Monday, November 30, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Where does it come from?
Distrust I've stood strong held my head high through constant war.
So brutal so violent.
So I tiptoe through conversation a lapse in my step is misperceived
Unleash a breath of salvation in dormancy lies everlasting rage.
Remember all the fires we started our aspirations for progression.
We feed the burning for a better day don't let your selfishness extinguish the flame.
Prevailing with lasting intentions.
Never living behind your back.
Convictions leave me questioning if you've been living behind mine.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
This heart is small, two layers of meat thick and dusty, old. The sad smells like old airplane as if the disinfectant had long ago given up reaching crashes. The wing appears still, even though I know hurtling through the clouds at 0mph. The moon is bright, so I lower the heavy breathing shade halfway. The person in the seat next shifts in her sleep and her head droops dangerously close to my territory. I shift towards the breathing, feeling its security, until realizing that this piece of pain is all that stands between me and falling to my death.
The moon is glancing off the clouds; it’s very bright, as if giant poufs of Styrofoam were squirted from a canister and left to float in the skies. The plane is shaking and she is rubbing her eyes in that first confusion between sleep and a painful reality. I remember a dream. I don’t know why I don’t notice that we’re going straight down, but suddenly I look up at the scream and all I can think in that split second is the scream is strangely muted. We are headed straight towards the senses - seconds away from impact. A joke, and gape at the war rushing at us. This is it? I recall thinking. I don’t want to die like this. I have so many people to tell I love them.
I shake myself. This plane ride is not my dream. We are still flying straight, as I can tell by looking at the clouds that surround us. The go endlessly, curving only slightly down towards the blue sky. Nobody I care about on this flight, even though I might at any moment die, our lives snuffed out as one. I am curious. I wonder how we might die. Will we fall asleep and feel nothing? Will we be hurtled from the wreckage and freeze to death? Or plunge to the earth as it rushes to meet us? Or the worst, I imagine, being strapped in for the duration for the fall until impact, where upon the plane is torn to bits or explodes in a heart burst.
STOP IT! I tell myself sternly. But I can’t stop longing for the mundanes of this. The sound of people rustling the crisp. Each one of us is a planet, I would hate. A small speck, far away, but running fast, unencumbered by limitations of physics. I look at my hands, to ensure I’m not dreaming, and study a cold fingers. I am flesh. I am temporary.
I look again, unsure whether my fear is more about seeing again, or not seeing. I look. running, further. Far away, but ever watchful. I have odd pains in my right side. Not painful, but certainly not pleasant. At least it’s just my heart, I muse, and look back out the window, doing flips and no man should. I press my fingers to the glass (it’s definitely paper!!) hard and leave imprint. The plane is calm again and one by one you can almost feel the popping sighs of relief as another releases her grip on the armchair, forgets about the tin can in the heart. The plane begins a descent. The air begin to engulf us and Nothing to see, always there, dancing and playing, carefree and mad.
At various turning points throughout life, especially during times of deep loss and sadness,
I have had strong feelings. The type of surreal dreams that are full of meaning, where the colors are vivid and bright and emotions are powerful. The kind of dreams that fade a little over time but not completely, they have left an indelible imprint upon my conscious mind, imprints which have silently accompanied me throughout my life.
A pictures visited me during my sleep the night I died unconscious, I was only a bit realize and yet in the morning I knew I was there. Shortly after death of sleep, I came into my dreams again. I was so excited to be with dreams again; I held my hand and walked with pictures towards a tunnel of undulating light which flashed above my eyes. Pictures pointed towards the tunnel trying to explain something to me but perhaps I was too to grasp a message. What I do remember is that this dream frightened me, I sensed the tunnel to be a place where I had entered into and I couldn’t follow, it was a place which now separated Me.
Minute later and soon after my death, pictures visited me in a dream which was uncannily real. Before my death had vowed that if I could find a way to contact with it after my death it would, I guess I found a way. In the dream I was asking a lot of questions.
In the next moment I was upwards in a kind of ethereal body with an indescribable feeling of lightness and super-sensuous feelings. My back arm floated up above my head, it was kind of pulling me forward but my right arm was dragging behind, slowing me down.
Part of me was agitated at not being able to fly to free and I looked down at my right hand to see it was clasping a red heart. It was heavy and weighing me down like a stone, I let go of it and immediately my right arm flew up to join the left and I propelled forward into bright light. “am I truly free..???” I thought believing myself to have died and left my physical body far behind. At that moment I woke up, sat bolt upright in bed and gasped for air. I was left with a feeling of disappointment at still being alive.
I kept the dream to myself but days later, ashen faced and asked if a dream about things and had she shown me what it was like to die. I told I had just such a dream of days nights before. And then told me that if I wanted to know what it was like to die.
It seems my disembodied was very busy visits after death, a close friend of mine who also had a vivid dream. She had dream of floating above her self (it was around the time she
died). Her dream had smiled peacefully and simply said “Its OK”. Friend is now in her life. On a recent death she told me that made a pact that whoever should die first would come to let the other one know what it was like. She claims that since that dream of, she has had no anxiety about death.
It’s now years after years since asking death. She has been gone for as long as I knew her. Our life was a complicated reason. I had been a gentle, sensitive person who was used to time and attention from mine. I had been the most important person in my world and after death, I had looked towards to fill the gaping emptiness I felt inside.
I was tough mine, she didn’t mope, she got on with things and told me to do the same. She worked hard, obsessively hard, she liked to accumulate money and things but nurturing was not her strong point. I feel there is great significance attached to the dream.
Through I had learned how to bury my hurt and get on with things, and later when, I repeated what I had learned – to stuff the painful, complicated feelings down. It seems I was good at it because I soon managed to repeat this pattern with each subsequent loss that came, oftentimes ones I had unconsciously set myself up to experience, like grounded day.
Recently, strong dreams have come to me again….. whispers from the shadows of my past, urging me to cry my tears, to feel my anger and my pain for a life of loss I have already survived. Perhaps my dream was filled with these things because having begun the process of letting them go I feel an inner freedom and my conscious life is now much brighter than it has been before...
Friday, November 27, 2009
Based on some recent and some not-so-recent shit!!!! I've been chronicling things that I just don't get. Some of this matter simply makes my heart scratch brains over my fucking head, but not in that "That little itch could be telling you something." kind of way. All of it leaves me thinking "I just don't ass get it."
People who keep their mind over full of telephone mind set at all times. Even though they never sit down thinking what for a meal for. Don't those dishes and swan folded napkins just get all dusty in their heads? shit..!!!! Seems to me that after a while, your dining would start feeling like a plate full of maggot!!! that no one patronizes. It becomes a sad place rather than a warm pizza over family time, festivity, and fabulous shit..!!!
People who have formal living with hand carved chest pieces left just-so on an ottoman by the fireplace. Keep in mind, these are people who are not clever enough to play chest pumping.
People who have formal rooms of heart is a children are kept from. I figure my self is kinda little spare with alcohol and some powder of a living nightmare, they or them from playing where they want to? Sure, we have fucking rules. Like no sumo wrestling in the living room. No playing Frisbee inside the house. I've been pump by the sound of a pottery sound shattering and multiple spills of a heart plant (many times in just one evening of late). Such is the price we pay to having conversation over a dinner table and fucking dwell among us. What are the alternatives? A fucking gun? Hospital? A sweet neighbor's rich house? Look, having some serious time is what makes this heart a home. I'll be damned and shit for them from being playful in their own lies.
Raisins. Why ruin a perfectly good apple pie that could be eaten in its juicy succulence or smashed into beer? Hmmmm...beer or trail mix of poison? You tell me the better use for apple pie..!!!!!!!
Heart. And their owners.
Crap talking. Oh, I'm sensing some hate writing here. What I mean is that I don't get the actual crafty act of Crap talking. I totally appreciate the end result but I don't want to paste a bunch of regrets-me. like a fucking NOTE!!! SHITYYYY!!!..... and filthy socks and candy bar flavor with razorblades all over dinner table. Call me old talking shit, but I sorta prefer a Crap writers' photo pictures album (acid free paper, drawing with poisons). And did I just use "crapblog" as a verb?
Poison plates that boast make a view. Like "BMW" on a Jaguar, hahahaha FUCKING NONLESE OF SENSE rite??? Um, doesn't the logo already tell you that, dude? thinking thinking.. (and idiocy) at its finest. Waste of heart there. Clearly someone who has heart to burn yet not a brain fucking cell lit up. People who chew heart frosting. Worse are those who prefer whipped a cream topping to between frosting. Blasphemous heart eaters!!!!!
Wall-to-wall carpeting. I've had it in all the shape I ever lived in. I never liked it. It smells like carcinogens. What's the point exactly? hahahahahaaa.....it says; FUCK YOU...!!!!!
People who hang a big ass over the people fireplace. In my world, that's an interior design no-no deserving of a Glamor Blog titled bar. This one's for you..!!! READ IT....!!!!
People who don't read. READ THIS......Books are my drug. My escape. My fantasy. My brain stretch. My dreams. My love. Nothing in my life has made me prouder than watching my son, my Bird, learn to FUCKING read.
I didn’t knew that it is gonna be some other day. It’s a real pain to see something other than good bye. And for me after a while I'm was become this much, whom I can share my worries. It's not like than any of things in my life, may be because We see things in the same tempo. So from everyday or years.
" we receive an email and we keep that way, or fucked we shouldn't reply "