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Blurty for The Mad Poet.
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| Saturday, August 2nd, 2003 |
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Every time I think about updating this journal, the internet crashes and I lose my entry. I find it singularly frustrating. My cat Iieata--the small one, her viciously imperial majesty with the sharp claws and drowsy eyes--turned up missing, and has been found again. I turned my town upside down trying to find her, scoured the pound. In the end she simply trotted back through the door on her own though, superior as ever, and I think that's the only way it could have happened, really. She wouldn't come back, after all, until a panic had come up over her absence. It's just the way she is. And let's see. . .oh yes. My good friend Fish and dear Rian are seeing each other, now. Quite the happy couple. I can't help but wonder if I would know if Fish had been aware that Rian and I were together, or if I would still be in the dark. I can't help but wonder if they were like this last month, when I called Rian on her birthday. Or even before, when Fish talked about how well she and Rian were doing--did she mean as more than friends? In the end love is stupidity, pure folly. To hell with the pleasantries though. Love is such a goddamn foul thing. Affection is just as bad, and friendship. Nothing more than a sick joke, all of it--I cannot become close to anyone without hating them. Anyone. Not even the people, or the person, I thought might be different. Am I naive? Was I? It isn't the fact that she has someone else now, or even that this someone is a close friend of mine. They are, after all, wonderful people, and I am happy for them. I hope things are perfect. The part that hurts is the lie, the deception--she could have told me. I don't think I even really loved her. But she meant something to me, and she was important to me, and she said that she loved me but I think in all likelyhood that she lied about that. When you love someone, you at least have the decency to tell them they are old news. I have to go. There are things, apparently, which require my attention right this very moment. Maybe I will come back later. |
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| Wednesday, July 23rd, 2003 |
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I was going to actually cook and eat something tonight, until I realized that such an endeavor would entail cleaning the disaster which is my kitchen. Some people lose weight because they excercise; I lose weight because I'm too lazy. Isn't that just hideously sad? I wasn't really hungry anyway. And I suppose I'm not really lazy anway, either--call me a maniac (most do), but I've been dancing around the house all day with the music blasting loud enough to rattle the windowpanes. Different music than right now, of course. I don't generally dance much of any GG music, let alone Johnny's theme, but I always play the air guitar, especially since my physical guitar was taken away from me. I can't help it--and believe me, I've tried. Foolish habit, isn't it? At least I don't smoke or drink. There are always worse habits to have. One of the cats killed a bird on my pillow today. I opened the window because my room is a (barely) glorified storage closet and it needed some air, and when I left for a few minutes to take the dog outside I found Bandit in all her potbellied and stupidly malicious glory batting a broken-necked sparrow across the sheets. It was still alive, at that point. I watched her kill it though, after the dog finished nosing at the both of them and decided he wasn't interested. My pillow is covered with blood and feathers now because she eats so sloppily. I should probably shake it off and wash it before Mother comes home, but if she goes snooping around in my room doesn't she deserve a good scare? I think I may sleep tonight, if the room still carries the scent. I'm not a violent person, but I like to see things bleed. It makes me feel better. I don't think Mother would understand, though, if I told her that. Shaundelle's dog died today, as well. She called me, and we cried together, and I felt no shame for that--Sheppie was a good dog, as good as they come, and anyway that old black mongrel was more like a sister to Delle and I than like her pet. And it helped her. That was the important part, the part that made everything alright in the end--crying helped Delle feel better. Sometimes tears are all we need. Bandit just walked into the room and started grooming. She has a bib of blood on her chest, where there are no grey splotches on her white fur. I don't know how she got so much blood from such a little bird. Have you ever felt yourself grinning even though what you really want to do, what you really really want to do is close your eyes and scream until the world goes away, or you do? I'm going to kick that stupid cat, and then I'm going to give her a bath. Maybe I'll be back later. |
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| Saturday, July 19th, 2003 |
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I returned earlier this week from a trip to Montana. It was the far edge--Gallatin county, not so long a shot from the edge of Yellowstone--and I went with my sister and her generally eccentric girlfriend, and her family. That in and of itself usually makes for a memorable enough journey (crammed into the back seat with them on the drive back, I felt as if my knees were locked to the bottom of my chin for days after; my head rings with dull jokes and confined laughter. My tonge aches where I have bitten off my commentaries) but this. . .ah, this. I think I will remember this specific trip for the rest of my life, however long or short. Have you seen Montana? Have you been there? I felt as though I had returned to a home I never knew. Standing on the shale ledges above Glacier Lake with only the wind holding me up as I leaned out, watching the sun flash through the gap and hit the ruined mountain face like a fistful of fire, race across the trees in a golden ribbon of radiance, spreading and flaring over black water and the white skeleton grasp of trees. Dying into blue-red shadows, a brialliant scar in the searching eye. A thousand birds--the honor guard of day? The heralds of night?--lined stoic and silent in the twisted branches, voiceless until erupting as the last amber trail vanished from the hills. This, more than anything, I will always remember. This is a place I would gladly go to die. This is a place I could somehow go to live. Knowing the place it will have to be, perhaps finding the way will be easier. I have been trying to find a place to go, a place to live, and yes most likely a place to die. For a long time now. A long time. Now however that is neither here nor there. For the past several days--since returning--I have done little, put myself into less. I suppose I am adjusting to my coffin, again, after stretching these tired limbs and bones, and letting air into my sleeping lungs. Guilty Gear XX (it sadly lacks my Kuro Ky, and so I play him red as rage and dredge Eddie or Dizzy through the ranks afterwards) has become my hobby of choice since then, and though there is no crime in that I wish I were doing something more with my hours. There is so much, after all, that needs to be done. So what do I do when I unfold from the warm tangle of dog and cat and woman and wire on the living room floor? Come to the computer, of course. The other brain-box, tight locks, claws at the mind. There is an addictive quality. All I do, then, is download music and write until my fingers cramp over the keys. Again, maybe it is system shock. Maybe after clear air and static noise the harsh blare and sensory glare of Kelso is too much for me. But if I had never cut myself then maybe I would still bleed when wounded, and by that same token if I never step outside and breathe that foul miasma I will never become used to it again. The windows are open for circulation. Maybe this will help. My mother is angry at me for creating my own E-bay account. I wanted to sell some of my art, and old comics. Am I allowed to do nothing? I want to kill her sometimes. Not this time. Not over this. I simply think that fact should be clarified--that she hates me and I hate her, and I want to kill her sometimes. Horribly. Sometimes dreams of doing this soothe me to sleep. It is something that will come up often enough as time progresses. She is angry at me for a lot of things right now, but the e-bay account is what she yelled at me for this morning. Yesterday, the screaming was because I had 'stolen' her money 'again'. She found it in the far pocket of her purse four hours later, but she did not apologize. She glared at me as if she thought I had put it back to make my way out of trouble. Then, I hated her. Then, I wanted to grab her and shake her until she snapped and scattered across the floor in tiny broken pieces and tell her there you damn bitch, there what does that tell you? Maybe if you looked you'd find your damned stolen money. Stupid hag, you probably misplaced it too. You probably have a million damned dollars in lost money you've blamed me for--maybe you can pay back all you've stolen from me when you find it. God damn her. I have learned that this is not a curse to throw about lightly, but God damn her anyway--God please reach down and smite that blind pompous bitch. . . .I've jumped a bit in tones, I think. I have so little to say, and yet look at me ramble. Out loud I don't always speak--sometimes I rarely speak, or not at all--but the written word has somehow always been a medium in which I could not seem to shut up. I want to congratulate Marie on her house. I want to congratulate her on lasting this long, and wish her my best. With him? She'll need it. The grace of God to you. Whichever version you believe in. Grace of God. I want to write more. I am ravenous for words. I haven't eaten all week. . .perhaps I can live on poetry alone? Sweet escapism, but nothing more. I'll come back later. |
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| Tuesday, July 1st, 2003 |
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I had an appointment with Doctor Avramov today, so that I could refill my prescription. But I loathe drugs, and I did not go. My mother is going to be furious, but right now I'm too dulled to care. I would welcome her accusatory howls except that they are too routine to break my boredom. I don't know why I am updating again. I have nothing to say, really. The possibility of seeing Rian--no, the reality, as my visit draws nearer--for some reason does not excite me the way it once would have. She contacts my sister more often than she does me, but that is alright. I think she may have started a relationship with a mutual friend of ours and is not telling me, and that is alright too. When you care about someone, I think, whether it is love or not you want them to be happy. This is why I do not fall in love. If I was in love, maybe this would hurt. I wore a shirt with a swastika on it today, and someone threw a rock at me. It myshoulder, and is bruising in quite the interesting pattern--a fine cut on the upper line, black beside it fading out to purple-blue and then livid red at the edges. It looks like watercolour just beneath my pale skin, surreally vivid. As if I were translucent. I am not angry at whoever threw it, but I pity them. People are so closed-minded. I tell people that I find recordings of Adolf Hitler's speeches inspirational, and all of sudden they shrink back, shy away, treat me like a rabid animal. I don't bite though. People take that wrong, is all. I don't want to hurt anyone. What is so wrong with admiring a man of passion? A man who wanted to fill the world with perfect people? I don't even know what I am talking about, or why. I love this song. I wanted to write, but my block still hovers, and all I managed today was a few scraps of poor poetry. Seraph wings and hands of wraith, very standard fare. I seem to have lost my touch, since meeting Rian. I have always forgiven her for this. It is not her fault. They say though, that humans are most eloquent in mourning. Maybe if she dies, I will be able to write again. |
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| Wednesday, June 25th, 2003 |
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I've been holed up in my room drawing for most of the day, but my wrist and neck cramped up horribly just now so I decided to take a break. I tested my micron pens at last--I have had them for months--and am thrilled to death with the results. So sharp, so clean--infinitely better than the scratchy irregular lines of my ballpoints. They give the images a new dimension and reality, if such hard raw darkness on paper could be called 'real'; the textures and layers of black on black on white. The planes and angles become harder, the curves and shadows deeper. I love it. Tucked into the small and unkempt storage closet I call my room, the air hot and unmoving, it gives me someplace to escape. Someplace better, as if this smoother black were a better mask to put over my eyes. Perhaps if I can sell any of my sketches at the lake this weekend I will buy some more of them, or maybe better paper. I don't have anything important or interesting to say, I suppose. I'm here to talk, to ramble--nothing more. I have things I should be working on, stories and images, a roleplaying campaign I promised to my sister and her friends; but right now I am taking a break, and I do not particularly care about that. Something has been biting at the back of my mind lately. Or, for a while I suppose, but more lately. Someone I once cared about. . .finds their way into my thoughts more and more often. Did I love him then? No. I told him this. Do I love him now? No. I do not, I can not, I do not want to. But still I find myself caring inexplicably, and worrying. . .or do I? I tell him these things and I tell them to myself, but the words leave the bitter taste of a lie on my tongue even when left unspoken. So someone else is in love with him, and he in love with her--wonderful, except that they are both mad. Mad with each other, and with themselves, and with nothing at all, or everything. It is none of my business, but I worry. Or wonder. And I watch, and I wait, and I do not understand. . . Is this 'love'? The pain and confusion and anguish they share, seperated by brief moments in which everything pretends to be alright? I know that love can turn into lust, or into hate, or into agony. But can it be these things, and still love at once? I think about him, about them, and it brings my thoughts around into cycles again, so that the voice which jars my hands and tongue from poetry clouds my senses again. If the mutual psychosis of my once-friend and his new angel (bright or fallen, I know not) is love. . .then what of Rian? What is it that my angel feels, that I feel for them? Madness, surely. . .but love? I wonder if I can even feel that. It brings a smile to my lips which somehow touches my eyes, and cracks my voice with real laughter; but the warmth I once felt upon thinking that name has diminished already, after so few months. Will August tell, down there in the Arizona heat? Will I find that euphoria again, which once lived in a corner of my heart labeled with that simple name, that sweet voice? When I think of one, I think of the other. I told him, years ago, that I could not love. I told Rian, months ago, that I did not know what love was, or what I was feeling. People tell me that I am eloquent, but what words can convey the fear of not knowing? My wrist has stopped throbbing, and I think my neck will be alright. I am going to go and draw again. |
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I want to talk right now, or write rather, but I suffer from the unfortunate vice of writer's block. I have been trying, since my last post, to work on my novel. It does not seem to be working. So I've come back. It's funny--I set this journal, to be seen only by strangers, so that I could get the truth out sometimes. But nothing seems to want to come. Is there no truth? I still taste blood on my tongue, and it makes me hungry. Ravenous, but not in a physical sense. I can't explain it. Is this the truth? Maybe the 'truth' is best explained in such a way--a hunger that cannot be defined, cannot be fully realized or satisfied. Many languages have more than one word for truth, but I cannot speak them. I have heard that they are more accurate than English, with its sad sorry limitations. I wish there were someplace to go here, where I live. A small town, full of small people with small minds and small dreams living their small lives. People who know call it a 'ghetto', and I wonder if they are right. Sometimes I feel pressed in here, forced to be here. I want to get away. Maybe this is the real reason I want to visit Rian, down in Arizona where the heat will give me migraines and lay me flat on the black pavement. Maybe far more than this confused and nerve-shattering madness which may or may not be 'love', I am drawn southward by the desire to escape this gaping void, the black hole of my temporary stopby. It draws the life from me, a sallow vampire in a low-budget horror; the type in which the heroine is invariably blonde and busty and moans like some cheap pornstar when bitten. You all know what I'm talking about. You've seen that sort of show. I want to get away from this town, and I want to get away from my family. You've seen that sort of horror show too, but I don't want to talk about them now. I passed out on the sofa the other day and they somehow missed my sprawled form; as I drifted back to the waking world I heard mumbled conversations-- 'oh, good I found her. She's in the house.' 'Doesn't matter anyway. I changed my PIN number.' They make me sick--the thief and the victim, peering around the corner at the Mad One as it sleeps as if it were some wild and dangerous animal. I am not thief, whatever they say. Whatever they think. I find theft morally reprehensible. You know that, of course. It's all about Integrity, but they never believe me when I tell them that. They just look at me strangely, and ask if I have taken my medication for the day. People are going to think I'm just another angst-ridden post-adolescent locked in the throes of public mutilation. Do I look the part? I don't want to be. I never wanted to be. I don't want attention for any of this--I wish everyone would go away, and leave me alone. Can't I write this someplace private? All my real journals have been searched through. . . |
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I killed my cat today. Maybe that isn't a standard greeting where you're from, but for me I think it will do nicely. I think it will tell you an awful lot about me. My username, and my pen name, will tell you a little but I think that that, right there, ought to tell you an awful lot about me--I killed my cat today, with a hooked knife (bone handled, serrated along the back, beautifully weighted and balanced so that you can sit it on you finger and watch it dip and swing like a mad pendulum) and I buried my face in her warm wet fur and laughed. I don't know why I killed my cat, because she was a dear old thing and I have always loved her very much, but it felt so very good to choke on her blood while I giggled and feel it running down my neck under the collar of my shirt. My other cat, small and savage and darling despite her talons, is sitting in my lap purring right now. Her teeth are dug into my arm and it makes typing slightly difficult, but I'm used to it by now. I want to talk. I don't know why. I am, by and large, an entirely private creature. I speak to no one, or so it's said. I have a deadjournal, and a livejournal actually (a birthday present, ha-ha, what a joke) but I fill them with so much simpering bullshit--forgive my french--that it makes me gag and wretch. They are fine, certainly, for the things I don't mind my sister reading when she noses through my files and my internet links. They are fine for my scattered friends to see and read, but even then I get so much whining, so much 'why did you say that, why did you do that, oh what's wrong can we help you dear' crap that I can't take it anymore. If people are going to tell me I disgust them, I want them to know why I should. If people are going to decide they hate me, I want them to have a reason. If people are going to delude themselves into loving me, I want them to know what they're getting themselves into. If I'm going to have a goddamned journal, I might as well tell it the truth. I don't like to lie after all. I'm not a violent person, and I don't like to lie. My Daddy told me, once, that Integrity was the most important thing to have, and I have made a point of living by that. Integrity, my Daddy said, was doing the right thing even if no one was looking. Killing your cat, most likely, is not the right thing to do. But maybe telling the truth about it is. I want to write again. Writing is my life and blood. I'll be back for you. |
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Blurty for The Mad Poet.
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