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| I've been reading One flew over the Cuckoos nest all day. Ken Kesey writes so beautifully I could cry. In my mind I weep crystals filled with life, of failures and insecurities and simple joys often looked over by man; joys of freedom, or consciousness, or confidence, of loud parties or quiet moments. If you've never read it, do. If you only read a piece, I beg of you to read the second chapter of the second part, in which, after a slight interlude you are able to witness Chief Bromden walk through the ward towards the window in the middle of the night. Perhaps insignificant to someone who doesn't understand, but Kesey cries out in the voice of a man so entrapped by his fear of the real world that he cannot speak, not even in the excuse of a society a mental hospital might pose. Awakening in the middle of the night, he is suddenly aware, awake; a brief moment of clarity in a lifetime of entrapment and fog and hopelessness. Perhaps I'm just in an absorbent mood, but it would seem to me that I think in/write in whatever style I find myself reading. Perhaps this is why I greatly prefer certain styles to others, why my writes twists about your eyes the way it does. I love absorbing this book. It fills me up with curiosities, conclusions, my own phobias insecurities and mentality, my voice (and lack thereof) and that of others. I strive to remind the population that inside we are all frightened and alone--but that there is nothing to fear from that because as frightened, tenuous beings we all pilot great(ly unsatisfactory) machinery, pushing ourselves from one place to another, going through the jointed motions, seeming in our elapse-timed vision to run ever so smoothly. Speaking as one who never read the owner's manual, sometimes I prefer to sit still and watch and, truly in this notion of madness I see the stop motion evolution, the pathways and the planned executions. As Socrates will forever be the smartest man who lived being the only man to know his own stupidity, perhaps the most sane or those who in fact relish in their insanity, recognizing it as the norm--the only thing to stay the same is change.
And for those of us who fear this coming of our foaming at the mouths and wearing strange clothing and dancing about as if we ENJOYED ourselves----
if you were crazy, you wouldn't know it.
::khor:: | | |
| blackbird singin' in the dead of night
take these broken wings and learn to fly
all your life
you were only waiting for this moment to arrive
Sweet clarity,
swift and delicate
speak to me
make me feel
give me back these gentle indications.
If we wish to be able to give
we must be able to take, to receive.
If you can't receive, eventually you run out
If you don't give, you spoil, overripening and spoiling... rotten.
putrid fruit good only to be buried with the hopes of aiding in the new yield for the new generation.
-if only i could get away with mulching you-
...take these sunken eyes and learn to see
all your life
you were only waiting for this moment to be free
worry not, if you have love to give, because it will always be there for you to absorb
if you have the strength to accept it, to see it.
Don't take it for granted or throw it away.
Just receive and give shamelessly, selflessly.
Let a river of love flow through you, roaring with all its mite and life.
Don't let yourself dry out, nor go stagnant
for what grows stagnant in water is poisonous to drink.
beautiful emotion
clear, fresh
crippling in the sheer force of its own empowerment
music
literature
motion
touch
love.
-pass it down- | | |
| I'm bitter because I witness a world that left me behind, forgot about me.
I'm shocked because I realize the choice was mine.
I can't deny that it was me that went on
but the feeling of forgotten still breathes on my back with rotten breath
I can't ignore.
I don't belong there anymore, I never felt like I did, couldn't see the forest through the trees, couldn't see the faces all around me.
though to be quite honest I'm still not sure that there really were any there. Hard when there's nothing to compare it too... I'm good at getting under skin but somehow I can't see through people, understand intentions, read sinister signals versus friendly suggestions...
I can't hate what I can't have
neither can what I don't want not want me--
there's nothing good or bad about any choice
it's just a choice.
One path is not better than another, it's just a different path. Think of multilane traffic where it always seems like everyone's moving but you, so you change lanes again and again with the same effect.
The grass may always be greener on the other side, but it'll always be the OTHER side. Not one specific one. So who wants super green grass anyway?
I like mine this way. | | |
| my clockwork's not quite working right, but it's too late to fix me
they can't see breaking from the outside, they only see I'm living.
Moments; twitches,
they told me I must be careful not to rip my stitches.
Not yet turned to rust inside---
I've been waiting for the moment---
to join the glorified
the few
the beautiful
the delicate souls who cry like mine
those so filled up with life they died;
too attached to the delicate sway of life to live
to connected to the pulse of earth to give and walk about on
two feet, called bipedal motion, supposedly coming about as our ancestors moved from arborreal terrain to grasslands, some millions of years ago...
Science disects the tangible, but we've yet to find diamonds in our eyes that might cut what we cannot hold.
And so we'll never understand our souls.
If it has no bones can it break?
can it shatter if you shake
it too hard, will it fall off of its shelf?
Is our soul collective, or only in the self.
it's clockwork, pure clockwork
we're wound up and allowed to wind down
out
understanding that gears might fracture
misfire
malfunction
give out
go backwards
then perhaps even forwards again
how tightly are you wound?
or lubricated, my friend?
could you use a helping hand? a smack to get you going
the question's not where
nor when
nor how
nor apparently even... whether our insides are showing.
Break me down like clockwork,
take me to a shop but
they'll only shake their heads and tell you
this models got no replacement parts
best throw it away
get a new one
but I can't.
This ticker's all I've got.
it can't go backwards sideways or in circles
but time
travels
and I'll work it until I drop
| | |
| I hate these nights... nights where it feels like Ihave something to get off of my chest, but nothing to say. Such is life I suppose, no one can be in a constant state of epiphany... and yet I can't help but curse the fact that I'm not.
Come on, at least one major life-changing inspiration a day, pleaaaaase?
I'm reaching out to touch the mirror, awaiting rippling fingertips
silver-lined and shiny.
Cold and thick, I'm coated over
absorbed within
my watchtower
watch how I--
breathe
flex
blink
curl.
We'll always want what we can't have because we're the only ones capable of seeing how imperfect what we have is--
and the only ones delusional enough to think that someone else might possibly have it better.
yet this examination
this scrutiny...
Rose-colored glasses are not good enough.
Fear vanity
run from loathing
I was never quite good at standing at the middle of the road
and you neither--
like how when you need me I can do anything but at any other time I'm flightless
helpless, unimportant.
Perhaps you should reflect and consider--
pausing of course from your ULTIMATE and TOTAL empathy--
that maybe this strife you feel, these needs to progress as a person,
this growing up
in life--
is something we all do?
maybe perhaps--
and gasp shock alarm
it's not ALL about you?
now I'm babbling, putting forth bad feeling, blood, hurt out into empty space
and formerly I might've considered pain an excellent alternative to nothing
but perhaps
deeper exploration into what nothing really means
is needed.
I'm trying to stay in touch
but it's hard--we all have our own lives
and I've left yes and I can't write all the time
and I know you can't
but you can still try.
No I'm not some spoiled brat with mumsie and daddies money who gets to go fuck off
not it at all.
But it's allright
These harsh things you project at me--- just jealousy
and I try to empathize, understand
but I'm my own worst critic and I'm not going to hate myself anymore just to make YOU feel better.
But continue to underestimate me
and I'll continue to get better. | | |
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