Forestgreen's blog: "Tangledrabbit"

Armoured Thoughts We scarcely have time to live deeply or develop diversity in substance or style. Hard experiences create for each individual a glow of independence and depth; seldom replicated. Select moments; random combinations of countless instants, and the castle of armored thoughts brings forth the unique blueprint of the "self". With hands pushed back deep into your pockets, a gentle confidence registers only slightly. (I'll have to come back to this)

Pockets It's silent contortion of madness, not rememdered. No broken blindness A balanced mind is uncanny Rare So take nothing from this And leap into the abyss Another time begins New Year 2007. Antique Winter On a windy day I wondered the open meadow Softy not knowing Like a shoe tossed amoung the pebbles Nothing to really do but roam Whisper futile secrets softly Closer to the antique bridge Down where the dry havoc of leaves crowd A day easily forgoten but never lost As I watch the blue gaze of the waters edge Its difficult to imagine that everything makes an impression (inspiredMrsJ) White Poem Blue Jewel I drink water, and cut fruit Plunge my hand through the wind's foliage Green birds cut through my dreams A morning like no other With a boundless gaze where the world becomes new Beautiful again from the beginning My sky is deep and unchanging I know the night a little longer But the morning is always there to greet me Unless it is the dream that watches me again I read seashells, leaves and stones and my memory reaches far For my eyes set me sailing. (inspiredbyIdycrpntr) Dark Poem Background Unreal In a garden abandoned by birds a twisted rose blooms in the orchard The immortal wax is melting on the wings of a dozen black birds For a single drop of rain has killed summer A feeling of starvation in chains He turns mad eyes, and all experiecne wells up like a pool of guilt For life has blows, and harsh ones indeed You are now all your destiny's fragrance Your life pure pulses With eyes of cold silver and icicles on the moon You let your memory prevail And the small light thru the keyhole was never enough (inspiredbyMastEv) 2006-12-10 3:6:15 Hidden and Brave It was always the same A quick rush to see if I was safe Of great anxieties suddenly extinquished When I was shut in a little cage on the hill The oily sky was loud with metal thunder The earth torn and black I did not give in Nor did we cry for the fallen A candid brotherhood of freedom As we chased the night until dawn Breaking from the mist The deadly rumble of monsters and grease A talon shot thru the air And again we ran to the safety of the hills A sharp beer and some songs Aided my longing for solitude In ashen clouds I watched my house A daily truth was my unforgetable burden To remember my friends and what we saw On the hills overlooking our town I did not give up I did not weep For here I am today, ridiculously alive In light and not shadows Alive with an impulse inside I crave the entire earth Now a blue quite sky is my cover And oceans surround my fortress A poem by Forestgreen (inspiredbyM)

You never know. Non-traditional to me represents change and the ability to experience. I keep this in mind when I write, and I apply what I write to my life. It runs full circle, if I am my own protagonist then how would I like my life to unfold. I imagine the answer to that question changes daily. I meet and experience a world of different opinions and ideas, none of them good or bad; just tweaked views on an already existing pattern of thought. In recent years, however, I have plunged headlong into a wide breath of outlandish adventures. No longer obsessed with the vain quest of defining myself. That I leave to others, it tends to suit the critical mind to critique. Not recognizing this element in my life sooner is part of the growing process. I don't regret a moment, a choice or an action. That for lack of a better word is: bad. Self-destruction is for the other guy. Not me. In addition, I find one of the most fascinating qualities to be discovering my own narrative. Writing constantly pushes my mind into places I should not visit. It is these places that allow me to shine. Or so I've been told. My writing "gets" read and that is indeed an honor. Words scrawled on a napkin sitting in my desk collect dust and nothing else. If an artist takes it upon him/herself to truly lay their heart onto the chopping block, then that bravery must be awarded. If you are temperamentally prepared to speak straight; out on to the page, great rewards and pleasures are surely in your future. I found many interesting experiences to be the dark cannon fodder of an open mind. This is but a sample of what one can truly achieve if all ties are broken. Experiment on the experiment. I think a sharp level tone to understanding the interaction of your own inner voice, moves you along in a forthright, no-nonsence approach to life. What is honest, is honest. This simplicity allows a certain composure to be maintained in even the harshed conditions. An eloquent awareness, a romanticism to indulge in the unfamiliar; a certain freedom must be afforded to your unconscious, because there lies the true original ideas and the abiltiy to render passionate judgement. Judgement is an abstract artistic term, I have to understand something first before I walk down the path of an idle sentence.

Let me take a moment to indulge in a little bit of free writing. Know who you are and what you want. Don’t waste your time if you don’t know these things. Know the importance of communication ; be willing to accommodate. People are different, with different needs. Be mature and intelligent; it makes life easier. Try not to be to religious; understand cultural and tradition. Explore new avenues in life just don’t jump off a bridge. Being witty never hurt anyone. Being funny is just one of those things, not a talent. If you can, skip the small talk and be honest. Abstract by itself is a good concept. Explain what you don’t understand and understand what you can’t explain. Believe that a brush with death makes you truly alive. If its freezing outside, put more clothes on. Take a moment and sit on a couch and contemplate life. Never hit dogs, children, or girls; that is from a poem I once wrote. Put just one of these items on your list; and you're instantly, already in a better place.

In essence, the theme of expressing my feelings, attitudes and understanding of specific aspects of the world around me are direct reflections and interpretations of personal experience. The struggle is never about the actual expression of feelings, but rather understanding the motives behind these emotions. Complex, who isn’t? Romantic, possibly. Individualism is difficult to fathom only when one is grounded into a ridged set of structured beliefs. I don’t like. That is a sentence I seldom approach. My job as a writer and a film maker is to use my life to explore other people’s lives. I discover things, people, experiences and events. A colossus myriad of different emotions neatly tucked away. In doing this I become a better person. I certainly don’t know everything, and have recently created an aversion to any form of denial. If I was self-centered and shallow minded; in even the smallest sense, my work would suffer and my creativity brutally slaughtered. It’s hard to write about yourself with out sounding repugnant, pompous or cocky. But in the same breath you don’t want to come off as shallow, egotistical or anti-social. At what point do you say its time to not fear the audience. You can’t please everybody. I’ve found that accepting your gut reaction to your own written words is seldom the best gauge of success. I can bounce back and forth between multiple readers with multiple interoperations and never falter. Why? Because I know that deep down the dark Goth girl still loves white bunnies. The most interesting people I have ever come into contact with are the quite ones. The ones that have nothing to say when surrounded by society’s perpetual spring break mentality. Everyone has to be alone sometime, and it’s at that moment that you are the most attractive. Is that cool, I have no idea. What I like. Is a sentence that denotes a lifestyle, a sentence I do frequently approach. And I think I like it all. If you have done it. It must be interesting. Finding interesting experiences is as simple as introducing yourself to the next person in line. Because it is more then likely that they can lead you to one. It is entirely possible to be so flexible enough to absorb the countless combinations of unique attributes that constitute a single person.

The one who dreamed of long kisses with no lips To pass the perilous season That day I was but two legs walking Two wild rose vines filled with a gentle inflexible will There are to many names Detours and eyes In my encounters with life and its face But in an instant dream My glass legs have sprung Out of our play Descending like experience of reality And for a brief while we act like life itself Carried away, not thinking about applause An ambush strangely tragic Of art love and history speeding past She opens a window and the fields breath A river covered in white mist And the sky is a purple porcelian I always watch the violet sea fade away As the solitary wind retraced my steps In my pocket the soul of the world And always you refuse Tranquilly you continue On the days gentle dawning rays But the clock will bend time And bend the earth to us That is our victory Forestgreen

IMAGINARY WAVES I Like your eyelid's commotion The fiery flower lies tattered in the garden She sidled up with narrowing eyes And drove the hooligan mad I brought my life this far To the spot that struggles by the sea Endless sunsets watching a seagull vanish into the shadows Whirlwinds of freathers Thank you is also something I should have said Carved with great effort I brought my life this far Scribbling on endless napkins Building the dreams of countless others All the world was emptied in the light of those candles I became suspicious even of those with real eyes Like twigs that weary of birds From a perfumed cheek A soft silent smile To our intimate fires a cloud's refuge From the cracked lips of a dead Russian poet To wrench life from it's captive state Becuase waves play as much as they can And the artists is masterful Mauve vineyards and red dazzling towns decorated with lakes never letting an instant die I brought my life this far on the waves of the world On most pages I've written scrawled in fever You loosen your tongues but the heart says everything Huddled for a couple of days acknowledging nowhere And when the lamp goes out Each thought drowns weightless in darkness You hear it run agile and see the deep humming in the back into your dreams I once saw this child on print And wrote volumes I wondered that he to must have never had a gypsy dance for him I brought my life this far and still have much to see Then morning rivers roll forever calm Bring forth the new hand The double kingdom under one simple crown and in the human heart The world is home I look for the only flower immersed in its fragrance And a face anchored in a smile But now I walk the streets a river of sound and men have little words The forgotten art of creating combustible flowers Lost to the many Held by the few In grace released by art and understanding No true story is left abandoned Only discovered

OPAQUE INT. APARTMENT - NIGHT The large upscale apartment looks and feels empty. The smoke stained walls are the only reference to color in the otherwise drab interior. In the center of the room LEFTON MILES lies bleeding on the floor. The twenty-four year old professional nothing reaches across the glass coffee table that seperates him from his gun. LEFTON (to gun) I just wanted to see how you were doing. He snatches up the pistol. LEFTON (cont'd) I thought you were really going to do something that time. Flicking open the cylinder of the six-shooter wheel gun he examines the five remaining shells. LEFTON (cont'd) (whincing) It's the ones that get away that you miss the most. He snaps the gun shut. INT. APARTMENT - HALLWAY - NIGHT Down the long corridor the sound of running water escapes from the small crack underneath the bathroom door. INT. APARTMENT - BATHROOM - NIGHT Sad whispers and a soft crying can be heard from behind the tattered plastic shower curtain. In the bathroom tiles begin to fall violently from the white pristine walls, smashing to the floor in some random sequence. The foul yellow water trapped in the toilet begins to BUBBLE and BOIL, filling the room with a thick rancid fog. MADISON (v.o.) (womans voice) It just seems like everytime I wanted the light to be green it was always red. The normal little play things and toys that lined my shelves as a child always seemed to be just almost---broken. (beat) Just slightly askew, not enough to be noticed, but not perfect. CUT TO: INT. APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Lefton's right leg is noticeably bleeding. The bandage that is bound tightly around his leg is soaked red. LEFTON (screams) I shutter to think how much longer you can last in there. He shifts his body grinding his jaw in pain. Struggling to lean up against the wall, Lefton can now see down the long hallway that leads to the bathroom. LEFTON (cont'd) Never really pretended to like anyone like this before. (beat) Feels kind of strange. He cocks the hammer back on the pistol. LEFTON (cont'd) I'm pretty sure you mean to thank me at some point. Not that I would expect it or anything. INT. APARTMENT - BATHROOM - NIGHT BOILING violently the toilet EXPLODES into a shower of unclean water and porcelain. A wet hand grabs the shower curtain surrounding the tub and pulls it back quickly. MADISON, a beautiful woman in her early 20's stands fully clothed in the shower. She is dripping wet and cluthcing a nasty stomach wound. She glances down at the jagged mess of broken tiles that litter the bathroom floor. MADISON Fuck it. She steps out of the tub cautiously. INT. APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Lefton takes a long look down the dark hallway. He aims the shaking revolver at the bathroom door. LEFTON I only remember the bad parts of my dreams. He squeezes the trigger. BOOM. The large caliber six-shooter ROARS with a blinding flash of light. INT. APARTMENT - BATHROOM - NIGHT The bullet RIPS thru the wooden door, and hits Madison square in the shoulder, blowing her backwards into the tub. Spitting out a mouth full of blood, she glares thru the wet strands of hair that cover most of her face. Letting out a barely audible whimper, she awkwardly twists her body around trying to repositon herself. MADISON You dickless son-of-a-bitch! You shot me! INT. APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Lefton fires the gun again. SNAP CUT TO: INT. APARTMENT - BATHROOM - NIGHT Madison reacts to the deep metallic thump of the bullet slamming into the cast iron tub. MADISON Sticks and stones can break my bones but names can never hurt me. Besides in a few hours we'll both be dead anyway. So what do you say---can't we just get along. (then) You know just be friends. She grimaces at that last word. INT. APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT LEFTON What! You still alive in there baby? He notices a the growing pool of blood that seeps from underneath the bathroom door. LEFTON (cont'd) I dont think that's possible. (beat) Friends you know. Lefton pushes himself up against the wall, trying to ignore the throbing wound in his leg. Flipping open the chamber of his gun he pulls out the two empty shells casings and sets them down neatly by his side. He stares at the three remaining bullets still in the cylinder. CUT TO: INT. APARTMENT - BATHROOM - NIGHT Madison fumbles for a towel. She SNAGS one. Tucking herself as far as she can into the tub, she wraps the towel around her bleeding shoulder. Madison desperately searches for a survival option. She sees it. It's her own gun, partially hidden under a few shattered tiles. MADISON (to herself) This is going to suck. Much like a rag doll being tossed around in a clothes dryer, Madison flops her body out of the bathtub and onto the bathroom floor. Broken tiles relentlessly slice into her as she rapidly crawls toward her gun. INT. APARTMENT - HALLWAY - NIGHT More blood oozes from underneath the door. INT. APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Lefton grits his teeth as his head bobs back and forth. He is losing consciousness. LEFTON It's all karma. I never believed in it---karma that is. So I guess that's probably why I don't have any. Ironic isn't it. (beat) Honey? What do you say to that? (then) Sweety? INT. APARTMENT - BATHROOM - NIGHT With her back against the tub, Madison points her newly acquired weapon at the door. She spits out another mouthful of blood. MADISON (softly) Nothing. Madison fires her gun. INT. APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Lefton snaps a look toward the bathroom door, just as the bullet TEARS into his right leg. A fine crimson mist erupts from the wound. SNAP CUT TO: INT. APARTMENT - BATHROOM - NIGHT A sharp yelp of pain lets Madison know that she has hit her target. MADISON Here's a couple more for ya! BOOM!BOOM! She pops off two more rounds. Hot empty shell casings bounce around the tight space of the bathroom. One lands nexts to her. She reaches down and picks up the brass shell, staring at the slender white smoke trail as it gracefully dissipates into the air. INT. APARTMENT - LVING ROOM - NIGHT Lefton sits in a massive pool of blood. Defeated. LEFTON I could go off on a bunch of shit right now. (beat) But it's not really going to mean much. What do you say we start over again? Fresh like. Like there is no bad blood between us. (then) You down with that idea? INT. APARTMENT - BATHROOM - NIGHT Madison wipes the red icor from her nose and pulls back her hair. MADISON Sounds to good to be true. I don't know? (then) Hard memories sort of keep me alive, give me the edge---whatever that means. Besides in a few more minutes it's really not going to make much of a difference anyway. Is it? (beat) You made sure of that. No one knows we're here. No one to help us. Sure they'll come, but it'll be way too late. (she spits) Just you and me dying. (silence) Not very romantic is it? A dark Romeo and Juliet. INT. APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Lefton has managed to crawl to the only piece of furniture in the room. A couch. He hunches over for a moment before leaning back. In his hands he holds a DEVICE. He stares down at the flashing red button. LEFTON This story is over. With a single bloody finger Lefton presses the button. SNAP CUT TO: EXT. CITY - NIGHT - RAINING In most old cities there is a place like this. A forgotten spot that only a select few have discovered. (more)

The heat was a physical force, and that cunning dark laughter kept streaming from underneath the hallway door. My gaze was lingering on exactly what might be happening in that closed room. Endless boxes of old files, containing tired little notes on countless people littered the tight confines of this utterly vulgar corridor. Jeze left me to explore another part of the abandoned building . This was her idea of doing something different. Possessing a definitive neutrality when it came to fulfilling Jeze's requests; I just couldn't say no to something I'd never done before. My nature is aggressively attracted to different, and my spark of interest was abruptly burning hot. Experience is a subjective word for Jeze. The wet cement floor and brick walls seemed to be covered with a black glycerin substance. Normality had indeed forgotten this dark little corner of nowhere, but I was there. Standing in this dimly lit freak-show. Alone. I think we all sort of make a brilliant leap of intuition when faced with the hollow rush of fear. You may think you're not scarred, but you are. Your brain will lie to you; and your body will tell you that it can do things it can't. It's an important moment, an interesting place to be in. It just seems that the annoyance of deception is that you might not get the chance to learn from it. I think the fleshy substance called my mind was wondering where in the hell was the cultivator of this particular rush; Jeze. She was probably safe somewhere. She's tossed me into the lions den before, knowing that I would somehow managed to survive, but I don't suffer from denial and this place was abstractly different. I felt greasy, frozen next to that stack of moldy decaying boxes, listening to that insane snickering coming from that room. Some professionals believe that you can't write about something unless you experience it first-hand. I disagree. Jeze knows this about me, she owns some of my best work. Maybe she just wants to read something a little darker.