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Tuesday, November 17th, 2009
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5:26 pm - German Love Stew
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I invented German Love Stew today.
It will win the heart of an aryan dream, one day. ha.
potatoes
sauteed onions in butter
beef bouillon
parsley
garlic powder
ground turkey or turkey meatballs cut into very small pieces
cream
serve over toast torn into pieces.
delicious!
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| Saturday, July 5th, 2008
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6:43 pm - Yes, our world really is as small as I thought...
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| Tuesday, November 6th, 2007
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12:21 am - lolzz borEd!!!
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i signed up for nanowrimo because i'm a dumbass.
now i'm staying up late. procrastinating on a paper. again. anyone know how to overcome this? ehh.
i found this .. "joke." its funny because its sad/true datz.
The nice men are ugly.
The handsome men are not nice.
The handsome and nice men are gay.
The handsome, nice and heterosexual men are married.
The men who are not so handsome but are nice have no money.
The men who are not so handsome but are nice and have money think we are only after their money.
The handsome men without money are after our money.
The handsome men, who are not so nice and somewhat heterosexual don't think we are beautiful enough.
The men who think we are beautiful, who are heterosexual, somewhat nice and have money are cowards.
The men who are somewhat handsome, somewhat nice and have some money and thank God are heterosexual are shy and NEVER MAKE THE FIRST MOVE!!!!!
The men who never make the first move, automatically lose interest on us when we take the initiative.
current mood:  amused
current music: computer whirring
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(1 comment | comment on this)
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| Friday, October 26th, 2007
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4:48 pm - mah hurr gotz didzzz agin
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| Sunday, September 30th, 2007
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12:41 pm - R.I.P. Devo
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my little friend had to be set free last thursday. his cancer was horrible... he could hardly walk. he was suffering immensely.
i dont know when i'm going to replace him. i mean, i know, he's just a rodent. but he's in a better place now, i suppose. hamster heaven with all the other fluffs eating their weight in whatever they want all day long.
he was with me for 2 years. thats a long time for a little syrian dwarf hamster to live. through becky, dylan, and christina. and of course through all my roommates now (mel, kate, CJ, carol, jen, breeana, stacey, aubrey...)
he sat on my shoulder while i typed, and liked to play peekaboo for raisins. my dearest devastator, you were a great friend.
( IMAGE HEAVY )
hoovah
current mood:  sympathetic
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(3 comments | comment on this)
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| Tuesday, September 18th, 2007
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3:30 am - Holden Beach 2007 -- Photo Intense
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| Tuesday, August 14th, 2007
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1:55 am - mosquito bites
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covered head to toe in little red itches
when i dig it only gets worse
feels better to tear off your skin
or spray on some solarcane.
much like the embroidery of the satin pillow
the case sticks to the side of your face
feels better just to throw it away
and snuggle into the comforter.
i try not to look at your face
or steal glances when you're nearby.
always worried you'll assume something
so i plaster on a grimace.
scorpions that crawl all over me
susceptible but not manipulated
i'd pick one up by the tail
because then i wouldn't notice the others.
i'm a wolf, you're a wolf.
of the sea or of the damned?
if i even knew the words made sense
i wouldn't have taken a canoe.
i'm hoping that its not that stupid
of me to dance in fucking circles.
tirade after tirade
but then i'm behind again.
old gypsy went and spoke to me,
lips stained red from a bottle of wine.
"stare into the crystal ball," she said.
but i broke it into pieces.
there you are every moment
but instead of recognizing, i laugh.
pungent smell of frustration
mixed with guilt and compassion.
i'm so incredibly tired
but all i've done is sleep
a haze, a curtain on my brow
and a rope tying my feet...
some days i want out of this town
then i remember my car's still broke.
fuck, and no money to oil it...
i guess i'm stuck here now.
there she is, my best friend.
a smile on her face and bounce in her step.
i want her to know how important she is,
but i dont think i'm enough.
8 roomates crammed in a house
with a broken switchboard and busted fuse.
only one bathroom, not enough water
but then i learned to love again.
old gypsy went and spoke to me,
lips stained red from a bottle of wine.
she said, "you still have a job left to do,"
so i overturned her table and ran the fuck out.
hoovah
current mood:  cynical
current music: Nine Inch Nails - "Capital G"
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(4 comments | comment on this)
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| Friday, July 27th, 2007
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5:51 am - camping trip
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leaving for camping in a bit. back late sunday. maybe i'll be online then.
at a rough patch of life right now--stuck in thorn bushes kind of thing. well, more like holly bushes... because you don't really expect them to have those sharp points on their leaves. plants don't have hard sharp leaves, unless you're a cactus, but then you dont have leaves at all.
but i didn't eat any of the berries. i'm more content to take the hard way out and be lost then end it quickly with poison berries.
its so wierd... being up this early. i'd forgotten how serene the world is. i remember pulling all-nighters for exams. watching the world wake up is so fascinating. life out of nowhere... from the brickbuildings spring forth people all going somewhere with some purpose separate from everyone else, but for those few hours while they're asleep... they're all the same. we are all cut from the same cloth.
i wonder what happened to us to make us forget this.
been realizing a lot about myself, especially that the things i say can really hurt and affect people. if i have ever hurt you, i'd like to know. our unconscious actions don't always determine your character, but they can and DO hint to something much deeper.
i wish i even completely understood what was going on in my life. but i don't. sometimes we realize we need to grow up, that things aren't what we thought, and that when we "knew everything," we were totally wrong. life likes to hit you in the face.
camping. dunes. sleeping in a tent. WOOOOOOT. so excited. hope i don't get west nile from the mosquitos.
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| Monday, July 23rd, 2007
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12:17 am
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she wraps herself in theoretical bubblewrap--for fear of judgement or fear of being listened to.
each and every moment a bubble snaps her senses realign and she retreats further to the coccoon that she has made for herself.
amidst her angst is the piercing realization that there are so many doors to close and so much tape left to hold the bubble wrap around her.
then something hits her... right in the face. it snaps the bridge of her nose, it crosses her eyes, it blackens everything.
"my friend, she's cuban. she's a good swimmer."
"oh, she was nice. she's really young."
"you look like a '40s flapper when you do that!"
"then they sat on the couch together and talked, like cluck cluck cluck cluck... it was cute."
music is playing, echoing with tinny resonance off the walls. where is it coming from? perhaps from expectations, from a dream of exhortations of realization that those feelings were truly legitimate.
stares. raised eyebrows. no no dares speak to her lest they realize how much her mind won't let her hear them.
"that is where we're at."
"we just don't know what the fuck we're going to do."
a prison of the mind--a case of emotion that embodies synaptic nerves stretching to form a cage. fired thoughts colored light that dances on the rocks.
a scream, fists connecting to the walls, bloody knuckles, anger built up long past oppression.
if she only knew how selfish and belittling her thoughts were. if she could just get out of her head.
"HELP ME GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HEAD. I DONT WANT TO THINK ANYMORE!!" she cries, hollars, lungs dry and rasping, nails bloody from dragging them across the walls
current mood:  melancholy
current music: zsammy - "the shake"
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(1 comment | comment on this)
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| Thursday, July 12th, 2007
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12:57 pm - ugh
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might have to get another job because satan's fluffer got a promotion to "assistant manager."
no silverchair tickets. patrick didn't order them in time. only other choice is DC, but its on a weekday.
have a 9th roomate named Briana. here's to her finally escaping her husband.
i have an excessive migrane. the headaches are back. really should look into getting some glasses.
my hamster eats his weight in grain a day. i come home from work, all of his food is gone. gremlins afoot. or someting. maybe a little garden gnome.
drowsy lads coming to play saturday. sweet. maybe jim will come out. i miss him so much.
nothing much to say. carol fox is hungry. stacey is bored.
i'm done blogging.
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| Wednesday, July 11th, 2007
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5:47 pm - Alzheimer's
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Repost of the story about my Grandmother... well, a portion of sorts. the kind you'd find at the bottom of a chamberpot.
Leah remembered Jean clear as day. Even the exquisite language she used to describe her husband left me grounded every time I got the chance to see her. She seemed to be losing grounds with herself, but at the same time, roiling in the fact that my face was as unrecognizable as that Aryan bitch across the hallway that kept picking chocolates off of her candy wreath. No forgotten smiles or utterances of affection on the holidays of course, but I felt as much a stranger as any.
After Christmas, I was invited to do another solo competition. An Italian solo created just for an Alto, fitting my caliber in every way, written by Mozart. “Quando miro quel bel Ciglio,” it was called, and I prepared harder than any I’d ever prepared for before. My teacher continuously encouraged me to look for the truth in my voice, to find that point where vocal unity meets sound and hold it, hold it with my soft pallet until breath escaped me, then, let my heart fall right into the palm of the judges’ hands.
When the day of the solo came, my father drove with me two aching hours in the February ice to a large high school dropped in the middle of a corn field. Characteristically an Ohio school, we looked up our names on the agenda and waited in the gymnasium for my teacher to escort us to a warm-up room.
“Now, remember, Amy,” she had said to me kindly, “this is Mozart. This is your second solo here. You have a reputation, but also, a bar to lift. You will be using your voice to lift it. Remember to sing like you mean it.”
She always sounded like a burned poetry book, chastising but sincere.
I had nodded at her, the usual fear curling in my belly as I harmonized with the piano to shake the dust off my vocal chords. I had fasted for 12 hours, drank no lactates, had no orange juice, then had eaten corn flakes and drank several bottles of water to prepare myself for today. My fellow classmates had pale faces and their hands shook, but I couldn’t wait. Dick was recording this, my father was recording my solo this time, and I couldn’t wait to finally get to hear it.
I sung for the judges as best I could, nearly losing all my nerve when my voice almost broke at an emotional point. My father wiped the corners of his eyes which were screaming encouragement at me, and after I finished I smiled warmly at my audience which had gathered numerously and walked off the stage and collapsed onto a chair.
Leah used to tell me how Jean had performed for her family only, and her heart was in her art with the French horn. She always reiterated that a passion comes before consideration, and liked to remind me casually of my Grandfather and his straight shoulders while he inhaled nicotine from an unfiltered Salem. Poise, a picture of it, had been given to me by her, and she always wanted to be surrounded by such. Safety, whether real or not, is what kept her face glowing through the empty corridors of the facility. Pride for success of her family; pride that she could play us as she wanted petulantly, because she’d forgotten what sincerity really was.
She still had her oranges and bananas, in a basket filled with chocolates and Easter grasses. Each holiday seemingly brought new faces to her—as had the ones before—nothing had really changed, but Leah was unable to recall the details of a caricature, the makings of a raised brow, and made sure to always remind us of her ever-growing stuffed animal collection.
My solo had gone well, I’d gotten another medal and award, but what the judges’ sheet said really frightened me, “one of the most beautiful voices I’ve heard today. Do you speak Italian? Very good pronunciation. Be careful to remember to breathe with your gut and trust yourself. Your voice lessons have paid off.” I had laughed. The only voice lessons I’d ever had were Jean’s haunting chords over the stereo, my mother’s attempts at falsetto over dishwashing, Spanish classes, and a pack a day habit.
For May 25th, the birthday that both Leah and I share, my father drove us up to visit her and drop off a few subtle gifts. There was a ceramic bird with a blue heart in its chest, a hastily signed card, and a cassette tape from me.
Leah took the gift out first, ate a piece of candy, than made casual conversation from her usual perch on her rocking chair. After my mother narrowly avoided a bickering match, Leah asked of her, “Today is my birthday you know. Someone else has a birthday today, right?”
“Yes mom,” Laurie replied calmly, “Did you like your present?”
“Oh yes, I loved it.”
“Did you listen to the tape?”
“I don’t have a player for this little movie.”
“It’s a cassette player.”
“Oh yes, all the top of the line cars have those.”
“Yes, they certainly do, don’t they.”
“Well, I’d like to listen. Dickie? Can you do this?” She feebly raised the cassette tape up to him, and continued to shake like a withering willow in her chair. My father stood and reached for the tape, moving across the room to put it in. Bob, my brother, fidgeted nervously, his autism getting the best of him, “Grandma, your TV has a DVD player…”
“DV what?” She asked him.
“A DVD player.”
“Oh, no silly, TV’s use cable from the airwaves.”
“It’s a CD with movies.”
“Shiny plastic records? Why would you want those?”
My brother held out one he had been carrying all night, in hopes that he could show her The Aviator and Leonardo DiCaprio’s antics, but she took it and looked at herself in it, “Ah, what a nice little mirror,” she said.
Bob shook his head and blew out a breath, then looked to me for help.
I shrugged. My father turned the tape on and Leah tilted her head towards the beginning strikes of the piano filtering into the quiet room.
“Quando miro quel bel ciglio, nero, pien di dolche ardor…” my voice floated down from the stereo.
Leah leaned towards the music, her head inclined. As the tempo increased and the chorus climaxed, she sniffled and wiped her eyes. The song slowed again, my voice thumping with the piano’s beat. As the lyrics closed and the piano finished sweetly, Leah reached for a tissue and blew her nose loudly. She sniffled a bit, “Jeanie singing… where did you find that tape?”
My father looked to me before he looked her in the eye, “That was your Granddaughter, the girl who shares your birthday,” he said.
Her eyes drifted to mine, and the wave of watery blue knocked me over. I gasped at the intensity in her gaze, of which I had never seen before, and she blinked before addressing me, “Amy. I remember now. Yes, the only blonde one, the one that used to wear my green blankets as a cape. Laurie! Your daughter… this was her voice?”
My mother hesitated, “Yes mom.”
Leah squinted again. She gazed beyond me, to the ceramic birds and knickknacks that littered the windows leading to a sterile green turf beyond. Her voice came quietly, “You sound just like her, just like Dale. If only they could hear you sing.”
I rose to hug her. After idle chit chat and repeated significances of how are lives were going—since things never really seemed any different but to her they were always new discoveries—we left and drove the three hours back home.
I’ve never sung in a solo performance since then. I can’t bring myself to it. Ever since that night, Leah has sunken back into her solitude. I’m the girl that “shares her birthday,” the blonde Germanic one. Whether or not she has the tape is of no significance to me.
The pictures are still gathering in the bowl, Great-Grandchildren—cousins I’ll never meet—and other marriages whose invitations I’ve never received. Visits are few and far between. Sometimes the distance seems so much that I can’t even spot her face in the distance floating above the water, melting with the ripples.
I haven’t bothered with choir since that night. To sing would be to run razor blades down the seams of my soul. I sing the lyrics of musicians boisterously in my car while careening down the streets, but for her, to see that judgment and that thorough piercing of the aura in her eyes… I just couldn’t bare it again.
She happily putters about her home, calling whom she can remember to call for advice. Once every few months someone has to come fix her rocking chair. Some days a ceramic bird falls to its demise on the carpet. My mother told me that Leah called Jean her “little bird,” and if she’d gotten to keep her in a cage, I don’t doubt she would have.
Leah is blissfully unaware of the internal struggles that she faced once before. Jean is that beloved prodigal child. Dale was the perfect husband who died in his sleep. She’ll sometimes innocently ask about our memories of them, to see if she can jar her own. She is well aware that she is dying, but is prepared to take it if all the pain is taken away.
Not many weeks ago, in March, Leah went into a fit and started throwing her ceramic birds at the wall where one of Jean’s prized paintings is hung. The attendants had called my mother and Barbie, but all they had been able to tell us was that she had been shouting, “I want to let you go. I want you to fly.”
I haven’t talked to her since December, but whenever I call my mother it’s always the same thing, “She isn’t doing any better this time either. She called me Barbie during the entire conversation yesterday. But our visit was still nice. You’ll never guess where she put your tape.”
“Where?” I asked.
“In one of the ceramic birds that she had thrown against the wall. The hit broke the tape too, and she asked your Dad to fix ‘Jeanie’s tape.’ It was funny really; I had to laugh about it, because that bird was one of the ones we’d fired for her when we were kids. She’s losing it.”
“Mom, it’s okay.”
“I ask God if it will be everyday.”
“But do you wait for an answer?”
My mother never has a reply for that question. She always dodges it. Much like Leah always dodged my eyes until that night.
Right now Leah is in her room, looking at her massive bowl of photographs, socializing with Mrs. So-and-so across the hall, reading another large novel whose prequel she has already forgotten she read, or counting her knickknacks and trying to remember why she has them. A broken tape sits next to the photo bowl—the sticker with my name on it torn from the impact—and a broken ceramic bird surrounds it. Her pride won’t let her look for the sticker or throw away the pieces. She keeps everything that has been given to her by people she can remember. But this gift eludes her, and as my mother tells me, every time she goes up to Ashland with my father, she asks if they can fix it, if they have any idea why it is broken, and my parents always say the same thing, “No, we can’t fix it, but the girl whose voice is on that tape can come see you if you’d like.”
“I’ll meet her again when it’s time,” she always replies, her voice leaving my mother to call me immediately after and beg that I come.
But I can’t. I owe her that much.
current music: George Harrison
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(comment on this)
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| Tuesday, July 10th, 2007
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5:17 pm - tickets sold out
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you ever feel like you've been backed into a corner and your only weapons are faith in God and a smouldering cigarette?
God is breaking me of patience. it feels like my outerlayers of selfishness and hostility are being peeled away... much like you should the skin of a mango.
i'm finding out that those little glitches about my character are some pretty hardcore choleric traits... none of which are very appealing.
soooo i'm a control freak, afraid to be vulnerable, selfish, impatient, in love with the romantic notion of "love..." dammit, i'm a product of society through and through.
after a year of being a christian, to have shedded drug addiction, drinking constantly, anger outbursts, dealing.. now the inside is being fixed i suppose. how else can i reflect on this, but to be thankful? no matter how painful and how much i try to fight it... its all for the greater good. God hasn't necessarily called me to suffer here, but such a deafeating (and still enlightening) burden is going to tail right behind persecution and pain.
according to my mom, things are not good either:
she says to me, "you need to come visit soon."
i wonder stupidly aloud, "why?"
"bob isn't doing so good."
"you dont give him his medicine."
"i stopped giving it to him! godamn pills aren't doing a thing for the autism."
"but they help him focus so he can practice his reading... aren't you reading with him anymore?"
"your father does that."
"but... you're there during the day, what is going on? what's wrong?"
"ever since you left he's been really depressed."
"i've technically lived in columbus for two years!"
tired of fighting with mom. resolutions to follow. hopefully.
A very old story:
“Let’s go play tag!” Kate said. She punched Josh in the shoulder and ran across the
driveway and out through a field, leading to a kids playground that was by the old school.
Josh took off after her, and she started screaming and running away from him. We ended up
nearly scraping ourselves to death on the metal chain-link fence before getting caught in
knee high grass and pissed off cicadas. The sky was a strip of blue cascading to the tops of
the darkened trees. Yellow street lights flooded the road, but this large secluded soccer
field remained bathed in shadow.
Patrick was ambling by, trying to light a cigarette, and Kate shoved him, causing him to drop his lighter.
“You’re it!” She proclaimed, before running away. He snuck up on Josh and jumped on his back, nearly
strangling him and screaming at him that he was it. Josh spun around and threw Patrick off of him, before
looking at me and slowly coming towards me.
I eluded him a few times, spinning and turning and pulling out a few fakes, but finally he got me. I threw my cigarette at him and tripped him. While the others were laughing at him I shoved Kate into Patrick and ran away.
All of us had kicked off our sandals at one point or another, but the raw cold from the dew numbed the pads of my feet. Our childish game, although simple, pushed aside any judgments my mind was concieving. Then I heard a yelp, “Ah! Bees!”
I turned to see what it had been, Patrick was holding his foot and hopping on the other leg, looking for what bit him.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“No, a bee bit me!” he shouted.
“Bees don’t have teeth.”
“Well this one did, it was a superbee. I bet it had a little cape and shit.”
“No, you stepped on the cherry from my cigarette butt.”
He spun around like a dog chasing his tail and bent to retrieve it, frowning at the smoulding
remains before throwing it far away, “That will teach you, bee.”
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| Tuesday, June 12th, 2007
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12:00 pm - rock the casbah
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so i'm finally moved in to the casbah house. tonight is my first night of work since like... september. i'm nervous i'm going to get lost or something. lets hope not.
aubrey went out to the bar with everyone for her birthday. at first we couldn't get in, she had to talk to the manager just so all of us under 21 could even get in. then they kicked us off the porch because they weren't selling enough drinks. but i'm glad aubrey had a good time.
im living up in the attic with two other girls. so far i haven't finished unpacking. its frustrating. i'm just lazy, ha. there's hardly anyone here during the day... they've all got work... but at night there's people in and out of here all the time. so far i hardly even notice that i have 7 other roomates. ha.
aubrey and aaron's gushy loviness is kind of sickening. josh left our homechurch because him and angela are getting married very soon. carol wants me, stacey, and isabel to take xenos classes. i need to get this job thing underway. why is it i have to appear to be doing something to make you happy? dammit i am growing...
peter griffin is on the tv singing about how he needs a jew to do his finances.
he says about clouds:
"look at them there, just plottin'. just pickin their moment."
later.
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| Tuesday, June 5th, 2007
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10:51 am - CAMPING TRIP
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really bad rough draft. more to come.
I went camping over the weekend. Two of my cousins, Jenna and Holly, and my brother, Bob, all graduated. Bob graduated on Saturday so a lot of the family came up to see us in the middle of the sticks in North Lewisburg. Sunday Jenna and Holly both graduated from Mapleton High School in Ashland, and I came down with my portable tent and skewers. Whenever we went up to see Holly my brother and I always went camping with her and the rest of our family on their 10 acres of unspoiled farmland.
The woods were really thick, surrounded by small inlet creeks and lush foliage. When Holly and Jenna had finished their Commencement, we all piled into our cousin John’s Buick Custom and drove out to the property to set up for the Graduation Party. By midnight most of the old people had left, other than my uncle Randy who was sitting on the porch chain-smoking with me while my parents searched for sleeping bags to set up camp in the basement of Josh’s house.
My brother had brought his full-on army gear and his little plastic gun. He even had heavy duty boots for hiking on the slick hillsides that sometimes plummeted to a steep creek filled with jagged boulders.
Josh, Holly, John, Bob, Jenna and I all went outside and started loading up the four-wheelers to drive a few miles away from the house to a secluded part of the cow pasture. Josh, an avid aeronautics enthusiast, had all of his model bottle-rockets and plenty of powder to shoot them to the moon. Jenna bitched incessantly about the weight of her knapsack, and made Holly drive her in the golf-cart because she was afraid of wrecking. I drove Bob in the smaller four-wheeler, the one that didn’t have a trailer, and we took the long way to the site over the steep turns and bumpy trials.
Bob had been squealing with glee, shooting his rifle every now and then at imaginary animals amongst the leaves. He shouted at me, “It’s the Red Baron! He’s brought a squadron of furry Ocelots!”
I jeered him on, shouting over the wind, “Bob they’ve got laser vision! They can see us!”
He screamed, “I’ll get you Germans! Ay Ay Ay! You aren’t going to take my sister back!” He fumbled with his helmet and grabbed onto me as we took another 90 degree turn and said, “I’m holding you for a lofty ransom, German.”
I tried not to laugh out loud at him and said endearingly as though he was Indian Jones and I was his sidekick, “Yessir, but then where would you be without me?”
He thought for a moment, then grabbed my head and gave me a noogie, causing me to almost hit a tree, “I’d be in the gutters, soldier!”
By the time we got there, John and Josh had already started a fire. John was way out of range of the fire’s light and was shouting, “Saboss!” at the cows far away so they’d come in, thinking there would be food. His favorite sport is cow-tipping, and this is not an alcohol-induced obsession. The boy can’t even stand the smell of beer.
Josh was in the grass, stuffing engines into the model rockets and filling them with powder. I stole the lighter from next to him and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke away from his face. He waved a hand in front of his nose then laughed at me and said, “I’ve got a joint for later. Why waste that now?”
I frowned at him, then caught Bob dancing stupidly in my peripheral vision. He was chasing lightning bugs, catching them with my Grandfather’s WWII helmet and holding them cupped in his hands. He’d stare at them for a moment, fascinated, then he’d lift up his hands and open them, gleefully watching the insect fly into the air and blow lazily away.
“No, Josh,” I said calmly, “Not tonight. We’ve got to babysit you know.”
“Yeah,” he responded, shoving more powder into another engine, “besides, Wes is coming later anyway. He always smokes. He’ll bring you some Salvia, that stuff is legal and only lasts for like 15 minutes.”
“Sure, okay. I think I’ll ask Bob if he wants some.”
“You know what happened the last time he had that stuff… he became normal.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he articulated…”
“No. You and him were too fucked up to even speak to each other. We were watching The Stephen Colbert Report on John’s portable TV.”
Josh’s brows knitted together, the wrinkles of his face casting a creepy shadow across his forehead. His glasses glinted with the fire’s glow, and then he said, “Did you bring the tent?”
Bob danced over to us and smiled, “I wanna do it!”
I smiled at him and handed him the bag, “Go for it buddy.”
Holly and Jenna arrived a few minutes later. Jenna was crying and running her fingers through her hair. When she got out of the cart she smoothed down her outfit and wiped under her eyes to catch the running eyeliner from her tears. Holly got out on the opposite side and shook her head, then looked at my smouldering cigarette and f rowned before walking up to Bob to help him. Jenna wailed again and said to no one in particular, “Why does Keegan have to have a demon for a mom? I’m so fucking pissed he couldn’t even come to the Graduation Party… then I’m told by Holly that he fucking went to a bunch of other peoples’ parties, but not mine.”
I rolled my eyes at Josh who stole my cigarette and sunk into it. I slowly waltzed towards Jenna and held out my arms, holding her while she sniffled all over my shirt. Atleast I’d worn black, perhaps the smeared makeup wouldn’t show. I rubbed her head and tried to be gentle, so I said, “It’s okay, maybe Holly was misinformed. You know she’s just nervous about going to Ohio Wesleyan.”
Jenna looked up at me and rubbed her eyes pathetically, “I sure hope so. I love him so much.”
I squeezed her again and patted her back, “Sure you do,” then I went back over to Josh and stole what was left of my cigarette, observing Bob’s quick construction of our tent.
He had already nailed in the spikes and set up most of the frame, pulling plastic along the tubes to form the makeshift roof and walls. Bob was singing triumphantly, something sounding like The Battle Cry of Freedom, and shouting at imaginary invaders.
“He’s really into it,” Holly said, her hands on her hips.
“Yeah, it’s pretty cool. Josh and I want to give him Salvia when Wes comes.”
“Hmm. Maybe I’ll have some,” she said turning to face me.
“What? But you don’t smoke… or drink…” I said, stunned.
“Nah. It’s graduation. I had a few shots of tequila out of this thermos on the way here trying to ignore Jenna’s whining,” she gestured to the red Coleman thermos that was hanging off her backpack, and I could hear the clink of ice cubes tumbling together inside.
“You are the devil,” I said, poking her ribs. She giggled at me then shoved me, and the back of me ran into a hay bail.
“Let’s go hay-bailin’!” I shouted loudly, my hands cupped over my mouth.
Hay Bailin’ is a sport in where everyone climbs on top of a hay bail, and one of you is it, and you play tag while leaping from bail to bail, across all the columns and rows. If someone falls down, they’re safe for a while, and you can also hide at the bottom an tag people as they run by if you’re fast enough. Josh was always “it” first, and when I was it I usually hid because they were too fast for me.
Josh and Holly pumped their fists in the air and climbed up their own respective bails. I turned to Jenna to shout at her, but she was already getting in the tent to sleep. Bob was ripping up grass and thowing it in the air while dancing under the falling blades. He cheerfully shouted at each and every one, coaching its fall.
“Bob, come on!” Josh shouted, “I’ve got some Uzis hidden under one of these, if you find the right one I’ll tell you and you can have them!”
Bob stopped mid leap and faced us, then ran enthusiastically, throwing his rifle near the tent and tossing his hat somewhere haphazardly. He clamoured onto one of the mountains of straw and hay, smiling and instantly leaping towards me. I screamed and jumped away, then shouted, “Bob is it!”
We all scrambled in opposite directions of him, then he fell with a thud into the grass. Holly tip-toed by to see if he was okay, and he leaped out of the shadows and grabbed her, throwing her over his shoulder and running towards the tent, “I have a hostage!” he proclaimed, tossing her near the coolers of food, “woman, make me a sandwhich,” he then proceeded to bow and look up at her under his fringe, wiggling his eyebrows at her. She wrinkled her nose then ruffled his hair and started shoving marshmellows on a skewer.
We got bored after awhile. Each one of us had accumulated a few more mosquito bites. I wanted a cigarette and John had nearly sprained his ankle. All of us girls laid out on a plaid blanket, looking at the stars. I blew smoke up at them, and Holly muched away on a s’more while Jenna bitched about her boyfriend Keegan being at home without her.
Holly began to get fed up, “Jenna, shut up already. You’re not married.”
“You don’t have to be for everything, you know,” Jenna said slyly, picking a dandelion apart.
“Yeah, well,” I said slowly, exhaling more smoke, “you also have to consider yourself in the equation. You just graduated highschool. There is about a 20% chance you’ll end up marrying the guy… and you have to drive him e verywhere. I bet he doesn’t even know how to cook.”
Holly snorted and laughed loudly, covering her mouth and trying to hide her hiccups. Jenna glared at her, then threw dandelion petals at her, “You are such a meanie. He loves me and I love him. Marriage isn’t in the horizons now, we’re going to go to college, then graduate, then get married.”
It was my turn to snort. I hid my smirk under the collar of my shirt and looked at her upsideown, “You’re smiling, this means everything is okay.”
“I’m frowning, idiot, what are you, 12?”
I shook my head awkwardly, and saw sparks behind her head, “Jenna, look!”
She and Holly instinctively turned towards the souce of my outburst, and saw another flare go up into the air. Sparks flew out of it and we knew it was a bottle rocket. With a loud “whoosh” it ascended into the air, only to come to a high point, turn, and fall again. A loud “pop” emitted when the parachute came out, and the little thing fell slowly to earth. Bob was running back and fourth through the tall grass, trying to catch them before they were lost in the forest.
current music: "The shake" - ZSammy
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| Saturday, April 7th, 2007
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5:13 pm - Photo Intense
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so i put up more photography because i was ( bored. )
i've come to enjoy the spontanaety that digital photography allows, and have decided it best to settle for a digital SLR such as the pentax K100D. Let me know if you have one that you "don't want."
Go here to see more 35mm photography: Art Photography, and here to see the rest: Album II
hoovah
current mood:  bouncy
current music: Chris Isaak - "Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing"
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| Thursday, April 5th, 2007
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4:59 pm - RIP Kris
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a 20 year old shot himself last night. a friend of shea's. a really nice boy. alone at his apartment in Iuka park commons, an "apparent suicide," the police said.
campus is trying to reinstate a full campus smoking ban.
tator tot and her fat ass was on the cover of the lantern because she is a champion at eating burrito's that are healthy.
zach the arrogant fuck was "joe buckeye," and looked stoned out of his mind.
i fucking hate campus wide newspaper.
anyway, this is for kristopher doychak, i remember him now, i used to say hi to him as i left the dorms... but i never knew his name, only his face. he always smiled, i used to see him talking to ana bartels outside sometimes, he just seemed so... kind and loving...
RIP Kris.
you've cut the wave of separation
hidden from the world under a raw veil
shiny toy guns and a blackened beat
gripping the hilt and wondering
it's still light out, there's the sun
but does it mean more than reveries?
you can't control what's on your heart
but you can shut it out.
a kindred soul with more to do
so many more paths to cross
so many more people to find
so many more stories to finish.
consolation in the fact that you are not here
but someplace so much better
still sad and unforgiving
is the fact that you did it now
and the police shake their heads, "another one..."
you never wanted to be a statistic
no one ever does
but it ate you up inside
so much that your sweaty fingers
slipped on the trigger
then there was nothing
and the dead silence was enough.
it makes you wonder where God is, in the dark?
no, he caught you, he understands.
he is the only one that does.
restitude, forlorn wonder
you were such a hopeful creature.
tears for what could have been
but never, ever, will there be tears for shame.
may God be with you, Kris.
hoovah
current mood: sad, sick, and confused
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| Sunday, March 11th, 2007
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6:23 pm
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would your lips be as sweet
as the cascade of vehement words that worries my heart?
and even if your eyes were readable
and underneath the bullshit
there was a glimmer of ganache
but it's sweetness toiled
by unfocused repose.
my love you slay me with syllables
or a lack thereof.
air plays off the pause
blows hair into my face
then i smile, and i turn away
but it doesn't matter.
when you hold me it's withheld.
when you mention his name, it is bitter
bile unvoluntarily coating the floor.
but you turn away
and there is the glimmer, there it is.
but if fear is your vice, polish it out.
because cherries are sweet, but not tarmac,
and neither is the cold steel of regret
which you carry on your back with shame
eaten alive and just a shell
that personality and character the glimmer
a sweet reminder of a missed step
and a word many thought insignificant.
i can feel it in my bones
and i've never felt it before
but i don't want it.
there is no sweetness in love
when the love is your own poison
and even the word itself is overplayed
to mean something completely different
and is pasted on sweet candies
whose sweetness tastes like chalk
but not burnt, not seethed, not prayed upon
it simply tears you up
and spits you out again.
hoovah
current mood: complacent
current music: My Morning Jacket - "Golden"
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| Thursday, February 1st, 2007
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3:57 pm
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I’ve decided that I’m going to crack my heart over the side of the ceramic bowl… and separate the yolk and the white. The yolk always gets me in trouble. The solid center, the truth, the unwarranted reasoning… yeah… just throw it away. We’ll keep the white. It’s safe. Safe love, safe feelings.
i wish i could know whether you really know what you need. if i could only be somebody else, i wouldn't be myself, and maybe you'd want me.
omlettes are gross anyways.
current mood: listless
current music: "Bed" - Semisonic
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| Wednesday, January 31st, 2007
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12:00 am - poetry for all!
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| Wednesday, January 17th, 2007
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4:45 pm - So I had some free time...
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Okay, yeah, I didn't REALLY have any free time, but I was bored and decided to edit some of my art photography with this program i got for christmas for 2 bucks instead of writing my english essay, which i really should do.. but.. eh.. X(
soo... ( go see for yourself. )
YAHH YAHH (i'm going to kill colin mclory. no, really, in his sleep... okay, maybe not, but if i do it in my sleep while he's in his sleep it will be like a dream murder thing and you can't be mad at me then.)
current music: Deftones - "Passenger"
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hoovah's journal
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