a smile in her eyes and a sunflower in her hair.*'s Blurty

Subject:	A Tiding for Easter. (possession of a different sort)
Time:	4:04 pm.

Humpty Dumpty Sat On A Wall.

[Setting] A pitch black room. To which, if you were blind or not would make no differnce. You wouldn't be able to tell what it really is.
Watch your step,
these plots are open, and as we know, they're six feet deep,
not the most comforting of falls, into the earthen pit of merciless fate.

Welcome to the cemetery.

You shouldn't travel this late at night, besides, if you have to walk with your hands out to feel where you're going, that's not a good sign, seeing as you have no idea to what you're really holding.
Is it a tree?
A tombstone?
A life?

Humpty Dumpty Had A Great Fall.

The precursor to all pathetic fallicies is rain. In this case, it is set to the tune of Sonata in G Major by Franz Joseph Haydn, a rather delightful piece, unless you're not prepared, or are possessed by the Devil himself.

Death loomed the cast iron fences in its cascading cloak long before it actually arrived.
I sensed it before it curled its hand in my general direction,
sweeping its fog into my breath
whispering seductive sweet nothings into my ear.

No raven was needed.
Death and I had a fight to settle
a bone to pick
a deal to make.

The minute the violin played every part of me wanted to leap inside the cloak and smile in disgust at all those who cherished their lives and thought that caring for others actually mattered.

And then I realized, in this invisibly dark world, I saw the fog.
Light was coming from somewhere.
Somehow.

Death lost sight of years of tempting all in the blink of acknowledgement.
All in the capability of mine own sight.

Oh how stricken Death was, raising the inner fires from hell, its main joy to bring down Earth's only believer.
She was no angel, yes indeed, she was human.
And body and mind seperated for that one instant whereupon Death made sure that my decision was irreversible.
I could have leapt with minions and mongrels of the underworld, laughed at excessive pain, and wreak havoc on those whom I chose.

I could have, in Death's cloak, through Death's foggy perspective live.

"You temptress, you smoldering temptress! You befound me a glance of eternal glory! A mere glance! Dare you to smite powers of the extreme and test the waters for which you were never meant to survive? I cast upon you the true gift of life! The best gift the Devil himself could present upon the world to create you an immortal reminder of your decision! Learn now what it is to feel life crumble before your very hands, let all your wishes, health, love, and prosperity subside till you are exactly what I see you as! What you should be! WHAT YOU ARE!"

Death's voice sang in shrill incandesence, as if the lyrics of a georgian chant were being woven into the most mighty curse that even Jesus through crucifixion could not feel. This was not hate, this was revenge. This was hell in its most horrific and powerful moments.

Be still, everlasting love I hummed in my head. For if Death feels one movement, a miniscule vibration, then I truly have lost. I did what I had to, Death had given me no choice.

I held my breath.

Through the depths of a coat which could bare no face, no gender, no single attribute towards the living soul other than the shriek that most resembled voice, I felt a smile.

For we both knew that only two things could happen. A stumble in which I did not fully recognize being in my haughty temperance and desperation. Had I continued to hold my breath there would come a moment where I would build inside me such a need to inhale the oxygen which most likely was already poisioned that I would have to comply, or defeat the urge proving I was better, and die. And with Death so triumphantly posed infront of me, ready to devour me as if I was the most savoury meal the world had to offer, I couldn't do so. I wouldn't. Defeat would not surmise my lifelong actions.

I took a breath, and for the tiniest of moments (for time either passed as if the grain would never transfer into the other half of the glass, or as if time was comprised of the fastest movement, incapable of actually seeing, but only to realize that it jolted like lightning in quick bolts) I felt a shock. Death didn't know how to react, it was as if this had never happened before.

And I beamed all the light within me in sheer relief. And Death was sure not to slip twice between the Earthly cracks by which it transgressed from this world, and its own. It had found my true weakness, and acted upon the curse by which was first fueled by revenge and now utter hatred. The darkest form ever concieved. But how slow the process was to occur, was to its own liking.

It could have easily entangled itself around my neck until I could beg for mercy, but it knew, it understood like before. A life's worth of disruption does not amount to an easier success. And pride does not live in short achievements. It would be a slow, catastrophic Death that even Death the creator and terminiation of all Death, including themself had never endured.

And Death would make sure it was properly enjoyed to its full extent.

And All The King's Horses,
And All The King's Men,
Couldn't Put Humpty Together Again.

Resurrect me if you dare we both said as if they were the only words that could escape our mouths.

This was the End.
For me, For Death.
For all mankind that gave way for anything that mattered.

* * *

Now I see what all this was for.
Eight years of,
of mini trauma really.
I learned the physicality of a volcano, and what it really was.
The inception was a blemish on the earth which sought comfort,
and by doing so was ignored.
It grew a wrinkled exterior that grew inside a much larger problem than what was ever to be considered.
And spews of puss, saliva, blood and pungent vile excretions hiccuped me along the way to the top.
Those eight years, was my rising, for my debut.
My entering of the explosion for which all plots climax to.
This ain't a picture show.
And we not that smart.
-hic- -hic- Durr.
Dis vale cane oh
is upside down!
-hic- -hic-

Welcome, to the the End.

Comments: Read 1 or Add Your Own.

Subject:	True Love.
Time:	11:33 am.

I am sitting in a rocking chair
drinking hot cocoa in front of a roasting fireplace
we are cooking chestnuts that we collected in the fall
and every now and again
a magical wind seeps through the open vent,
and entrances me to look out the window

it beckons
"why are you still inside?"

so i pull on my longjohns
and my overcoat too
entangle a scarf
and look out the frosted and foggy window pane
i draw a heart with my fingers
and put on my hat and mittens

i've bundled myself quite well
and a peaceful excitement stirs my heart
it ignites the lantern in my left hand the same way
with a dim warmth

and i make may way out into the world
safely tucked in by a blanket of snow
that has put everyone in sight
into a very happy quiet.

its not a silence, for the owl still hoots the nocturnal world awake
and the crunching from my boots along the snow still exists
but it is muffled
it has no echo.

its a very crisp night
a sensation often attached to the love of morning birds
but it suits the occasion well
as i can still smell the smoky atmosphere
billowing, curling,
its irresistible aroma from my home,
yonder three kilometres back.

the snow makes walking enjoyable.
in fact, it makes everything enjoyable.
each step an adventure,
each different than the last
one may slip to the left,
the other may get your boot stuck inbetween ice.

but everything is so serene.
for in all this quiet,
there is an undeniable calm
nothing in the world could happen
the world is frozen
in an unexplicable content face
its a happiness that derives from nature
from childhood memories
of making snowangels behind the barn
or taking a sleigh ride with Farmer Joe
I walk to one of my childhood memories

The pond.

We leave our skates tied to the old willow tree
Louise's is on the bottommost branch,
Daddy's is round the trunk (his laces are very long)
Mother's is around the branch closest to the evergreen,
and mine is on the root.
good ol' Becca, was the root of most situations, daddy says.

and the smiles, and laughter
they fill the quiet air,
but they do not overpower
overtake it
quiet still prevails.

and one step on the ice,
than another,
and a twirl,
and my arms are open wide
staring at the incandescent moon.

I only circle in giant eights,
that way, I may enjoy every bit of the pond,
and the smoky atmosphere transforms into cherry pipe tobacco
and burnt marshmallows.

winter has no age.

and I could sit until the heavens lifted me above
here in this enchanted winter world.
for november brings the cold chill home,
to prepare for december's holidays.
January is winter month,
it is when winter has us all to herself.
and she wastes no minute to take us into her arms.

we have no car in winter.
we stay at home for 4 whole months
unless we use our snow shoes
or our sleigh,
and even then,
we oblige that we stay where we are headed overnight
or until the snow has stopped
the two most beautiful sights in winter's wonderful blanket
is its perfect, neverending quilt,
or with one's steps running through it,
more than one, and you have slush,
urban behaviour,
disregard,
no appreciation,
and winter will treat you the same.

be good to the most precious season of them all,
for she always has you in mind.

and so i find a new path, at the edge of the pond,
where the geese lay their eggs
and make their home,
there's a small log cabin
that Brendan built for me,
and his heart lives in there
with the cot, and the fire.
and i fall asleep,
staring out the window,
watching the gentle snow start afresh
finding new people to fall in love with
and embracing its joy
it grows.

we grow.
goodnight sweet stars,
and tender moon,
take care of winter,
i'll see you soon.

Comments: Read 6 or Add Your Own.

Subject:	Pistachios
Time:	10:14 am.

Alfred nervously,
reflexively,
inhales a handful.

It's his version of oxygen.

His shoes,
worn, tattered,
with a hole large enough
to see his last two toes
where there shoud be a sock.

He is
desperate,
cunning,
and a man of might and question.

He will not speak with you.
Please don't take this personally,
he won't speak with anyone.

To be honest,
I haven't even heard him cough.

He's never ill,
but out of sorts.
Lost something down the way.
And all he does
is suck the salt out of
every shell he has.

He'll even eat the brown paper shell around the pastel green nut.

Is it a nut?
Well he must be.

He sits in front of
Cafe Auberge
like clockwork.

I'm not quite sure if he has money.
But he stalks the wealthy crowds whom
sip espressos for breakfast
and nibble on
fine black caviar
for lunch.

Out of curiosity,
I sat next to his beaten chair
the other day
to the side of the terrace.

Does he work there?
Does he sleep there?

The Chateau Frontenac doesn't provide the right
view I guess.

I've seen him walking with a black alligator leather folder,
a fountain pen with gold initials A.B.
and a napkin
and three sheets of stationary
one of which has been almost entirely
covered with scribbles that you would
think that the paper was black.

I'm not stalking him.

I'm trapped until the rain stops
and he happened to drop his folder
yesterday bumping into a horse and carriage.

Perhaps he needs glasses?

Wearing a black overcoat with an orange
patch on his left elbow he buys six
more kilograms of his life support.

"Eloise get away from that blasted window, go outside if you wish!"

Heard. Understood. Ignored.

Damnit, I missed how he bought them.
How can an entire civilization function knowing this
every man's gesture?
It's as if they created him...
no...
did they?

Was he one a man of luxe?
Who drank champagne
and danced all night?

Did he frolick with
fair ladies
and conquer the world
of finance?

Was the last shred
of his dignity the
very thing he thrives
himself upon...

Considering,
that life is only
worth what he
used to maintain...

And by eating
the most expensive
nut on the planet
he remains inside
whom he was
before?

But he does
not speak, ashamed
what he has become?

"ELOISE!"

I shut the four paned
window. Put on
my white silk
gloves and mae
my way down
to the boardwalk
outside.

He disappeared

As did my train of thought.

Little sherlock,
no,little
mistress of curiosity.

Perhaps I too have found my pistachios.

A tap from the
behind of
my shoulder
swerved me in his general direction.

He was looking
for wobbly
cobblestones
on the streets.
He looked like
he was skating for the first time.

He let slip a smile
so radiant
that the years of grime
that might have
possibly deteriorated
this man,
revived him
in the instant.

How old was he?

He looked up at me.

I quickly looked down.
How long had I stood inbetween
the tens of passerby's?

I looked up,
he was still looking at me.

Quickly I made my way
into a lift that would
take me to the bas.
Yes I know the word is
fernicular but that
sounds like an ant not
a giant mechanical monstrosity.

Perhaps he invented it?

I couldn' help but notice he
dd not wear any rings -
oh stop it -
it is a girl's first reflex
to look there.

He was in the car behind me now.
Oh God,
what had I done?
Was he following me?

A dozen reasons why crept into
my mind. I slipt my arm into
Druxy's as he looked at me
confused
insisting we stroll the avenue.

He was gone. But the distinct
sound of his pitter patter on the
old French steets reminded me,
that through these old French bricks
lies more than culture,
history
and art

but mystery.

Like traditions create the town
so has Alfred. His head turns
every time it is called, despite the
fact someone else is being
called. He continues to walk
this time clapping his hands
against the baggueterie,the
church next to it and an old
monument of Samuel de Champlain.

What a strange man...

What dos he see and feel
from this world?
There must be something
in the water.
For nowhere else in my
travels have I come upon
one so strange, so
intriguing.

so manipulative.
For he knew before
the very thought of
me existed he would
entrance me.

Surely, like the
pastors do on Sunday
sermon...right?

He buys himself a canvas
and throws his old fashioned
beret cap into the river
like a frisbee.

The streets are
like his puppets,
he holds them
with such ease.

Cafe Auberge
traumatizes him.
He ages a hundred years whenever
he walks across it.
I believe I've even seen a tear
well up in his eyes.

And it appears he regains consciousness
and gobbles up
another bag of them,
pouring the spout into his mouth...
shells and all.

He crunches them in his mouth,
spits them back
into his plastic bacg.
Wait,
he has two.
One he puts underneath his foot,
just sitting there...
the other he holds
as if they were
goldfish in a saliva pond.
He puts that bag into his pocket,
it jingles when he moves.

But then he jumps!
First with delight,
now anger,
confusion?
completion.

The shells underneath his foot are now
a very fine dust
which he takes a
handful of and
blows into the wind.

"Really now, binoculars? What birds are we looking at from the top of the town?"

A lady ought never cause violence,
so I just continued dreaming I elbowed Druxy
hard in the ribs.

I never get to see Alfred when I really want to.
I'm afraid of him.
And when Druxy is donewith work,
we will go home to Father.

But on the way back to my
chamber by myself that night
I was pleasantly surprised to
come across a trail of pistachio
shells that led to my bathroom,
in the tub, the blank canvas.

At the bottom of the canvas,
written in black pen

With all my love
Alfred Benevole

Comments: Read 1 or Add Your Own.

Subject:	Ballerina
Time:	10:09 am.

ballerina
ballerina
twirls in a sea of rose

a christmas picture comes to mind.

enchantment alights the graceful figure
as her arms turn in perect tempo
to a familiar tune

she is keeper of her castle
a kind yet prominent soul
she dances the same routine
never without fail
never without disappointment

new and old smiles glisten
every time she turns
and they linger around
until the last drop,
movement,
sound,
echos feverently in their minds.

she brings an eerie joy
that no one else could

for her fluidity rises
like the turtledoves overhead
sweetly soaring
singing songs only heaven
could hear.

her hands as gentle as
the velvet she dances among
delicately find more
than the one picture perfect pose
she is known for.

somedays she wear a crown
and mames herself a pixie
on occasion she is a swan
in search for love and beauty

but today she remains her classic pink self.
her tutu frothy and rough over her silken leotard
mistaken for her skin

She is a creature of music.

and as the spring runs out
of love and energy
so does our little princess

she bids us farewell in a
complete bow kissing our
previous items that are
cared for.

well looked after.

mademoiselle of the antique
little world,

will great us again with a new story tomorrow
with the same song.

Her wings lie in our hearts.

Comments: Read 1 or Add Your Own.

Subject:	this was written a year ago before i went to sleep.strange what fantasies can do.
Time:	8:27 pm.

Miss Delaine, in an elegant paisley frock, sat accompanied by Mister Turner in a garden on a timid May afternoon.

With her head bowed away from the sun her modesty stirred the fine porcelain teacup in her hand. Mister Turner, cunning as can be was admiring the blossoming of the tulips nearby. The grammaphone in the distance was playing Chopin's Nocturne in E flat which was most inappropriate for the time of day.

The setting could have been a rucus in the town square, he would still not look at her. How in love she was with him, though she had never heard his voice, she had not even the knowledge of his first name. She admired him from afar in her sketches by the woords. He enjoyed taking strolls by himself...

He was smart and successful and yet the care of his mother was always his frist priority. He was polite and kind and his charm, so unique. She could not help but begin to weep ever so softly. He would go to some dame who could care less about him.

Miss Delaine could no longer stand the pain screaming in her silent surroundings. She placed the cup on the table and picked up her gloves. Her head slowly rising to ask permission to leave, due to her 'allergies'.

He was now in front of her.

" If you love this song as much as I do, please take my hand. "

He was so courteous.

He kissed her hand and noticed its salty taste and he looked up at her wiped face.

" I never want to see you cry again. "

She pondered at his manners. Could there be something more?

" Then never let me go. " she replied in utter fear.

" I wasn't going to. " he said as he danced and kissed her until the stars greeted them.

Comments: Read 4 or Add Your Own.

Subject:	What they see is what they'll never know.
Time:	6:06 pm.

A Miss Eleanor Maeval
has been cordially invited
to her dear friend
Miss Jane Kingsbury's
high tea.

How charming.
It should be a delightful day, Miss Maeval thinks to herself as she contemplates other possible guests.

She picks out a lovely cream laced dress tinged with hints of Robin's Egg Blue.
She arrives with th emost delicate and befitting hostess gift.
Her conversation is both delightful and charming.

Obviously something is wrong.

She can't understand
this matter at hand
that some people whom she knows find her endearing
and wonderfully respectable
and a person to whom one seeks advice
someone who is always kind and gentille
someone who they feel they know.

the problem is she would love nothing more than to be closer and learn Miss Kingsbury's ways because though politely Miss Maeval has described herself, it is neither completley nor whole-heartedly.

It's these guests she blames thinking to herself, that give her this conceded outlook to others.

Surely this is just another excuse that drives her into a maddening state.

All these people feel the know me, when I barely see them or know them. she pondrs folding her napkin.

I feel so distant and cold to them, as if they could only possibly ever understand one dimension of me.

And then her worst thought enters her mind.

Is this kindness of mine a facade? Is it just being polite, is it what I hope to feel or achieve with this person? How can I write such wonderful phrases in letters about people whom I don't feel connected too?

She stares at her now filling teacup.

"One lump or two?" Smithers, the butler said. Reflexivley I respond, "How sweet should I be?" and she knows his response, giggles without thought as he pours in two lumps.

Maybe he's right.

Nonetheless she continues her thoughts:

She can honestly say that only two or three people she feels connected to, feels they love her and understand her. Though to her surprise eight or nine say they feel the same way she feels about two or three...

What keeps her so closed off?

No.
For the first time this is not the question.
She braces herself.

Why am I not able to befriend people completley?

Perhaps this is the explanation for her eternal kindness, that someone, somewhere, will understand her.
And yet she shudders at her superficilaity, realizing that she too now sees herself two-dimensionally.

There's something missing, that's for sure.

It's this time alone,
time together,
it's time alright that
continuall sculpts her
k
c
a
b
and
f
o
r
t
h

putting her into the kiln to be
glazed
matted
and then
re-finished
and glazed again.

But why?

Comments: Read 5 or Add Your Own.

Subject:	The Unknown And It's Possibilites.
Time:	8:58 pm.

"Stop giggling. Are you ready?" I tell her with my hands covering her eyes.
"Ooooh, I can't wait!" she says excitedly as every inch we move closer and closer to our destination settles a new layer of excitement and adrenaline through her veins. We wobble but i'm holding on to her, always making sure she'll be alright. "We're almost there, almost there" I whisper gently in her ear and she continues to stir. Loud noises spark through the air, disturbingly and painful. "What was that?" she cries in fear. " I'm, here. We're almost there." I reassure her.

"Almost where? Almost where?" she exclaims and I can feel the tears beginning to form over her soft closed eyes. But this time, I don't respond. Silence soothes the situation, she will meddle in her own thoughts. Vibrations come through the now creaking floors. She raises her arms in a reflexive motion and clenches her hands against mine.
"This isn't funny, I'm scared! "she bellows in terror. But I let her hold onto my arms if thats what helps her, but I won't let go, she'll soon see in time. Her greatest fears flash before her very eyes vividly through her closed eyes, though she nothing to fear. She no longer speaks, trembling with a penetrating fear still going forward as if it were her death march, she cannot stop now, not knowing where she is, but she knows its not safe, and she can't turn back, she does not know how. There is no way she'll open her eyes, she just can't bear to face the world outside.

The floors beneath them seem frighteningly weak, and if they fall she doesn't know where they'll land, nor how far they will. In all this madness, she pauses to wonder in her mess of thoughts Why on Earth was I brought here? Why would my friend do this to me? What is going on?.

There is a banister nearby, but to my open eyes it resembles too much a slithering, venemous cobra, I'd much rather hold onto my friend, and trek through this as best as I possibly can without receiving help from strangers, or any other befriending creature, we must go through this by ourselves, together.

As we slowly ascend the moaning stairs, the walls seem to cry with a startling chiming bell tower that startingly sounds closer and closer with each chime. The house seems just as startled as the cobwebs shiver their silver gleaming lights from the only source of light that must be coming from a high window that somehow catches the peering moon. How haunting.

I'm not quite sure how we got here to be honest, nor do I know why we are. It's very much like a magnet, I'm drawn to go forward, knowing that there is a destination us two are intended to reach together. But to be frank, I'd hide in a blink of an eye if I knew where to, if there was a somewhat safe spot in this eerie and creepy location that we reside in. And then I remember whose eyes I'm covering, by now surely both of us are wondering why they're still there, but I won't take them off, no I can't, my surprise, is literally what it is, my surprise. At first I thought it was something different, completley materialistic and minimalistic in comparison to what I have discovered.

Shooting streams of foggy white light zoom through our midsts and possibly even through as, as we are ashaken from our already quivering state. Surely by now our fears and nightmares have not only come to life, but have conquered us. And yet we continue on, almost as foolishly as a criminal walks to a jail cell.

What we don't realize, is that the most petrifying thing we encounter, is when we reach the top of the stairs, we continue to mount an invisible step, we do not notice we have arrived.

The screaming, shrieks of pain, the calling of names, sounds of gunshots and hearbeats do not fade, no, they only move rhythmically to our footsteps, each mis-step we take, and our fears linger and encircle us confusing us more.

And miraculously, like a sign from God, my hip finds a rusted old doorknob, I can tell because it does not have a smooth finish, but I push my side down the handle and the door lifts free, surpressing all our worries as we find the window and the light source.

We find a tattered, old four poster bed, aged beautifully with time, but with a sad and sorrowful taste. Well, I find it really, my hands are still covering her eyes. I unveil the bed's fine velvet covers with a small disturbance so that I can rest my dearest friend upon the bed, she has suffered a tremendous amount.

Finally, I lift my hands, and she realizes so and lifts her hands from mine and finds them a new home, hugging my sides very tightly, the tears that she was holding back, could have flooded the room we were inhibiting, but they were no longer of fear, nor of happiness, but of sheer relief and gratitude, I've noticed she hasn't opened her eyes.

I pat her on the back reassuringly, "It's ok, we're here."
"Oh I know, aren't the stars lovely?" she replies, with her eyes still closed. I glimpse quickly out the window, the stars had begun to appear one by one glistening around the moon. I sit in shock silently, I open my mouth but no sound echoes.
"Thank you so much, this is the most wonderful present I've ever received." she says kissing the top of my head as a dear friend would. I pay closer attention to her, her eyes are firmly shut, and there was no way she could have peeked at any point in time.
"But...how?" I manage to squeak.
"Great friends, are one whole person. They care for each other first before themselves, and complete each others flaws by doing so." we continue to lie down on the bed, her head tilting towards the window, she opens her eyes beaming her dancing blue eyes around as I turn opposite of her so that we each have enough seperate space for us to sleep without invading each other's personal comfort zone. She finds a hand of mine and brings it to her open eyes covering them again.

And that was all that needed to be said.

Comments: Read 1 or Add Your Own.

Subject:	for your consideration.
Time:	4:00 pm.

A small, fragile hand lingers gently on an old oak tree
she looks amongst the rolling hills
the air completes her
she breathes in life
and sighs

there are times when she would like nothing more then to remain here
it seems that too many times she has hurt the ones she loves the most
too much time passes until the pain heals

but...
and here the melody swirls with the ripples in the water and flows falling leaves back in her direction
its a pretty little dance
stepping in and out of time
wobbling in and out of life

if she remained
here with the birds and the bees
and the sweet aroma of trees
and skipping stones into the lake for hours at a time
snapping photographs just to make sure she'll never forget her times

if she remained here, solely the only human
she wouldn't have to hurt anyone
she couldn't
she would have her
fine feathered
furry little
creatures who
teetered and tottered
her only thoughts of
utter simplicity.

if she could create artwork with her barefoot steps on the newly formed sand
and sing a song only the birds could here
and the only tears she would ever see
would be falling from the sky
she would comford God.

but she keeps her photographs in an old oak box,
made from the tree's predecessor
but that's too cold
its grandfather,
yes his grandfather.

she'll sweeten the cake,
so you can't taste the mistakes
and she'll frost a smile
that will make everyone contagious with happy thoughts
and if she could keep it like that
she wouldn't have to leave her dream
because they would conicide with reality
and then it wouldn't have to hurt.

she still keeps the pictures,
for as we all know
something often startles us
and makes us
rub our eyes,
shift their position.

but its not waking up.

Comments: Read 1 or Add Your Own.

Subject:	The price is wrong.
Time:	11:41 am.

steve: and what's behind door number one johnny?

johnny: well steve its a fantabulous new depression! one filled with half tries and half marks and no real achievement! but the cherry on the cake is her parents utter disappointment! boy, she won't get out of this coma for a longggg time

steve: and how did she win this johnny?

johnny: by doing the best that she could all semester and screwing up completley the exams! she didn't study no where near as much as she should have.

steve: sounds teerrific johnny now tell her what shes won!

johnny: well she's won a ticket to perspective. seeing these new marks for sure she'll improve her grades, its the push she needed for IB but what will come before the calm of the storm? well that steve, is behind door number two.

steve: and what's behind door number two steve?

johnny: I'm going to need Alex to open it in order for me to see

steve: can't you give us a sneak peek? or give us a hint?

johnny: sorry johnny, only Alex can tell us what's going to happen. That and mr.time

steve: well lets get mr.time on here!

johnny: he's always here. ticking away. slowly at our lives.

steve: you're scaring the viewers johnny, go into your happy voice again

johnny: sometimes, you just can't steve. sometimes you just get tired of crying, and tired of making sure everyone else is better before you. no one can help you. and no reassurance can help. its one battle, that's too painful to fight. you're already weak and wounded to begin with. you've fought yourself, now you're entering the battledome with the ones you care the most.

steve: ugh...come on steve, maybe there's something behind door number three to cheer up the show!

johnny: what's the point? it won't help anyone.

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Subject:	The Dressmaker
Time:	9:39 am.

she picked up a curtain of cloth
and raised it over the table abruptly
letting it soar through the air
and then gently fall to the table.

as it gracefully dawned her desk,
she flew through the aisles of textures
her hands did all the seeing.

you see it was these fabrics
these works of art created by man's careful patience
that were her preferred mediums of art.

the blends of colours in a whirlwind pace
were her comfort, her home.

her mannequin her best friend.
Evangeline was her name,
she was a hundred years old
and was passed down from generation to generation in her family
while other companies on the streets of Avignon acquired the latest in techonology,
this dressmaker felt that the contours and the camraderie between a seamstress and her mannequin
was the most precious.

But what her withering hands never failed to achieve
was the brilliant and humiliating feeling.

A sundried, etruscan red linen was being draped around Evangeline today
and with a sunflower yellow string was it being sown.
The dressmaker worked with two sides.
Two beautifully coniciding worlds.

What is most recognized by a dress, is what is seen on the outside
the final product.
But what lies underneath is what she cherishes the most
the finishes, the care
the way everything works together to make such a beautiful outside and yet comfortable inside

that to her was what truly mattered.

While the two sides knew each other,
they didn't meet as often as they would have liked.
But each world was utterly fascinated by the others appearance.
like a guest visiting a foreign country
the culture, the fluidity,
and the simple way of life
was belittling.

But when the dress is done,
few people care to notice
these two worlds.
they simply focus on one,
keep their eyes on whats in front of them
missing the entire picture with their narrow minded
guided paths.

The dressmaker misses her explorers.

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Time:

6:08 pm.

six eve's before
i strolled through a rose garden

it was midnight and the only light that guided me was the foggy incandesence of the lighthouse nearby.

i came across a sweet smelling rose
and the delicate feeling of its petals showed a mixed sense of beauty along with its thorns.

occasionaly i caught a glimpse of the rose itself and its complexities within

i had been encircling a rare and radiant cherokee rose

however, when seen from afar it seems to blend in with the more common roses.

shame, because its so astounding when alone.

well i can't say for sure,
since i've never been permitted to visit the garden during the day

but from those few sights that i've seen
i've been terribly enchanted
addicted is a better word,
but its mysterious personality

because when seen amongst the bed of flowers
it appears arrogant and egotistical
because it is so exotic
but i imagine that
it only appears so for
it has no idea how to deal with itself
how to handle situations that,
maybe it would like to deal with another way.

i feel this way
when i see that
a little baby rose beneath it
is struggling
unable to receive proper light
the cherokee rose moves out of the way for it

and yet
when a more ambiguous french rose comes along
it will lean towards it for the sake of an awkward friendship
one that,
i'm sure isn't what it's supposed to be.

Maybe I,
am overanalyzing
reading the lines of the petals too hard,
but i've fed myself on tiny truths
and enlarged them into my own fantasies.

It's the hidden kindness that bothers me so
because I'm not sure if its as rare and exotic as the flower.
If you only could have seen how the twinkle of the stars was reflected brilliantly over its soft white petals.

I wanted to cry.

For the beauty, for the rose, and most of all for myself.

Because a foreign rose,
is a foreign rose.
not meant to stay in a new terrority.
it too must find its way back to its home.

And i'm frightened that, this handsome,
spectacular find
is something I want forever in my life.

Tonight I will return to the Cherokee rose,
and lead a trail of tears as it is famous for,
and fall asleep by the pond across from it
to admire it,
one last time,
i'm too scared to hold the rose,
but i'm even more afraid of letting it go.

can fairytales come true?

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Subject:	spinning in squares
Time:	10:09 pm.

miss jackie onassis
where are your glasses?
seems time only unveils the makeup.

yellow sun shines
into our fragile eyes
but will it really brake us?

see i'm in a pickle
solving riddles
that fit around a clue.
and nothing adds up.
but we can't subtract
things we don't want to hold onto.

the clock never stops ticking
boiling us to the point of irritation
and yet we don't realize
we are frustrating
and punishing the same person :
ourselves.

so blind that lie
with an interrogating flash light
so sad we never learned morse code
at least we could have understood that
but now we can't see

we're like chickens with our heads cut off
disturbing and helpless

THERE IS ALWAYS SOMETHING WE CAN DO ABOUT IT.

so lets be andy warhol
and drop the 'a'
and turn ourselves into ourselves.
but when we're a clone,
who's who?

it doesn't take an artist's eye
to see the world in perspective,
all you need to do is focus in on your
kalediscope,
oops,
err, telescope,
on what you want to believe in.

and its funny and a little sad
how celebirity, teenagers,
fascination fantasies

make one hit wonders,
super smash singles
sung to the world
always alone.

can we blame 'em?

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Time:

10:31 am.

"One day you're going to lose your head."

Henrietta
little angel
tried her best to please others

if you haven't heard the lore already
she seems to have a curse
she loses everything that's important

though to help the situation...

she went to a store
on a scenic corner
the kind you see on postcards
and bought a thousand
white silk ribbons
long enough to hold onto her
and what mattered.

she tied them to her expensive shoes
to her library books
to anything that would keep people happy
it was her way of responsibility
and people were proud of her.

Though everytime there
was something to tie on
she felt the weight
and fear that the ribbons might not be strong enough
indeed they were not

no they didn't
let go of the things she held onto
they just slowly engulfed her
and caused her severe pain.

one bright september morning
her head decided to open up
her neck was disconnecting

she rushed to the hospital
but she was afraid of losing her head
as she was always told

so she ran in a careful
cautious manner
to the drawer with the ribbons

there were none left.

and then came the decision
of letting open one of the ribbons
testing its strength
to keep her straight and alive
and forgetting about someone else

and yet she couldn't do it.
Henrietta
was no more
she survived
yes but...
she did not take the ribbon
too afraid that she would disappoint someone
and the pain of someone else
was too much to take.

even more painful then her own.

but what bothers me the most
is that no one came to the hospital
no one sent her flowers
they only recognized her absence
and when she returned
she wasn't asked why she left.

why did no one care?

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