5.27pm,
So was just looking at the date was worried was friday the thirteenth and had left house but it isn't sooooo life sucks. Have just got yelled at by Bossman and it was nuts. Here's the bio. Was building set..., had to build bar. Bossman had bar but dingy and wack... so build beautiful bar that had designed and said bar was awesome!!! but Bossman says should have just owed up that said bar was horrid and wanted to try my bar so feeling like little stupid ant!!! really tiny stupid ant.
I want a Gin & Tonic
And the Gman who thinks I am awesome
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
FRUSTRATED
So now doing Bridget Jones style online journal totally pissed off with sit in life just now.
12.45pm
have just been through a morning of stupid ass crazy fuckwittage from crazy C and slight;y deranged H seriously I know you don't like me and I could give a flaming fuck about that. but why oh why would you willingly torment another human being. Get out of my face and let me work
Just thought about it... ZEN must be zen, will be Zen starting now.
12.45pm
have just been through a morning of stupid ass crazy fuckwittage from crazy C and slight;y deranged H seriously I know you don't like me and I could give a flaming fuck about that. but why oh why would you willingly torment another human being. Get out of my face and let me work
Just thought about it... ZEN must be zen, will be Zen starting now.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
THE DEAD ARE TALKING
I woke up a little while ago. Nothings changed really, its still the same dark damp place I’ve been in for… oh I forget. Time passes so quietly here you almost can’t hear him pass, sometimes you forget about him completely until… yes until something forces you to remember him. Until the only thing that breaks this unwilling, mute serenity gets to you. The sound of the dead, the newly dead like you.
We’ve learned silence in this place. This prison of darkness and earth. This our final resting place. Ironic really, they think you die and go to a place with bright lights and wait until the end of eternity, the end of the world and the circle of rebirth starts again. BULLSHIT.
They say their novenas, mark your death with such pomp and ceremony, light candles, hold vigils pray for your soul, give you to god, to the earth that begot you and leave, leave you to rest in peace. Please.
You don’t rest here. There is no sojourn, its almost like life except you have none of the quaint old things to reassure you. God, philosophy, a good book, weed, a beer… oh talking about it doesn’t help. The only thing we have here is sleep. Sleep and silence. And you, you broke my silence and you woke me up… so now that I’m that I’m talking I suggest that you pipe down and listen to me.
Okay you’re dead. You know that now. You’ve known since you heard the earth plod on the coffin they put you in. that’s when you woke up. You turned around… and then it hit you. You were dead. Dead as a doorknob. Suddenly you remembered everything how you died, what you’ve lost, and you vague spirituality and the gods you periodically turned to in life became your focus.
And you prayed, and prayed and prayed and…hmm you’re still praying. That’s what woke me up. You shouted “GOD SAVE ME”. Save you? From what? You. Are. Dead. Its irreversible. You are here until the next phase.
And let me tell you God doesn’t live here. He doesn’t even know we exist in my humble warped opinion. The only things around here that are alive are the bugs. The maggots that now inhabit us. That feed on our rotting decaying filth. The tiny little feet that crisscross what would have been our skins. Except we can’t feel them we’re dead. We just know they’re there.
Knowing. Knowledge. Ethereal, absolute. That’s all we have here knowledge. We know so much. We’ve answered the question that dodged our existence as living beings. We’ve solved the riddle. We know death.
And now so do you.
Wasted knowledge. Gift of the grave. It’s black and grey. There’s a postcard sent from heaven it says make the best of never never. You learn your time alive was borrowed, and now that you’re buried with your sorrow you try to remember to forget.
How did you die I wonder. The way you died it’s really important down here. It’s like the only thing that’s important down here. It’s the only thing that remains in your head of life, living above ground.
You forget. Just as you couldn’t remember before being born in life, in death you cannot remember before being dead. Not really. The newly dead though they can, cannot tell. The newly dead tell no tales. You cannot speak to us. Your words like pain, fear, love, nostalgia. They have lost all meaning for us. We know sleep, and muted scents. We understand decay, the symbiotic balance our bodies are a part of. But we cannot remember life.
You’d think that you could remember. If only it were that easy. See soon you will become resigned. You will learn how to live down here. How to talk, how to cope, how to sleep, dream, cry, love, from the confines of your deep dark grave. You’re home until, well until whenever.
Until one day you do not think about before, about life. Suddenly you hate it. Here you can sleep and it isn’t sloth. Here there are no class distinctions, we all rot away. And you wonder what it was you so desperately wanted to live for. No rules. No zealots. Nothing.
Sometimes if you are lucky life takes root in the earth above you. And as the roots of whatever it is move closer to you, you are assailed by the over life. You can ‘feel’ the sun. Almost ‘smell’ the air. And then it quickly turns into slow torture. You are supposed to be able to do something. But your brain has stopped its decayed it’s gone its mush. And then you hate death all over again. Not because you fear it, but because you’ve lived it.
How did you die I wonder.
I can’t remember how i died. I do not remember dying. Oddly I remember much about life some sort of residue in my brain from too much skunk, one too many wild parties. But I cannot remember dying.
Did I ever live? I remember almost dying. Totally wiped out. Dead drunk on vodka. Stoned out of my mind on skunk. On a road in the middle of nowhere in a car on this road. I remember thinking, if I stayed in the car I would die on that road and I would be stuck for all eternity, on that road drunk and stoned never really going anywhere.
Shit! If I knew then what I know now I would have had another reefer. How did you die?
Its almost like if I knew how I died I could tell what happens after. Ah yes. Did you think this was it? Think again. There’s someplace else, there has to be at least. After a while the dead go silent. And you can’t hear them any more. No one knows what happens after, another fucking mystery, something new to look forward to. You’d think we’d be through enough of this bullshit, but no there’s more.
There’s always more. There’s always another trip, another test well I’ve had it. I had it in life that I can remember. And now I’ve had it here.
You’ll find out soon enough.
How did I die?
Sometimes I think I am not dead and then I’m only dreaming and I’m sleeping and then I wake up and I am dead and I cannot remember what I was dreaming. I need something. I’m fading away I can feel it. Fading.
Most of me is gone. Wonder what year it is. What year is it newbie? Feels like I’ve been dead for eons. What time is it? What new games has man invented? What new follies does he have on his conscience? What new god’s have they unearthed? What new truths have they aligned themselves to?
Anything to help old man time on his way. Anything to cheat death.
Death. How did I die?
How does that grim reaper look, feel, does he even exist?
How did I die? It’s suddenly very important. Try remember always how you died it’s important. It’s important when you move on. I’m fading away. I can feel it. There is very little of me left. I’m fading. How did I die?
Remember. There is something I should know I almost know what’s coming and I’m feeling something I have not felt in too long a time. Fear.
I’m scared. More borrowed time. Are you getting this rook borrowed time. It’s not clear. I cannot think. Fading. The walls are fading they are not here. Can you here me.
I’m leaving. Fading.
I forgot. You cannot hear me. You are still yelling. You cannot hear me. I wasn’t that clever. I’m fading. Fading, the last of me is going. The only remaining tie to my life. The white bone that housed me is turned to dust, finally going slowly.
Slowly. Fading. Gone. I couldn’t be that clever.
How did I die?
We’ve learned silence in this place. This prison of darkness and earth. This our final resting place. Ironic really, they think you die and go to a place with bright lights and wait until the end of eternity, the end of the world and the circle of rebirth starts again. BULLSHIT.
They say their novenas, mark your death with such pomp and ceremony, light candles, hold vigils pray for your soul, give you to god, to the earth that begot you and leave, leave you to rest in peace. Please.
You don’t rest here. There is no sojourn, its almost like life except you have none of the quaint old things to reassure you. God, philosophy, a good book, weed, a beer… oh talking about it doesn’t help. The only thing we have here is sleep. Sleep and silence. And you, you broke my silence and you woke me up… so now that I’m that I’m talking I suggest that you pipe down and listen to me.
Okay you’re dead. You know that now. You’ve known since you heard the earth plod on the coffin they put you in. that’s when you woke up. You turned around… and then it hit you. You were dead. Dead as a doorknob. Suddenly you remembered everything how you died, what you’ve lost, and you vague spirituality and the gods you periodically turned to in life became your focus.
And you prayed, and prayed and prayed and…hmm you’re still praying. That’s what woke me up. You shouted “GOD SAVE ME”. Save you? From what? You. Are. Dead. Its irreversible. You are here until the next phase.
And let me tell you God doesn’t live here. He doesn’t even know we exist in my humble warped opinion. The only things around here that are alive are the bugs. The maggots that now inhabit us. That feed on our rotting decaying filth. The tiny little feet that crisscross what would have been our skins. Except we can’t feel them we’re dead. We just know they’re there.
Knowing. Knowledge. Ethereal, absolute. That’s all we have here knowledge. We know so much. We’ve answered the question that dodged our existence as living beings. We’ve solved the riddle. We know death.
And now so do you.
Wasted knowledge. Gift of the grave. It’s black and grey. There’s a postcard sent from heaven it says make the best of never never. You learn your time alive was borrowed, and now that you’re buried with your sorrow you try to remember to forget.
How did you die I wonder. The way you died it’s really important down here. It’s like the only thing that’s important down here. It’s the only thing that remains in your head of life, living above ground.
You forget. Just as you couldn’t remember before being born in life, in death you cannot remember before being dead. Not really. The newly dead though they can, cannot tell. The newly dead tell no tales. You cannot speak to us. Your words like pain, fear, love, nostalgia. They have lost all meaning for us. We know sleep, and muted scents. We understand decay, the symbiotic balance our bodies are a part of. But we cannot remember life.
You’d think that you could remember. If only it were that easy. See soon you will become resigned. You will learn how to live down here. How to talk, how to cope, how to sleep, dream, cry, love, from the confines of your deep dark grave. You’re home until, well until whenever.
Until one day you do not think about before, about life. Suddenly you hate it. Here you can sleep and it isn’t sloth. Here there are no class distinctions, we all rot away. And you wonder what it was you so desperately wanted to live for. No rules. No zealots. Nothing.
Sometimes if you are lucky life takes root in the earth above you. And as the roots of whatever it is move closer to you, you are assailed by the over life. You can ‘feel’ the sun. Almost ‘smell’ the air. And then it quickly turns into slow torture. You are supposed to be able to do something. But your brain has stopped its decayed it’s gone its mush. And then you hate death all over again. Not because you fear it, but because you’ve lived it.
How did you die I wonder.
I can’t remember how i died. I do not remember dying. Oddly I remember much about life some sort of residue in my brain from too much skunk, one too many wild parties. But I cannot remember dying.
Did I ever live? I remember almost dying. Totally wiped out. Dead drunk on vodka. Stoned out of my mind on skunk. On a road in the middle of nowhere in a car on this road. I remember thinking, if I stayed in the car I would die on that road and I would be stuck for all eternity, on that road drunk and stoned never really going anywhere.
Shit! If I knew then what I know now I would have had another reefer. How did you die?
Its almost like if I knew how I died I could tell what happens after. Ah yes. Did you think this was it? Think again. There’s someplace else, there has to be at least. After a while the dead go silent. And you can’t hear them any more. No one knows what happens after, another fucking mystery, something new to look forward to. You’d think we’d be through enough of this bullshit, but no there’s more.
There’s always more. There’s always another trip, another test well I’ve had it. I had it in life that I can remember. And now I’ve had it here.
You’ll find out soon enough.
How did I die?
Sometimes I think I am not dead and then I’m only dreaming and I’m sleeping and then I wake up and I am dead and I cannot remember what I was dreaming. I need something. I’m fading away I can feel it. Fading.
Most of me is gone. Wonder what year it is. What year is it newbie? Feels like I’ve been dead for eons. What time is it? What new games has man invented? What new follies does he have on his conscience? What new god’s have they unearthed? What new truths have they aligned themselves to?
Anything to help old man time on his way. Anything to cheat death.
Death. How did I die?
How does that grim reaper look, feel, does he even exist?
How did I die? It’s suddenly very important. Try remember always how you died it’s important. It’s important when you move on. I’m fading away. I can feel it. There is very little of me left. I’m fading. How did I die?
Remember. There is something I should know I almost know what’s coming and I’m feeling something I have not felt in too long a time. Fear.
I’m scared. More borrowed time. Are you getting this rook borrowed time. It’s not clear. I cannot think. Fading. The walls are fading they are not here. Can you here me.
I’m leaving. Fading.
I forgot. You cannot hear me. You are still yelling. You cannot hear me. I wasn’t that clever. I’m fading. Fading, the last of me is going. The only remaining tie to my life. The white bone that housed me is turned to dust, finally going slowly.
Slowly. Fading. Gone. I couldn’t be that clever.
How did I die?
Saturday, August 21, 2010
AGAIN
again i meet you,
stand and see you ,
in another's eyes,
again i hear you
sit and listen to the sound of you,
in another's laugh.
again i feel you
reach out and touch you
through another's skin.
again i love you
i turn and hold you
in the closeness of another's arms.
again i smell you,
and kiss you,
and want you,
and find you... again.
will you stay this time
are you real or just a shadow...
of what shall not be.
again.
stand and see you ,
in another's eyes,
again i hear you
sit and listen to the sound of you,
in another's laugh.
again i feel you
reach out and touch you
through another's skin.
again i love you
i turn and hold you
in the closeness of another's arms.
again i smell you,
and kiss you,
and want you,
and find you... again.
will you stay this time
are you real or just a shadow...
of what shall not be.
again.
Wednesday, August 04, 2010
remorse
and I sold my brother
for the weight
of fame
raped my mother
in my quest for
power
I stole my fathers name
for the wealth
it bore
and yet still I am...
for the weight
of fame
raped my mother
in my quest for
power
I stole my fathers name
for the wealth
it bore
and yet still I am...
AFTER
and then deep within me,
there wells
a flood of tears
of pains and frustrations
for the pain that could
be avoided
for the illness that could
be cured,
for the indignities that would
be undone
if within us
we embarrassed
fairness, equality,
kindness
above
greed, self serving ambition,
and hatred
there wells
a flood of tears
of pains and frustrations
for the pain that could
be avoided
for the illness that could
be cured,
for the indignities that would
be undone
if within us
we embarrassed
fairness, equality,
kindness
above
greed, self serving ambition,
and hatred
Monday, March 29, 2010
FOR S
Last month, I was in a car crash and a young man died infront of me. I cannot even begin to explain what that was like but I am trying as it means i will heal and grow from this experience.
so
FOR S
there are words that i must write,
words that will explain my pain,
my fear, my disillusionment,
and yet i cannot find them.
Those words
for what words will correctly describe
the feel of death's cold hand on your shoulder,
or the sight of his shadow,
and the fruits of his harvest.
what words allow
for the flowing river of red,
and the pain it no doubt brought,
what words
And what words will suppose
to tell of those last moments
of prayers perhaps whispered,
curses spat out,
gods pleaded to,
at that moment of realisation.
what analogies will draw parallels
to that moment
to tell how alone, how sad, how upset, how unfair,
how...
I am looking for words,
I just haven't found them yet.
so
FOR S
there are words that i must write,
words that will explain my pain,
my fear, my disillusionment,
and yet i cannot find them.
Those words
for what words will correctly describe
the feel of death's cold hand on your shoulder,
or the sight of his shadow,
and the fruits of his harvest.
what words allow
for the flowing river of red,
and the pain it no doubt brought,
what words
And what words will suppose
to tell of those last moments
of prayers perhaps whispered,
curses spat out,
gods pleaded to,
at that moment of realisation.
what analogies will draw parallels
to that moment
to tell how alone, how sad, how upset, how unfair,
how...
I am looking for words,
I just haven't found them yet.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
behind the bitterness
Dear World,
I apologize
if this seems like a cheap attempt
at romantisising
something that is
already dead.
but i must at least
try and put down
my feelings of joy and love
before they are all too quickly drowned
in the sea of bitterness
pain and hate.
I must first write
about how gentle
his kisses were
how strong and tender
his touch was,
how much love i saw
when i looked in his eyes.
(before i turn and call him,
devils spawn,
son of a gun
worthless good for nothing.)
I should mention
his words of love
his meaningful
promises
and how i needed
to believe him
(before i say out lound
how deceitful he was,
lying pond-scum.)
'lltry to tell you,
how it felt to be
loved by him
and to love him back
how strong we were
how we both let this go
(before i dump the weight of guilt at his door,
and sum it all with its his fault)
i will say now and here,
how much I love him
still
and how much i miss him
and wish him well
and want him back.
(then for sure i will walk out tall
and proclaim my disenchantment
and wish a plague of a thousand years on him,
and tell the world i do not love him
and never will)
so world again forgive me,
for this confusion
that i add
to your foray of days
but i must.
I apologize
if this seems like a cheap attempt
at romantisising
something that is
already dead.
but i must at least
try and put down
my feelings of joy and love
before they are all too quickly drowned
in the sea of bitterness
pain and hate.
I must first write
about how gentle
his kisses were
how strong and tender
his touch was,
how much love i saw
when i looked in his eyes.
(before i turn and call him,
devils spawn,
son of a gun
worthless good for nothing.)
I should mention
his words of love
his meaningful
promises
and how i needed
to believe him
(before i say out lound
how deceitful he was,
lying pond-scum.)
'lltry to tell you,
how it felt to be
loved by him
and to love him back
how strong we were
how we both let this go
(before i dump the weight of guilt at his door,
and sum it all with its his fault)
i will say now and here,
how much I love him
still
and how much i miss him
and wish him well
and want him back.
(then for sure i will walk out tall
and proclaim my disenchantment
and wish a plague of a thousand years on him,
and tell the world i do not love him
and never will)
so world again forgive me,
for this confusion
that i add
to your foray of days
but i must.
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
MUSINGS
some where deep inside me i have never quite understood what it is i look for and search for. After you i have found no one I can be my self with, i can be truly free with. You broke that trust and broke the veil that enables hope. Will i forgive , even now will i forget?
Friday, September 04, 2009
thinking out loud now
silently on paper
about ? ANARCHY, about
? REBELLION,
questioning ? SURVIVAL
does it own ? RULES
needs we must
fight for our ? BLOOD
should we be ? HUNTED
take ? ARMS
go the big mans ? WAR
for every day we ? SUFFER
while others shine
and live off our
? DESTITUTION
do you blame us
? ANNIHILATE us
when we
? TURN the tables
and feed ? YOU your
bile and filth
we are the ? RESULT of
this ? SOCIETIES
callousness
its ? AMNESIA
because it forgot our
bellies need
? NOURISHMENT
our brains ? LACKED
stimulation
it begot us and spat us
out
? UNWORTHY
we create our ? CULTURE
an antithesis to yours
we ? DISSEMINATE
our gospel
in our words drum’d
in the ? BULLETS of
our tears.
and your ? NORMS
or shall i say ? VALUES
we ? DESECRATE
silently on paper
about ? ANARCHY, about
? REBELLION,
questioning ? SURVIVAL
does it own ? RULES
needs we must
fight for our ? BLOOD
should we be ? HUNTED
take ? ARMS
go the big mans ? WAR
for every day we ? SUFFER
while others shine
and live off our
? DESTITUTION
do you blame us
? ANNIHILATE us
when we
? TURN the tables
and feed ? YOU your
bile and filth
we are the ? RESULT of
this ? SOCIETIES
callousness
its ? AMNESIA
because it forgot our
bellies need
? NOURISHMENT
our brains ? LACKED
stimulation
it begot us and spat us
out
? UNWORTHY
we create our ? CULTURE
an antithesis to yours
we ? DISSEMINATE
our gospel
in our words drum’d
in the ? BULLETS of
our tears.
and your ? NORMS
or shall i say ? VALUES
we ? DESECRATE
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
please…
find me my
faded dreams and neutered childhood
restore them to me.
search for my
wide eyed innocence,
my shrinking violet,
and console them.
dig deep for my
buried heart,
and its frantic fancies,
and return it.
look hard for my
clouds of tears
and their storms of sorrows
and blow them past.
part my waters
of relentless pain
and denied chances.
and give me love
please…
©naima mungai 2006
find me my
faded dreams and neutered childhood
restore them to me.
search for my
wide eyed innocence,
my shrinking violet,
and console them.
dig deep for my
buried heart,
and its frantic fancies,
and return it.
look hard for my
clouds of tears
and their storms of sorrows
and blow them past.
part my waters
of relentless pain
and denied chances.
and give me love
please…
©naima mungai 2006
Thursday, August 27, 2009
ABOUT NERUDA
Pablo Neruda, is like right now the words my heart yearns to speak. His poetry is deep amazing and really intense personal favourites:NUMBER 20 in 20 love songs of love and despair and LOVE from passions and impressions.
reflections of love
how he moves me
like rain
like pain,
how he moves
how he sings,
words of life
and love
and soul
how he sings
how he touches
oh how he touches
and strokes
deep fires
deep desires
how he touches
how he breaks
the barriers
the walls
and moves me
dear God how
he moves...(c) abikusmots 2008
RETURNS
I have been gone from here a while. Was too jumbled up to share anything but now i am back and boy do i have a lot to say
Friday, May 26, 2006
"oh it flies away... it can't ever be caught or described. For it is one earth, one movement and another earth another earth in a moment or two.
Life itself is an un-finished sentence, or a few haphazard brush strokes. Nothing stays. Nothing is completed. I can make nothing whole from it, however small...
The meaning of a painting is a voice crying out:' Isaw it, before it vanished, it was thus.' An honest painting would never be finished; an honest novel would stop in the middle of a sentence. There is no shutting life in a cage, turning the key with a full stop with a stroke of paint."
wreath of roses
elizabeth taylor
Life itself is an un-finished sentence, or a few haphazard brush strokes. Nothing stays. Nothing is completed. I can make nothing whole from it, however small...
The meaning of a painting is a voice crying out:' Isaw it, before it vanished, it was thus.' An honest painting would never be finished; an honest novel would stop in the middle of a sentence. There is no shutting life in a cage, turning the key with a full stop with a stroke of paint."
wreath of roses
elizabeth taylor
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
SECOND CHANCES
Its not unlike me to be completely taken over by things to jump headlong into things and then later wonder what i was thinking or why I was deluding myself at the time that i was thinking. Do you do that sometimes? Do stuff thats so wrong you don't know if you'll ever do right again? And then comes that miracle- the second chance. That new page you can write on after someone rubbed out the scribbles you'd mad. Its not a clean page but its a page, you get to do it over.
The thing about second chances is that we create them we decide for ourselves that we are worth those second chances. How we see ourselves determines how other people see us and how they relate to us.
"... no matter what we start with it always ends up being so much less..."
Richard 'the hours'
We will always fall short of our expectations, and of others expectations of us and yet we must remember that it ends up being something, this life of ours no matter how much less we think it is. Learn to forgive yourself, learn to love your self. You are worth this chance and the next and the one after that
theres a meeting of
old fears
aged tears
in my soul tonight.
theres a remembrance
of cold aches
and heart breaks
deep in my soul
this night
theres a dirge of
muted screams
and shattered dreams
sung by this soul
on all nights.
theres a wake held
for a child, a friend, a love
remembered
and this soul of mine
is loving you still
The thing about second chances is that we create them we decide for ourselves that we are worth those second chances. How we see ourselves determines how other people see us and how they relate to us.
"... no matter what we start with it always ends up being so much less..."
Richard 'the hours'
We will always fall short of our expectations, and of others expectations of us and yet we must remember that it ends up being something, this life of ours no matter how much less we think it is. Learn to forgive yourself, learn to love your self. You are worth this chance and the next and the one after that
theres a meeting of
old fears
aged tears
in my soul tonight.
theres a remembrance
of cold aches
and heart breaks
deep in my soul
this night
theres a dirge of
muted screams
and shattered dreams
sung by this soul
on all nights.
theres a wake held
for a child, a friend, a love
remembered
and this soul of mine
is loving you still
Saturday, May 20, 2006
WATCHING WORDS
I am sitting, quietly, watching. The quiet documenter of others lives. I see their lips move the moments in their seemingly interesting fulfilled lives pass away as they talk.
And slowly I sober up. I pull away from the warmth and dulling consistency of their words, the moving harmonies of their throaty supplications. They talk the million voices, like passing gales of icy winds locking me out. They gush in their eagerness, these words enjoining souls, mirroring feelings, breaking and mending hearts, a salve for all ills... These words. They cloak their meanings in the murky depths in between shrouded sentences.
Trains of words put together going somewhere and yet leading nowhere.
And I sit quietly and listen. Until words are expected to leave my mouth. And yet my words seem so discordant so out of place 4/4 in 2/4 time ta-ta-ta-ta-, tate-tate or something like that. Not in synch.
I wanted noise today. I craved these voices, their subtle nuances, their broad proclamations. I needed them. I needed echoes to fill my silences. I searched for harmonies to match my music, prayed for supplications and found them in the words' hopes, fears and dreams.
I stole from the words, stole their strength, undressed their owners, bared their souls with the power the words gave me.
I smile and put my pen down, words again, silently spoken reaching from abroad and getting used, exalted, worshipped, feared, adored. And those that wield them, use them, carve unwittingly into sculptures of the bound variety. I see them watching silently, listening as the words slowly find their way back to them.
And slowly I sober up. I pull away from the warmth and dulling consistency of their words, the moving harmonies of their throaty supplications. They talk the million voices, like passing gales of icy winds locking me out. They gush in their eagerness, these words enjoining souls, mirroring feelings, breaking and mending hearts, a salve for all ills... These words. They cloak their meanings in the murky depths in between shrouded sentences.
Trains of words put together going somewhere and yet leading nowhere.
And I sit quietly and listen. Until words are expected to leave my mouth. And yet my words seem so discordant so out of place 4/4 in 2/4 time ta-ta-ta-ta-, tate-tate or something like that. Not in synch.
I wanted noise today. I craved these voices, their subtle nuances, their broad proclamations. I needed them. I needed echoes to fill my silences. I searched for harmonies to match my music, prayed for supplications and found them in the words' hopes, fears and dreams.
I stole from the words, stole their strength, undressed their owners, bared their souls with the power the words gave me.
I smile and put my pen down, words again, silently spoken reaching from abroad and getting used, exalted, worshipped, feared, adored. And those that wield them, use them, carve unwittingly into sculptures of the bound variety. I see them watching silently, listening as the words slowly find their way back to them.
Friday, May 19, 2006
This is me
My life was never going to be ordinary, I knew that from the moment I could think for myself. and then I realized it was ordinary that everyone around was just like me wanting to grow rich wanting to be the most acknowledged the most beautiful... Just the most.
Have you ever realized how short life is how insignificant we are to the universe. When I did I started to ask myself who I was? Why I was? and what drove me? I am still on that path. and like all things are connected so I believe that our spirits are connected these are my spirits words I hope they speak to your spirit whoever you are, wherever you are.
I'm a woman and a feminist not your yuppie gung ho feminist, but the kind that believes that what defines us most as women is those things about us that we have been taught to despise. Our bodies, menstrual periods, childbirth and motherhood those things that we have been taught make us less than men. We have been told over and over again that to be equal those things shouldn't define us we can only achieve equality if we are more manly "don the power suit , butch it up .
So slowly we have over the decades been detached from our centers from our centers we have been weakened left without a place to recharge. My spirit - its words are a woman's words in this life time. They are words about a woman's pain, her fear, her, loves, trusts and disappointments.
I welcome you to share them
Have you ever realized how short life is how insignificant we are to the universe. When I did I started to ask myself who I was? Why I was? and what drove me? I am still on that path. and like all things are connected so I believe that our spirits are connected these are my spirits words I hope they speak to your spirit whoever you are, wherever you are.
I'm a woman and a feminist not your yuppie gung ho feminist, but the kind that believes that what defines us most as women is those things about us that we have been taught to despise. Our bodies, menstrual periods, childbirth and motherhood those things that we have been taught make us less than men. We have been told over and over again that to be equal those things shouldn't define us we can only achieve equality if we are more manly "don the power suit , butch it up .
So slowly we have over the decades been detached from our centers from our centers we have been weakened left without a place to recharge. My spirit - its words are a woman's words in this life time. They are words about a woman's pain, her fear, her, loves, trusts and disappointments.
I welcome you to share them
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