[Dirty.]

lastones. sometimes it's time for a change. like washing your hands of those things you did when you went out last night.

some of us can't wear white satin gloves and come home clean.

Someone's got a secret that's been found out. I really hope your love for me would have died by now, but I guess my words aren't sharp enough to make you realize I was nothing of what you thought.

Then again, I've probably been found out here, too. My own mistake; I accidentally submitted a comment without first clicking on 'anonymous.'

So maybe it's time to run, yes?

I think the cravings have passed. Best for that to happen before mistakes are made. But then again, sometimes I don't care. I know how to use, justify my past with the other gender. Take it all back.

I can't sleep anymore. It only bothers me sometimes. I started the layout of my painting. [tape, permanent marker, acrylic, lamp.]

The splenda commercial looks like my nightmares.

I am two years old again, or stepping back to a time that feels like that sorts. I decided after watching my friend on weed, that stoners are hot. I like when I have simple, shallow laughs and thoughts like that. But only on occasion.

Maybe it's time to be a little hellbound again.

I have so much to say, but somehow, nothing at all.

You never know what it's like to be liberated, until you tell someone to get out of your life. It's like a handful of power.

I'm angry, as usual. I'm alone, still. I'm just going to fade into the background for a while, somehow.

hide
behind a gun.
we've built our god
around our
blackened,
dirty seams.
but in this cage
this black
passion
we feel more
alive...
cradled by our
hate and our
shadows.

Under this harsh light, it's difficult to find anything beautiful. But somehow, the way this is surreal, the way that the fog freezes around us as we press on for one common goal.

People look at me as if they were seeing ghosts. Two years away... I suppose I can see why, but only sometimes. I feel older than them. I have pressed on, changed, molded into something new. That life that I lived is alien, and I have a new appreciation for where I am. How I have stepped ahead, when people live in their fast food restaurants, in their cheap stores and safeway. I've found my place, and I know that now.

Insomnia. -_-

Peter's saving my ass, by getting pictures of the Van Halen concert set up for me, and possibly getting me work with the union tomorrow night, and the nights to come.

Imagine me
So far away
Head so strange
Like your forbidden
Tongue
Etching your truths
Into my mind
My stigma
Your dreams

Hear the voices
Of your ghosts
Hands seeking their ways
Into your shadows
Beckoned to rest
Where you belong

Light stretches
Bends
Away from me
Like fragmented pieces
Of broken hearts

See we could be so dark
Together
If we weren’t so afraid
Our misguidance
Miles of blood strewn earth
To part our dreams
Hand in hand
Hearts apart
If I turned this corner
Would you run away
Again

Maybe I’m the only one
Who wants to see your face
Maybe you’re the only one
Who wants to hear my words
And only loving you
Can prove to be
So strange

Imagine me
Never so close
And sharp breaths
Tension
At your mercy
Would you hate
If I pretended
That you were mine

Kill it, kill what's inside.
They don't understand.
They don't care.
Fuck this.

I'm going to find it, no matter what. That dark shadow, that callousness. I'm making decisions. If I don't get into Ithaca, I'm not going to college. I'm meant to be a stagehand then. With dirt under my nails and across my face. Maybe I'll build houses in the off seasons.

I cannot believe... CANNOT BELIEVE that those pictures were lost. Tomorrow I'm going to Costco for a (different) easel and a disposable camera. I'm doing this the dirty way.

Double checking on the cost of the gym. To hide. Just let me hide.

I want to cry. The pictures I took at the amphitheatre... at the last show... were ruined. The rewind on my camera does not work, and I, thinking the film was rewound, opened the camera. Film exposed.

I had another one of those conversations the night before last. Just me throwing a spear again. Maybe I didn't miss this time. I'm leaving the world for a while.

I'm going to learn to be what I want. Take my mind and mend these wounds made from crashing into too many walls. I'm building my own this time, not trying to pass through anyone elses. Let them leave with the scars.

[Today, and the days after.]
Paint
Sleep
Starve, if my body will agree to it
Membership at college gym
Joelle Fraiser
Rain
Photographic opportunities
Clear the floors

I have a migraine. So I'll either fall asleep or throw up soon. Which, I'm not sure.

I have a ton of homework, but when it passes... it's nothing, nothing at all. Write, paint, sleep on occasion. My fingers are seeking their freedom. I can't be too lazy to be who I want to be.

Breathe the fire, with eyes like sandpaper and your mind in the dirt. My hands are unclean, every day, pressing on deeper and deeper into the black with my sin. Who are you? they ask, pressing like I came out of nowhere. Nobody, I reply like a withered old man with wrinkled hands and gray cloud coated eyes.

I don't understand writers, therefore I don't much understand myself. I'm alone and okay, but I'm alone and not okay. A paradox? Usually is. But this time I'm taking over, I'm thrusting the spears.

You shouldn't do that. The mostly quiet ones are my harshest critics.

Why not? If I can bend this way that other people can't... if I can overcome... then why not?

If I can bend. But it doesn't stop my sinking feelings. Maybe I'll be alone forever. In that mind, I don't care.

I'm back from the city of damp, crowded streets which weave around every chipped building. Where the trees they planted for decoration choke from too little sun and too much smog. It was beautiful.

I learned things. We have our own culture, surrounded by gaff tape, the clock, cigarettes, alcohol and weed. We have our jokes that make sense to only us. We have our own language, crafty quick tongues. Sometimes we're immature but we're here to do our job and have a good time when we're off the clock. And within them, the sub cultures, and the counter cultures.

There are the ravers, the gamers, law breakers. And then there's me. The counter culture, perhaps. Without identity. I don't say much, because I don't think there's anything to say that would be completely understood. Ted tries to understand me by explaining this photographic moment. Travis tells him to stay the fuck away from me. I just smirk and walk on, slamming the door on everyone, sinking into the shower for eternity.

I don't want to do anything for days. Just paint and sleep and sink into music. Sometimes I'm too alone, but sometimes I don't mind. Maybe I'll learn how to sink into my skeleton if I listen long enough to the guitars.

Driving home, dark skies, city lights. Nirvana, sinking into my brain.

Many a hand has scaled the grand old face of the plateau
Some belong to strangers and some to folks you know
Holy ghosts and talk show hosts are planted in the sand
To beautify the foothills and shake the many hands

The mountain sits and waits. Quiet, anxious, uneasy. She's like me, waiting for the right time. The right time to spew ash and lava, to throw a pyroclastic cloud, thick and dark and hot right down her side, to scream and roll. To cover our town in ash, so we don't drive and we don't go outside. So we close the cities and the schools, close the county and the state and sleep in eternal darkness.

They say she'll grow impatient within twenty four hours.

in my yesterdays.

Tuesday, September 30, 2003


[She said, she said.]

The rain falls down, drops pressing through the cracks of the windows, frozen breezes chilling the bones of all those empty souls to occupy.

Here we are, she says, alive still.

Seventeen years gone by now, and I'm not sure if there's a reason lying within. Cut the seams, and pierce me. Find all there is to know, lying within my bones. We are alive only when we accept that we will die.

You traced me, coated me in sand. The blonde colour of the pants and sweater to match my eyes. And the hair, he said, mythical in the red fury, coated with blonde, coated with black, let me just shave it away.

Seventeen years and my tongue still doesn't make sense. Your body pressed over mine, with more force than the wind blows the rain through the seams of the house. How hard do you like it, you say. Tell me all your desires.

These scattered papers promised more, but no. She is not yet infinite. She is only the artist.

Endless words and here's to you. Hold up the glass of wine, drink it down with twenty white pills. Who would have known we'd last this long.

-----

Not that different, but not quite the same. Always in need of a good rescuing, but hardly a damsel. But I'm walking alone and it works. My hands are splintered and I can't see past these walls. Funny, the watch just clocked in the hour.


Looking back
In my childhood
Wasn't too bad but
It wasn't that great
I carried the luggage
Like a bag of bricks
Feels like
It's holding me
Down again
Staring down
A pitch black road
Painted lines
Show me the direction
Sun is burning
On my face
Sun is setting me
On fire

Nobody told me
Where to go
Nobody told me
Where to run

I can't find
My way back home
Lost my head
Down there somewhere
Could we just
Be gone alone?
Lived in doubt
Of fear I've shown
Gazing down
A long grey road
I see the stop sign
Way ahead
The sun is burning
On my face
The sun is setting me
On fire

Nobody told me
Where to go
Nobody told me
Where to run
Nobody told me
Where to go
Nobody told me
Where to run
Nobody told me
Nobody told me

Same old shit
Different day
Gotta get up
Gotta get up...