...well, this is going to be a ramble. Leave now, or read the entire thing. You can’t smoke half a joint. It’s just not ethically right.
  I have friends on here that I keep not because they offer stimulating conversation, or any conversation at all, for that matter. I don’t keep them for their nice comments about me, or their witty blogs or bulletins. I keep them for the sole reason of looking at their pictures. Because normally, no matter how dreadful a photographer they are, or how uninteresting or clashing their captions may be, they have at least one good, inspiring picture, one that shows something real about their nature, or the human nature itself. It’s not beauty in the normal, esthetic sense of the word; its beauty in the sense that it exists, that it needs no opinions or commentary to exist. No matter how fake they show themselves to be otherwise, there is usually one accidental picture that shows something, a scratch in the surface. Or maybe a surface merely unveiled subconsciously.
  Something I hate is when people believe a deception that they’re trying to convince you of. You can’t argue with these people, because if you tell them, "No, you don’t really mean that," you know it’s true, but they honestly don’t. And it hurts them not to be believed, the righteous hurt of someone who’s been misunderstood and patronized. It’s sad, because you can never be honest with them. And they can’t be honest with you, and you can hear the lie in their voice. But you can’t tell them, can’t make them speak the truth, because they are so firmly convinced that what they’ve just told you is the complete truth, felt from the bottom of their heart. So you just have to wait. And it can make you rather sick inside.
  Sometimes I realize what a step out into thin air it is to write things like this. The things that you have in your head generally sound better there. But you want so badly to write it, to put the thoughts into something tangible, in the manner of a painter, or a sculptor, or a musician, something you can hold, and remember and pass judgment on for yourself. The amount of people who might read it aren’t so important, it’s the people who understand it that are meaningful. But even they aren’t as important as the way you think about it. If you can read back over it later, and still like it, still see where it came from and the brilliance of it, then it was worth the chance. Otherwise, it’s just quite depressing.

There was a Wonderer Went Forth...
(apologies to Walt Whitman)

There was a wonderer went forth every day;
And the first object she look'd upon, that object she became;
And that object became part of her for the day, or a certain part of
the day, or for many years, or stretching cycles of years.

The play-place at Burger King became a part of this child,
And all the new houses to explore and play in, and the forays among the ancient giants,
And the climbing of oak trees, and the weekends with her dad and peanuts,
And the walks on the beach collecting shells and washed-out beer bottles made beautiful,
And all that time spent pretending to be something else, and walking in bare-feet,
And dancing to too many oldies songs to count – all became a part of her.

The first day of class among old, old friends became a part of her;
"Always make sure your eyebrows are smooth", and sitting on desks,
The pre-adolescent love of tragedy, and all the sickening writing she did,
And her very first true love, and all the unanswered cries into emptiness;
The only time she can recall an immediate answer to prayer,
And learning to speak without words, and the golden room that so awed her,
And a sad goodbye, followed by a sad summer – all became a part of her.

Her own parents,
He that had tucked her in every night, and she that went through three deaths before her,
They gave the wonderer more of themselves than just that;
They gave her afterward every day – they became a part of her.

A new game, and not knowing how to play it became a part of the wonderer.
Learning that all people aren't nice, and that love doesn't mean that,
And finding her place, and that it wasn't with "them", and then fighting "them",
And breaking the heart of a friend, and learning what it meant to be "outside",
And the adolescent love of tragedy, and all the sickening writing she did,
And the feeling of being alone and different, and telling herself she was better.
Falling in love over the summer, and all the blood sacrifices Branwen required,
And all the tired school days, and the things she didn't think or care about,
And the other half who worried about her until he learned the truth,
And the stringently suppressed secret that burst out with accusations and threats,
And the loss of something that was never hers, though she gave everything for it,
And the confusion of love, hate, pity, vindication, loneliness, right, and wrong.
The transfer back to the arms of old, old, old friends, and meeting a new one,
And the boy who smelled like bubblegum and man, but didn't act like one,
And watching the other half play Frogger with single-minded determination to forget,
And the pain of watching someone hear their life end, and having to help end it,
And the weeks of wanting to hide and have the right someone find her,
And all the shared laughter, tears, and walks out on the town with the girls,
And all the loud music watched in crazy outfits with crazy friends,
And understanding that there were many things she would never understand
And then leaving, yet again, for a new era of her life – all became a part of her.

All the writing she did, and her poetic love of tragedy became a part her.
Irish blood, earrings, and the Queen of Pathos becoming her day-savers,
And feeling her realm of experience growing with every metaphoric conversation,
And realizing that love is for imperfect people, including everyone,
And wondering about the secret dreams, the secret lives of people,
And finding a heroine in the corner of a room, reading what she wanted to write,
And The Play That Just Couldn't, and how much fun it was to rehearse anyway,
And the night when that boy asked her to define them, and she said "Together",
And all the moments when she might have regretted it, but didn't,
And how she knows the other half still cares because he can cry for her,
And how there are so many inside jokes that only "the smart kids" would get,
And the way she's known by the people who matter, even when they pretend ignorance,
And how much the drama and the materialism and the pretended idiocy make her mad,
And how she uses the made-up words and phrases like a second language,
And how she wants all her "boys" to rofflecopter the fish out of life until they win,
And all the Japanese horrors watched, grabbing hands, arms, or shoulders in fear,
And the unofficial book-club that gives her life – all became a part of her.

These became a part of the wonderer who went forth every day, and who now goes, and will always go forth every day.

"Between Us" by The Jesus and Mary Chain

Been a lot between us
And I guess there's more to come
We've been doing something right
But sometimes it goes wrong
We've been through places
And we won't be back again
We've been through faces
But I guess that never ends
I don't know what's goin' on
Have we done something wrong

I've been strange I've been too strange
I've been to somewhere else and
I've been too strange
How come you saw right through my head
How come you saw inside my head
How come you know what's in my head

Been a lot between us
And I guess there's more to come
We've been doing something right
But sometimes it goes wrong
We were never scared of light
But the shadows that it throws
Are digging deep inside of us
And I think we're full of holes


Mmmm.

   She runs her fingertips over his wrist, touching ever-so-slightly. By barely touching she achieves the whole experience of this, one of his many beautiful perfections.
   "I must say, I don't think I've ever dated a guy more beautiful than me before. Not that I think I'm all that or anything, it's just that they don't normally make guys as beautiful as you." She could see his face forming the protest, twisting itself up into a self-deprecating smile, so she just put a finger to his lips. "Shh. Let me show you the world through my eyes every now and again, alright?"

   "Please, make me feel normal again."
   "How would I know how to do that?"
   "Just make me love you, fill my mind until he's not there anymore. I'm tired of him, my guilt, a million thoughts of a broken, tired face behind bars. I would ask you to erase it all, but I refuse to be that selfish, so you can't."
   He looked at her, and she realized that she must've sounded crazy and dramatic. Then he crushed her to him in one of his bone-breaking hugs and she happily choked on his collarbone.

(One of those times
where everything is only mildly inspiring and
you just want to strangle a bit of someting
out of a muse.)
Ever play Etch-a-Sketch with a razorblade
simply because the scars are oddly comforting
to run your fingers over?
Ever want to, but
stop
because, "What would other people think?"
Why.
They have adrenaline rush, caffeine rush, sugar rush!
...but we can't have
a bit of blood rush.
They can have a dozen piercings,
and multiple elaborate dermal pigmentations
but we can't have
a few simple lines
without being psycho-analyzed?
Let me have my fun --
I've had plenty of issues
without you making this another.

Etch-A-Sketch

...What happens when I read Simon Armitage...

I'm transparent, don't you see?
They said I should tan
like all the other girls,
but I'm in love with my shadows,
so now I make a better window
than a door.
But I swear not to shatter easily
and hurt you,
although I wish I could
stick with you.
You're like a master artist,
and although I like my black and white,
your colors fill me in without crossing lines.
People see me now,
because you spill a rainbow happiness
onto my face
and they can't help but notice
your light shining through my prism.

Prismatic

The other night I told him everything. How much it hurt, all my moments of realization, the feelings of futility, betrayal, anger, loneliness. I shared it all. I asked him the question I've wanted to since my mom and Cori sat me down and told me he was going to ask her to marry him. The conversation went something like this:
"Why her?"
"It's bullshit!"
"They said--"
"They lied!"
Then I shared all the evidence: when my mom and Cori had told me, and I had denied it and ran outside; the way I imagined him telling his parents that if she would still have him, he wanted to marry her; the two of them, together.
He said nothing more.
The whole time, his face had been sad, lost, hurt. Like he was feeling everything I felt. It made me a little sad, but that was what I wanted.
When I was done talking to him, I smiled and thought of how I would tell Denise that I'd talked to him.

And then I woke up.

I write names down on the beach,
Scratch meaningless doodles in the sand,
And what I don't know
Is that every scratch, every mark
Connects to you.
Subliminal messages to myself
So I won't forget about you.

"You can't save everybody," she says.

No. But I'll damn well save the ones that I can.

Why do I do this?
Is it like an emotional death wish?
Having everything so close
And so far away?
Leaving letters on the beach
Hoping maybe you'll see them
Before the tide comes up and washes them away,
And knowing that you'll never see
My little notes
Or all the tears I've cried.

Hehe.

When your life is full of
Ugliness,
Clashing cacophany,
Asymetrical lies
It's so nice to look,
So nice to live to look,
At people, at things, at music, at art
And appreciate their beauty.
Lik colors, different shades
Convey different emotions:
The sad, romantic blue-black beauty,
The comforting, soft brown beauty,
The spunky, individual green beauty,
The loyal, upright blue beauty,
The strange, mysterious purple beauty,
The pure, wise white beauty,
The innocent, kid-fun pink beauty,
The deep, powerful black beauty,
And on and on with it.
Every person has a beauty
Or two.
Mostly it's natural beauty --
Inside or out --
Because the beauty you put on
In the morning
All looks the same
And therefore,
Isn't as beautiful,
And you can never tell
How real it is
Or how deep it goes.

Sometimes, I cry
Because things aren't the way
They are in books.
There are no other worlds,
No talking trees,
No magic.
But that doesn't stop me
From believing anyway.