Seascape.

[another freewrite - 3/7/06 - I tend to leave them alone for a week or more. Melodramatic? mm. Rub it in. Anyhow. I'm thinking if I can make a short story out of this. This was the one that I was typing at for an hour or so to realize that I only had ten minutes worth of writing. It was distressing. The full-length one had a storm and a mermaid and a bargain -she sold the colors away. But I can't bring myself to retype it. Instead you get this little bit. perhaps that's a good thing.]

The boards are warm and split-rough under my bare feet. The sun burns my soles as the wood slips its heat through the calloused pads. I've held tight to the coil of rope to steady myself against the waves. The sway makes my arm ache.

My right hand is white with sprinkled salt, it's closest to the sea. each wave we hit sprays its tears on me and the wind dries them like time's indolent disintrest and all that's left are tiny crystals.

I look up. The water is blue. But it really isn't. It's not blue like the sky, like flowers or shirt dyes. It's not a static dead color of human sorrow. They live.

And change; ripples oscillate between gold and green. Red and purple. Yellow and violet. It's a blue only as far as the sun is yellow and the angel's wings are white.

They aren't.

I remember Laura's downy feathers. They were not quite white. Have you ever seen a waterfall? It's falling and the spray is white - each drop carries it own world of a rainbow colors. They shimmer; they are angel wings.

[She slips about the railing on the third floor and perches on the window sill. She leaps from rooftop to rooftop, and when she spins I can see that same waterfall. All white with a hint of some other color at the core.]

Perhaps that is why the sea is called blue and the night is called black. Neither are truly either.

All of my memories keep those colors near, sanding them with gray wisps. But they'll still remain brilliant. Sand will not rub away wings, only scatter them to the winds. Dust will not fine-tune the shining waves of a sea, but only swirl about.

Momentary is the human thought.


[and the sea obsession is just your imagination.]

Last, dying gasps...

...of my poetic past...

Actually, I rediscovered my little poetry notebook-binder where I collected poems. And these were the last two entries from last year I think[?]

Enjoy.

Shine

Oh shine your light at me
Tell me I’d be better
“If I would only try”
You say that I’m to confident
Too cold; I’m not. It’s just
That I don’t disagree

I cannot disagree
You stand so confident
While saying If I try
Your rules will work for me
Time will make me better
If I would only care
About what’s right and just

Please, just keep your justice
And may it work for you
Your better life and try
To understand and be
So sleek and confident
No, not at all like me
If only ‘cause I care

Genocide

A soulful destruction
I promise that it doesn’t matter
And lack of hatred makes it better
Systematic elimination of those few
Who would destroy our dreams
Not genocide but justice

Damnation founded
I’ll convince you of my truth (it’s better)
And would you destroy us all for the sake of a few
Animalistic entreaties of extinguished dreams?
They do not really matter
Not genocide but science

Synopsis of a treatise
I translate it for those, the graceful few,
The chose, making or world better
Cognizant of the light and matters
Forsaking those false dreams
Not genocide but truth

Regardless of entreaty
Your dreams are empty, dead
And better yet, I’ll dream for you
One of the chosen few
Who do not matter
It’s genocide (for you)



Now wasn't that fun?

Dream before last.

The day before

I dreamt of swimming-floating through the, over the waters, through the mist fog swirling about my face and around me. It didn't swirl. Not really, it was cotton that surrounded me in a gentle womb-like fashion non-smothering all encompassing and music and I was moving forward. There was a horizon though, (how I could see one I an unsure) and cotton-candy flavorless fog. I tasted it. It. The horizon was gray blue. Deep blue about the line and gray without. The line where waters touched the sky was so dark. The rest was gray and the clouds were the gray blue-pink - the type that fade to black but the moments before they are extinguished they seem the softest leather or feather down. They swirled but I was surrounded by fog. The waved came, then ebbed then rose. It swayed and fell. Rolling, flouncing and I swayed over the mists over, and through the fog. Calm and peace. I felt happy to be there and to relax and to rest.


Yesterday, I asked a person what this could mean. I was told that I looked for security and found it in water while the wisps of all encompassing fog tried to swamp me. I needed a break and my sub consciousness provided for that necessity with its own version of heaven. I was feeling overwhelmed it told me. Was I am I? Yes. It falls through my fingers and lays scattered white papers across the floor. Words across a screen. So much I could do, would do, will not do.

how nice.

A Dream

Ignoring logic, here it is. Wrote it up the same morning. Not my fault I was still asleep.

=======

An old car, drive slowly out of the parking lot, around the worried crowds, we'll be fine if we keep it slow. Keep my mind blank - they have people who catch thoughts. Careful. Focus on little things.

I first focus on a buildings and signs, billboards of the apocalypse, thinking, making them up. Then they tell me where they are going and I snap at them. Don't you dare tell me anything else? Be quiet with your plans around me, my thoughts can betray us. We have something/one they want.

My name is Morgan and I've been asleep for so long. I guess I shouldn't have gone to that revival meeting, but I wanted to see what people were like. There were huge bilding and then the parking lot, with several trees, sticking stark out of the concrete. I entered.

I had spent a few long moments staring at the sand in which they wanted me it sign my name. I had no problem with the act, but I could not recall my name. Allen? Allan? Alex? Those sounded close, or right. I settled on Alan. I tried several times to write it in the sand but the sand kept shifting (now that I think about it, perhaps the sand could tell it wasn't my name). I hissed at it and the lady behind the makeshift counter stared at me in surprise. But the sand stayed still.

When I left I thought of the name Morguese/Monragana/Morgan la fey - I liked that name and decided I was Morgan from then on. At this point the issues began that led us to pile in the old car. Me, two young people (a female who drove, a youth - possibly older than I appeared and their mother or a mother figure). Who? I don’t know.

We drove. I tired to keep my mind focused on make belief situations and places, keeping my eyes closed. I refused to know where we were going. Some time later we came to a place. I entered it and opened my eyes. I was glad - I'd no idea where I was and thus they could not get that information out of me. The young female looked around and then told the youth that they would be going - I closed my eyes at that point and covered my ears.

After I thought she was done I snapped at her again.

Did she not understand?

flicker

Prisoner along with the youth, but even the most in-depth scans reveal nothing. They had found me, how could they not, with my mental broadcasting abilities and mental signature, but the tall, elfin lady could not find anything. I did well in blocking information and not noticing anything. It was late and they were tired.

The youth, deranged, wandered in. He had come to show us this screw he had found. Brad and he, they used to play a certain game with screws like that.

I struggled to still my mind - those words had opened a floodgate, and Lady noticed that. She stood suddenly before me and everything shifted to black. Against the black background a bluish, frosty figure stared at me, frozen. Then faded to reveal herself again, differently. And yet again. Then I saw the young female persona, her hair about her face and head, on end, creating a halo effect, as if the hair had been electrically charged, then brushed straight. She was tan, almost orange skinned and her hair matched with its darker shade. The she was gone and I saw the mother figure.

And then a flashback, the images I had been trying to suppress. We were in the hall and the young female turned to the mother figure and said "yeah and then we can go...." the rest was muted by my hands and focus, but I had been unable to block it out completely. Perhaps I should have hummed then, when she had told everyone their plans, but now it's too late to regret. The words were muffled, but with enough time, I was sure that Lady and her friend could discern what they were.

Shame ‘bout that.

FreeFall

Well, I was told to free write (more of a stream of C) for ten minutes straight. Well, you asked for it. :] No editing, except for a run-through with spellcheck. I used the quote as a springboard.

====

"Never go to excess, but let moderation be your guide."
Cicero (106 BC - 43 BC)

No. I'll fly high enough to burn my wings (I can fall only once) and drown, gasping mouthfuls of salty tears, drowning in your eyes. Who tied my hands to the wheel? The zodiac turns over me. Will I drown. I'll only drown once. And swim breath and ecstasy of eternity making my mind spin with elation. Truly free underwater, graceful now. First time. It's like flying, large strokes underwater. Hyperventilating takes care of the suffocation until it is to late and stars dance flicker in and out. Black white . Storms are coming and I am free of restraints I can fly with my hands tied to this wheel. Join me and we'll fall from icy sprays to the burning sky, somewhere your words bind me, take me, show me fire on my horizon and smoke around y mind. I would touch it to make it solid, bind it make the whorls stay for indefinite evolution of melting ice and sawdust. Dust. Straighten out the wild with bulldozers. Slash them all with a pen sliding across a mottled brown surface of a contract. The irony? It was printed on recycled paper. Your death warrant was printed on the reground flesh of your sister dryads. Listen to the sound of them calling. Soon you'll join them in their desert. Tied hands. Immobile branches. Who slipped the knife into your wound to twist it and laugh. I can see. I will see and fly. Have you ever flown with black stars dotting your horizon. None of them lights. They leave greenish ugly marks when you look away. IS this their absence or simply their reality. Does a star admire her shine or gaze dully at her neighbor’s blaze, staring at each other, smoldering resentment. Go nova, silent winds of cosmos. Can you sing? And yet you've tied my hands to this wheel. Slip on by. Slippage. Slip this page down the screen. I say silence is eternal. I die ad I will become silence. Name spoken once or twice in your life time. Past my own it shudders to a halt. It whirls forever. Burning ball of gas explodes and I am underwater free from your constraints. Tied even more tightly. And the zodiac. Sail tight. Turn tight about the cape and circumnavigate the world. Soft-heeled shoes make no sound but that expresses resentment on the polished floor. Flop flop and I am gone. Frog, hop, flop. Done. The pond ripples to silence. The goshawk sidesteps on the branch and flicks his wings, the rain thrashes the ground and slaps the pavement. Tribal dance. Would you join her? Joint the shuffling dance to the horizon. Put out the flames and drown it the ether blue. Purple skies bind my fantasy to nature. Sonnets are made to struggle with a puzzle of words and form. My form tries to raise ghost of the past. Of fame. Of perhaps quality. And the rain does not cease. Does it rain inside of me? Soothing? Solemn? Sacrosanct. Indeed.


====

ten min straight.

goals

Of my current one I've completed fifty percent of my poetry goal and sixty-six point six of my short story endeavor. And so. Some more to do yet.

Waterfall Bird

A feathered flute
trills a sweet salute
to the falling water

and the setting sun
offers silent praise
with its fading rays.



[A rework of a poem I wrote in seventh grade. Needless to say, I cut the body down by a lot. I think it's kind of funny. {the poem, I mean, is funny in a rather sad way}]

Four simple steps.

step 1: go to www.google.com

step 2: type the word 'failure' in the search box

step 3: hit the "I'm Feeling Lucky" button

step 4: laugh on into the night

Steel cages and Emo Verse

I am eternity. Fear me.