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// "DON'T CALL IT A COMEBACK" \\
(( 11/10/03 anada523 ))
\) (/
And so I've made peace with myself and my confusion. Do I love this?
Do I want to continue? So many other things in life make me happy with half
the time and effort. Never mind the friends gained, lost, bullshit politics
and half-witted ass-kissing attempts. What kind of game is this? Is this
where I want to spend the rest of my days? And does anyone really give a
fuck either way?
The answer didn't come simply. In fact, the answer actually hasn't
yet been found. But I've found clues and I've fit some pieces together
enough to paint a picture of my ideals and desires. And while I'll never
have a Van Gogh, I can be happy with a comic art panel. I think there's an
axiom out there about one man's garbage, but I don't care to get it right.
The passion never died. It just took a sabbatical.
--Gloomchen
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
TABLE OF CONTENTS
"My Name is Micer. And This is Nothing." by Michelle ...............line 50
"I'm Floating in a Constant Nothing" by NicoJelo ...................line 147
"Drive-By Flogging" by Destiny's Bitch .............................line 180
"Oh Well" by see_you_auntie ........................................line 428
"Poke" by Gloomchen ................................................line 471
"Blindness and Scenes From a Memory" by Soulrot ....................line 545
"I Have No Hope Nor Talent Because of Mercury" by Effy .............line 570
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
"My Name is Micer. And This is Nothing."
by Michelle - kittisfate@aol.com
Data, streaming data, inexplicable, surrounding this world, it is
what we are; it is what we live for. The world, so many flaws, its
inescapable, such filth, such is humans life, such diversity of hatred,
fear, love, sex, all of it, it fills the air, clogs it with this clutter,
like data. Input, too much input, too many lies out there too much input in
there and nothing here, I'm in the balance and I'll never leave.
I've been telling lies to myself. I can't get out of it, but part of
me doesn't want to leave it. God, I don't think I'd be able to survive
without it. White noise is poison.
Touch, I hate being touched, the filth is everywhere. Should I say I
ëhated' being touched instead? Perhaps and perhaps not, I cannot really
tell at the moment. Yet I still tear into myself everyday, scratching away
the build up of the air around me. I don't go out anymore now, the people ñ
you begin to see the cracks in the faÁade, cracks in all of it. When will
Jack get a job? When will Jill settle down? When will they all fall down?
Will Jack get into corruption while trying ever so hard to change the world
in his little way (mostly by lining his own personal coffers and slamming
his own religious beliefs upon the heads of the masses). I'm right, you're
wrong, I'm higher up in the food chain ñ this interview is over peon. Will
Jill leave her husband, fuck the dog and kill the kids with a home cooked
meal of arsenic and bleach? It's not my fault - there must be something
wrong with me, wrong with my upbringing. There's something wrong with all
of our upbringings; our circuits are faulty ñ copper wires in old wood
buildings. Will I short out? Or will I burn the whole fucking place to the
basement? Perhaps I'll lie here forgotten, parts of me torn out for the
world to see, my veins split open while I die a long drawn out death upon
the floor, bleeding out everything that makes me.
And my mother always said she hated when I got the floor dirty.
Would she of been mad at me than? I suppose bleeding all over the floor is
completely different from being electrocuted as when it comes to demise.
Yes?
There I go again, it's hard to make up ones mind when riding a fence
like this. Am I really dead? Is this a dream? If I was dead why am I
inside this world of data and not in hell? I'm still surprised at the
rather noticeable lack of brim stone and flames if this indeed is hell. Oh
come on, who am I kidding? Heaven? Pfft, I'm sorry but in comparison to
where committing a single sin is like committing them all my chances are
slim and next to nothing. I expected as much anyway.
But the data still streams and I'm probably still rotting in my
apartment. Technology, such a wonderful thing, it pays the bills for you,
everyone gets their money, everyone is happy, no one wonders about the
recluse in that apartment over there. Smell? I don't smell anything.
Ozone dissipates rather quickly I'm sure, maybe if they ever look they'll
find dust, dust and bones bleached by the glow of a computer screen.
Bleached blue, would they be blue? Or would they stay gray? Would anyone
look at my bones and see a story? The hand with the bones broken? I
remember that well, punched the screen, broke some fingers in the process.
And what did I do? Halfway through having them wrapped I run out of the
hospital, and drive home only to punch the screen a few more times for good
measure. Hurt like a bitch, but it was worth it, even if I make the breaks
worse. Fucking piece of shit I had to work with back than, that wasn't a
computer, it was more like a paperweight with blinking lights and a
solitaire program. They're right you know - solitaire is for psychopaths.
How about the collection of cracks that so finely pepper my skull?
That was from an asshole who thought it would give him a rise to drag me
into an alleyway and beat me senseless with a brick. He got a few hits in
before I was able to get up and run, my head pouring blood rather freely
while I staggered on down the street. The city turning into a mesh of black
and red, swimming and churning all around me. I almost expected the city to
fall to pieces before my wake, showing me the truth that hid behind them.
But there was no truth, only a concussion. If people were dirty, the brick
was even worse. I wonder if he played solitaire.
My head still hurts, is it supposed to hurt? That was years ago,
centuries, eons, the first man pounded in a monkey's skull with a rock - am
I the monkey? Thou shall not pound in the monkey's head, thou shall not
want, and my cup runneth over. Amen. Will they send this monkey into space
- or am I already there? I can still feel it all when I think about it, all
of it pulsing behind me, a psychotic techno beat. Kill the DJ and stop the
party, I want to go home. Where's the eat me, where's the drink me, and
where's the fucking door out of here? Someone fetch the bouncer and tell me
why I died before I hit the gutter. Turn off the computer and kill me
again.
I wonder where my relatives are? Shouldn't there of been some level
of screaming as I came into this world? Or was I doing all of the
screaming? I'm not one to be out done, I suppose. Am I reborn? Where's
the doctor to smack my ass? Or am I supposed to lay here and choke
silently, no one to hold me, no one to comfort me. No salvation for this
sickness.
My name is Micer. And I suppose this is where my story begins.
In nothing.
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
"I'm Floating In a Constant Heaven"
by NicoJelo - rainbathe@hotmail.com
"don't ever feel bored again."
it will come to you in sleep
city life looks attractive
he probes the haunted sausage
for signs of sexy arson
the high-hat is appealing
exotic makes thoughts trashy
play girl would like a cookie
most have thoughts of dying young
souls like hallucinations
are beautiful and unique
"this is a fine spot for bombs."
rectify this you asshole
customer is a big bitch
don't wait for the next plateau
you will change but be the same
look people straight in the eye
say only what you need to
keep old friends because "they know"
know when to shake hands or hug
lackluster does not mean bad
its harder to remember
than it is to forget it
the kama sutra is not
an instruction manual
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
"Drive-By Flogging"
by Destiny's Bitch - anada@kires.com
Wil was not bisexual, he was either straight or gay. He was quite
clear on that point, and would brook no contradiction. The fact that he
switched between the two apparently according to some flavor of the wind was
of no significance. He scoffed at any attempt to define his unstable
desires. Technically he was correct, but I'd be damned if I'd ever let on
I agreed with him. Debating the point was just too much fun.
Wil was one of the coolest people I knew in Atlanta, and one of the
reasons I was sorry to watch events unfold that led me from that place. But
that's another story. We were good friends, part of a rather unique little
group. Sociologically speaking, we were our own sub-sub-culture, artisans
of suffering and lust. Domination and submission were toys and tools to be
used and enjoyed. We trained and decorated the same mental demons that many
spend years overcoming. Good times. Good times.
The Chamber, an S&M dance club that employed most of our circle in
one capacity or another, was the center of our dark and cozy little world.
Most of us had other jobs for money, but The Chamber was what we "did".
I was a bouncer, and occasionally produced leather goods, like restraints,
whips, garments, and of course, the occasional flogger. Wil was, like most
of us, one of the performers. He made ends meet through torture and
violence staged for the benefit of the club's patrons, but by no means
"faked". Of course, there were theatrics involved. It was, after all, a
"show". However, the crock pot was filled with molten paraffin that was
unquestionably hot, the crack of Mon Cheri's bullwhip across a bare back
could hardly have been faked, and the welts raised thereby precluded the
possibility of any trickery of the stage. Flesh hath no advocate.
That's perhaps what made the shows so good and the nights so popular,
the performers were not "acting" as such. To them, the common nightmares of
suffering and pain held no horror. Violence, lust, and domination were
normal parts of their daily lives, practiced and tuned like musical
instruments. Those aspects of the mind abhorrent to society held no mystery
or fear for us. Forsaking up your ego brought freedom, not shame. Binding
and controlling another's body founded trust, not pride. No matter which
end of the whip you were on, you knew that a friend was at the other end,
and that your positions would be reversed in a matter of days or hours.
I think it the height of irony that they were some of the most sane,
stable, and well balanced people I've ever had the pleasure to have known.
So many of the wounds of the heart and mind so common to modern humanity
are based in the fear, repression, and misunderstanding of the very aspects
of human nature their livelihood was based upon. So rigorously were the
"monsters" of the subconscious used, trained, and exhibited that any damage
or malignancy therein was dissipated inexonerably. For example, if Thirsty
had been beaten and abused as a child, any demons born of that would be hard
pressed to wreak any havoc upon her when she made her living through staged
but very real violence with her friends. The whips, floggers, and straps
were quite authentic and were used both by and on her, always with mutual
trust and respect, as well as a healthy does of sheer, childish playfulness.
What, then, could her demons do against her? They were used and
appreciated, trained and cherished as parts of her being which gave her
kinds of freedom and strength most never know. She had not defeated or
subdued her demons. Why would she ever wish to "overcome" them? That would
be like Pavarotti "overcoming" his voice, or Dali "overcoming" his skill
with the brush.
She had accepted and mastered them, nurtured and molded them, made
them hers to use and enjoy, no different than her taste in music or her
skill at poetry. (Well, her poetry wasn't that good, but who am I to talk?)
Although we liked to pretend that we were better than the rest of the
world, it was not so. We had our own gripes and troubles. However, those
were mainly in dealing with society. Most commonly, we'd forget that our
way of life was unusual and sometimes frightening to the "straights". There
were several times when innocent horseplay in public got the cops called or
got us kicked out of restaurants, bars, and on one memorable occasion, a
police station. But that night is a story unto itself, for another time.
Wil was one of the "old men" of our little clique, having been in
this scene for better than 4 years. He was in his late 20's, well built and
handsome. He was one of the most outgoing people I've ever known, having
discovered that there was no fun to be had in dignity. He could usually be
counted on to make things interesting at a moment's notice whether you
wanted them interesting or not. He was never cruel, but sometimes his
enthusiasm got the better of him, resulting in minor wounds and major chaos.
I cannot say that he was especially gentle, but he was never malicious.
We were both pretty manic that day, and the air felt right for
mischief. We were in my van, attending to some errand or another in
Buckhead, an upper-middle class commercial district of Atlanta. Offices by
day, over-priced and polished clubs by night, it was a cultural and
spiritual vacuum seldom entered by our ilk. Although I don't recall the
name of the street we were on, it would be safe to say it was called
"Peachtree" something-or-other, as ALL streets in Atlanta are Peachtree.
We were discussing the finer points of a flogger I had finished
earlier that day (one of my better pieces, if I do say so myself). Its
handle was made of studded black leather strips woven and knotted around a
slim steel eye-bolt. This gave it strength, durability, and weight for
balance. The handle ended in a knotted pommel, symmetrical and solid.
There was similar knot at the top, concealing the eye, and helping to
support and anchor the tassels. It had a full tail of 24 tassels, each
30" long and 3/8" wide, dyed red, fuzzed, and forked at the ends. It was
fairly heavy but well-balanced, awkward for a novice, but a thing of beauty
in the right hands. I was certain that it would have a long and full life
at the Chamber.
Wil was admiring our new toy as we rode along, getting a sense of
its heft, feeling the tassels and inspecting the weave of the handle for
any flaws (he found none, of course). He was pleased with its construction
and appearance, which meant a lot to me as he was very critical of half-
assed or poorly made "frou-frou" toys. He appreciated the fact that it was
solid and heavy, obviously made to deliver a solid blow. He also liked the
forked ends of the tassels, but if you don't know what those are for, my
telling you would do no good. He gave himself a few experimental whacks on
the thigh, and then inspected the tassels closer. I had used thicker
leather than usual for the tassels, and only lightly fuzzed them, making
them heavier than they looked. He was impressed with the flogger, and I was
unabashedly proud of myself. This latest creation was truly a work of art.
I was pleased, Wil was pleased, the future was bright, and life was good.
We made a right hand turn, merging with the think afternoon traffic,
directly in front a fat delivery truck and behind a tiny BMW driven by a
blonde mannequin, recently escaped from Burdines.
Then, like the avatar of some complacent yuppie god, "He" appeared
about half a block ahead. A prime example of the upper-middle class we so
gleefully despised, well dressed and proper in every respect, he stood on
the sidewalk with his back to us, clearly the master of all he surveyed. We
were awed by the sudden beauty of the moment, the zen perfection of the idea
that revealed itself to us. The plan was conceived, worked out, finalized,
and put into action in just under 2 seconds with nary a word passed between
us. The focus of this day's mischief, our sacrificial lamb in twill and
cotton stood before us, ripe and ready, cell phone held lovingly to his
cheek. His back was to us, and his mind was obviously elsewhere, probably
at the other end of the invisible phone line, in the office of some weighty
and inconsequential corporation with a favorable profit margin. Wil turned
to me with that famous precursor to mayhem, his patented "I'm about to do
something really stupid!" look (imagine the face of a hyperactive 7 year old
all hopped up on sugar, passing through the gates of the Magic Kingdom in
a flat trajectory). I grinned, nodded, and gently let off the gas pedal.
And so it began in earnest. By happy coincidence the sidewalk around
him was empty. Good. I've always had a soft spot for innocent bystanders.
I'm not too sure about Wil, though. Anyway, I eased the van closer to the
curb as approached. Wil rolled his window down, and leaned out a bit with
the flogger hanging lazily from his hand. I remember the gentle sound the
tassels made as they were flicked against the door by the wind. We were
about a foot off the curb, closing the distance, coasting quietly. Our
yuppie friend had paused there, looking for all the world like a JC Penney
ad, hands on hips, looking boldly into the future, positively glowing with
upward mobility and secure in his rightful place atop the food chain. His
hair was perfect, his suit fashionable and well-fit. All was clearly well
with his secure and interesting world.
Damnit! We were closing too slowly. The anticipation was too sweet,
agonizing and almost unbearable, but haste would spoil the poetry of this
moment, so we coasted gently, while he waited for us, content and clueless.
At about 40 feet out, Wil shifted position slightly, and raised his
arm behind him against the van's side, bringing it to a level just above
subject one's shoulders. In that last second, I swear I could hear his
voice, thin and irritated, obviously talking to someone bound by etiquette
to be polite at all costs, probably exacting payment from them for a time
when he'd had to be nice to a prick. Yuppie karma, I guess. He was facing
away from us and his head was slightly turned to the right, cocked into his
phone. We drew even with him, and suddenly the anticipation was at an end.
The sun shone. A gentle wind swayed the captive trees in the median.
Somewhere a horn honked, and Wil had swung.
His arm twisted and flicked out from the side of the van, with a mass
of eager red tassels at its end. He didn't put too much force into the
strike as we didn't want to actually damage reason's martyr. Wil's arm
swung, and the flogger danced away in a truncated arc, blurring outward
toward the well-groomed and irritated fellow. He suspected nothing until
impact. There was no warning, no hint of what was coming, no inkling of the
impending crisis until it was well underway. Until the tassels engulfed his
entire perception in stinging crimson chaos, he had utter faith in his
knowledge of the location and dimension of the well lit divider 'twixt
reality and nightmare.
For the first fleeting instants, as the narrowing arc of red closed
around his face, I wonder, what did he think? Did he think? As the solid
mass of tentacles engulfed his head, cutting off all sight and hearing and
reducing the city around him to merest trivia, what thought was foremost?
Was he afraid? Did he feel angry? Shocked? Naked? What? As his day, his
plans for the evening, and any other focus his mind may have held was
rendered to vapor, did he call to some god, reach for some anchor? I'll
never know.
Wil struck, and we did not slow in the least. His strike was the
acme of speed and grace. It was simply beautiful. The flogger reached out,
grabbed the irate consumer by the head, and was then pulled away as rapidly
as it had been sent. In passing behind his head, the leather wrapped
eyebolt pulled the tassels along after, as it was meant to do. The tassels,
in turn, held for the briefest moment to the head they were pressed against,
spinning it like a poorly balanced top, as they were meant to do. The head
remained attached to the body, as it was meant to do, imparting its spin
thereto. The end result was that the yuppie was turned about as we passed
behind him, so that when his turn stopped, he was facing the direction from
whence we had come and we were, as before, behind him and unseen. As his
turn was stopping, the flogger was disappearing back into the van, to rest
once again in Wil's lap. Even if his eyes had been open, he could not have
turned fast enough to catch sight of the flogger, or anything out of the
ordinary about the white minivan moving away with the flow of traffic. But
his eyes were closed.
As we were pulling away from him, he began to mount his defense
against whatever the hell that had been. His left arm came up to cover his
head, the gold on his wrist glittering prettily in the afternoon sun, but
there was nothing there to defend against. His right hand clutched the
phone and flailed about him at random, but there was nothing there to hit.
His battle was short and one sided, although I doubt it could be called a
victory. Then he seemed to realize that the attack was not being pressed,
and opened his eyes. By this time, the truck was almost past him, and we
were too far from him to matter. He tried to look in all directions at
once, and did not too shabby a job of it, from what I saw in the mirror. He
was crazed, terrified, panicked even, but uninjured. As we moved away, his
frenzy faded as he satisfied himself that there was nothing in the immediate
vicinity to threaten him (as if that had mattered seconds before). The last
I saw of him, he was looking at his little phone like he had no idea what it
was, and no-one had stopped.
What happened to him afterwards, I'll never know. How he dealt with
the experience depends on how tightly he holds to "reality". Paradoxically,
the more sane and rational he is, the harder it will be for him. He will
not forget that something happened. But what? All he knows is that: out of
the blue, something happened. It was red, it was fast, it stung, it spun
him around on a sidewalk in downtown Atlanta. It came from nowhere, and
returned hence before he knew what was happening. He saw nothing but a
glimpse too brief and close to focus, then his eyes were shut until it was
gone. An orphaned moment of pain and chaos is all he'll take from this.
There will be no answer.
There will be no reason.
There will be no damned closure.
Reality is now to him like a lover found unfaithful in his bed.
He'll never be able to forget. His trust will never be as it was; there
will ever be a doubt. Unlike a lover, sanity will offer no amends. She
never did need him. Reality made him no fucking promises. Logic is
starving, and reason is missing. If he holds these things precious, if he
built his life or himself on them, what now? Now that this foundation has
been cracked? What now?
What would you do?
...
Are you sure?
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
"Oh Well"
by see_you_auntie - amy_skyles@yahoo.com
Things get so intense
Feelings so immense
That sanity and logic are hard to find
Simple mental exertion
Or mental coertion
These thoughts-theses words-these actions cannot be mine
Thoughts I collected
Or have conveniently selected
One never knows in instances such as these
Why can't you recognize pain driven tears
Do my pleas fall on your deaf ears
Futility brings me to my knees.
(Desparation is a powerful thing)
You claim the more I persist
All the more you'll resist
I become just lachrymose refuse
You say I try in excess
Obviously with no success
And you swear I can change if I so choose
Well, I choose to remain
A little weathered but the same
So really, the real choosing now lies with you
(Expectation is a revealing thing)
So feeling all-defeated
I apparently retreated
To find refuge in my paper and my pen
I pray you'll never read theses words
I'd speak them if I wished them heard
To do so would leave me all alone again.
Some things are just better
Written in a letter
You know uninvited eyes will never see.
Finding solace in the ink
Beautifully futile -I think
But what else in this world could I need?
(Devastation seems the only thing)
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
"Poke"
by Gloomchen - gloomchen@anada.net
Strikingly handsome, although I didn't try to think about him that
way. Certainly, I had to see him every day, so getting any kind of silly
pseudo-remotely sexual thoughts in my head would make life uncomfortable for
only ridiculous mental reasons. If only he would stop being so damn polite
so I could ignore him altogether. Indifference is the opposite of love,
after all.
And really, let me clarify. This wasn't a lusting sort of
attraction. Just a nice looking guy with a friendly personality who drew
me in with the simple act of not being an asshole. There was nothing more
to it whatsoever. Even running into him all over town in unexpected places,
he was the same. Congenial, down-to-earth, and not bad on the eyes.
Yeah. I thought about this entirely too much.
So with all of my thinking and little interaction, it was a surprise
that night when he sat down with me out at a little club and he started
telling me about his love affair with music and writing lyrics. This caught
me rather off-guard as he wasn't a type I would typically associate with
this activity. He seemed much too straight-laced, too much of a product of
The System. Yet he spent a good hour with me, babbling on about his
relationship with a certain huge-name band and even now-dead musicians. He
spoke of hidden secrets from his deviant past, his passion for songwriting,
and even shared a song or two. This seemed far too personal to land out of
the blue and into my lap, but questions could be answered later. I enjoyed
the company and conversation.
As he walked away, my significant other came by and sat down by me,
and he asked about the other guy. I mentioned our casual non-relationship
and began loosely recounting some of our conversation, gesturing wildly as
my uncontrollable enthusiasm got the best of me. He didn't seem too put off
by this at least, which made it all to easy to carry on with reckless
abandon in regard to making him feel neglected and full of malcontent.
However, in direct opposition to all in the world which is written creed as
to the behavior of boyfriends, he seemed to share my interest in this guy
and our conversation as well.
I looked down and realized the guy had left a vinyl sticker of some
sort behind -- it looked like a pass that had fallen off, some sort of
Important Thing That Must Be Returned. And sure enough, when I set off
searching for him again, he knew precisely why I'd gone searching.
Inevitably, a few more tales were shared and the situation once again turned
fascinating before we got back to attempting to reaffix the fallen pass.
It had been sticking to his pantleg near the front pockets. With the
joy that is denim, the sticker had lost most of its stick. Being a female
and knowing lots of girly tricks, I jaunted to and from the bathroom,
employing one of many estrogen secrets to return the vinyl to its former
glory. With a fit of laughter, I reared back to slap the sticker back to
its home in front of his jeans pocket.
Upon the all-godly slap, the fabric of the jeans happened to give way
to that which is the bane of men world-over: the presence of an erection.
This makes for a bizarre situation in the life of a female: whether to
acknowledge the issue or blindly attempt to pretend this anomaly was never
found without stumbling words or making it even more obvious that we were,
indeed, lying our asses off. I chose the low road and pointed out his
enthusiasm for our converation. Amusingly, he laughed just the same. We
parted company once again and I headed back to my partner in crime.
No further was this topic of conversation mentioned. But later, as
joined the masses tangling on the dance floor, I noticed him nonchalantly
poking me with his own zippered demon. I could do nothing more than laugh
gently to myself, grind in return, and be glad I had the ability to carry on
a conversation with another human being without my nipples giving away my
carnal thoughts and spontaneously growing three inches.
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
"Blindness and Scenes From a Memory"
by Soulrot - lowe0lowe@juno.com
I lost her,
Lost her in the backround, (or was it the foreground?)
The fuzzy blue-green sky attatched with spots here and there of speckled
brown and black, (they diagnosed me legally blind today)
My vision darkens and lightens all the time -I can't explain it,
I don't know why she left me,
She was happy dating me before, but...
It's the most embarassing to be lost, and for to leave me here in the middle
of the festival...
People passing in and out, I can feel them before they bump into me -- you'd
think they were blind,
I think comparing sight to blindness, it's better not to see what anybody
looks like,
In fact, the knights in shining armor apear even better to the trained blind
eye,
Though, I can't help but imagine what I would apear like today, what
anything would appear like today,
the cure for depression is to see without using your eyes.
>(o.o)< `,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`,`, >(o.o)<
"I Have No Hope Nor Talent Because of Mercury"
by Effy - effy@anada.net
Whenever he comes, bad news is to be expected. It's nothing to be
feared necessarily. Usually the factors affected are not of cosmic
importance. All, however, are caused by cosmic influence.
Hi, Mercury. Doing that backstepping dance for three weeks at a
time, four times out of the year.
Energizing every fragment of movement, matter, and life. The
communicator, the virginized, returning to innocence with ghastly blows of
reality. That sounds contradictory, for as awareness increases, cynicism
often does too, and innocence fades.
"The mirror falls behind you." All my friends are and I am too,
cynically jaded.
It's been so long since I've really been a part of the outside world.
My work is just my corner, and everyone just comes to me with the intention
of leaving anyway. My friends feel the need to talk too much, why I don't
know. I'm not a storyteller, don't like to hem and haw much about my
problems except in metaphors and astrological influences under an alias that
is unlikely for anyone who is more than an acquaintance to be able to
find -- and aren't I really just a schizoid? Rambling on elaborately,
making little sense to anyone else and perfect sense to me. Where the hell
will that get me? I'm just speaking in a language that needs to be picked
apart, and most people don't have the time -- or rather, they do, but they
don't care. And why should they? Everyone has their own little, jaded
bubble.
I was in a shop that specializes in rocks with a good friend. "I'm
sick," she said. "There isn't a cure." She wasn't dying, or hurting, I
thought, as I looked at the case of mellow green jade.
But of course, she was hurting, hurting bad, inside her mind. I
began to hurt inside, too, but when you ache for other people, it's your
heart that aches. Not your mind. When I'm overwhelmed and exhausted, when
I'm at my lowest, feeling used up or like a martyr, it's my brain that
swirls round and round inside my head and causes me the most pain.
Headaches are self-induced turmoil that can be dealt with? Heartache
is always for another person.
Out at a bar with friends, sort of a weekly ritual. One of the more
hopeful things I feel I have left to appreciate. I wonder which week will I
show up, and he, another friend, will not return. His eyes cry out, you
know, for help that I cannot give, yet the perpetual saint in me wants to be
able to give something equally fulfilling, something that I don't understand
or even know what it is--but I must feel for people like this for a reason.
I have fantasies of being able to change people's lives with love and
enlightenment. But every time he said he had the knife to his wrists again,
my words freeze. I put my hand on his shoulder. And that is all I can do,
which seems pretty worthless.
I wish I were miss match or something. I wish I could pull
everyone's soul mate out of my ass, so every person could find someone else
to identify with. I wish I was born three hundred years ago in America in
the wilderness. Maybe I was. I wish I knew, exactly, where my people are
from. I wish I could go there. Again, or for the first time. I really
don't know. Anything, at all.
/|/|
( @ @)
) ^
/ ||| (c) 2003 Anada E'zine www.anada.net * Anada is cat-friendly.
/ )|||____________________________________________________________________
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