Saturday, September 11, 2004

I love it. All of it. You know that?

I have found myself longing to dance among the trees lately. Under the stars. I wish to fall, and crash and bring my happy little world down upon me. But should I? Should I lose everything? Leave it all behind? I have wanted to go to the park lately...but alas, I have no energy. I have been happy lately. Very happy, and I have been lonely, sad, unhappy, anxious, nervous...all at the same time. It's really trippy. Although, I must confess, it has been working wonders with my creative endeavours.

Currently PlayingSupermodified
By Amon Tobin

Friday, September 10, 2004

Ah, the night. It comes, again, gracing my 24 hour period with joyful gloom.

Speaking of gloom, the witch burning was tonight. We burned down Zozobra. The huge puppet that we called "Old Man Gloom." I felt sorry for him. He looked sad.

More later.

Wednesday, September 08, 2004

Steve's Away Message:

"Holy Lizard, Batman!"
"What about the Lizard, Robin?"
"The, The Lizard.. she's holy."
"You have much to learn, young Birdawan, for this here Scaley Obsession is but Squished."
"What was that, Old Man? I was trying to sleep."

Ah, Steveous.

It's amazing how much self-doubt has come into play recently. I have some really honest and truly good people in my life, but it seems that for every good person in my life, I have 3 icky people/assholes/creeps etc. I seem to attract the weirdest people...truly fucked up people who lecture me about my life choices, when they have no right to do so in light of THEIR own fucked up life, ego, and past. I wonder what's wrong with me to attract such fucked up people. People seem to take pleasure in hurting me. Why is that? What is it about me? Am I too nice? Too shallow? Too deep? Too desireable? I've noticed that men get weird around me, and violent tendancies pop out when they fall in love with me, and can't have me. "If I can't have you, I don't want anybody to have you." Irrational, unpredictable, enouragable, and jealous. Jealous is one thing given the circumstances. Everybody gets jealous, even I get jealous and disgrunteled, but not obsessivly jealous; That is something entirely different.


I was told earlier that I am really free... which is something I know on a subconcious level, but I don't believe it. Or I didn't. I have...I have been doing a lot of thinking earlier, and it makes sense. I believe it now. It's funny how I need somebody else to tell me something like that, for me to actually believe it when I've *known* it for such a long time. I can just walk what's keeping me here? An illusion? The illusion of need and want. Desires are never an illusion. And desires have also never disillusioned me. I desire a lot...contentness, serenity, happiness even, gloomy rainy days, trees, mountains, expression, and I have been known to desire people. (Yeah, go figure... me desire someone..... ) But needs are something different. I can convince myself I need something, or someone. I can convince myself that I need to work a shitty job, for a shitty boss, for a shitty company, in a shitty office, for a shitty paycheck, with shitty people....

See the problem?


Currently Playing
Around the Fur
By Deftones
Subject: Rant
Current mood: Exhausted, yet strangly happy
Current Tunes: Tapsim Shudaraban by Adel Salameh

Ah...the early hours of the morning. It's a good time of day, I think...maybe. I have a hard time convincing myself of that. Yesterday morning, I was trying to fall asleep while my roomies were getting up, and I was trying to figure out why ANYBODY would be getting up at such an incredibly stupid time of day. It's just fucking terrible.

Sorry. Rant.

Oh! And by the way!

If you are ever going to hook up a computer, I don't care what kind of computer it is...any computer, you should make DAMN sure that you don't hook a mac keyboard up to a Linux Based machine.... or a windows based machine for that matter. It is quite possibly the stupidest thing I have ever heard of. Especially when it's one of those new-fangled MAC keyboards that doesn't have CTRL, ALT, DELETE, or any of those other nifty little things.

Sorry...another rant.

I shall go away now.

Tuesday, September 07, 2004

Good times. Good times.

I painted tonight...Not much news there. It is weird...probably one of the most abstract things I have ever done. But! Here comes the best part!

Remember how I stopped caring about what I've been doing artistically? I care again. I think it was after all the writing I did yesterday. I love it. I love it, I love it, I love it. After yesterday, in many respects, I feel like I have kinda changed. I feel lighter, happier, exuberant!

Yeah, like anyone really cares

So weird...

Side note: Updating a little.

bra trippage

There is a corner next to the computer desk...the right angle where the walls meet together and join with a piece of oak coloured molding at the ceiling. It is a good corner. Possibly my favorite in the house. I love how the corner itself is bright, and then kind of fades away into shades of grey as it gets closer and closer to the light source. The walls are a nice egg-shell white, which makes the colours of suncatchers reflect nicely and radiate through the room.

My morning kinda sucked...I felt stupid. Silly, and stupid. But! Aimee made me feel better after telling me she nearly tripped down some stairs. However, I still think I topped her's off with my bra-tripping adventure.

Aimee: i almost fell down the stairs at school first thing today
squished lizard: how?
Aimee: i walked up the front of my pants
squished lizard: I tripped over my bra this morning.

It takes talent to trip over a bra, you know. I was wearing my tan leopard print pj's and a weird tank-top sort of's white and has icky pink lace on it, and it always kinda falls off me when I'm sleeping. My alarm went off...both alarms actually. The one in my phone, and my big obnoxious one, and I threw the covers across the room, accidently sending my teddy bear (whom I fondly dubbed Nainee when I was 6 months old) into my bookshelf. Nainee was very unhappy with me. I got out of bed, and I was adjusted my tank top thingy while going to pick Nainee up off of the pile of paint where he landed.My bra was wrapped around the bed kinda, in a weird way, and my foot got caught in it, sending me down to the ground. But! Wait! There's more! As I was falling, I reached for my bookshelf where I had propped up the componants of my chandelier project last night when I had finished painting them. They started to wobble oh-so-slightly, and then they picked up momentium. There I am, lying on the floor with my foot caught in my bright red bra, in the funniest leopard print pj's (they have paint all over them), trying to catch green painted bottles as they crash to the ground.

Monday, September 06, 2004

I am exuberant! I feel so...light headed, and amazing...happy...I feel like my head and my heart are swimming in the clouds. This is so strange. I've been feeling like this since yesterday and I updated a lot yesterday, and my mood just got 10 times better. It is such a relief...and a welcome change.
And the poem I wrote this evening is:

I have nothing.
Not even pain.
Immortal beauty washes away my tears.
My perfectionless apathy
gives me some relief.
Ties my heart,
and binds my soul
in ways I promised
I would never be bound.
I am feeling a lot better this evening than I was earlier in the morning. I finally got out some things that I have been bottling up inside of me for so long. I just...I just broke down, and expressed them. It was good for me, but I won't deny I had been trying to avoid this.

I...I just don't know where to begin.

"I don't know."

"That's always what it is with you. You never know."

--Okay, I am going to let you in on a little secret. If I say, "I don't know" it usually means 1 of 3 things.

1) I honestly don't know, or I don't know how to articulate it.

2) I don't want to tell you.

3) I haven't thought about it until this moment, but it will take me a few minutes to figure out exactly what to say, and how to say it.

--I will hardly ever not tell someone something. Depending on who you are, I will tell you almost anything. If you, dear reader, are wondering where I stand, please don't hesitate to ask me.

I suppose the best place to begin is with my books. My journals. I write all the time. My journals are usually black with things written, or drawn on them. Sometimes, glued. I glue things into my books. Usually stamps, the tags from tea bags, and old photographs. I have a thing for a lot of things, and this is just my starting point. This is where I let them come pouring out of me. In one of my journals, May to July, I had printed out "Hurt" by Nine Inch Nails, and glued it inside of the cover with lots of little stamps. (I am sitting here with my journals in front of me, and I found a page in which I glued a picture of pink sunglasses hanging off of a woman's g-string. I am flipping through, and I said, "What the fuck?!" to my friend Mike, whom I am speaking with. I don't remember doing this.) One of my last journals, the one that was violated, I wrote on the cover "If this was my last chance, on my last day, or my last breath, this is what I'd say..." It continues on the inside back cover with, "Thank you for the laughter, sorry for the tears." For the month of March, I was unleashing myself into a journal I covered with black paper, red and gold swirls on the binding, and a poem in gold on the front:

When I was dancing with you
The sun stole my soul
And the wind wisked me away
The Italian Courtyard
Sang to Us
As Roses Rained From Above

Rene Descartes graces the inside front page with:
"The single resolution to rid oneself of all the opinions to which one has heretofore given credence is not an example that everyone ought to follow."

My journals are my outlet. When everything in my life is going wrong, when I stop caring about everything else in my life, when I have reached complete and total apathy for my existance, I still have my journals to turn to. I desperately want to share my journals with the world. I want to show the world how I feel, and tell them what I love. I want to give them my passions. The world shall inheret my passions when I die, but I want to take them, and throw them into the world. Let the stars play with them. So many people wouldn't even notice if I were to bear my soul. If I ran up to someone and handed them my soul, and my passions on a silver platter, they wouldn't even notice. The select few would. The ones that matter. The ones that care. The ones that I don't regret, and the ones that I love. The ones that make me happy, and content. They would care. And that's the most important part.

My passions stem back to my art. My expression. My soul. My passions are my passions. My passions fuel me. They give me power. It all goes back to art. The urge to express. We all have the capacity to do so, but we don't all utilize it. I care about, and I surrender my soul to the ones that do express. The ones that create art. The ones that are themselves utterly and completely.

My passions are me, my soul, paintings, writings, drawings, and the few select people that I have let into my life. The few people that have gotten a small, tiny glimpse of what I am truly like. My paintings, the act of painting, fuels me. I HAVE TO PAINT. That's just the way I feel. I am addicted. I am hopelessly addicted to the feel of a brush in my hand, a canvas under my brush, and a palette full of colors only waiting for me to dip my brush into them. It is my passion.

Rain. Rain is also my passion. Walking in the rain. No destination. Just to walk. Just to be in the rain, alone, entirely, and completely, alone. With not' but my soul laid out on the table in front of me, and the rain pounding on my back. Walking through a park at night in the rain is true happiness.

Society is another one of my passions. Forgiveness. Hope. Love. I'm a compassionate person. I have met people throughout my life that think it is a flaw. A force to be reckoned with. I am also a very forgiving person. If someone has a good heart, it doesn't matter how fucked up their life is, what their temper is like, nothing. It doesn't matter. If I can see their good heart, I can forgive anything. People fuck up. That's just the way of it. If they did it unintentionally, I can forgive it. I will forgive it. People are instantly forgiven when it comes to me. I can forgive anybody for anything, except myself. I can't forgive myself. I am my own worst critic. I see my flaws, and not my good qualities. When I look at one of my paintings, I see the flaws, and not the over-all composition.

Things come pouring out of me a lot. I don't usually have much control over them. The poem, I wrote last night in Borders. I was asked what it is about. While I was writing it, I had no clue. While I was trying to think of how to best answer that question, I had a slight idea, but I was afraid of what the answer was. I know what it is. It's expression. That's all. I just sat down, and started writing. I felt much better when I was done, that's for sure. I have been needing to get that out of my system. Expression at it's best. I decided that the best thing for me to do would be to explode on the page. Explode myself. I have been keeping things locked away inside of me for entirely too long now. I can't do it any longer. I finally broke down, and let it out. Not all of it. Almost all of it, but not quite. There is still much more to come. Much more to say. Much more that I am feeling, but unsure of how to express in a manner that will do my feelings justice.

"Express yourself totally and completely." --Some of the best advice I have ever recieved. I try. It's not so much failing to do so, but there is so much, and I don't have enough time. I never have enough time. But it goes back to, if I expressed myself, totally and completely, would you listen? Would anybody care? If I poured myself, everything, out onto the table, would anybody notice?

Close down

Close Down

Brutal things were back again
Memories from long ago
I'm left behind with
Someone that knows
The colors of my sea
The perfect color me
Dancing down the hallway
Light in his eyes
Nothing would ever change
But it took me by surprise
Then it fell apart
Just like it always does
I close my eyes
I close myself
Slowly close my world
Never open up to anything
Anything in this world
I had to close down everything
Had to close down my heart
I had to close down my mind
For it is still falling apart
"What inspires you?" --Ah, the eternal question.

My passions inspire me. My passions are my inspiration. My passions are everything. My passions are the only things that are raised above my soul. The keeping of my soul...the whimsical longings of my soul. My soul inspires me. Everybody's soul inspires me. Everybody's soul is my passion.

My passions are people, my lover, my enemy, my books, paintings, writings, poems, walks in the rain, and hikes in the wilderness...all of it. Everything that has ever had the misfortune to touch my soul, is one of my many passions. Everything. I don't regret things. The only regret I have is not telling someone I valued them before they were murdered. I won't make that mistake again. Everything else in my life, I love, and I cherish. I don't regret my choices, I don't regret my friends, relationships, or education. I believe, and honestly feel, like it all has had its purpose in my life. Everything has a place.

Everything inspires me, which is actually a bit of a problem. I have so many ideas, thoughts, paintings to paint, poems to write, trees to draw, things to say, and people to capture, I simply do not have enough time to do all of these. I have done 15 paintings in the past 2 weeks. I draw endlessly, I write all the time. Occasionally between all of this, I work, read one of the 3 books I am in the middle of, and sleep. Work inspires me. Books inspire me. Sleep inspires me. My lucid dreams, of lucid dreamers; Rock climbing, walking in the rain aimlessly, falling asleep under the stars, walking, waiting, and dreaming dreams that influence my waking moments...all of it. It is all inspirational. Everything in life is inspirational. Everything in life is worthy of being captured.

Expression is where this really begins. Everything stems back to expression. All art is quite useless, and all beauty ends where intellectual expression begins, but nonetheless, we express both creativly, and intellectually. Within the confines of our mind, there is something. There is everything, and there is nothing. Our minds, and our spirits are where we really live. Not in the world. Not in New Mexico, not in Kentucky, Not in London, or Japan, or Malaysia. Not with the trivial preoccupations that haunt us endessly. We live in our minds, in our souls. Inside of us lingers ourselves. Inside of us lingers the urge to express. Inside of us lingers the inspiration that leads to expression. It is all there. Your expression, your lack of inspiration, your passions, your hates, your loves. There is no such thing as a dispassionate lover. That is an illusion. There is no such thing as lack of passion, and your passion, your soul, should be utilized to the fullest.

Your life should be expressed...fullfilled to your potential. Everything in your life, everybody in your life, whether it be your lover, your enemy, your mother, your father, your sisters, your best friends, and the total strangers have the capacity to inspire you...the capacity to influence your work. All you have to do is grasp it. Use your lack of inspiration to inspire you. Use it towards your advantage. Use your emotions, and your soul, to channel your lack of inspiration into expression of the fullest extent.
All Night Long

I’ll never forget the softness
Of your loving kiss
Or the way you touch my hand
And tempt me to follow
Nor forget your voice
As you speak to me
In fantasy
Years gone by,
But you’re still in
Every dream I’ve dreamed
You tell me
You’re in love with me
Just like long ago
And how much
You desire me to be near
Just like long ago
Thousand miles between us
And I still feel your touch,
Your kiss...
The memories of you fill my mind
And heart with desire
You speak to me in dream
Soft words of love
As you hold me near
In the morning,
I see you were never really there
I don’t want a love
That’s just a memory
So I’ve got to find
A way to be with
The man
Who’s haunting me
...All night long...

Sunday, September 05, 2004

You are not here
You are not there

You look up at me
From your bed of rain


For the clouds to drift again

I disown all of this
All of me

I am not mine.
I am here, there

It’s all the same, really…

Waiting quietly
For your response

You possess the truth
My truth

The truth of my soul
Locked away


Lying in wait
The ties that bind

Are broken

Forever lost among the wind

And you still wait for me
A passion…
The passion
Here to pass the time?

You look at me
The way you always do

The way you always have
Longingly yet lonely

What do you dream in your
bed of rain?

Chaotic starscapes perhaps?

I surrendered myself
Disowned myself

A long, long time ago
You were there dearest

The way you always were

Pulling me

The edge
Pulling me
Towards Eternity

I walk among the roses
And drown in my passions
Soon to escape me
And float into the mystic

What would it take
To lean you over the balcony?
To whisper to the stars?

I desire your passions
To be poured out upon me
Fall on me dearest
Crash onto my soul

Of a soul
My soul

Your soul
The passionate longing to be


The clouds come to deliver me
To the point of no return
The cliff face
And rocky canyon

Harbor your bed of rain
And there you are

Your body is covered with words
My words

My black fountain pen words
Clinging to you?

What if I am more than
Just a fleeting passion?

More than a time-killer
Fighting murderless time?

Would you let me go?
Only to wander depressed
And utterly