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Swing Shift GinJaElla's blog: "Random"

created on 03/23/2009  |  http://fubar.com/random/b286762

Falling

We slip close in the spaces that bind, the places that rend and tear under the relentless scrutiny of our demands. All of us are falling. Falling in, falling out falling into, sometimes landing with sickening thuds that produce rivulets of blood and scars that shine near as red. I like you because you are wounded, wounded like me in different contexts that make it interesting for us to compare the twists of the places where we stitched ourselves back together again, to try again. To try to not try again. I like you because you are smooth and unstained, glistening purely in your idealistic unrealities. Sometimes it gets to be a bit much, then, I like you simply because you are pretty. With this hand I’ll hold yours, and that one cradles the tender slivers of this friends hope. That ones love. Yet anothers despair. Clutched in the warm dampth of my fragile fist that nests them safely, close to me, where I can see the pulsing of life in these small wayward dreams. You dream of despondance, drink it up in dim lit places where faces blur, becoming friendly and closely warm yet even as the humid breath of of your illicit saviour draws you in the tendrils of thought and care retreat slowly and quietly into the night. Tendrils that return to you with the sun, bearing claws of confusion and guilt that open rifts filled with too much caffeine. Too many butts in the ashtray. More booze drawn through straws in places that forget you as easily as they are forgotten. We are all falling. From our perches, our safe staunch havens, falling from the grace and graces of everyone we thought we knew and believed in. Towards gossamer nets that sometimes shred like the webs of our belief yet sometimes catch us. Strong and sticky, woven by those beauitful, dangerous and deadly. You are caught, captive, spread there in willing suspense of the inevitable sting. Now drifting, dreaming... Falling. We should forget about love. Dream, instead, of wings.

27042010

Sometimes... Sanity saves me. Bringing quaking open chasms of want and need that recede, leaving me raw and bloody. Rudely wakened, shaken. Seeing everything with tear burned eyes, scalded to a shine. I'm breathless,but still. Patient, yet not waiting, for anything. Simply being, believing in the cruel disparity separating want from need.

 

I've never craved sanity. The despicable clarity it brings. Madness encompasses, is embracing! It brings comfort in a darkened cloud of dreams. Cackles in my ear at night, to my all too often delight, I always play along so very willingly. We, all of us here, laugh derisively at sanity. Still, it saves me.

 

Like a beacon, a guide, it leads me to the bright harsh light, revealing... Things. Truths. The fact that people lie and no matter how desperately I've wanted to believe, I have tripped upon a facade. Fallen for the dream. One borne of misbegotten faith and fidelity. Been led astray, taunted by schemes. Wandered foolish and clueless. Until sanity saves me.

 

Romance, games of the heart, escape and elude me. Cat and mouse always seem oh... so... silly. I learn my wiles, piece by painful piece. As I run, run away. With sanity chasing behind. Trying, in vain, to save me.

#2

I've decided to write you in pencil, for from now on. #2 lead, like most things, isn't permanent. Unless it gets under your skin. I have a mark like that on the underside of my left arm, where Jennifers pencil tip punctured me in the 6th grade library. A forever reminder of a moment in time that when it was happening seemed to just pass by, as unimportant as the thousands before it. On paper, however, lead is as fleeting and fragile as the times we record with it. It softens and blurs with time, as do scars and painful memories. Pencil understands that what we say today, we may or may not mean next week. That's why it is so agreeable with erasing. I've countless letters to you, missives I shall never send scrawled on note paper, white paper, journal paper and scraps that fell readily to hand when I was moved to speak with you. It's much like I have landed in a cut rate Stephen King/ Nicholas Sparks mash up. Horrifying. All of these thoughts that I can never send were written in pen. They are fact, fit only for land fills or fire. Had I taken the time to sharpen a fresh point on one of my grubby old pencils, taken care to refresh that point as I told you my heart, our history could be rewritten as easily as I change mistakes in my daily crossword puzzles. Not that any of my pencils have that much eraser. I would need one of those big, messy, smelly art gum ersasers that are given to clumsy school children. The ones that make piles of grit and rip coarse paper with the vigor of their use. Still, I would have the power to change something. The power to alter a moment in time, even if only mine, and maybe rewrite the ending.

I used to only write in the boldest of pen. Detrmined scratches upon paper that made it very clear that I very well meant what I had said. Pencils were only ever good for etching softly over the paper I had left beneath, seemingly blank and fresh. The force of my scribbling pressed the words through so many pages that my meaning lasted through weeks of new writings. Age, or time, or life has perhaps taught me the meaning of caution. The flavor of regret. I get no further now than the date with my pens. The time that I wrote something is allowed to remain permanent. Then my pencils call to me, reminding me that only they will allow me to go back and edit my feeling, change what history has done to me.

 

There is a letter by my elbow, sealed and addressed. I remember exactly when I wrote it, and exactly how it ends. It's the body that escapes me. The words in between the date and my signature that cause me to pause. That won't allow me to drop it in the box, send it on its way to your eyes. 5 or so pages of I cannot recall what I said. Wistful wishing, I'll bet, and that's something I can't afford. Not with you, not with what's happened. The letter is nicely decorated, it seems such a shame not to send it. If I had known then, quite what I know know, I would have known to write the whole thing up in pencil. Leave myself space to reclaim my sentiments. I would have realized that erasure may be needed. That we were never permanent enough for pen.

today

Today I woke from a dream in which an unknown man had taken me by the hand and was leading me deep within a dim & hushed copse of trees. When a stranger leads you within a forest, you expect fear. However, there was cricket song, and moss soft beneath my bare feet and warm sure feeling that I would follow wherever he may lead. A stray sunbeam warmed my cheek, and life beckoned me.

Waking was not at all what I had in mind. These days, I feel like I could sleep through the rest of eternity and never miss a thing that goes on without me. Each day seems to break with little more than the promise of survival to the next. Even in my bleak demeanor, at times, I realize that if you are not thriving, that if you are simply surviving, then in some ways you are dieing. Knowledge only brings joy when it pertains to art and stars. Knowing the dismaying gravity of my sanity does nothing to uplift me. It simply sinks me deeper, further. A soothing wash of grey that overcomes me as little blue pills lead me back to sleep that I crave intensely.

 

Soon, summer shall come. The heat, the droning of the fat, furry bees will awaken new senses within me and I will wander out into the world once again seeking new sensations, new and old friends. Perhaps meet a man who will lead me into the trees where my dream dies & life is able to claim me again. I'll have a pink nose, salt streaked limbs, sand between my toes as I listen to the timeless surf pound upon the shore and forget to remember why I ever forgot him. Another him, added to the murky sea of them, thrown to the ocean as I dip beneath a glittering wave, replacing one salty stream with another upon my face. Leaving all of the hims in the watery grave to wash away to sea. Never again to trouble me.

Oh, the hopes I lay at summers feet. The want I feed for this odd dream man to come save me, to lead me through the trees to the ocean whose tide will carry me to the other side of where such trivialities cease. To step upon the sand, releasing his hand and once again embrace the fact that in the end I am always left alone with me. The one who will always understand, the only one who will not cheat, deceive, hurt and leave. I'll plant a new forest, a new dream of trees. Name each leaf after one that has turned their back upon me. Wait for the cool breeze of fall to turn them in kind to a bright pile to rot upon the forest floor. Making a soft bed, these sheets of leaves.

Then, perhaps, I'll have some peace. Lay my head down upon that damp drift of leaves, done with it all. Finally. Scorched by the sun, washed by the sea, shelktered by the trees. I'll simply... Go back to sleep.

My BS...

I have a knack, a special talent, if you will... Now, now. Those of you with minds in the gutter likely believe that I am about to reference some depraved thing of muscled limbs or slick orifices. I wish it were something that petty, that amusing.

 

No, I have what I refer to as a "freak beacon". The wounded, the emotionally maimed, the psychologically clumsy seem to flock to me. Often, this is good for a laugh. Occasionally, one will seem particularly poignant to me. My sympathy aroused, I will take the poor soul under my wing and offer my meager strength. Like most wounded creatures, these people have a tendency to "bite". I am not afraid of a few teeth, but the wounds bleed faith, and I am getting weary.

 

I tend to agree with the people here who have noted that posting a ton of silly rules on your profile is vain and annoying. Anyhow, not many of you lovely folks tend to stick to your own rules, so you can assure when I see them on your "about me", I grant them the same respect. I ignore them entirely. I have no rules, per se. Merely some pseudo guidelines, and simple requests...

 

Don't try to toy with me. I don't know you, I am some scarcely real, trivial electronic entity. To you. I am all too real, to me. I try to bear this in mind when I brush by you, please grant me the same dignity. It's pointless to attempt to try to lure me into sordid little trysts, or carnal outings. I know where to find flesh, I know the difference between a warm embrace and cold fantasy. If you don't, keep scrolling. You will find one that shares your interests. I do not wish to join any lounges, chat rooms fascinated me last sometimes in the distant 90's. You are all very cool, too fierce for me. Okay? Stay in there with your cams, your music & fabulous friends. Keep them for yourself, please! Be stingy!

 

That's my basics. Not too tough, hmm? Now, to thank the few (or one or two..) of you that have bothered to read this, a smattering of simple facts. I am single. I have never been married, I have no children. I have a cat, 2 chinchillas & a betta fish. I adore animals. Stupid things make me laugh, stupidity makes me mad. I scorn those who look like bad Robert Smith parodies,only your ill applied make up is "spooky". I love Guinness, dancing to Morrissey, and swingsets in the spring. I am open minded, free with my opinion and trying very hard to keep my faith in mankind. I like a wide variety of music, am still rather clueless about it all... You don't have to be like me for us to get along!

 

Enough for now. I feel better. Back to the bald!!!

TN2

I saw us curled tight and sweet.

Two dreams made one, somehow, within a heartbeat.

Twin hurt and fear coiled in perfect sympathy, healed.

Complete.

Or...

As much as they can be.

I saw a future!

Hours, days into weeks...

Time turning into forever.

Two hands clasped.

Promises.

Dreams.

Something so warm, so sweet,

held in the tiny spaces between us.

Hugs, kisses, whispers in the small divide between eternity...

And you...

And I.

A bliss of fantasy lived each night while you promised to be mine.

Vows I recall as dark falls,

As stars shine and hope wrings cries.

Never.

Never has been.

Never was.

Never now.

Never mine.

want


Sometimes I sit here, I stare, and I... WANT. In a fierce, grinding, send me down the streets bloody screaming my head off kind of way. I WANT. Often, when I WANT, there's much that can be done about it. Then, I GET. (or.. give up. Sometimes, I give up.) When, though, the WANT gnaws at me like a beast at feast, I twitch so violently from the perfect madness of scheming that I go utterly. Completely. Still. Stone statue silent and cold. Turned inward to a place Where WANT borders on NEED and the will to HAVE. I scheme.

Frantically, hysterically, my mind dashes about in a frenzy of planning and contemplation of what has to happen and how I can make it so. Pieces falling into spaces clumsy as boulder sized marbles scattered by giants, somehow still rolling into perfect place. Thoughts gel and my eager WANT seethes in a kind of scathing ecstasy. WANT. NEED. WANT. NEED. I shall go! I shall GET. I SHALL RECEIVE!!!!

... what?

...Talking to me?

...Huh?

...Oh, okay. Yes. I'm listening...

"Want is not need. Some things you may desire so desperately that you would burn the very heavens in search of relief. That, still, does not make your want a need. Think, is this mad scheme even possible? Think of what must be done to make such delusions come to be! Think, woman, THINK!!!!"

Then, thinking. The stillness fades, I begin to breathe. All the fire and light of my desperation gone from me. All of my passion. All of that fantastic ecstasy.

Damn.

DAMN YOU, REALITY!!!!!

030210

      Woke to an end of days sun.

Burnt through the clouds like

A cigarette carelessly dropped on the couch.

His disappointment lingering tart on a   tongue too scorched by smoke for soothing.

Eyes mirroring the sky in perfect, sullen discontent.

We're both sick of winter.

               And

Maybe, I think, the sun may grow tired of being the burning phoenix of the sky.

     All alone.

               Maybe,

That's why it hides in grey, worn blankets of denial.

It's hard to stay bright with noone by your side.

 

 

I've rubbed my nose nervously til the tip came off.

Well, the skin.

Regarded my reflection vacantly

     as the blood welled and dripped.

            Drip. Drip. Drip.

Stuck toilet paper to it,

     added extra eye makeup.

I'm all about quick fixes.

I'm a big mess.

The taller I try to stand,

     the further I inevitably fall.

Frenetic energy fueld by too much caffeine and a fear of falling asleep.

Of falling.

Like a star.

Like the sun must sometimes long to do.

On days like today.

When I'm walking to the bus stop,

shunned and bloodied.

Sipping coffee from a steel thermos.

Under an end of days sun.


this...

My boudoir is all madness and roses. Cake and thorns, sweet and sharp. In dim hushed breezes disjointed poetry makes limbs lush and heavy. Long hot baths rinse away yesterdays promise in the soft, scented froth of todays reality. This is retreat, and with no reflection of myself in mirrors that reflect one another in triangular perplexity. Those softly hazed surfaces show what has happened, what is dreamed, what may with time come to be. My sanctity is too violent for pink. It screams in the night and won't let me sleep. Brushes my face with the demanding caress of lovers gone and demands utter attention. Complete contrition. Promises of slippery sighs and long aching release. Distracts me from the safe and sober contemplation of the white wonder bread day to day necessity of sanity. Whispers from the walls of those that know better, the ones that can tell you that love persists in light of what I do. Feline green blinks softly as awakening drifts toward wanton fantasy.

We're all crazy. Mad with lust, and power and fear that whispers in our ears as we cower in the places we deem safe and deny. Deny everything! Psycho is as psycho does and I lay in soft sheets powder perfumed and my phone chimes at me. All out of our minds, toys in the attic, lunacy. Invitation to insanity... Please RSVP.

I am...

i  am  an  instrument,  strung  ineptly.  i  am  natures  low,  slow  song,  played  at  high  speed.  i  am  the meek  yet  vengeful  prey,  sprung  from  the  belly  of  the  beast.  i  am  the  tender,  loving  mother  that  refuses  to  breed.  i  am  the  festering  wound  that  does  not  bleed.  i  am  a  sweet,  siren  song  of  longing  morbidity.  i  am  the  tense,  coiled  tiger,  preparing  to  spring.  i  am  the  secret  that  screams.      i  am  the  wraith  that  followed  you  home  from  your  dreams.  i  am  the hope  that  causes  the  caged bird to sing.  so  sweet.  i  am  the  thought  that  night  brings.  i  am  fantasy,  dancing  on  a  moonbeam.  i  am  the one  that  set  the demons  in  the box  free.  i  am  insanity.  i  am  serenity.  i  am  war.  i  am  peace.  i  am  sweetly  bitter  poetry.  i  am  happy.  i  am  angry.  i  am  refusing  to see  what  you mean.  i  am  a  perfect,  black  sucking  hole  of need.  i  am  alone.  i  am  not  lonely.  i  am  all  of  these  things.  i  am,  perhaps,  nothing.  i  am  me.  i  am  only  me.

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