was good... too short







tomorrow never knows.

if only tonight we could sleep

in a bed made of flowers

if only tonight we could fall

in a deathless spell

if only tonight we could slide

into deep, black water 

and breathe...

and breathe...

then an angel would come

with burning eyes like stars 

and bury us deep

in his velvet arms 

and the rain would cry

as our faces slipped away

and the rain would cry

don't let it end...

-Robert Smith aka the Cure 

elliot smith: always good on a cold, frosty morning in October...

i am cornered in my soul,
sleeping
wake me up



she wanted me to anaylze
what is that?

analyze my soul if you will
and tell me what you find

Writing Process

The first piece, Thoughts in her head, was the free writing exercise we did about the picture with the "sad woman" and the man in the background. I really didn't have to do much editing to it. It's pretty much exactly how I wrote it in class. I'm not sure exactly what the situation is, I'm pretty sure they're a married couple going through a really tough time... probably headed for divorce... let's hope that doesn't happen.

My second piece, Spinning into snow, was the one where Professor Strong asked us to write about a traumatic experience we had (I think) like a car crash or a fight. I transposed it from first person to third person and changed a bit of it. But that did actually happen. We've all gone off the road at least once. 

I'm not obsessed with car crashes or anything. My third piece, the one where we wrote for the whole class, just happened to be a crash story too. It was inspired by the picture of the crash scene by the river. The couch was the object from my "blueprint." I can't figure out how to take out the space between paragraphs, which is annoying. But I edited it a bit and cleaned it up. But most of my favorite sentences in it actually came from the free writing process, surprisingly enough. The title refers to a line in the Bob Dylan song. If you've never head that song, listen to it. 

"We Sit Here Stranded"

 

 

    The song was Visions of Johanna by Bob Dylan. She remembered it from the old days, playing softly on her father’s record player. It was odd that it was playing now. Now with the couch in the back of the car. The old couch –she remembered her dad sprawled out on it like a cat, and she nestled on the end of it; listening, just listening.

     He was still talking in the seat beside her. He kept his eyes on the road, but every now and again cast sharp and piercing glances her way. She said nothing. And he kept talking. She looked out the other window. The river was beside her, running parallel with the road. The sun cast gold and gleaming light on the water, dancing and reflecting. There were geese or swans or something drifting and how peaceful they looked.

      He was still talking.

      His voice was like an old, persistent motor, rattling on, never dying. She even tried to listen but couldn’t focus on the words. –They didn’t really mean anything.

      “Just stop,” she said finally. “It doesn’t matter anymore anyway. There’s nothing we can do about it now. We’ve messed up.”

       He stared at her and she refused to meet his gaze. It started raining. Quite suddenly, she thought. Out on the river the sun was still shining through the rain, making everything warm and soft and hazy; like a watercolor.

      “Just like a watercolor,” she said out loud.

      “What’s that?” he asked.

      And then,

     something on the road.

     Swirling, tires screeching, and she could hear herself screaming. And Bob Dylan was still playing. And they were spinning, spinning, around and around. God this is a long song, she thought crazily just before they hit something hard and glass broke and she was flying free through soft air.

    

 

    Her dad sprawled out on it like a cat, and she nestled on the end of it, listening, just listening. She could never figure out exactly what he was singing about. But the song was slow and sad. And Dylan’s voice was low and soothing. And it was warm. And her dad was with her. And everything was good, and everything was certain.

     Rain on her face; she wasn’t there. She was here, in the cool rain and dirty road. Lights flashing all around, blinking through the wetness. People’s voices talking loud and harsh. She didn’t want to be here. She wanted to be back, back on her couch with her father and Bob Dylan. Why did nobody come for her? Why did nobody try to save her?

    And then he was standing over her, his voice etched out in the rain.  She could see that he was bleeding, a wound to the forehead, and he was crying too, looking down at her. He was saying something to her she could not hear.

     There’s nothing we can do about it now. We’ve messed up.

    She didn’t want him to leave her. But eventually he did. Men in white coats took him away. Strange faces came and looked down on her, lifted her up and put her on a stretcher. She could hear again, quite suddenly: the rain on the asphalt, the sirens.

    People talking.

    “Gently now. Get her in the ambulance. She should be OK.”

   “It was the couch that saved her, you know. She flew out over the dashboard and her head hit that instead of the road. It was a miracle really.”

    “Funny how an old, beat-up couch could become to important.”

     Funny.

Spinning into snow

    He could still get there on time if he hurried. It was cold and he turned on the heat. The radio was playing Smashing Pumpkins. Outside it was wet and sleak, snow still on the ground. The road was turning fast and sharp like a whip, trees on either side. It happened without warning. The tire must have caught something because he felt it jerk, then turn sharp and he was spinning, spinning, spinning fast. He stopped

    Suddenly,

   …in the snow. In the snowdrift. “Shit!” he said, then fuck. He sat there for a moment, hands still on the steering wheel, drumming. The radio was still playing.

 

 

Thoughts in her head

He was behind her. She knew though she didn't turn around to look. To her he was just a presence, a dead weight, like a rock tied to a piece of thread. Sometimes she could hide. Sometimes it was all right. Why is it the memories we want to save slip away so fast, and the memories that haunt us never truly leave? It's never clear. Clear or pure. Life is a thick and dirty like gravel, like a mirky puddle. Nothing is the same.

"cause people believe that they're gonna get away for the summer..."

yesterday the trees were warm and bright

today there stark, bare skeletons 

with some life still clinging 

to their naked forms 

you can already, almost feel winter moving in

you should see the leaves

red, orange and gold

adorning the ground and blowing,

sometimes across my path.

the sky is a clear, clean blue

and the breeze is sharp and crisp 

as i walk through the world with my dog.

let me take you down
cause i'm going to
strawberry fields
nothing is real
and nothing to get hung about
strawberry fields forever

living is easy with eyes closed
misunderstanding all you see
it's getting hard to be
someone
but it all works out
it doesn't matter much to me

let me take you down
cause i'm going to
strawberry fields
nothing is real
and nothing to get hung about
strawberry fields forever

no one, i think, is in my tree
i mean, it must be high or low
that is, you can't, you know
tune in
but it's all right
that is, i think it's not too bad

let me take you down
cause i'm going to
strawberry fields
nothing is real
and nothing to get hung about
strawberry fields forever

always, no!,
sometimes i think it's me
but you know, i know
when it's a dream
i think, um, no i mean
er, yes
but it's all wrong
that is i think i disagree

let me take you down
cause i'm going to
strawberry fields
nothing is real
and nothing to get hung about
strawberry fields forever


...strawberry fields forever
...strawberry fields forever...


-john lennon






when i dropped him off this morning i felt an accute sense of sadness
that was something i never could go back to
lost forever to me

hmmm... life goes on

time, i guess, can't be stopped
and can't be reasoned with

it's a mean little bugger, that's for sure.


what if life never ran out
like water runing to the ocean?

heaven?

the ocean never ceasing, never dying.

this is turning into a poem.

funny how that happens.

just sittin' here... listening to the Presidential debate... 

"New York, I was Judas... she said a latte double shot for Judas..."


good line just thought i'd post.

go down, whisper and fade



come back up when you feel the need

I was wondering what it would be like if it was different
if you were with me
anybody

I know there's not much to say
say anything

I know we've all got things to do
do this for me

I know when you sigh it's like a whisper
whisper in my ear



Please, tell me something I don't already know

sun coming out, up, over and through the clouds, piercing...

today the air is cold and crisp and clear
shivering when bare feet meets floor

coffee, hot and black and steaming
wake me up

drive with wilco

sometimes it all makes sense
sometimes you just pretend

the weekend's just a few long reaches away...

weekend's are bright, warm things which blossom then fade...
weekday's are long, gray and slow moving trains...

get into the rhythm then...


down, across, over and out...
move your way through time...
dream for the past...
hope for the future...

yeah.

"don't take a picture ...it's been a bad day"


That's an R.E.M. song... I think. It's very fitting for today. Wake up still dreaming, drive to school still dreaming... always dreaming. My mind is something alive and uncontained, like a bird or a flame. Flesh is flesh and it will rot away.. but what of my mind? What of that? What of my dreams that slip so quickly into fading memory, impossible to bring back?

I don't know... just thought I'd ask...

Fuck, I've got class in five minutes...

greetings

hello all.



life is strange.