9.10

I put it down the instant I heard the knock on the door. I held my breath.  I could feel him, as if he was standing in the back of my skull.
I slowly exhaled, feeling my lungs sink in my chest. I swung my feet over the side of my bed and quickly took another breath before putting my things in the drawer of my side-table.
He was still knocking.
I could feel him reaching down my spine now, controlling my legs as they moved noiselessly over the ground. When I came within reach of the door, he stopped, but I could hear him breathing. Pain radiated around my ribs. I could hear the sobs. I stood there, shocked by the sudden sensation of suffering. His breath was familiar and sobering, a sound I hated.
At the sound of my unlocking, he left me. I was once again aware of blankets lifting me and holding me. I knew I was protected.
He came in and walked immediately to my bathroom. I went to the kitchen for water, and then to the hallway, where I leant in a doorframe and watched him. It felt like a movie. His suffering.
He turned to me, over his bowl of sick, and pierced my glass with his eyes like ice melting in embers. I handed him my water and left as I heard him swallow, vomit and cough.
Back in the confines of my kitchen, I sank below my sink, crouched on the floor, and prayed.

I said Universe,

If you have made me thus

and him my equal

why are we not equally forgiven?

The stove responded in silence. The refrigerator dripped the song of leaking sorrow. And I knew this was the end.
As his breathing begun to rattle, I bathed him with a cloth, dressed him in my old lover's clothes, and brought him to bed. I told him of my mother and how she would lay beside me and tell me these stories and how I couldn't remember them or much of anything anymore and that I was worried. He rasped a response, but I don't remember much of that either.
We lay there until morning, his hand in mine.
I left when he did, but we didn't say goodbye.

9.2 313131

3thirteen & 1thirtyone

"Last night, I dreamt we were stars, 

and we communicated with light- like fireflies- and dance- like bees. 

You showed me your secrets,

and we were able to teleport, but I don't think we actually did. 

Just cognitive of the ability."

Here is a preview of my latest work. The final "product" will be posted soon.

This is my work, not yours. You must ask permission to use these images/text or at least give me credit. Thanks, dears. :)

8.30 The Senior Center

 

Per usual, kaleidoscopesnowflakes. 

Wall in studio.

Cause animals are terrible liars and beautiful creatures. 

One of our few rainstorms left us with a beautiful site on a trip to Home Depot. 

  

Here are people existing in their own realities and a shitty attempt to put 3 people in the same one. 

I built a lot of cat forts to instigate some friendly battles. 

This semester, I am interested in how everything exists within multiple realities and dreams as an expression of individual realities. I am interested in how the senses being activated or deprived through clothing and environment can affect our emotions, memories, and, vicariously, our actions. I believe that through these realities we can find truth in ourselves.

8.26

Oh Facebook,
I swear you are the downfall of our social structure. Your promotion of passive aggressive communication has killed any energy I had for action.
Today, I logged in to find a girl posting a complaint about someone being in love with her. That would be extremely embarrassing and count as bullying if viewed from the enamored human's stance.
and then I logged off.
because people are jerks.

8.23

Perfume
I usually put my perfume on in the morning after I apply lotion and dress in my underwear.
Then, while dressing, I check in with myself to make sure that I am wearing my perfume.
But always, I can't tell if I already put it on, or if it is just residue from my bedroom or myself, or if my brain can just smell it on command, or if I sprayed it on some article near by, or if I even have class today.

8.21

The thing about school is that it is a bunch of shit.
I am finally able to take the classes I am interested in, and learn the things I actually want to learn and understand, but I only have a year. I guess I have taken a few other classes in previous years that I enjoyed but, for the first time, I actually want to know what my classes can teach me. I get why we have requirements but damn! I know that going through that shit is the only way I have matured to be able to realize this. I guess that is the catch 22 of growing up. Only after you have grown can you realize what you should have done.
But I am a pretty hesitant person.
Largely invested in feeling and emotions.
You telling me "what you wanted to happen" means nothing to me, and I must come to the conclusion myself. Since when did we believe forcing people to have similar shitty experiences as us would generate the same person. That is physically impossible on a universal level.
And the bullying?
Still?
Geez, guys!
and why are people still taking things personally? I know everyone has bullied. I know everyone has been the person to make another feel awful. Even if it was unintentional, we have all hurt each other's feelings in some way or another.
I'm not arguing that peoples feelings are invalid or worthless, but everyone should have a grasp of life's tragedies by this age. Yet, I feel celebrities come forward with these "I was bullied" claims to humanize them. These claims fail to humanize them because the rest of us "humans" were bullied and don't use it as an excuse.
Yes, teasing can be awful and snowball into larger, more serious issues.
No, there is not an excuse for being disrespectful and mean to others.
I'm saying that this is a part of being human.


I can't tell if she is saying things like it on purpose so that I have to guess, but by this point she can't hide it anymore. Her car pulls up the driveway, and I watch her collect her things and lower herself out of her car. As she approaches the door, I continue to stare through the window. My fingers trace the green velvet of the chair as she opens the door. I look at her, then at the dye work on my jeans. My heart cowers in my chest. She greets me and smiles sweetly when I don't respond. I watch her put a bag in the kitchen, and I try to memorize her hair style so I don't have to look at any other part of her. She tells me some thing about how lunch went with her mother, but my subconscious fills in any gaps in her story with a few "oh yeah?"s and "well, thats good"s. She sticks her head around the corner and smiles again. "Mom was really happy", she whispered smugly as if saying it loudly would disprove it's truth.
I smiled and my shoulders became lead.

8.13

I like when you don't talk to me and the anxiety makes me warm. I like when I come home and your toenails are stuck to my feet. I like to look at how disgusting your skin looks, and how the smell of garbage always reminds me of you. I like when you call me, and you are out of breath, and you take those long gaps in the middle of long sentences between words that should not be separated. I like when I wake up in the middle of the morning and feel your hair on my face. I like to look at pictures of you and use them to raise myself esteem. 

She liked to have French movies playing constantly in the background. You could hear the stream of words from any side of her place all the time, no matter what activity or task was being performed. I was charmed after my first visit and was won over after my third. We talked longer on my fourth visit and I witnessed the changing of films. It was done with such familiarity that I was considerably impressed. A few other people came in and out during the film, speaking personally with her while I half listened, one eye always on the film. I was intrigued. Soon I was there twice a week and the french refused to dissolve in the background. Around this time I was getting familiar with a few of the films that I had caught two or three times. I began to notice she would only watch a few of the dozens she played. In the middle of a cigarette, a month after the first time, I asked her. 

"They sound like my mother."

I'm not satisfied, but this is nothing new.