like a monkey bird or vice versa

my day is going backwards and i feel like i'm on bad speed. that's all i can say right now.

falling

above

composed

You are a part of me

a part that I left starving
skinny
competing
depleted

You are the endless void of nothing at all

You are the endless desire to have no end

to be something other than

You make me

feel like a clown

You make me

tear all this shit down
stomp to the ground
burn to the center
flood like November

be what I never wanted you to see

Here we are :

restless
hopeless

hopeful
boastful

solitary

lonely

singled out

tossed about

settled down

til we drown

til we drown

til we drown

Backlog: Dream 12/24/2001

I was recently reunited with a Dream Journal that I had kept several years ago and had completely forgotten about. It contains only dreams that I had from November-December 2001, but there is documentation of at least one dream a night during that time frame. I wish I could remember and/or have time to record my dreams like I did then!
Looking through this old journal is both intriguing and eerie.
The following dream stands out, in particular, because a small part of it is a little like a real-life experience I had just recently in 2010, concerning a homeless man and a handful of small figurines. I wonder if the man in my dream was the same man I met a few months ago. it's a nice thought.

--------------------------------
Dec. 24, 2001

Walking down the driveway at my parents' house to catch the school bus, I find eleven small charcoal figurines in the gravel. Most of the figurines are in human form, but one is block form; hollow on the inside with a carved out top and small hole in the center of the bottom. The hole is filled with what looks like dried cum-- yellow glue?
Someone is there with me. This is very curious. The black of the charcoal rubs off onto the palms of my hands.
I see the yellow of the school bus through the trees. We run to the cedar tree at the end of the driveway to hide the figurines.
In my head I see an old homeless man searching for the figurines.

9 is today's lucky #

This morning a friend told me that things haven't been going well for him lately, but that they suddenly seem to be a little better today. So I thought about it and realized that today, 2/16, ultimately equals 9.

So today's philosophy is that 9 is the number in which things start to turn around for the better. It's the end of the row.... it's last in a series before it all goes back to the beginning. So it must be the horizon of something new or different or at least recharged. But the turn-around can't happen without a little extra effort. I think this effort must have to be physical (ie applying for jobs or doing something special to show someone that you care about them), but a part of me also wants to say that it can be a simple belief that things WILL get better. Positive thought or faith, if you will, can very well be a life-changer. Believe it.

Kevin, the piss cat

This apartment once wreaked to high hell with the stench of cat piss. I can't blame it all on Kevin, but he definitely contributed. Apparently during the renovation of this place, which happened during a few months before we moved in, the landlords left the deck door open (probably to air the place of paint fumes, cat piss fumes, etc) and Kevin would come and go as he pleased, pissing on whatever fancied him at the moment. That Kevin-- such an impulsive one; but also a creature of habit (as are we all).
Kevin, that little furry, gray, sweet-faced kitty; our neighbors' kitty. Kevin, that fucking piss cat. Once we moved in and he was unable to enter our home as he pleased (and also in retaliation of Peanut Butter) Kevin began pissing on all of the windows that he could reach around the house. Every morning the kitchen, bathroom, living room, and deck windows were flickered in fresh Kevin piss. And a couple of times, when we left the deck door open for PB, Kevin would sneak in and piss on walls wherever he could. Once we even found him inside our house and cornered him, spraying him with a water bottle until he ran out. He hasn't been back inside since. And the window pissing has definitely gone down quite a lot. I rarely even see him outside anymore. A presence that was once so prevalent has been made rare, thanks to a little water. But I know that he is always lurking, whether it be inside my neighbors' house, on the roof, or on my mind.

"We should probably close the skylight, in case Kevin decides to piss on it."

Backlog: Dream #2

I am in the back seat of a very shiny limousine. even the inside is shiny. I am fucked up on some sort of drug. i keep rubbing my eyes and every time i pull my hands away from my face, the world is blurry; eyelids heavy. the car is moving fast and the world is blurry and dark-- shades of black, purple, gray. finally i am able to open my eyes enough to make out figures. there is an older Japanese man sitting to the left of me and a younger one to my right. I know that that they are uncle and nephew. then I realize that I am wearing a low-cut red satin gown and that the older man has his hand down my shirt, grasping my breast.

we arrive at some sort of banquet hall or opera house. i'm not sure which. the limo comes to a quick hault. i stumble out of the car pissed off but unable to speak. my skin feels hot.

we are sitting in folding chairs in the middle of an audience watching some sort of graduation ceremony. my dress is now navy blue, and I know that the men I am with have lied to me-- they are Chinese and not Japanese. they are eating escargot and drinking champagne. instead of fucked up, i now feel excited.

people in tuxedos and gowns line up in a row across a long stage and into the aisles to the left and right of that stage. they are of all ages and races. they come up, two at a time, from each side, to a podium in the center of the stage. each person bows and takes an object that i cannot identify from the podium, and then they move off stage and into the aisles until everyone in line has taken from the podium. i feel anxious, as if I am supposed to be one of these people. i try to stand up out of my chair to join them, but cannot. both men have hands on my shoulders and i cannot move.

a moment of silence, and then... a blast of ear-shattering BANG! they have all shot themselves in the head. red everywhere. everyone and everything around turns white and all i see is the red. then i notice an older black man still standing. he has dropped his gun and he is crying. i cannot tell if he has tears of joy or sadness, but i feel very happy that he is alive.

As of late

I haven't been doing much thinking or creating in the past week; thus, I haven't been doing any writing. I have so many ideas, but the day job makes for one boring weeknight gal. It can be a struggle if you let it. My pseudophilosophy has been "oh well, it's good to do nothing sometimes," but I think that's just a way to cope with the self-guilt of unproductivity. oh well, that's life, eh? (also way way to cope)...

and so here I am: drinking my box'o'wine, watching Jersey Shore, maybe drawing a bit (maybe not), blogging about feeling lame, and, ultimately, falling asleep around 2am or so...

this is my life. until tomorrow.