REPORT A PROBLEM
I'm trying something new.
It'll be based on a journal called Soul Catcher.
It has subjects, subheadings, motivationals, lame-ass encouragement...
A new path into a journey of rediscovering oneself, letting go of the inner demons, and wahoo/funny farm rainforest bullshit!
I'll pick a subject and pour out my dark energy into a sea of enlightment.
This, by far, the corniest crap I've ever pulled in my post-pubescent life.
Don't laugh, I beg.
Laugh all you want!
I'm privileged to love the new soul emerging from the trapped cracks of a broken universe, so you can go to hell!
History of Me:
My very first memory (why, again, did I decide to do this?) ...
I have couple. They range from 3-4 years old. I have fuzzy hints of mini-clips. Most are of my Michellin baby eyes grown large from worry, concern, or fear.
The time we lost the public library's Sesame Street Sign Language Book in the public bus.
I was dreading the penalty and embarrassment my mom would face.
The time my dad parked the car on the street curb because we were lost in the big city.
I thought being lost meant never finding home again.
I would like to feel...
I can't explain it. After all, it's only something perceivable with a perfect calibrated collaboration of our senses, some not yet evolved. Breathing that floats me like a feather. A world of icy drops and microscopic lava to rush my skin. To see colors inexistent in our known dimensions. Savoring so intense, inside, traveling out through every pore to rain a mist of cooling aura. Whispers teasing my ears with waves of haunting melodies.
Either that I'll settle for a loveless orgasm by a hot, muscle padded prison inmate with conjugal visting privileges.
Day 3 of Soul Catcher entries: I really don't care to continue.
(Note to self... follow instincts more often. "Don't post. Don't post. It's a stupid idea IÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬Ëœll soon regret.-)
Day 14 of alcohol celibacy pact: Bullshiiiiiit!
Last can in fridge is a 40 ounce malt liquor that taste like trucker piss.
Hyp and Alize concocted with rocks: trucker's wife piss.
Day 16 since public breakdown: Lawn jazz concert, smothering attention, breakthrough epiphanies... life is better.
Day 40 something since breakup: Like it never happened.
Days until complete curation without the miracle medicine:
I lost the Armageddon countdown clock!
Analyzation of odd fascinations that I've evolved through age and media exposure:
Connecting: dots, tiles, Connect Four, Word Searches, Bejeweled, codes, propechy research, personality matches
quantum theories, legendary research, lost advanced civilizations, dimensional interaction
Time, Reality, Hidden Cameras, Government Conspiracies, Death, God
Originality with precision in:
melodies, artwork, crafting, word order,complete thoughts, chord usage, beats, eye appeal
macros, road directions, multitasking, convincing debates
brain soothing through swaying of articulation, categorizing by palate, behavior/mental manipulation, natural anomalies, overwhelming ecstasy, hyperfocus, genetic disorders, eidetic abilities, paranormal exposed by mathematical equations, serial killers, diseases in the lower percentage
"What wrong, mijita?-,
wishing I could swallow the 2 seconds. Never say that to her.
And that's the extent of the languid conversation if she's wearing black, before it becomes null. Let her mourn through wardrobe, or pick a seat far apart from mine. Let her believe there is safety in isolation if it means she can acknowledge that mami is gone. She departed long before her ability to understand basic fundamentals of mortality and infinity. She doesn't know I mourn for the living. She's to blame for pale skin, heavy bones, walking without an attachment to a soul.
I stripped the digital camera of its essential life source. The batteries regenerated in their cradle. The memory stick outputting moments so colorfully tangible you can step into a scene by a fingertip.
This piece of technology has brought joy, blackmail, regret and laughter into my life. How I let a time sensitive device remind me of people I want to forget; pictures to compromise the flammability of my home. But then again, when I regret the bonfires lit indoors, how wonderful it is to restore from the recycle bin, to delete and restore upon some other fit of rage.
Nothing special about this individual. Another ordinary woman, to say the least, in any old feuding quarrel. It's simple history repeating itself. Boy Meets Girl, Girl Goes Psycho, Boy Dumps Girl.... That sort of deal. She hailed a random vehicle on a one lane street. Arms flailing like a peacock signaling spontaneous combustion. I honk the horn and pass them, impatient to get to my meds. I'm kicking my ass for not lowering my window and telling it "You think you're the only one with problems, Bitch! Take Prozac! Get off the fucking road!"Kicking my ass. Shoulda Coulda Woulda.
Me oh my! Two journal isles. Books in leather. Journals with wraps. Notebooks of wildflower paper. Books judged by covers, waiting for written word to prove them. Journals with locks. Teeny little ones. Fat old textbook ones. Some destined to a calligraphy pen, some to the humble scratches of a misunderstood child. There I was! Eyeing them like a fat kid in a candy store, but a pocket full of scarce, not even a jingle produced. Here I am! Writing like a hungry fiend, completing the "Mystery de mi Italia-, in order to return with a heavy gold coin.
Blast this sly journal for under-handing my tortured confession of palpable jealousy and green envy. Am I not human, to rightfully desire a smidgen of what I introduced her to? Not like I wish squirrels would eat him alive.
revealing this delicate sentiment only to fill up blank pages, so when I'm 83, leafing worn pages, I could think, "what a sorry naÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â¯ve little ignorant I was to think I could pretty up a spiral bound book-.
Ay me for using the word blast!
Ay me for saying ay!
What bunch of fucked up grapes are in this merlot?
I regret to inform you that today I feel like falling in love.
Big band style. Central Park walks. Tavern on the Green dinners. Horse carriages. Wine and cheese picnics. Coy giggling, accidental touching, dancing barefoot with a classic dress, red lipstick prints, Channel 5 parfum. Rushing through swarms of people filling up cluttered streets. Chestnut vendors warming the cold breeze and the first snow of the season. Breathable tension from the anticipated first kiss in the back row of the movie theathre. A rooftop nap under clouds and toward the night skyline.
Gotta discard the Harry Met Sally soundtrack.
After shooting the juiciest lobes of my brains out through inflamed, wasted nostrils, once the color, brightness, and tone adjusted back to the straw pulled carpet, a barely audible"phiff"traveled along my ear canal all to the plastic grafted drum. But that was not the thunderous popping raspberry I blew out of this world. No. You see, standing at the mangled fibers, where two walls of my humble abode meet, was the fuzzy butt of a mischievous lapin defying my authority. All it took was my notorious monster "hiss"to scat that rodent out of there into her bouncy bedding.
I visualize language much like Mozart saw complete orchestrated operas inside his brain. Much like numbers arranged themselves in Nash's brain before marking theories on dorm windows. I see word patterns in different languages. Sometimes numbers punch alongside the letters. Letters destined to be words. Rapid words fated to smearing ink. Writing that can turn fate and destiny against each other. But by the time the sloppy letters hit the page, my lack of higher education comes between us. All I can count on are the euphoric episodes to bring out messages from within the electric mysteries of my tongue.
My first trolley ride transported us to a garden, rooting a 450+ oak, shading vibrant green, facing a flimsy little stage. The exotic blooms were practically popping out of the perfect coast weather. The circular lawn held scattered blankets, fold-up chairs, wine vendors, antique popcorn carts, and an ice cream man. The majority of the audience was made up of ancient fun lovers. They sported fluorescent visors, Bermuda shorts, knee high socks and snapped their fingers and tapped their feet with the upright bass. Wrinkly hands cordially invited another. They danced to improvised scats. Suddenly, I wanted to age rapidly.
My future husband must:
-Check email 4 times a week, minimum
(have email to begin with)
-Use text message
-Work in anything but pest control; sanitation; customer service/analyst
-Leaf through my albums slowly
-Want to read my journals without asking him to want to
-Minimal high school graduate
-Stuffed up the ass useless trivia on varied subjects
-Drink only hard liquor or beer
-Work out regularly; eat healthy most of the time
-Stare hard and smile when I'm clueless
-Must speak/yell, whisper profanities in bed
-Like to strike up casual conversation with anyone possible
-Differ fighting from foreplay
She found the number of one of the many men willing to kill for her. She felt guilty for not returning some calls, but she certainly didn't feel that way about ordering a hit on The Bitch. If she developed insomnia, there's always chamomile and Lunesta. As cautious and meticulously error free this set up was, she left the inevitable possibility that uncontrollable factors could turn her in. Was a cup of the Bitch's blood worth living behind bars? She closed the book, slipped on a nightgown and drifted into beautiful dreams. The Bitch is already barred in her prison.
Today I took a stand. Usually, I just sit my ass and vegetate. One exception in the mid 90's, I did separate time from my anarchist rebellion plan to send Mariah Carey a "what the Fuck letter?- I could care less what commercialism does to entertain and satisfy the wants of the public. But this wasn't going to pass me by.
Frito-Lay thinks they can tease us with Fiery Habaneros, then banish it from their Dorito Line with coward-branded Spicy Fucking Nacho. I demand to know where they are, and how much it costs to ship them by the pallet.
This unstable pattern of occurrence isn't new to me. Only this time I know how to deal with a one-way friendship, waterproof mode. I pick particular entities, the one blessed with the characteristics I lack. They fade away as time takes its course and all else it keeps for itself. I'm the one who cringes at the thought of a loss, I'm the one that took the pictures and kept the ticket stubs, and bought the beer. They're the ones who don't step back to see who and how they spend the best time of their lives. Oh well. Bygones.
If there were a store that sold used journals
- and by used I don't mean empty ones donated for discount resale-
that would range from leather bounds to composition notebooks...
...From the loneliest to the highly accomplished. From a child to a suicide victim. Unedited without blurbs.
Fragmented epochs written anonymously in raw ink and dry tears, dropped off for strangers to leaf through and take home something interesting, or something relatively familiar.
Would a reader pick mine up?
When they realized the number of abandoned journals, would they buy collect them all to compile a series about me?
God, forgive me for placing judgment on people I've never met. Judge me for it, but judge them as well without mercy. Our miserable minds cannot comprehend nor tolerate watching the knocking bones and dry bulging eyes I saw in my house, on my television. Babies in straight jackets. Babies recoiled into fetal position at the first touch in weeks. Warehoused kids who weren't cute, neglected fragile souls broken by cold hearts. Deformed body parts blurred by the accommodating media for those who wish to believe this doesn't happen. Never have I felt so guilty for being linked to humanity.
Doc said I was very articulate in describing the details of the current high. What he didn't know is he had me at hello. It took the mercy of God to hold me back from straddling him on his leather chair to slide my tongue from down his neck up to cheek. I love the lust he used to say the word horny. He almost blushed. I almost whispered, "Say it again, this time as you throw me back on that couch full of secrets."Then I caught a glance of his kids' pictures and switched channels in my head.
The thrill of trills!
I can hear it clearly again. I've come back to orchestrated music. The articulate highs and the crisp decent of 16th's notes wavering at a speed uncommon the average mind. You forget when your heart began racing along with the dance of intricate emotion weaved in the torment or ecstasy of the composer that he presents in exactitude through mathematical finality. We inhale, barely keeping up with the crescendo, absorbing meaning. Once you can't bare the intensity, an exhale of relief is pounded downward into convoluted trills, a minimal whisper of release with purpose and conclusion.
Critics accused them guilty of imitation. They are misunderstood by their classical notation. It may be there is similitude in comparison to historic composers of old, but they're unique in song and reign with a haunting furtiveness that creeps deep in the marrow of your bones. Never before had I heard an endless string of notes whirl a path around my heart and cinch an overwhelming swell in order to consume each isolated vibration as a whole. Their melodic blend of modern communication breakdown molds skin into fragile porcelain, pushing unforeseen tears at brim, Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬Ëœclinking' downward upon a delicate cheek.
I've been cutting and pasting laminated ticket stubs and stenciled stars and frames on acid-free paper. I've been editing out yesterday's somberness in order to re-editing this smiling girl. More than I love words and numbers - as I've been unpacking dusty paint sets and watercolor sketch pads - I remembered my fascination with colors. Each heightened amusement from RoyG.Vib, Lisa Frank, RainbowBrite and anything with the signature yellow/green box of Crayola. As days fell behind, I added darks, and series of grays. This scrapbook will contain wide color spectrums, newfound embellishments, and will close with some neutral backgrounds.
We were shopping for groceries in Super Wal-Mart. On the basket of the shopping cart she found an envelope stuffed with coupons forgotten. We immediately thought to keep them. My trained conscience paused the hasty decision, remembering that these little savings do not belong to me if there is a name/number inside. Of course, it had a master. Scribbled on a hotel notepad sheet was a beautiful love letter from an ill husband, reassuring his love through good times and bad. An undying appreciation to his wife. My mission is to track her down, making sure she keeps its sake.
It's the shape of perfection with universal understanding. A circle, a sphere. Smooth and exact. With barely a beginning and no end in sight, it's perfect in its completion. The biometrics of Earth, in Earth, seem complete and final, hence our strife to match its totality. Such a single shape in second, third, maybe even a fourth dimension is the absolution I seek. Is it really as easy as pi? Can an infinite number defy the rationality of existence? Is it something that should be analyzed in such excruciating detail, or taken for what our degenerating eyes view from afar?
Two minutes of toddlers I can withstand before wanting to slap them sticky against a wall, like putty. Like anything else - other than concrete science and mathematical truths - there are exceptions.
I like the oddballs.
"Cool"kids don't play them because of their complicated game amendments. They're forced to wear parent-picked plastic glasses at the age of five. The hypersensitive to red dyed candy. They enjoy the sights of their limitless creations, oblivious of the expectations from normal, oversized, babies with a lot more hair.
Somehow they've always known they don't want to fit through the door of perpendicular acceptance.
We'd never thought he would stand on a platform to instrument his voice. We didn't think he would willingly and consciously choose to dedicate his life to God without a little push on the back. I never thought I could talk to him without feeling I have the advantage. But here he is now: practicing his public reading, struggling to harness speech, battling social fears of misunderstanding. Amazing, he has grown up into a solid personality. I wonder how far he would've been by now if I'd believed more since the beginning. And wonder is all I'll ever get.
Our chicken fights weren't in vain. Not one time we agreed to disagree proved futile. You should smell my house. It's warm vanilla. You should see my room. The bed is made. You should see my schedule. I read the daily text. You should hear me listen. I speak when they need it. I'm paying bills, taking out the trash. It took me longer than your other children to get there, but I'm finally able to walk on my own. People are noticing your features in my characteristics. I'm convinced I wasn't adopted after all.
Por eso es que escribo con lapiz. El sonido del rascar en papel suficie el ruido de soledad temporal. En cuanto al encargo de sobrevivir, lo aguanto con gusto. Pero el gusto deriva de el compartir. Asi pues, no puedo discernir si el madero pesando sobre mi hombro es un dolor agudo o si ese madero espera ser rayado para convertirse en el papel en que escribo. Bueno, entonces, que tenga yo un borrador a mano. El dia en que se parte el silencio, sera el dia en que mis palabras abrazcen la tinta incorregible.
Y nunca parare de escribir.
"This never happened. We start again."Slowly the quiver in my voice died down and geared up for a fews laugh.
"No wait! That's not it."
Followed by a rather long silence.
"I don't want to be like J. I do care. I don't want you to think I don't.-
The human faucet started leaking again with a bit of a shake...
"You will never be like her. That's why we are still friends, despite our differences.-
"Ok. We're done now." Exhale the tension.
You have experienced the first and last falling out. It is solemnly stricken from the book.
The Tip Jar