Saturday, January 29, 2011

So the house work I mentioned earlier was clearing out part of an attic-like hallway that came out of my grandfather's home theatre on the second floor. Actually, the clearing out bit was only ripping the insulation he had put up however long ago and throwing it into the storage area down the hall in preparation for putting up plywood backboards in preparation for a new wall (mice keep getting in the house through the insulation so he's putting a proper wall to keep them out). There was sheetrock/drywall/whatever you call it also but we figured given our obvious lack of expertise we'd let a carpenter handle it. Working from 10 to 4 on carrying heavy boards up and down stairs and walking around in dusty, asbestos-filled air probably contributed that as well. Anyhow, the party. It wasn't so much an actual party as it was a friend of mine playing with his band for over an hour for a bunch of other people that he's friends with. It was pretty fun listening to the drummer, but the rest didn't stand out very much. Also, having been walking around all day, standing up for however long it was to listen got unpleasant. I got out of there pretty fast after the show was done. I didn't really know the guy who had invited me and I especially didn't know most of the other people there so I had no real vested interest in sticking around beyond a token attempt at conversation with my friend - I suppose I should really say acquaintance - which I did and then I left. Exciting right? Worth waiting for right? Yes, I know, I know, I live like a fucking superstar.



I went to my grandparents' today to help my grandfather out with some remodeling they're doing. Nothing major, I think, but I still managed to get covered in saw dust and fiber glass. I'll explain more later after I take a nap and get back from the party I'm going to later. I really shouldn't take the hours I sue to relax out of my sleeping hours. It's a bad idea. Anyhow, more to come later, but for now, this:

(and with that I feel like a cheesy radio DJ; now back to your scheduled programming)

I am just a man – and so are you.
But listen to what they say you do!
They’ve made you God and you’ve accepted.
But think: what happens when you’re rejected?
Yes, I say when, not if because
You’re wholly man – you have your flaws.
How can you maintain this fa├žade?
You can’t – You’re only man – where is your God?

I love you well, please understand,
But I foresee your blood thrown ‘cross the sand.
And in that hour, as you lose, your power,
The crowd will take your crown, replace your flower
With a thorn – and set it upon you.
And what I can do?
I want to save you.

But you teach to be pure
While you gather the ugly.
Your hypocritical actions
Will pull down your tree
Before they nail you to it.
And I am the ax that you wield against yourself;
I am the hammer and the nails,
Though it hurts me to hear your wails of pain.
You should have listened to me.
You should have stayed the same.


Friday, January 28, 2011

You know what's Terrible?

Its terrible when you wake up 5 minutes before your alarm clock goes off and you sit there in a daze before it starts blaring in your ear. In commemoration of this most horrid event I'm going to shower and dress for work, but before we do that I think I'll let you all act as an excuse to cower in my warm bed a while longer before going out into the hallway to face the cruel elements of apartment life. Aferwards I may hunt down and devour a box of wild cheerios before starting the long hard migration to the fabled land of Skool.

So, in recognition of this event I give you all...
Drum roll please
... a Vox 93 style music dump. Primarily of the songs that make my little mornings of hell a tad less hellish.

Starting off the list is Temple of Love, a lyrically beautiful song from The Sisters of Mercy, and a pretty rocking one at that... but everyone loves Temple of Love much like everybody loves Black Planet (except me, Black Planet isn't bad, there are just so many songs that I prefer to it), so let's go and get some more Mercy on.

Directly above is my favorite, and what I believe to be Damien's favorite Sisters song respectively, though I'm not going to wake him at this awful hour to check on it. And with that we move on to the next band...

London After Midnight

London after Midnight is obviously rather political minded, and while I can't always share it their opinions I can certainly enjoy their music.

Next up we have the very talented Emilie Autumn

Her work exhibits a particular darkness that I find incredibly attractive, a sort of tortured sound of someone who's been broken but carries on anyhow... I'm not really sure how to articulate what it is I like about her music, a venom or bitterness perhaps, but there is one thing I can say for certain...

...Some of it makes me extremely thankful for my Y chromosome.

Slowly rising on my list of favorite bands (slowly due to my own lack of exploration ) is Christian Death

If familiar you'll notice these are all Valor Kand pieces, this is because I haven't given Rozz a proper listen yet, though I must say I'm really liking what I've head of Valor.

Next up, deviating from everything that's come before we've got some Tom Waits

And finally the single song that got me started on music in the first place - The Mission UK's Amelia

It should be mentioned that I sing these songs along with my iPod... loudly... and terribly... and considering the lyrical content of some of them (read: nearly all of them) I get some pretty strange looks. My singing is a voice box weaponized.


Monday, January 24, 2011

Student Teaching

Alright, well I'm sure you're all wondering about my first week as a teacher... what? You aren't? You come here for Henry's short stories and poetry? Ehh, screw you, I'm typing it up anyhow.

Good God do I not like waking up at 6AM, it's just a generally unpleasant thing to do. I certainly did pick a strange occupation for myself with that in mind. Anyway, while I know I've stated this a half billion times now, I have to wake up at 6AM tomorrow and every day even though the school doesn't open until 9. I have to do this because I do not have a car, instead I get to hike and ride some 50 miles from home to get to the school house. It takes me about 40 minutes to dress and shower and gather up all my crap, then I trudge off into the snow towards Forest Ridge Elementary School, well I did Tuesday anyhow. We haven't been getting all that much snow around here surprisingly. It is cold though, and that sucks; cold weather means a couple things for me. It means that A) I cannot wear my favorite coat and have to settle instead for my less attractive but warmer one. And B) that the portions of my journey between bus stops are agonizing 20 minute stretches of cold and I end up nose dripping when I make it to the school, which really is a pretty unprofessional way to arrive. All in all though it's a pretty enjoyable journey, I get to spend about an hour and 45 minutes every morning listening to The Sisters of Mercy, London After Midnight, E.S. Posthumus, Christian Death and various other musicians on the way to work. (I call it work because I'm a far better employee than student and I don't want to screw this up, hopefully adopting that mindset will keep me on task.)

As for my actual day at the school, well for now I spend most of it at a desk at the back of Mrs. Veglahn's 3rd grade class nursing my mango energy drink to keep awake and observing the way she teaches the class and handles the problems that her students occasionally stir up. When the kids go off to gym class, the library, lunch, or any of their other midday activities Terra (that's Mrs. Veglahn) runs me through writing up and carrying out lesson plans which is apparently a rather large part of course. Later on I'll be writing up and carrying out my own lesson plans with these 30 or so kids as guinea pigs, but that's still about a month or so off.

At recess I'm sent outside to watch over the kids... I suspect because it's cold outside and being student teacher means that on top of learning the trade I also get to perform grunt work. I don't really mind though, besides the nipping wind the worst I've had to deal with so far was a kid from another class trying to climb the little chain fence that marks the end of the blacktop to retrieve a stray kickball. Past the fence is a paved road leading back to the staff parking lot, and then thick woods with a small ditch in front of it, for obvious reasons the kids have to stay within the fenced area.

After Recess I go back in and sit in the back of the classroom again, have a chat with Mrs. Veglahn about the day, ride the bus home, and then promptly pass the hell out. Speaking of passing out... I've got work tomorrow, I should really be getting to sleep. Work in the morning.

Constantly awoken by a cascading alarms

Saturday, January 22, 2011

Blair Witch and Dreams

I know this is about a decade and a half late, but the Blair Witch Project was amazing. I just saw it last night with some friends of mine who are big into cinema. I had always thought it would be a stupid movie - I don't know where this assumption came from, but there it is. I was very, very wrong. The movie is great. The focus on the characters, rather than on the Big Bad, is what really sold it for me concept-wise. Too many movies, especially in horror, nowadays don't focus enough on the characters. Characters are what sell stories. For example, Paranormal Activity was one of the most boring movies to me of all time. I was scared, I wasn't jumpy, I wasn't entertained. The Blair Witch, on the other hand, while it didn't make me jumpy, did produce an amount of terror within me. Now I'm not saying I curled into a ball like a little child and begged people to keep the lights on, but the way the movie was conceptualized and put together - not to mention a fantastic job on the part of the actors - allowed me to feel as though I were not watching the movie, but living in it. And to live in that movie would be a frightening thing. Horror should look back on this movie and look at what it did right, and maybe learn a little something. After all, if my dreams can learn about horror from this movie, so can modern cinema.

I had a dream last night that actually scared me. Nothing really flashy happened, nothing gory, or anything like that. It was very subtle. The Big Bad was never shown explicitly. His actions were seldom overt, and when they were they were barely noticeable. In other words, he was a mystery, so all I could focus on were the characters - one of them being me. Putting myself into my dreams doesn't always work when my subconscious tries to scare me, but forcing me to be really involved with my dream by bringing back elements from previous dreams that worked (for example, a school I dreamed up months ago with an old sector that is really easy to get lost in on the second floor) and taking the villain away from my ability to criticize resulted in me waking up in a certain amount of terror in the moment of my near death. It certainly doesn't help that this is how things went down: In the middle of a sex scene (me and two other girls - I'm not sure where the second came from because she wasn't there originally) that takes place in someone else's front lawn. That someone else walks out and kinda stares in disbelief for a minute before we notice him. I don't know what possessed us to have sex in this guy's front lawn, but we did - and we got our asses off the ground fast when he walked out. Now, we're scrambling to get our clothes on in the pitch dark (for whatever reason, this neighborhood doesn't have streetlamps or suffer from light pollution) but the second girl seems kinda traumatized. She isn't moving. Me and the other girl are beckoning at her, trying to get her to move. We can barely see her. And then she disappears. No warning. No loud noise - no quiet noise for that matter. No blurred movement. She's just gone. This flips my and the other girl's shit and we take off for the school because we know Big Bad can see us - we get lost upstairs. I wake up as I'm crawling around in the old sector upstairs trying to find the girl because I don't know where the Hell she ran away from me to. The villain was heavily implied to be an old, old man who lived on the same cul-de-sac the sex scene took place.

Moving on from dreams and my own living under a rock, and yet somehow related, I've seen a few stories here and there about children going missing. There's a story every now and then about a child that goes missing and sometimes it will capture the attention of the community, but these have barely been mentioned in the news (I devour news when I can). I've seen the stories just tucked away in obscure places in the newspaper - not even in sensible places. I feel like I'm the only person noticing. Or I'm going crazy because of the Blair Witch Project and inventing stories. That'd be unpleasant - but if I begin to think that not only am I a dancer, but also a scientist, historian, documentarian, and whatever else that old lady in the movie thought, I'll let you know and then you can also dismiss my ramblings forever.


Sunday, January 16, 2011

Sometimes I have weird dreams.

I write this having just awoken from a nice little nap... not that I'm having any trouble at all waking up early and then staying awake... I have no idea what you are talking about.

Anyhow. The dream reminds me of a book I had to read for class a few semesters back, "Vain Art of the Fugue," and while there are some light similarities I'm mostly just using this feeling to bump a pretty cool book, so yeah check it out, I'm going to get back on point now. The dream.

The dream was me just trying to live a day back in Austin. My brother was throwing some party, my mom went out shopping, and I was just trying to get out the door to hang our with some friends. Unfortunately I kept screwing it up. I'd fall alseep and sleep through my plans due to entertaining dreams (yes in my dreams, it's a fairly common occurrence in mine, though not as common as waking up and still being asleep), I'd make it out of my room to tumble down the stairs and be rushed to the hospital, I'd get outside and be carted off by my brother and his friends to some restaurant or movie. And it would just keep going, resetting and having me try it again, often with disastrous results for my person.

The final attempt was... interesting. I made it out of the room safely, not even a stubbed toe. I got wrangled into my brother's car but managed to remember my goal and escaped before they drove away and strode triumphant to the front lawn where I saw... two people. I suppose these people were supposed to be my friends but I had never seen them before. One was a pretty girl about my age she had dyed yellow hair and was fidgeting with a Tarot Deck. The other was a young black haired boy with his bangs in his eyes, he refused to look up at me or really even acknowledge me so much, he seemed to be here to hang out with the girl, he felt like a stranger to me. Regardless I sat down and lied back staring towards a sky that didn't exist, and spilling out a bag of turnips I had been carrying for whatever reason.

And then it happened, there was a pull, something behind my ripped me away from my lawn, a stream flowing backwards up into a cave and later a spiral. I tried to fight it and get back to the lawn but I wasn't strong enough, it pulled me backwards over grass and sidewalks, I saw my brother planning his party thing and called out to him but he couldn't make out what I said. So it went and pulled me all the way to its source, a white stone room up at the tip of the spiral, where I dropped a turnip I had tried to cling to and said "To hell with this I'm done."

I was in my house in the living room, the TV was on and I sat on the couch. My mom walked in finished with groceries and proceeded to bitch at me for something or another, but I was having none of it, it had been much too long a day. I clasp my hand shut at her and her voice stopped, I settled back into the couch and enjoyed my show. My brother walked in and asked me what I'd been shouting, but annoyed with him I wound my finger counter clockwise and he started to walk backwards out the door, talking in reversed gibberish all the while. The last things I saw before awaking were my mother angrily miming at him to come back inside not aware that I'd put her on mute, and a brief image of myself clapping as if to say "I'm done with this shit, Time to get up."

So before I leave you today I want to give you access to a couple little links

Somnium by Valor Kand's era of Christian Death, a song that I now alway think of when my dreams start to dream or I wake in a dream,
And a little info on "Vain Art of the Fugue"

P.S. Actual content today. What the Balls?


Saturday, January 15, 2011

Some of you may have noticed that I didn't answer a comment made by Kal. Some of you may think that's a bit dick-ish, but some of you can also piss off. Kidding. Truth is, I haven't touched a computer since writing that last post until just now. I've mostly been trying to sleep, eating, succeeding at sleeping, and watching TV. Sorry Kal; however, welcome home. Also, if I did plagiarize that post, whoops, but I didn't notice. I'll have to be more careful of that though, majoring in journalism and all.. Also, yes this post is essentially me trying not to look like an ass. And I swear I'm not!  - most of the time. Sometimes I get a little irritated when you call me Hank - you know who you are - but hey, we all have quirks.
Anyhow. I have Civilization V. I'm going to play it.



Friday, January 14, 2011


Uggggggggggggggggg, the sun isn't even up and it's an hour later here, how am I going to manage doing this every day for like 3 months? What was I thinking? Something tells me this is not going to be my most funnest semester of school evers.


Thursday, January 13, 2011


School is going to be starting back up again soon. Which is a real shame because I've really enjoyed this time spent mostly in a daze of too little sleep. I remember most of it, and it's been fun. Doing pretty much what I want and when I want. Being to able to walk around at night because I don't have obligations in the morning. I am kinda disappointed in the fact that I couldn't quite beat the insomnia and sleep from midnight to noon every day, but I got enough sleep for me. I think. Either way I'm not dead, so that's a plus. You always have to look at the bright side. The little things. Where was I going with this...

Right. School. This is really just me complaining, so whine whine whine piss moan bitch whine whine. There, I think I'm done for now. I'm going to miss this freedom though. Although, now that I'll be doing things now, I'll probably be wasting less money. Maybe there's something to this school business after all.



Sunday, January 9, 2011

The future

So school starts in just about a week which will not only severely limit my free time but also force me to be awake during hours of normal human interaction... stupid regular people. Anyhow between this and my second illness in two months time I won't be able to do that let's play of System Shock 2 which is a real shame, hell I probably won't get much gaming done for the whole of this semester. I suppose it is a good thing they pushed Human Revolution back after all. Anyhow from here on out my existence is going to be purely lesson plans and waking up a 6am. 

Which I've decided to started practicing. 



Tuesday, January 4, 2011

A story!

So this is a car wreck from four perspectives. It's a bit long.


                Remembering that day, laughter is the first thing that comes to mind. James and I were on our way to an afternoon play – and I can’t even remember the name of what we were going to see anymore. Being the close friends that we were, we made a lot of jokes back and forth about one another, our friends, people we knew, anything under the sun. It was all in good fun and it brought back many good memories. And so our laughter is the first thing my mind conjures up about that day.
                We had just turned on to Main Street – I remember this because the sun glinted off the street sign in the most peculiar way – when I heard some shouting from across the street. I looked over and caught James looking at me, the residue of the last joke still on his face. I remember his eyes in that moment. They were the clearest blue you would ever see, clear and deep; inviting, as if he might pick you up and fit you into one comfortably. And his smile! The very reflection of his soul, warm and loving. I remember how he was then so strikingly, if only because I haven’t seen him reach that height since.
                I heard the shouting again and it brought my attention to this woman standing on the sidewalk waving her arms about and shouting and it seemed very much as though she were trying to get mine and James’s attention. Her hair was white, or at least I think it was, so I thought she must be some batty old lady escaped from the nursing home. Why that came to mind I am not entirely sure, but it was only making the tide of laughter I was holding back grow ever greater. Just imagine: some crazy old person yelling at random cars as a bunch of white suits search for her. I went to point her out to James to make her the object of yet another joke between us when she seemed to give up on us and began her yelling again in another direction. I don’t think we had the radio playing but for the life of me I can’t recall a single word she said, but something must have registered for both me and James because the two of us looked forward to the road. I think we saw the boy on the bike in the same moment. I think at the same time we also realized there was no way to avoid hitting him. But that sure didn’t stop James from trying to save us all. He slammed down on the brakes and even fumbled for the emergency brake. But there was no stopping us. I think James was crying – when the boy went under our car I could swear I remember hearing a whimper come from James. The sounds were sickening. The light metal of the bike crushing. The small body of the boy breaking. The screams of the people outside around us.
                The car stopped ironically fast after we passed over him. For a moment we both sat there, stunned at what had happened. Not a sound from James and his forehead was resting too still on the steering wheel. Rather than sit there and wonder at what was happening outside the car and inside James’s head – and rather than deal with my own feelings just then – I practically leapt out of the car and raced to the boy. I was the first to him and I think maybe if he had been on foot he would have lived. Somewhere under the car and the tires, bits of bike had forced themselves through his body. He looked dead when I got to him. The only consolation – he probably didn’t suffer, and if he did, well, it wasn’t for very long. I can’t remember much about that scene. Hell, I can’t even remember the boy’s name – Roger or Ronnie maybe – or how he looked at all. The only thing that fixed itself in my mind was the red soaking through his yellow shirt. It was an old shirt – I knew from the places where the thread was worn thin and the color was faded. But mostly I knew because one just like it, though worse for wear, was hanging in my own closet. I felt very strongly for a moment that it was me dead on the pavement and not some stranger. The feeling has haunted me ever since.
                I don’t remember anyone else walking up to the dead boy. But somehow they got there. I don’t have any of their faces in my memory because I really just remember James holding the limp body close to himself. He didn’t care about the blood ruining his own clothes or about the stench that would probably linger with him all day. He cradled the boy as if it were his son lying dead and not someone else’s. I think maybe, through his tears, he saw something that was similar enough to himself that he could imagine it was his son. I couldn’t understand it then – what made him feel so attracted to this dead boy. And I think I don’t fully understand now. But when the police and the paramedics came over though, he let the body go without a struggle. He looked numb. He looked as though he had died as well. He followed the police dumbly away. A little later they came for me too, but the whole interview is a blur. I don’t remember what I said to them or them to me. I was too busy trying to pretend everything I’d just witnessed was a dream. That it hadn’t happened. And yet, I still have that yellow shirt, filling up with red life, fixed in my mind.

                It was hot that day. I remember sweating and thinking how worried I was about it ruining my clothes as if I didn’t have other and finer outfits sitting in my house tucked safely away in a closet. I was walking along the sidewalk – I had been out for ice cream after my lunch – when I looked up and I saw this pretty little car come speeding along the road. It was slick and fast and this wonderful shade of green and I was fixing to admire it – privately, of course; if I let my husband know my love of fine automobiles, why, I’d simply never hear the end of it – when I noticed how fast it was really going and how the driver wasn’t even looking where he was driving. So I looked down the street for him because I noticed the passenger also wasn’t watching the road, too busy staring into whatever dreamland had his attention, and I saw Robert Claybourne, Millie and Jonathan’s son just cruising down the road on his new bicycle without any care whatsoever. That’s when I started with the hollering and the hand waving to try to get that car to stop. I must’ve dropped my purse because I remember later that day seeing scuff marks that hadn’t been there in the morning. Anyway, I saw the car wasn’t slowing so I set about trying to get young Robert to move out of the street. Of course he just looked up at me with this look on his face as though he thought maybe I’d gotten free of the loony bin and thought to myself that he’d make an excellent dinner.
                And then the awful screeching noise of the car’s brakes filled the air up, for just a moment, until they stopped at the sound of a loud thump and the scrape of metal. For a brief second, I’ll admit I thought our poor little town was being attacked by the Japanese finally but once I realized what was really happening I got my eyes out of the air and back to the road. I was just in time to watch Robert be sucked under the car and spat out at the other end. And then he just lay there, mangled, while the car sat a few feet away, engine rumbling. That’s the last that I remember of that day until I came back to my surroundings, face wet and head pounding in the way only a good cry can induce, sitting on the dirty concrete. Someone helped me home pretty soon after that – I’m thankful. I couldn’t have sat around to watch the aftermath. I might have died if I had tried. I have enough memories anyway. Almost nightly the scene replays, slowly, through my head. The car impacting the bicycle and crushing a leg. Robert falling and the sound of his skull against the asphalt. His gasp as the bumper hit his head a second time. And the scraping of metal as the bicycle broke and ripped into his skin. Sometimes I remember the driver. He is always different. In some memories he is handsome and caring. In others, ugly and unkempt. But in the all versions that I see of him, his eyes are the same. They are shining like diamonds and they are mourning. Sometimes I feel there was enough sorrow in those eyes to encompass the whole nation. Why couldn’t he have just looked ahead?

All I had wanted to do was go see a play. I knew the leading lady and I wanted to be there so I could surprise her after and maybe start a thing between us. I figured if I brought Richard along we could all have a good time together. And if those plans didn’t work out, well then, Richard and I were young and attractive. Who knows what could have happened? I suppose my foot must have been pressing pretty hard on the pedal. We must have been going pretty fast, but I didn’t notice at the time if we were or not. But I know we were making great time. And we had a good time of it too, visiting old memories and new ones, telling stories to one another as though we were already grandfathers with the experience of generations.
Though I don’t remember my speed, I do know I wasn’t looking ahead I should have been. I was too caught up in what I wanted to do and what was important to me. It was so fast. We turned onto Main and pretty soon I hear this yelling. Then suddenly a little boy is out on his bike in front of me. He had no helmet, no pads, nothing. And he was staring at me just as I was staring at him. I knew the brakes were pointless. But I had to try. His face came closer and closer to mine and time slowed incredibly. I feel like, if I tried, I could map out his face in perfect detail. He was so young. His skin was smooth with the youth of him. His eyes were bright with the innocence that only a child could carry. I could just see his dreams radiating out from his soul – a war hero, a big senator, a rich capitalist. The eyes were green, on either side of a crooked nose – it looked as though it were broken once or twice – and they were the perfect space apart. A smattering of freckles lay across his high cheekbones that created a nice ceiling to the floor of his flat chin. His red hair was ridiculously curly – it looked like something I might have done on purpose as a young boy to mess with my mother, yet here he was having it done naturally for him. He wasn’t by any means attractive, but he looked smart as Hell. I think, had things gone otherwise, we might have got along swell. I remember spending a lifetime just taking in his face.
And then I hit him. The car stopped seconds later. Richard bolted and left me alone in the car. Soon I left too, but I moved slowly. I felt the weight of mountains on my feet and of planets on my shoulders. People were already beginning to crowd and I remember Richard standing off to the side, staring, wide-eyed. I pushed past a few people. Some protested but gave way. Others felt me coming and moved subconsciously out of the way of my aura of death. I remember holding the boy – Robert Claybourne, I learned – to my chest. I remember sobbing over him and trying to find his soul inside of his eyes again. But it and he was gone with them. I don’t remember much of anything after that. I know I spoke to the police. I know I was taken to jail. I know I told the story of what happened. But beyond that – nothing. Nothing but those eyes, dead and cold.

I remember music in my ears. Good music. Music I enjoy – enjoyed. It was hot, but on my bike there was a cool breeze across my face and arms. I don’t why I was in the street. I don’t know why I was so fixated on my shoe. I don’t know why any of it happened. But it did. I looked up and I saw the car. My mind was blank. I don’t remember anything about the car or the people in it except for the color green and loud noise that I could hear even through my music. Being hit hurt. But not for long. The pain in my leg drowned the pain that should have been there when the metal sliced and stabbed into me. I could feel the metal going in and the blood coming out. But it was all painless. I got very warm, I remember. I felt like the underside of my skin was tingling. Then nothing. Nothing at all.


Monday, January 3, 2011


I am sick again, what the hell?
I came home and I saw my family sick, but somewhere from my silly little head came a voice saying "It'll be fine Kal, you just recovered from this, you have immunities Kal, IMMUNITIES!" Little did I know I didn't have said immunities. So now happy chipper lovable Kal goes to hide in  closet while miserable pessimist Kal comes out to play. Damn it.


Sunday, January 2, 2011

I found something!

It really isn't all that exciting; just an old poem that I wrote when I was younger and more 'angsty' and knew everything. However, I like how it was constructed so I'm going to let you all see it.
It has no official title.

My health is degenerating at a fairly rapid rate;
Could an early death at age 16 truly be my fate?
I hope it ain't but if it is I'd like to take the time
To say a couple things to you before I go in a simple rhyme.

I've loved and lost and must admit I'd've rather never loved at all
Because the pain that came from losing made my heart a car that won't not stall.
And longing for the touch of one who turned out to be a whore
Makes me sick enough to want to shut on love every goddamn door.
I try to keep them open but the bitterness that was spawned
Calls to me to burn the world, turn the human sea into a pond.
And I've realized something about myself: there's a crack way deep inside.
It seems I should refer to "we" instead of saying "I".
Because a new perspective has awakened and it lives next to the old
And it snarls as it watches and when it speaks this I am told:
"Look out at all these weakling sheep dressed up in the furs of wolves.
They think their costumes put them on the top but next to us they're only fools."

At first I was put off by this new misanthropic voice
But more and more I find these thoughts enter by my own choice.
Then at night arrives the questions, is this evolution or am I insane?
I hope for the former but I feel the latter when I look into our brain.
Though I outward may seem stable, inward I am torn
For when the original almost died, a new recipe was then born.
But when the veteran felt recovery the rookie hid but did not leave

So now within a single shell there are two different kinds
And for listening in I bid you thanks from a truly darkled mind.

I didn't leave a date on it, so I don't know when exactly it was written except for some amount of years ago. I admit it isn't very subtle but it got the job done for what I was going for at the time - looking for a way to call myself crazy without actually saying so. I've learned since then that I am not, in fact, crazy - though many may try to persuade you otherwise - but that rebound is total bitch.

Oh, right, I know it's late but: happy new year, merry Kwanza, have a jolly Christmas or whatever it is you did over the holiday season. Wait, I got it!

(belated) Happy/Merry ______!