Somewhere Over the Rainbow...

Way up high,

There's a land that I heard of

Once in a lullaby.



Somewhere over the rainbow

Skies are blue,

And the dreams that you dare to dream

Really do come true.



Someday I'll wish upon a star

And wake up where the clouds are far

Behind me.

Where troubles melt like lemon drops

Away above the chimney tops

That's where you'll find me.



Somewhere over the rainbow

Bluebirds fly.

Birds fly over the rainbow.

Why then, oh why can't I?



If happy little bluebirds fly


Beyond the rainbow


Why, oh why can't I?

Only By the Night.

What is the longest time you ever waited for someone or something?

Why did you wait?


All things can come to mind, but usually the first thing that sporatically comes to you as you read that sentence, is what you truly want or desire at this very point in your existence. Wherever you are--whether you are at home sitting at your desk, pondering the question on your drive home, or simply lying in bed with the question; curling up with it, getting to know it's secrets as you would with a lover.

At that very point, as space and time stand still in your mind, you should consider carefully--hell, PRAY that what you want is worth this running, PRAY that what you're running toward is what you want.

Then ask yourself this: Does it bring you pleasure? Or does it bring you happiness?


Then only in your heart will you know the answer to that question.

...

Everyone's hearts are my pinatas.

Evil

"Risen from ash...I eat men like air."

I'm looking through my books of scribbled notes of poetry, calculus worksheets with notes in the corners, watching my train of thought over the course of a long year--that went by rather quickly. Like I discovered a wormhole while driving my red Pontiac Sunfire on these sad backroads of Maryland, propelling me into the future a year later, knocking me on my ass. 

I find this scrawled violently in one of my notebooks. The thought just reared it's head one day while in Astronomy (my notes were regarding quasars) and I remember quickly scribbling it down as some form of foreign inspiration transfixed in my mind.

I come to the sudden realization and horror that what I wrote is true. In my life, relationships are like rubber bands. They stretch and snap back so many times that eventually something breaks and there's no way to repair the damage that has already been done.

Why am I writing on relaitonships so much lately? Maybe it's because I was hospitalized for a suicide attempt,or diagnosed with a Borderline Personality, or desperately trying to push my future husband away from me? Maybe this has caused me to look back at all the people i've wronged because of how I am. How i've hurt them. How I respond in relationships. And how I'm potentially destroying the current relationship i'm in now.

Beginnings have always been easy for me, and yet, after the entrance into my mirror of a life, you would know something wasn't quite right.

Am I evil? Or just fucked up beyond repair?

......

What would GOD do?


That question is always in my heart.




A can of kerosene is always the answer.

Up, Up, and Away.

Time and time again, I find myself looking back on all the relationships that I've had. The heart that broke mine that caused all the hearts that I broke in return. A long list of men, boys, Earthlings that expressed emotion towards me; a different kind of love with them all.

It's like picking up a new book to read. All the stories are different and yet they consist of the same equal parts that create a story. A beginning, a middle with a climax, and an ending (to put it in the most simplest of terms). Each book that I open and begin to read, I find myself getting lost in, delving into the mysteries of the characters and their surroundings. Their emotions and their reactions to situations. But as I read the last sentence as the story comes to an end, I can't help but feel dead and empty inside. A whisper as I finally close the book and put it back on the shelf.

The loves in my life are like those of the great stories I've read. I've read many books--hoarded them even, and i've had many relationships. However, there are only a select few books that will forever stay with me; their stories on repeat in my head. There are only a few past relationships that will forever stay close to my heart.

You know who you are.

I'll Take You Anywhere You Want...

What is the definition of "Home"?

According to Dictionary.com:

noun, adjective, adverb, verb, homed, hom·ing.


–noun

1. a house, apartment, or other shelter that is the usual residence of a person, family, or household.

2. the place in which one's domestic affections are centered.

3. an institution for the homeless, sick, etc.: a nursing home.

4. the dwelling place or retreat of an animal.

5. the place or region where something is native or most common.

6. any place of residence or refuge: a heavenly home.

7. a person's native place or own country.

It doesn't mention "Home" being a person or an object. Can your "Home" be a person or an animal instead of a dwelling area for a person or animal?
 
I am often confused by the meaning of the word "Home". I have always been told from a very young age that my house that I live in is my "Home". That my city in which I currently reside in is my "Home". Except, my entire life I have always felt this to be the complete opposite. I have always been what you would call a "drifter". I drift from certain groups of friends, from boyfriend to boyfriend, never finding my place. Being a 19 year old female, this isn't considered unusual behavior.
 
It is, however, unusual behavior when you start to lose yourself and who you really are. Hurting others and yourself, searching for something to not make you feel so empty and alone anymore. I thought "Home" was supposed to make you feel safe, secure, and give you a sense of belonging?
 
Sometimes, I fear wonder if i'll ever find my "Home". I keep expecting "Home" to be a person or some special place that is just for me and me only.
 
Only time will tell.

Something.

These are just some of the writings that I scribbled while in the psych ward:

-These people are all searching for something, their emotions just spill out of them in waves: a thick, billowing cloud of blueish, black smoke rising out of an old brick chimney in that time of fall where all the leaves are completely vanished from the trees and everything is dead and cold and silent.

-In each of their stories, I see a part of myself as I am sure maybe the more sane people here see themselves in as well. Regardless of age, race, background, we are the same. There is that little voice in all of them/us.

-Wayco (we called him Wacko), a paranoid schizophrenic that none of us got along with is really just trapped inside of a body. A mound of flesh, blood, organs, a bag of bones that just clank along with the everyday movements. And a heart that somehow keeps beating, pounding his mind into a small room in his head. A heart that somehow with the all the pain and stresses of his delusional world, keeps on beating as if propelled by something unknown. Why do I find that this is true sickness?

-I have thought about all the men I have slept with. The 7 of them. And I wonder when I am with my current love if while under his body, in the brief moments that I look up at him, does he see all the others that have panted above me, in my eyes?


More random to come.

A New Constellation.

Sometimes you stumble upon a really spectacular, overlooked poet in a bookstore and think to yourself, "How in the hell is this author not well-known?"

This happened to me last summer as I was browsing around in a Barnes and Noble (or was it a Borders? I never know anymore) and so I decided to write a little entry on a great poet by the name of Marge Piercy.

First of all, the title caught my eye (Moon was in the title. I couldn't resist) and the cover made me squeal with delight:

My favorite animal and my favorite celestial object in the night sky. Intuitively, I knew it would be worth the buy. Indeed it was and I wish she would have had more books there on the shelf waiting for me. I hoard books--particularly poetry and memoirs. Not to mention I'm banned from the local library from checking out books. I almost never return them on time and fail to pay my late fees. Oh well. Be a ninja.

Here is a little exerpt:

A New Constellation

We go intertwined, him and you
and me, her and him, you and her,
each the center of our own circle
of attraction and compulsion and gravity.
What a constellation we make: I call it
the Matrix. I call it the dancing
family. I call it wheels inside wheels.
Ezekiel did not know he was seeing
the pattern for enduring relationship
in the last twentieth century.

All the rings shine gold as wedding bands
but they are the hoops magicians use
that seem solid and unbroken, yet can slip
into chains of other rings and out.
They are strong enough to hang houses on,
strong enough to serve as cranes, yet
they are open. We fall through each other,
we catch each other, we cling, we flip on.

No one is at the center, but each
is her own center, no one controls
the jangling swing and bounce and merry-
go-round lurching intertangle of this mobile.
We pass through each other trembling

and we pass through each other shrieking
and we pass through each other shimmering.
The circle is neither unbroken
nor broken but living, a molecule attracting
atoms that wants to be a protein,
complex, mortal, able to sustain life,
able to reproduce itself exactly,
learn and grow.



Although, she is considered a "feminist classic", I really love her writing style. Reminds me a little bit of my favorite poet Anne Sexton. Not to mention her throwing science into her poetry is definitely a turn-on; especially for me.

Give her a read--you won't be disappointed.

Mr. Spock's Sperm.

Oh, Mr. Spock. You are incredibly dreamy. I have had the biggest school girl crush on you since the tender age of 4. Watching Star Trek with my father on the SciFi channel after Twilight Zone, Doctor Who and Dark Shadows was the abosolute high light of my days. You were so...suave and poised like a cat. Mmm.

Us nerdy folk know that Spock's blood was green, yes? Well, here's a question for you: What color was his sperm?

Reading a good friend's blog entry on all questions of great nerdom, that question reared it's head (Haha...) and it got me thinking. Our blood is red (let's not get into specifics about what color it is inside our bodies before it interacts with oxygen). Spock's is of course, green. Take a look at this color wheel for a moment:

As you can see from this color wheel, green is opposite of red. Red is opposite of green. If you've taken any art classes, you know that these are also called complimentary colors because they are opposites. Well, a human male's sperm is white (well, a transparent white). What's opposite of white?

Bingo! Black.

Mr. Spock's sperm must be a shade of transparent black since that is opposite of white. His fluids are probably opposite of humans (even though he is only half Vulcan).

It's motherfucking logical, damnit.

The Art of Fetish

Everyone has a fetish.

Feet, Heels or boots, Piercings, Leather, etc. I could probably name a few more that are quite bizarre. Necrophilia probably being one of the most recognizable.

My personal fetish (and come on now...we all have one) would be a person's hands. There is something about hands that tell you more about a person than their eyes, at least in my opinion. The texture, bone structure, markings, lines, temperature, even color of the nail beds can tell you about a person's soul.

If you told me to remember a past boyfriend's eyes, it would actually be rather difficult. Don't get me wrong--I love eyes. A person's eyes can certainly reveal many mysteries of a person. However, I have a hard time looking into a person's eyes. It makes me uncomfortable. But if you told me to remember their hands, that is something I most certainly could do with ease. I have taken pictures of some of their hands even and sketched them later. Even if the relationships didn't work out in the end, I still admired their hands as a work of art.

My hands are actually my favorite part about myself. Something I have always admired (even though my nails are uneven, I have blue fingernail beds from poor blood ciruclation and they are quite bony looking). My mother doesn't like my hands and has often called them "ugly" even though she is only joking. It's how my mother and I function. She typically dubs them the "Tale of the Crypt" hands. For some strange reason, I have always found that to be a compliment.

Don't be ashamed of having a fetish. A fetish is a work of art and can sometimes even be beautiful. Unless it's feces, vomit, or having sexual intercourse with a corpse.

Newspaper + Marker = Poetry.

Often when I am feeling down, sad, angry, or just plain empty, I make a trip to a book store in my area. Typically, it is a Borders or a WonderBook (however, I can't spend too long in a Wonderbook without my allergies impending misery upon me). A few months back during my hectic and sleepless week of finals, instead of visiting one of the two sanctuaries mentioned above, I decided to visit Barnes & Noble. I usually do not openly come to this high traffic zone due to it being connected to the mall here.

Browsing the poetry section (my favorite) and glancing through all the usuals (Blake, Yeats, Sexton, Plath), my eyes do a double-take at "Newspaper Blackout" by Austin Kleon. The spine of this avaerage sized paperback is very grunge--black magic marker heavily scribbled around two little blocks of courier font that reveal the title and author of the book.

I struggle to pull it out between the other paperback poetry books in the section that are tightly wedged together. I turn it over and the front cover is about the same: newspaper as the background and black magic marker violently covering it with the same two block of text. Beneath the title and cover is a quote from the NPR's Morning Edition: "Instead of starting with a blank page, poet Austin Kleon grabs The New York Times and a permanent marker and eliminates the words he doesn't need."

Immediately I am intrigued. I flip through it and see that his work looks like this:

I rush to the check out counter, purchase it, and make a run for my car (it's raining and starting to storm). Not wanting to wait until I come home (and I love a good thunderstorm), I grab the book out of the shopping bag (throwing the bag into the back seat), recline my driver's seat and start reading.

This was my favorite part. Something about reading poetry while listening to the rain falling on the roof of my car, the lightning flickering across every turned page, the deep rumble in the background. Simple moments like these I will never forget. I forgot about exams, studying, the physics of space and time that I needed to know for an upcoming final, and got lost between the blocks of permanent marker poems.

I've started doing poetry like this when I want to do something different. Try it. I suggest the Arts section of your newspaper. Pick the words that call out to you. You'll be surprised at what you find.