"Well, this is a magical necklace," she told the child, holding up the crystal moon. "It's from a city far away that floats on the water, where the people have to ride boats everywhere they go. I'll take you there someday."
"What does it do?" the little girl asked.
"It holds all of my happy memories. That's why it sparkles and changes so many different colors. Those specks of light it reflects are the most beautiful moments in my life catching the sun."
"Who gave it to you?"
She paused, frozen momentarily. Then she smiled sadly. "An angel who never knew he had wings."
[bored as a mammajamma]
RULES:
1. Put Your iTunes, Windows Media Player, ETC on Shuffle.
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN NO MATTER HOW SILLY IT SOUNDS.
4. Put any comments in brackets after the song name.
5.Put this on your journal.
1.If someone says, "Is this okay?" You say?
Everything You Want -- Vertical Horizon
2.How would you describe yourself?
Amber -- 311
3.What do you like in a boy?
Stay With You -- The Goo Goo Dolls
4.How do you feel today?
No Air -- Jordin Sparks
5.What is your life's purpose?
Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger -- Daft Punk
6.What is your motto?
Hemorrhage -- Fuel
7.What do your friends think of you?
Read My Mind -- The Killers
8.What do you think of your parents?
Let It Die -- The Foo Fighters
9.What do you think about very often?
Slide -- The Goo Goo Dolls
10.What is 2 + 2?
I Wanna -- John Mayer
11.What do you think of your best friend?
Believe -- The Bravery
12.What do you think of the person you like?
Time to Pretend -- MGMT
13.What is your life story?
Fell on Black Days -- Soundgarden
14.What do you want to be when you grow up?
This Time -- Jonathan Rhys Meyers
15.What do you think of when you see the person you like?
Schism -- Tool
16.What will you dance to at your wedding?
The Greatest View -- Silverchair
17.What will they play at your funeral?
Turn the Page -- Bob Seger
18.What is your hobby/interest
Moondance -- Van Morrison
19.What is your biggest fear?
Waiting on an Angel -- Ben Harper
20.What is your biggest secret?
Smile Like You Mean It -- The Killers
21.What do you think of your friends?
Good Time -- Counting Crows
22.What will you post this as?
On Call -- Kings of Leon
She leans against the pile of blankets on her bed, knees pulled up and her arms wrapped around herself. As her eyes stare blankly at the postered wall, all the memories flash behind them.
"Your eyes look like Rainbow Fish."
"He said he's known her for a long time. That they just have a really good connection."
"I'm really happy, actually." "So I've heard."
Jaime (12:03 AM): *does happy dance* Ditto.
Jaime (12:03 AM): d00d. weve been at this for an hour
JB (12:03 AM): *joins happy dance*
JB (12:03 AM): o.e
Jaime (12:03 AM): *jaw drops*
Jaime (12:04 AM): you can happy dance???
Jaime (12:04 AM):
JB (12:04 AM): i didn't. uhm. wow.
JB (12:04 AM): to the time thing
JB (12:04 AM): I'm completely ignoring the happy dance statement
Jaime (12:04 AM): mhm.
Jaime (12:04 AM): well, it's on record now
JB (12:04 AM): twas a typo
Jaime (12:04 AM): suuuurrrrre
JB (12:05 AM): an elaborate and thought out one
Jaime (12:05 AM): of course. next you'll say it was the acid speaking
JB (12:05 AM): nope
JB (12:05 AM): all gon
JB (12:05 AM): *gone
JB (12:05 AM): see?
JB (12:06 AM): *shakes happy pill container, nothing rattles*
Jaime (12:06 AM): mmm.
Jaime (12:06 AM): well then.
Jaime (12:06 AM): there is no excuse
Jaime (12:06 AM): JB DID THE HAPPY DANCE!!!
JB (12:06 AM): S**T
JB (12:06 AM): walked into that one
Jaime (12:06 AM): XD
JB (12:06 AM): ok so i happy dance
JB (12:07 AM): thank goodness you are noone
Inclinations to Encompass
I want to hold you
like the comfort of a voice in the darkness.
Like the circles of nightlight when you were a child.
I want to hold you
with the same unique passion of a sunrise.
With the solid, ancient knowledge of the Earth.
I want to hold you,
wrapped in a blanket made of all the world's beauty,
stitched with a needle of innocent joy
and a thread of love-for-all, especially you.
I want to hold you
and make you stare into the light
until you go blind to all the dark things.
I want to hold you
like we've never been afraid, and we've never been hurt,
and I want to pretend that love is more than a word
and just do it.
[Read only if you've read "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock", by T.S. Eliot.]
A Love Song TO J. Alfred Prufrock
Let us go then, you and I,
When the sunset is strewn across the sky
Like paint on some uncareful artist's easel.
Let us go, through the wooded solitude
Where there are no words to be misconstrued.
Let us ponder the stars from the grass,
Ponder the present, future . . . past.
Let not insidious yellow questions
Form upon your lips: You've learned that lesson.
Just jump in.
Forget the Fall –
Forever in this moment you'll stand tall.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of things they do not know.
That yellow smoke that dirties the window-panes,
That yellow fog that curls itself beneath the window-panes
And climbs with you into bed.
Lingers in puddles left by rain,
Pads on thief's feet through the house.
It sees your fitful pacing –
Oh, its terrible smirk, watching you! –
And knows your mind is wearily racing.
And indeed there will be no time,
For the yellow haze is coming steady
and does not care how much is left undone.
There will be no time, there will be no time:
You won't be ready
To leave, to move on, to end
Because, dearest James,
You've yet to begin.
It is true that in a minute, everything can change,
But please, don't wait 'til you're down to 0:01
For then you'll have to leave before you see what you've begun.
Act now, and I'll not agree when they say you're strange.
For in the room the women come and go,
Talking of things they really don't know.
And indeed you have little time
To hold back and merely ponder,
To sit down and allow only mind to wander;
James, your unique gifts you'll squander!
[And they may say: "How ridiculous is that man!"]
Just laugh, ignore them – I know you can.Make that the past, all those moments when you ran.
[And they may say: "My, how that man needs a tan!"]
But do you dare
Disturb their universe?
In every minute there is but little time,
And in this one, I beg you, reverse.
There are oceans of things to uncover –
You can never, ever know them all,
See every sunset, every smile, each bird call.
Put down your spoons, and you'll soon discover
That the world is a sad place (it's true),
But your happiness depends solely upon you.
I, too, know these eyes so ready to judge,
Shackle you, pin you and you die a little, trying to be free.
They make you wish you'd never dared.
I, too, know these eyes: not an inch will they budge
And you wonder, "How visually impaired
Could they be? They just don't see.
How should they presume?"
Knowing one is not knowing all:
Arms that are tan, and hurt, and hidden
[But in the moonlight, become innocent once again!]
Just the perfume from a dress
Sends you into deep distress!
Arms that lie along the sheets, or move a mountain tall:
You should not presume anything –
Merely trust your instincts.
You shall speak truth, that double-edged sword.
You shall describe the stars puncturing the sky
And remember the lesson of the lonely men.
You should have been a tiny capuchin,
For your serious face is often laughed at.
Take a lesson from the evening, the afternoon:
Stretch out beside me and rest.
For the coming moment, you must be at your best
And the moment is soon to come.
Forget these dreadful thoughts of crisis;
Each man is allotted his own vices
And each must learn to overcome.
What is Death but a moving on?
Unless you fear no mourning when you're gone.
But I will remember and protect your memory:
Are you not on my mind constantly?
Of my secret thoughts, you are the sum.
Would it have been worth it all?
You tell me, James; you think of the worthy moments –
Surely you have some, those golden moments!
Sunsets, smiles, dances in the shimmery ethereal light:
Dredge these things up, dear, hold on to them tight.
Please say you've done more than measure
And attempt to simply survive,
Without the beauty, the love, the excitement,
Without the moments of terrifying pleasure?
If I were to lie, 'twould be to our detriment.
I will not lie: my smile meant the world,
And that's what you were meant to read.
Would the meaning of that smile
Have made everything worth it?
Every lonely look out a window at the sprinkled streets below?
Every empty conversation over a weak cup of tea?
Every time someone looks at you and doesn't like what they see?
I know how hard it is to say what you mean,
But I'll try to understand; I'll try to read between
The lines, but tell me:
Had you understood what my mouth did not say,
Had you believed it, and acted upon it,
Would that have made it worth it, every day?
Would that make you love it, every day?
Prince Hamlet you are not,
But your heart echoes his soliloquy:
You always question, "To be or not to be?"
You have indeed started a thing or two,
But I pray you don't plan on skulking around,
Thus ending your hopefully dawning life.
Every man has wings; you're destined for higher than the ground.
Every man has joys; there's got to be more for you than strife.
You only need a sliver of hope to see you through.
We will all grow old,
And I shall wear my hair unpinned.
Do whatever you wish with your hair;
I will always remember the innocence of the peach stain there,
Showing me your strength, that you did dare.
I think that they will sing, given the chance.
I have seen you, quietly watching the waves,
Crashing toward you, then running away,
Like a fickle lover: there, then gone the next day.
We have lingered in the great womb of the sky
Decorated by our own dreams, silver and blue,
Till sharp sounds startled us and we flew.
...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-slight
"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-deprecati
"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.
[~pretty rave girl~]?(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-analyze
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