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Fear. [05 Feb 2018|01:53am]
I have a lot of fears about things. I fear if I ask my mother to go get something with my son, they will end up in a car crash, and it will be my fault because I asked her to leave the house for me. I fear my outdoor cat dying. I invited someone over tonight, and I was just thinking, what if my cat died because I invited him over? I'm fairly certain my cat is fine (you hear me world? MY CAT IS FINE.). But I still fear the repercussion of my actions, no matter how small.
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D. Running out of space. [04 Feb 2018|03:19pm]
My hands are dirtied. My world crumbling into a black hole. The things I loved have gone before me, slowly being sucked by that dark material into places I cannot see nor squeeze into with any type of consciousness. The ones I have loved, gone, whether to that dark magnet, or to safer lands. Any encroachment upon their light a clear sign of trouble to come, like blood flecked upon flesh. Was I part of that warning sign? Am I birthed from this darkness? Is this where I am supposed to go? Back into that sucking abyss?
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Maybe this was me. [06 Aug 2013|04:57pm]
Breezy winds blew rarely around town. When blusters came, she'd trek to the forest in her oversized green coat made of military threads, where she'd walk and randomly stop and stand, staring up at the branches that whistled with the wind. Even though this was a place full of security and life that thrustled underneath the brown pine needles, it was no place safe from the wind. Wind was something townsenders feared, much as sunny locations fear snow and most everyone fears rain. No one liked to go outside when the winds came. So no one ever noticed or missed her when she went into the cave of the forest.

Bugs would crawl out of the wood and worms would flip around on the ground. She never feared killing a creature as she stepped over the layers of the forest, knowing her steps were harmonious with the flow of nature. Sometimes she would sit against a tree, never flicking a crawling ant off her bare leg. Instead she'd sit silently, sometimes softly laughing if the bugs crawled over a sensitive area. Her brown bangs barely brushing the edges of her brows.

People she knew never showed interested in exploring things outside their living rooms. Bedrooms were simply chambers to sleep in, and homogeneous tv shows played repetitively while eating away alarming percentages of time. She could not understand how people could live and breath for such artifice.

Colors were never very bright in town, the reds and blues and yellows on the walls and paintings and ads washed white with sun bleach and age. Whenever she left town, she always came back with some treasure glistening with a vibrant color. Her room was a departure from the standard bed and blinds with a dresser holding a dusting glass of half drunk tap water. She longed to communicate with someone who saw things the way she saw them. That life was not something to be scared of, and while the old is comforting and familiar, there is always room for new things. Ripping down the old ice cream posters at the local grocery store that looked like circus carnival ads and replacing them with new posters with the new mascots, full of freshly inked color, would not destroy the yesterday that everyone still knew.

Kids at school formed their groups in first grade, when suddenly they had chairs to sit in with individual desks. A place for their pencils and their lined paper and colored lunch boxes. People began to learn things, and some learned faster. This accelerated the forming of groups. Sometimes her peers would play games she did not understand, or laugh about a joke that she could not connect meaning to. And ever so quickly over that formative year, she grew into someone with no peers.
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[07 Apr 2010|05:17pm]
[ mood | exanimate ]

I want to take the pills but I'm scared. I know if I take them, that will be it, that will be the end. I take them and I will fall into an unretractable coma. My boyfriend will be mad at me for taking his pills, and mad at me for ending my life. Part of me is desperately wishing he'd come back and say he's sorry and he was worried about me and that's why he came back. I guess that's partially why I'm waiting to take the pills. If I were so serious, why wouldn't I take them immediately and secure a better chance at the pills actually doing their supposed intention? Because if I take them and he comes back within an hour and takes me to the hospital, not only will I have another huge hospital bill, but also possibly be brain damaged. I have no phone. I can call no one. I have no friends. There is no one to contact (save for those trite and useless suicide hotlines. Do those things actually work in the long run, when it isn't some stupid whiney hormonal teenager?). He's not coming back. I should just take the pills. The pretty dusty pink rose pills.

I'm sick of trying. I'm sick of attempting. No matter what I do I'm just an awful embarrassing human being with nothing to offer. The only thing keeping me alive was Chris. I think he doesn't really want me after all. He left. I can't stand it.


This all started because I didn't get the free chihuahua i was supposed to get. Because I went to my mom's to help her clean. This is how I get rewarded for helping my mom? For going an exhausting distance to clean on my day off? I feel so greedy because I'm getting Rorie. But I want another dog I don't have to train and that I will have immediately. Now. Not a year from now.
Maybe I should just take three lithium pills. Will they help me? What can i do? I can't call grouphealth to look into getting a doctor to give me pills right now. Watching anything on the computer feels trite and pointless. Perhaps even comical.
Everything just keeps on reminding me of all my awful qualities and why no one wants me.

before I got in the shower, I couldn't find the lithium pills. When I got out, they were sitting on the table. Like someone put them there for me. I wondered if Chris had come back and deliberately set them there for me to take. That it was his invisible way of saying, "Here, go ahead and end it. It's time. I don't care anymore if you die or not."
But I saw no signs of him having come back.
I must've just been blind. Strange when it was the one thing I desired most.

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[18 Apr 2008|05:21pm]

April 18, friday 2008
In meadows of sun, birds fly, the sun bleeding warmth and fire into their black feathers. Birds with homes of no knowledge of us, simple trees in converse with nature that hold secrets and tales that will never be revealed to human ears. A sun that burns our skin with heat that travels across the cold space incapable of transversing sound, a heat so intense when it bears down straight upon us though it is millions of units away from us. It's almost impossible to truly ascertain the true nature of the sun for us. Its true light and unbelievable temperature.

Here in Washington, on warmer days, near 60 degrees, we find it unbearably hot, though we welcome the warm night like warmed honey. It reminds me, those rare nights, of Las Vegas evenings in the suburbs. I do not get to enjoy these evenings due to work, and those warm evenings are my dreams. I cannot sleep in hot air. It chokes me. I do not love the cold either. I prefer the lukewarm, unless it's a beverage. No chill - though I love the wind - and no closing of wind pipes due to extreme heat.

I love it out here in the country. I love communing with individuals. But I am a loner by nature. It is something beyond my call, beyond my choice and my reason. Like all great artists and those aspiring artists, I wish to communicate a sort of beauty and unspoken tenderness of human life with everyone out there. To be one with all, to speak with unanimous desire tantamount within us all, all of us with pure, so to say, nature. To be an evaporated dew within the cloud. Together by anonymity. And when we can see each other face to face and talk and truly connect, one on one, that is beautiful. That is right. I am for you, even beyond myself. I will die and leave this earth, and all the quarrels I had with the mundane and the extreme and the things to be forgotten will be forgotten as well, but if I spread beauty, that will remain, and hopefully flourish. There are few words of negativity remembered - there is an astounding list of hopeful, inspirational quotes though.

It is strange that the arts are undernourished, yet they thrive like the green plant beneath the concrete. The arts are physical hope. Perhaps it is only right that our art is underpaid. Complete contentment has so rarely been the home and food of great art. A place of normalcy and security, or regularity, creates a pattern, like sand sueded to the repeating currents of the ocean or the river. Nothing new comes in this familiar place, and it holds no inspiration or magic, because it is just security as defined by society - money and a home and a job and a routine - and all we know is that pattern, that routine. Perhaps being a business executive is an art of sort - that constant whole bodied battle against everything in the world, all for yourself. But therein lies the downfall of artistic integrity - you are doing for YOURSELF, not for others, and all the blood you claim is in your name and your own selfish desires and needs. I imagine the business executive is a very loney and isolated person, a humongous facade and face, and for all the claims or implications of their happiness, they know it's all a lie, but they don't want anyone to know that. You can only see their success and riches and ease of access to everything we work our bones for. Those of us lucky enough to KNOW happiness know money is not happiness (though financial security can cause ease of mind and even boost our endeavors). It is the blooming of our spirit and the acknowledgment of the good that our soul recognizes. It is almost as simple as following your folly.

Even those who know happiness are not happy robots who fail to recognize the rest of the emotional spectrum. There is no good without evil. It is ying and yang. Without opposing forces, there is neutrality, which some interpret as good, but is it really good?

I give you my heart and soul, and I know in many ways it is not enough for you, whoever you may be, but there are a few people out there who recognize what is in you, and those are the people that are your friends.
I always wish I could be better for you, because you yourself are so wonderful, but I also know that who I am is enough for you, even with all my shortcomings. I just want to strive to be my best for you, and I'm not to the point yet where I want to be my best for everyone else. I don't understand everyone else, and I don't see why I need to perform for people who just laugh at me. Perhaps I am not supposed to see the point. I try to not think about what the negative people think of me, but it's so hard. The only way that I can begin to brush off their glimmering indecencies towards me is, "They are not your friends. They're not in your life. They're not going to enrich your life or who you are." My friend told me that. And that's the only way I can let it go.

I wish I could stop all other bullies who are cruel and manipulate the lifes and feelings of other younger, more easily influenced people. You can break people that way. Sometimes the bullying can make you strong, the victim, but too much and it will kill you. Friends are vital.

It's important to recognize the amazingness and vitalness that is hope, but also important to not create impossible expectations for others.

Something very important to know is that yes, only you can make yourself happy.
Sometimes this seems illogical.
What about the happiness friends bring you, or art?
No art or person will make you happy unless you are happy with who you are inside. There is no answer. There is no map. There are no instructions. It's just a thing that you have to explore and discover yourself.
Be ok with being alone. Be ok with having no home. Be ok with being nowhere. Create it all in yourself, and create that pinnacle in you, and then come back to the world with your core in place, and understand your place.

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Remember. [05 Apr 2008|01:43pm]
As she lied in bed, quietly writing out the crappiest story of her life, she wondered, "How did this happen?" How had she fallen

I understand, maybe, what it's like to be someone and really be somebody else. To be a god but really be human because somebody told the wrong lie, and it's kind of my fault you know, but I can't help it. I'm too big to be stopped, and when I try to quit the facade, it just shatters and hurts MY eyes, not theirs, and then I fall deeper into a hole that I only half heartedly started digging. Then I'm real. And I understand. But they don't. I don't think so. Sometimes I can't figure out what it all means, and what I mean, and what I really think. The lore I was told growing up has lost its adhesive, and sometimes a crumble of the picture rolls back up onto my sock, and I remember what it was. But I am empty now. I am happy now. I am different now.
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[11 Mar 2008|11:14pm]
"I walked by a government worker in Yellowknife, where the government employs roughly 30% of people. She was gray from head to foot, wearing a cheap gray suit with a pleated skirt, a gray blazer, a gray blouse with a neck bow that was last popular in 1984, and carrying a gray briefcase. And her face was even grayer. She was about twenty-five and it was clear she was miserable. I will never forget that look of utter Orwellian despair." --raincoaster
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Helpers [23 Mar 2006|06:37am]
There's this lady in arizona, who wants a nanny for her two year old boy. She's been talking to me about it, and we've done the interview and reference checks and everything, and now things are pretty much done. She called me a few days ago, though, to tell me her reservations about hiring me. She was worried about me being a good driver in the city with a small noisy distracting two year old, and she wanted me to really be sure about this job, to be passionate about it and really wanting to take care of her child. She also made a point about how can she trust me to take care of a sick two year old when my mom won't even trust me to watch my sick twelve year old brother. I tried to explain to her that he can be cranky and we kind of don't get along at times, but I wasn't very good with my words and told her I'd ask my mom why for her. Anyway.

After we talked, I was really unsure if I was ready and willing to take care of this two year - I was afraid that I wouldn't be engaging enough for him, and creative and all that stuff. So now I'm not sure if I should take the job (which is appr. 4 hours a day m-f with 100 dollars a week compensation), or if I should tell her not now, and try to get a job as a daycare worker so I can get experience and gain confidence with children. What do you think I should do?
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[25 Feb 2006|01:55am]
Valentine's already happened?
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[06 May 2005|04:12am]
[ mood | sad ]

Agent Orange mutations.

Invisible restroom.

3D chalk paintings (click on the pictures for bigger images of the paintings).

We are Family art exhibit.

Disneyland Deaths.

Days go by. Lemon cups are good. Graduation is near.

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[13 Jan 2005|02:45am]
Two short vignettes from The House on Mango street by Sandra Cisneros.


Sally is the girl with eyes like Egpyt and nylons the color of smoke. The boys at school think she’s beautiful because her hair is shiny black like raven feathers and when she laughs, she flicks her hair back like a satin shawl over her shoulders and laughs.

Her father says to be this beautiful is trouble. They are very strict in his religion. They are not supposed to dance. He remembers his sisters and is sad. Then she can’t go out. Sally I mean.

Sally, who taught you to paint your eyes like Cleopatra? And if I roll the little brush with my tongue and chew it to a point and dip it in the muddy cake, the one in the little red box, will you teach me?

I like your black coat and those shoes you wear, where did you get them? My mother says to wear black so young is dangerous, but I want to buy shoes just like yours, like your black ones made out of sued, just like those. And one day, when my mother’s in a good mood, maybe after my next birthday, I’m going to ask to buy the nylons too.

Cheryl, who is not your friend anymore, not since last Tuesday before Easter, not since the day you made her bleed, not since she called you that name and bit a hole in your arm and you looked as if you were going to cry and everyone was waiting and you didn’t, you didn’t, Sally, not since then, you don’t have a best friend to lean against the schoolyard fence with, to laugh behind your hands at what the boys say. There is no one to lend you her hairbrush.

The stories the boys tell in the coatroom, they’re not true. You lean against the schoolyard fence alone with your eyes closed as if no one was watching, as if no one could see you standing there, Sally. What do you think about when you close your eyes like that? And why do you always have to go straight home after school? You become different Sally. You pull your skirt straight, you rub the blue paint off your eyelids. You don’t laugh, Sally. You look at your feet and walk fast to the house you can’t come out from.

Sally, do you sometimes wish you didn’t have to go home? Do you wish your feet would one day keep walking and take you far way form Mango Street, far way and maybe your feet would stop in front of a house, a nice one with flowers and big windows and steps for you to climb up two by two upstairs to where a room is waiting for you. And if you opened the little window latch and gave it a shove, the windows would swing open, all the sky would come in. There’d be no nosy neighbors watching, no motorcycles and cars, no sheets and towels and laundry. Only trees and more trees and plenty of blue sky. And you could laugh, Sally. You could go to sleep and wake up and never have to think who likes you and doesn’t like you. You could close your eyes and you wouldn’t have to worry what people said because you never belonged here anyway and nobody could make you sad and nobody would think you’re strange because you like to dream and dream. And no one could yell at you if they saw you out in the dark leaning against a car, leaning against somebody without someone thinking you are bad, without somebody saying it is wrong, without the whole world waiting for you to make a mistake when all you wanted, all you wanted, Sally, was to love and to love and to love and to love, and no one could call that crazy.

Red Clowns

Sally, you lied. It wasn’t what you said at all. What he did. Where he touched me. I didn’t want it, Sally. The way they said it, the way it’s supposed to be, all the storybooks and movies, why did you lie to me?

I was waiting by the red clowns. I was standing by the tilt-a-whirl where you said. And anyway I don’t like carnivals. I went to be with you because you laugh on the tilt-a-whirl, you throw your head back and laugh. I hold your change, wave, count how many times you go by. Those boys that look at you because you’re pretty. I like to be with you, Sally. You’re my friend. But that big boy, where did he take you? I waited for such a long time. I waited by the red clowns, just like you said, but you never came, you never came for me.

Sally Sally a hundred times. Why didn’t you hear me when I called? Why didn’t you tell them to leave me alone? The one who grabbed me by the arm, he wouldn’t let me go. He said I love you, Spanish girl, I love you, and pressed his sour mouth to mine.

Sally, make him stop. I couldn’t make them go away. I couldn’t do anything but cry. I don’t remember. It was dark. I don’t remember. Please make me tell it all.

Why did you leave me all alone? I waited my whole life. You’re a liar. They all lied. All the books and magazines, everything that told it wrong. Only his dirty fingernails against my skin, only his sour smell again. The moon that watched. The tilt-a-whirl. The red clowns laughing their thick-tongue laugh.

Then the colors began to whirl. Sky tipped. Their high black gym shoes ran. Sally, you lied, you lied. He wouldn’t let me go. He said I love you, I love you, Spanish girl.
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[28 Dec 2004|09:20pm]
[ mood | impressed ]

Yesterday, I wanted to check out a movie. It was about 8:45 PM, and I could still make it to Albertsons to see if in their limited selection they had the movie I wanted to check out (Elephant). But, I quickly decided to just go to Target and skip looking at Albertsons, because of their horribly tiny selection. Target didn't have Elephant at all, even though they once did carry it. The movies were picked over, and it was hard to find a title worth buying. So, we eventually left Target, and went over to Hollywood videos. I planned to first scan the previewed movies for sale, and then, if I found nothing worth buying, look at the movies for rent. Blah blah blah, I looked at the movies for sale, decided to do their deal, which is "buy three for 25 dollars", scanned the movies for awhile, finally decided to get Dogville, Elephant, and Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. I almost got Saved! instead of Dogville though, but decided not to because it was 13 instead of 15, and my mom doesn't approve of it. She thinks that Many Moore has gone anti-christian. Anyway. I watched Elephant (which I thought was ok and sort of interesting up until the end - and what do you know! Diane Keaton was a producer! Or something like that), and then Dogville. Wow. Dogville is amazing, and even though it isn' really the sort of movie you watch over and over again, I'm really glad I got it. If I were to recommen between Elephant and Dogville (which I'd like to say are similar in an aspect or two, or could be placed in a similar genre/category), I'd definitely recommend Dogville over Elephant. I haven't seen my eternal sunshine movie yet. Ok. Sorry for the boring entry. Just watch Dogville.

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[13 Nov 2004|11:35pm]
[ mood | distressed ]

I just stepped on a flat headed tack. And it went in all the way. Yeah.
It hurts in a horrible, dull aching way.

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[12 Jul 2004|07:22am]
Friends only.

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