2-2-02 Eighteen (true in parts, fantasy in others, and a little inspiration from StarDust) While a girl stumbles into a bouquet of flowers as she walks into work, a drunk and desperate man plunges himself off a roof down the street. Cold, damp, and trecharous. She used to think that the street lamps glittered like rain, and that it fell into the sidewalks and made them sparkle with wicked and delightful nighttime magic. Now she knows that the city is cursed, and the only thing inside the sidewalks is the hate and apathy of other people that walk on it. So she stands at the corner, where she can only see the fire engine and ambulance and people in chaos Thursday 07-12-01 10:42 PM "you turn around and look behind, their smiling eyes won't help you down..." The little things, the subtle, sometimes barely noticeable things are the things that make us grow. As much as I live for my family and my dreams, so do I live for the dank smell of the cinema ticket booth and tea at midnight. What compels me? I wonder as I stare through the cinema door, into a screen that plays out only one of many stories, and the stories never end. I wonder where I would be, at this point, if it weren't for the stories, but more often I wonder how I will tell them. (stories of flickering white screens and the smell of popcorn and carousels and cups of tea and mirrors and how the show must go on. stories of tears and picutres of death and city rooftops and monsters and paper towels and windex as I take care of the place I love. As I take care of the House of Stories, I watch it dying.) Tuesday 07-10-01 12:45 AM 1. Memories. My earliest memory was bright and hazy, like many childhood memories are. I stood beside my parents and watched them hand my sister, who was just a little baby, over the counter to someone. At the time, I thought that they were trading her in for something, and I was slightly concerned. Later I found out that my parents took a trip across America and stopped at Carlsbad Caverns; my sister was too young to go in with them, so she was put in a day care. I also remember seeing a blimp while riding on a toy one, going up in a hot air balloon, and going to nursery school on a Saturday when it was closed I didn't speak much when I was little, maybe because I couldn't hear well with all the ear infections I had. Now I would talk all the time if I had the chance. I mean, I do talk a lot but I feel like no one listens to me. I miss things in other conversations, the talk seems to stop and start a lot. Words flow around me and then become gibberish, and I ask people to repeat themselves all the time. I think they see me as naive, ridiculous, clueless... but I can't help it if I get confused easily. I don't understand how it all works, and that's why I'd rather watch than jump into the middle of a crowd. 2. Talismans. A dear friend once gave me a silver dolphin friendship necklace for Christmas. Now every time we meet, we trade necklaces. We forgot to trade it last time, though, and she still has the one with the hole in the middle... at least, I hope she does. What if she lost it somewhere while traveling around the world? She is visiting in a few weeks, and things will be different. Or maybe.. very much the same. I don't think love changes. I have a bowl in my room, full of power stones I've collected, and small magical items friends have sent to me. A red crayon from Dawn, stones from Noam, gold-tarnished talismans from Rosemary... Every time I pass my hand over the bowl, my hand tingles and feels warm. There is much power there. When I wander, I will put the items in a sack and carry it on my belt, so I can take the magic with me. 3. Animals. I would be a dog for loyalty, a bird for freedom, a wild cat for adventure, a turtle for patience, an ant for collaboration, an elephant for sorrow, a cheetah for speed, a deer for grace, a fish for illusion, a mammoth for things long forgotton, and a human for all these and more.... 4. Sanctuary. What is a sanctuary? A physical place, something you can touch? Or a feeling, a fleeting memory...
I cling to my memories, I live in my head. My imagination is my sanctuary. It has saved my life more times than I can count, and it has inspired me to live rather than simply exist. I would not be this person I am if I could not dream, and I would have nothing to live for. I can retreat into a shell of myself in a crowd, make myself believe that I am better than them because I think so deeply and passsionately. I forget that they, too, must do the same thing and that we are good at being alone: it is so much easier, so safe.
I used to go to bed, hide under the covers and just think for hours. I imagined that the darkness was my companion and I wanted to live in it forever. I anticipated the end of the day when I could wallow in thought and feeling I idealize common things. The dank cinema I work at downtown is a House of Stories, it's roof is the lookout point of the castle. My town is a Lost Kingdom and there are many more to explore around the world. I imagine people as Princesses and Princes, Fallen Angels and Demons and Clouds of Darkness. And I... I am the center, all revolves around me. I am a Hero, a Nomad, the main character of this story. For that is my life, a story. I am the observer, weaving together a plot that will someday be finished and perfected. Sometimes I wonder what is real and what is not. When things are quite difficult to bear, the distinction is further blurred 5. God. Earth is a higher power, and everything that surrounds it. I believe in a God that is created from our energy, the power that surrounds us. I believe in destiny, and fate. Things have happened to me that I can't describe and I can't explain them away. These experiences have humbled me. I am thankful every day. 6. Life. Why do I keep living? Maybe it is fear, fear of a cycle not yet complete, of a journey not yet begun. I was told that those who ended their lives live in a private hell, their spirits wander the grounds in self-deception. They do not realize they are dead, and they will never realize. And then, what I would miss out on, the chances I have for many great experiences. For there is much in store for me, and that temptation far outweighs the pain in my own mind that forces me to confront this. I want to be remembered as a person who embraced life, in all of its extremes, not as a sad spirit who just could not make it. This is important to me. 7. Birth. I have never watched anything be born. I wonder what it feels like to witness birth. Instead I witness life, people who LIVE beautifully. Something that is born, though, knows nothing of life. It only knows that it is hungry, tired, and soaking wet. I wonder what it is like to be so basic. 8. Laughter. I sat at the computer trying to write a poem for the love spell that my sister was about to cast for me. I was hopelessly crushed-out on a guy friend and I wanted to hurry things up a little, impatient like I am. Cassandra lay on the bed, waiting for me to finish, but I just could not write anything serious! So I started again, and I remembered a bible phrase that I had read. I typed "lift thy ox from his tongue, let him speak forth his desire." For the next ten minutes we were doubled over, laughing so hard that it hurt our sides, so hard we could not breathe. Somehow, I forget those moments all too often. It's a shame. 9. Wishes. Three wishes that would not benefit mankind in general:
10. Fear. What scares me? Honestly.... everything scares me. From falling to love to war to mice and men If I did not fear, would I change? I would be perfection, but I would not be real, only an image of ice. I would rather fear. The feeling of conquered fear is so freeing.... 11. Toys. I have a stuffed hen, quite faded, on my bed. I've had her since I was five, when I named her "Penny". Dad made a joke about "Henny Penny" and I yelled at him because I knew I'd never get rid of that nickname. Sure enough, that's still what I call her now. She's fluffy and squishy and fills the hole between my arms and my body... at night, or just when I'm alone. I've cried into her a lot. 12. Want. I want everything, but what use is anything if there is no one to share it with? So maybe I just want love, real true mutual love. Respect. Understanding. I want to be remembered, to be someone of significance. I want forgivness and I want freedom. Peace. But mostly I just want love. Maybe it can give me those other things I want. stream-of-consciousness ditty / February 25th At this point I have had the tape recorder on for three minutes. I have not said a word. I should be speaking but I am writing instead. I am thinking, stream-of-consciousness like. I don't think anyone will care what I say, but I wish they would. I am here, and I am speaking into a void. This void feels dark and murky-black, but I only see white in front of my eyes. White paper, white screen. Whatever. I am listening to music, music from a far-away friend. I miss her, but mostly I miss the person I was when I first heard this song. It was two years ago. I was strong, and I was whole, not shattered into pieces of glass like I am now. I am like Humpty-Dumpty, who not even the kings horses and all the kings men could put back together again. I am gritty and hard to read. I am wearing bright colors and drinking coffee, because I have to stay up and study tonight. I don't know if I can concentrate, but I would like to. I really do love to learn, and this is for me, not for anyone else. I want to do this for myself, if I can. I say this a lot, that I can do anything. It's true, I have done things that no one expected I could do. I have been misread and underestimated, and I have come out on top and triumphent... yet... I still am incased in invisiblity. Do I want fame this much? The important thing is to live what I dream. I try; I lose direction a lot. I am alone. I am sitting at the computer listening to this music, alone. The taste of coffee is in my mouth, it tastes sour. Soon I will be bouncing off the walls manic, but it will be okay because there will be nobody around to become the recipicant of my ill-thought-out words that I will spill. I am not thinking now. I mean, I suppose I am thinking these thoughts with one part of my mind, but thinking ahead is hard. I am hurting. I feel alone and I am hurting, I am trying to love myself. It is dark but I am trying. It is hard but I am trying. It is hard to think about the universe and life, but from what my brain spits out I think that something good has to happen if I keep trying. I am not a quitter. I may never be famous, or well-known at all. I may never be recognized for all these thoughts I have inside of me, all these feelings, but it is okay because I am a human and I am trying. There will be a greater goodness from this trying. I don't feel strong, but my soul swallows faith because it is thirsty for nutrients. God knows you can't get much nutrients from this world, this starved and terrified world. I am terrified. I'm not sure how I can move at all, how I can laugh and how I can cry, how I can work and play. I'm not sure how I get up in the morning and get dressed, and say wise and silly things to people, how I can be beautiful and how I can revel in my ugliness. When I view my terror objectively, I am shocked that I am not numb and unmoving on the floor, with my eyes too blank to even reflect this fear. I must be alive. I used to think I was dead, but I doubt that. If I can think these thoughts and feel this faith I must be alive. I am here. I am in my room, and it is okay. I am thinking about life, so I am okay. I am hopeful. Hope is terrifying because it forces a person into superhuman strength. It will not allow me to use these tools of death on myself, it will not allow me to slip into catatonia. Hope is terrible and beautiful. It feels egotistical to say that I am noble, but that is what I think. I am scared shitless and I am still living. Humans are noble. I am not dead, and I should not be. Faith must come from terror, that is why there is such a backlash when it is threatened. If I did not believe in anything, would I be here writing now? I don't want to think about that. I love the wrong people and I hate the wrong people. I am clumsy at this game, feeling foolish because I'm sure that I'm expected to know the rules by now. I am a child, infatile at heart. I am needy like a child and I have a child's wants. Warmth, comfort, kind words, support, food, water, coddling, freedom.... How many people grow out of these wants? What do they turn to? Blind obiedience, a daily schedule, the same chair and desk and people every day. It must be comforting, but I cannot understand. I cannot put these needs aside! I know how much I am expected to be adult, all this responsiblity and worries to carry on my shoulders, it is overwhelming. I am overwhelmed. But I can do anything (just not happily). I cannot be happy doing what is not important to me because I am not a person who can submit to demands I cannot understand. There, a revelation. But I don't think it's easily understood. Who am I? I thought I knew, but I can never hold onto myself for long. And no one can hold on to me. I wonder if that is why I feel alone. Maybe I am alone. Maybe I will always be. I am cold and discouraged and I am crying. I am trying to keep on track. One minute, hour, and day at a time, like climbing a mountain for days on end. When I reach the top, well, I don't know what will happen at all. I may be stabbed and beaten, but with luck I will have a long sleep in the grass and the sun shining on my face will heal this shattered soul of mine. I am typing and I am hoping and I am crying but I will keep walking. God knows I will keep walking. November 26, 2000 . . . I drink in the night. Decked out in anything I want. Black velvet, red silk, baseball cap turned backwards. A few bracelets. Rosy cheeks and purple lipstick. A night out on the town! Everywhere I go the streets are singing. Sometimes I can only hear the buzz of the street-lamps, and then there is only silence except for the scuffling of my feet. Other times there is rhythm to groove and cars to dodge. A bottle of wine, a cup of shitty soda. Stuffed full of popcorn, I make my way to the café. To write. Sometimes, I browse for poetry. Then I underline words and copy them into my notebook. Other times we walk all over the streets, dance in them and sing silly songs and climb up to the roof. A whole lot waiting for me out there... ... a whole lot of adventure. I want a whole lot of adventure. A whole lot to remember. At night everything is bright and neon, not anonymous and lazy like the middle of the afternoon. There's just enough of it to make me a little dizzy, a little giddy. There's just enough of it to keep from going home. Eleven, twelve, one in the morning. Two, three in the morning, I still don't want to go home. Not that there's many chances to stay out until three in the morning here Nocturnal girl. Don't get me wrong, I love the daytime, too. I love the crystal mornings, when the merchants are sweeping the streets and getting ready for the day's work. I love the afternoons, the lazy sun and sipping tea. But night is alive. Night is decked out in her finest garments, ready for some hours of discovery. Even just hanging around seems like a grand time. It's all a grand time. Some pounding music, some rustling leaves, footsteps and the clinking of glass. I hear. Bright lights, glaring flourescent or chipped-out neon, or the street light shining through the leaves of the trees on Broadway. I see. The smell of popcorn at the cinema, spilled coffee and soda near an alley, cigarette smoke getting on my clothes. The energy here is like a best friend. Yes, I understand. Hey You! October, 2000 hey you in the street! do not be afraid of the people who wander in the night, they are only shadows of yourself they are only looking for a home to break away from, for a love to free them for a not-quite-finished ending in the early morning they are pieces of poetry lost in the sidewalk. they have not yet found the sky. these are unending days! sounds are sharp and dulled you are mulling over words that have not been said, you are crying over tears that have dried in the cold, i know. hey you! you found your secret place in a stairway just above the alley; in the pause before the night people come out, when the sun is going down how do we connect we are just doing the best we can with what we got. miracles happen in fated sequence. we are all stories. you are walking like a queen they are only hiding to be seen. i'll give you anything! my words will never reach your eyes. you are an angel against the backdrop of cemented walls. you are a scarred soul that has learned to be beautiful. you are a supernova burning brightly from the past. you are the face that stares back at me from the glass After the Summer A summer made me grow up. First there was the child, the gypsy wanderer, and then: the broken and the bleeding the unliked the trapped and screaming... Yes, a summer of evil and terror and intense joy and beauty can make you grow up like nothing else. Presently I returned home a nobody, nothing left to lose. Locked up in my room, fifteen days of no food and a lot of thought after the aftermath of a battle I understood all the beginnings it contained. Eventually, I took a few brave steps beyond home again. The trees whispered harshly now they tread softly. when a battle is fought in the mind you don't lean over, spent and gray picking up shards from the sidewalk stomping out late and restless flames from the grass. A night of real tears, photographs and records And a confession, some apologies... a splash of sun, a few drinks some words and then no words. No more words.NBTSWikiWiki | Recent Changes Edited 11 times, last edited on February 2, 2002 by 204.60.198.119. © 2000 NBTSC Webmasters |
she's still holding the mop bucket in her hand, with a little water still sloshing in it. A man takes a picture of her, hoping for recognition later, but he loses his camera before the film can develop.
Somewhere in the world, a sheltered university student finds the camera and develops the film in a nearby lab. The lighting isn't good, but he can make out a person so small she looks like a midget, or a faerie, holding a bright yellow bucket and staring across the street. Maybe, somewhere, there is a dull ache. Or maybe she just doesn't care. Maybe she sympathises. He tucks it away in a box, unsure what to do with that strange face that he summoned into his life.
The fallen man gets carted away, and crowds go back to normal, as they are apt to do. The girl goes home. The forlorn wind makes her shiver as she hurries up the steps, and all she wants is to pull the covers up over her head until there is only blackness. No distracting bright stars here. This is home, full of crap and other endearing symbols. She cuts the flower stems off and puts them on her dresser
