Sunday, December 26, 2010
12/26/10
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| Ok. Babies in movies. Are they real? Like when the woman has literally JUST had her baby, and it's all gooey still. Is that a real baby or like, some sort of doll? Also, why did Queen Latifah change her first name to be Queen? And why did she make a movie entitled Just Wright? And why was it even in theatres? And did anyone even go to see it? Did they commit suicide afterwards or stop believing in love? Why do parents have their kids on leashes? Why does everyone hate Draco Malfoy? I find him attractive. Why am I still typing? |
Thursday, December 23, 2010
12/23/10
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| Kilby Court is the best place ever. The first time I ever went there was when I saw He Is We. They were amazing. As was The Glass Gentlemen who opened for them, (they aren't together anymore, sadly). Then I went to Phantogram there and that was amazing. I was right next to the speaker. Like literally, the speaker was about a foot away from my face. It was amazing. Honestly, I don't think I've ever experience anything as cool as when they played You Are The Ocean. I'm going to Rooney in February. I'm quite excited. Please go there. |
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
12/21/10
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| Cardigan: Nordstrom's Dress and belt: Forever 21 Tights: Macy's Socks: My mother's sock drawer. By the way, my bracelet (which you can't see because of my ghetto camera (let's call her meg!)) is amazing. I got it at this tahitian store in Washington. The character on it is om. Click here if you'd like to read more about it. It's quite interesting. |
You think these material things bring me happiness in my life, when all they really do is tell me you honestly don't care. So I sit here at my desk and I try to pretend that everything's fine. Yeah all my problems are irrelevant because when it comes down to it; everyone's selfish. Just searching for someone to give them their next fix. Well see, I'm done with games, I'm done with sealed ears. So take anything you want from me and I won't see you in coming years.
I keep trying to create something beautiful, but my feeble attempts fall short every time. I stare up at the ceiling remembering all those people who are gone now. They all spoke pretty words and tore a piece of myself from my body, “for safe keeping”, they said. But now they're all gone, and so am I. The only thing that's left of me is distorted beauty trying to remember what it was like to win the pageant. But there's no such thing anymore, at least not for me.
Monday, December 20, 2010
12/20/10
I wish my camera wasn't so ghetto. Gheeeeeettooo. Gheeettoooo. (Do you remember the lovely days where listening to Akon was actually cool?) But I'm getting a new one soon. Also, I loved them. Look at them!! Honestly... These are the type of people I need for my coffee shop. Or just in general.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
12/19/10
Confession: I secretly want to open up a small coffee shop in a rainy town outside Seattle. All the employees will be incredibly fashionable. The girls will wear tights and the boys will wear sweatervests. All the coffee will be served in mismatching mugs. Various pastries will be offered as well. There will be a couch and armchairs. There will also be two scribble books, where people can write/draw/rant whatever their little heart desires.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
12/18/10
We went ice skating in Spokane. The cold air is always so refreshing. I love it there. Winter is the most amazing season. And I love my grandmother's cats. Maybe I'll post my picture with Zoey tomorrow. Why do old people always have cats? And why do all young people hate cats? I don't understand. I personally want one of those hairless cats... What? They're really soft ok.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
My soul is yours to be adored
If you will only let me be just what I can
Through all of this then they will see the end in bliss
And we’ll cry
Don’t let them take us now
We’re way to close to being nowhere
My eyes can see the flag ahead
Where we will sit and hold ourselves ‘til the end.
Then you will see the pain inside my hand
Now let it fall away to the ground
Help me to save the snowy night
She shouts inside his memory and he cries
Don’t let them take us now
We’re way too close to being nowhere
My eyes can see the flag ahead
Where we will sit and hold ourselves ‘til the end
Until
The end
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
A Second Look
Once upon a time there was a Glass Girl. She spent her days hidden in a tower deep in the forest. She stayed hollow, and her glass sparkled. She did not call out for help, and no one came to help her.
She simply sat. Day after day. Sparkling in the sunlight, and glowing in the moonlight.
One day her sparkle caught the eye of a Wooden Boy. He came and called up to her, “Your beauty is radiating. Your sparkle is insatiable. Let me help you. Come with me.”
Glass Girl heard his words, but she did not look down at him. She simply sat. Day after day. Sparkling in the sunlight, and glowing in the moonlight.
Wooden Boy came to her every night. He filled her ears with pretty words, and her mind with wishful thinking. “Your glow is hypnotizing. Your glass is intricate. Let me help you. Come with me.”
Glass Girl heard his words, and wanted to look down at him, but she did not. She simply sat. Day after day. Sparkling in the sunlight, and glowing in the moonlight.
Each night she fell asleep to his voice, candied images dancing in her head. “ Your luster is brilliant. Your shine is stunning. Let me help you. Come with me.”
Glass Girl heard his words, and looked down at him. She stood. Agreeing to go with Wooden Boy day after day. To sparkle in the sunlight, and glow in the moonlight.
The sun rose and the sun set. She waited for Wooden Boy to return, but he did not come. Her patience turned to anger. Anger turned to sadness. Sadness cut deep into her heart and dripped tears of crimson.
Crimson filled her mind.
Crimson filled her body.
Crimson filled her soul.
She did not sparkle in the sunlight, nor did she glow in the moonlight. Without her sparkle or her glow, she was useless. An ugly waste of crimson.
She threw herself out her window, knowing her glass would shatter. A thousand sparkling pieces scattered throughout the rough dirt, frosting the earth with beauty.
A new crimson girl rose from the ground, and started her life
shove it.
all in.
as far as possible.
cram it.
with empty words.
lost promises.
stitch it.
with pitiful attempts.
and chocolate pudding.
paint it.
a bright shade of yellow.
to bring out the happiness that isn't there.
seal it in a box.
and send it into the world.
see how long until.
the box breaks,
and the stitches rip.
words
useless and empty
remember?
swaying in awkward
middle ground
doesn't get anyone anywhere.
in a place where, feelings and emotions are so
unpredictable and random.
words shouldn't be allowed to roam free.
mouths
and tongues
should only be used for kissing.
forming words
shouldn't be a part of their job
description.
Everyone carves their thoughts into words.
They write poetry to fill desolate holes inside themselves.
They attempt to explain feelings in a verse or a stanza.
As if black lines
angrily scratched onto a white canvas
can solve something,
can ease the pain,
can pass the time.
As if someone will read a poem
that will actually enlighten,
that will actually make a difference,
that will actually stand out.
As if poetry
can help,
can heal,
can inspire,
can matter.
Grow your own heart.
Soak it in gold.
Lock it away.
Do what you're told.
Make your own soul.
Inhale bright blue.
Savor the scene.
Forget what to do.
Raise your own eyes.
Spill out the pain.
Retry just once.
See what you gain.
Write down your words.
Let hands unwind.
Lose haunting fear.
Maybe they'll mind.
I aspire to be broken.
I used to be able to pour out words that could make you feel. But now I'm dry and cold. I use all that's left for defense from the people. They make me cringe with jealousy. My lips are stuck together or else I'd tell them how I felt. Maybe it's a good thing. It probably wouldn't make a difference anyhow.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
If you say something, and mean what you say, then act like it. Do it. Say it. Trust it. Push all fear and caution aside.
If you say something and mean it at the time, but now the time has passed, then be honest. Be blunt. No one likes to wait for what’s not going to come. It’s better to move on, and throw wishful thinking in the drain.
If you said it, and you didn’t mean it, then I hope you burn in hell.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
The Salesman
“She deserved to die. She was nothing but a self-destructive, mess of a woman.” Ronny thought as he stared out his window. There were police surrounding the shop and an eager crowd of people pushing and shoving each other trying to get a better view.
The police officer came out and cleared everyone out of the way. They were bringing out the body and any evidence that hinted at foul play. Ronny pushed the blinds away and pressed his binoculars against the glass. There was the stretcher with the body on it, and something else, something small and white. He adjusted the focus. A box? Why would they be taking a white box? What was in it? Body parts?
He didn’t know, and to be honest he didn’t care. People make too big of a deal out of things that don’t matter. Who cares if someone dies? Everyone dies. Usually the ones who matter most...
He pulled his bathrobe tightly around himself, and returned to the couch. He picked up his glass, and continued watching people who didn’t matter do things that didn’t matter.
“Just like me.” He said to the empty apartment walls.
He heaved a heavy sigh and lay down. He stared at the ceiling and thought about what he was worth. Secretly, he wished he could leave, start over. Go somewhere completely different, and get out of the boring day to day routine he had lived for too long. He never talked to people, and people never talked to him. He didn’t like it being like that, but he figured that they were too cruel to ever honestly care about what someone else felt.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. He shook his head in confusion, and then quickly checked himself over. Brown hair tangled, green eyes bloodshot, his breath smelled like death, and he had been wearing the same sweats for weeks. He slowly rose up from the couch, his breathing labored. He walked down the hallway to the door and thought about the last time he had heard someone knock on his door. The occasional mailman didn’t count.
The police officer came out and cleared everyone out of the way. They were bringing out the body and any evidence that hinted at foul play. Ronny pushed the blinds away and pressed his binoculars against the glass. There was the stretcher with the body on it, and something else, something small and white. He adjusted the focus. A box? Why would they be taking a white box? What was in it? Body parts?
He didn’t know, and to be honest he didn’t care. People make too big of a deal out of things that don’t matter. Who cares if someone dies? Everyone dies. Usually the ones who matter most...
He pulled his bathrobe tightly around himself, and returned to the couch. He picked up his glass, and continued watching people who didn’t matter do things that didn’t matter.
“Just like me.” He said to the empty apartment walls.
He heaved a heavy sigh and lay down. He stared at the ceiling and thought about what he was worth. Secretly, he wished he could leave, start over. Go somewhere completely different, and get out of the boring day to day routine he had lived for too long. He never talked to people, and people never talked to him. He didn’t like it being like that, but he figured that they were too cruel to ever honestly care about what someone else felt.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. He shook his head in confusion, and then quickly checked himself over. Brown hair tangled, green eyes bloodshot, his breath smelled like death, and he had been wearing the same sweats for weeks. He slowly rose up from the couch, his breathing labored. He walked down the hallway to the door and thought about the last time he had heard someone knock on his door. The occasional mailman didn’t count.
The mirror by the door caught his eye. He stared into it, and his reflection stared back at him. A young man’s face was lost in tragedy and alcohol. Where had his life gone?
His thoughts were interrupted by yet another knock on the door, this time more urgent. His eyes strayed from the stranger in the mirror, and his feet reluctantly moved towards the door.
His hands pulled open the door to reveal a tall, pale, thin man dressed entirely in black. He had a small knowing grin on his face, and Ronny had nothing on his own.
“Can I help you?” Ronny muttered.
“Yes. I believe you can. Are you Ronny Baesin?” the man asked in a deep, slow tone.
“Yeah. Who are you?”
“Hi Ronny, I’m here to help you.” The man ignored his question and pulled an object out of his pocket.
“Who are you?” Ronny asked yet again, starting to feel a little cautious towards the man.
“You will know my name soon enough.” The man chuckled. He then handed Ronny a small white box. “What’s in this?” Ronny asked, shaking it to the best of his drunken ability.
The man just smiled, turned, and walked away.
His thoughts were interrupted by yet another knock on the door, this time more urgent. His eyes strayed from the stranger in the mirror, and his feet reluctantly moved towards the door.
His hands pulled open the door to reveal a tall, pale, thin man dressed entirely in black. He had a small knowing grin on his face, and Ronny had nothing on his own.
“Can I help you?” Ronny muttered.
“Yes. I believe you can. Are you Ronny Baesin?” the man asked in a deep, slow tone.
“Yeah. Who are you?”
“Hi Ronny, I’m here to help you.” The man ignored his question and pulled an object out of his pocket.
“Who are you?” Ronny asked yet again, starting to feel a little cautious towards the man.
“You will know my name soon enough.” The man chuckled. He then handed Ronny a small white box. “What’s in this?” Ronny asked, shaking it to the best of his drunken ability.
The man just smiled, turned, and walked away.
Ronny stared after him. “I’m not paying for this!” he yelled. The man disappeared around the corner. His brows furrowed in confusion. He looked down at the box and curiously ripped the lid away. He ran his finger along the inside, searching for something hidden, but nothing was there.
What a strange joke. He threw the box on the floor and went back to the couch. Staring once again at the ceiling, but before long he was asleep.
He dreamt that he was walking down a hallway of open doors, all which had no handles. He was nude aside from a white gown crusted with dirt. He looked down the hallway and saw her.
She was reaching out to him, her dark eyes pleading for help. Her mouth was stitched shut and she had bruises and cuts running all over her body. She was helpless, so thin and frail. His eyes leapt at the sight of her, and he automatically ran towards her. As he ran the doors slammed shut. At first just one, but the faster he ran, the more doors shut. Slamming against the wood and sealing themselves. He reached the end of the hallway, but to his horror she was gone. In her place lay a casket. The lid was open and a white box lay inside. He hesitantly picked it up and slid the lid off. A black piece of paper lay inside. He brought it closer to his face, his hands trembling. His eyes quickly scanned three sentences.
Ronny Baesin. Born January 16th, 1964. Died November 23rd, 2009.
He dropped the paper and backed away from the casket. He turned to run, but two hands stopped him dead in his tracks. He raised his eyes to meet the cold, icy eyes of the salesman.
He awoke to darkness, the sound of his heart beating violently in his chest, and memories flooding into his mind. He stared at the ceiling, and then decided not to think about it. He went into the kitchen and poured what was left of the bottle into his empty glass. He looked out the window and watched the trees blow in the wind, framing the windows of all the dark, empty shops. His mind wandered back to the dream.
What a strange joke. He threw the box on the floor and went back to the couch. Staring once again at the ceiling, but before long he was asleep.
He dreamt that he was walking down a hallway of open doors, all which had no handles. He was nude aside from a white gown crusted with dirt. He looked down the hallway and saw her.
She was reaching out to him, her dark eyes pleading for help. Her mouth was stitched shut and she had bruises and cuts running all over her body. She was helpless, so thin and frail. His eyes leapt at the sight of her, and he automatically ran towards her. As he ran the doors slammed shut. At first just one, but the faster he ran, the more doors shut. Slamming against the wood and sealing themselves. He reached the end of the hallway, but to his horror she was gone. In her place lay a casket. The lid was open and a white box lay inside. He hesitantly picked it up and slid the lid off. A black piece of paper lay inside. He brought it closer to his face, his hands trembling. His eyes quickly scanned three sentences.
Ronny Baesin. Born January 16th, 1964. Died November 23rd, 2009.
He dropped the paper and backed away from the casket. He turned to run, but two hands stopped him dead in his tracks. He raised his eyes to meet the cold, icy eyes of the salesman.
He awoke to darkness, the sound of his heart beating violently in his chest, and memories flooding into his mind. He stared at the ceiling, and then decided not to think about it. He went into the kitchen and poured what was left of the bottle into his empty glass. He looked out the window and watched the trees blow in the wind, framing the windows of all the dark, empty shops. His mind wandered back to the dream.
He shook his head and turned to check the time. His heart skipped, it was 2:48 a.m. on November 23rd.
He took a nervous glance around himself, feeling that he wasn’t alone. When he didn’t spot anything suspicious, he cautiously walked back to the couch and sat for a moment in silence.
The dream once again crept back into his mind. He violently shook his head and pushed up off of the couch. He had been improving, he didn’t need this.
He went into the bathroom. A long bath would help. He plugged in his radio and flipped through stations until he found a song that could block out all of his thoughts. He turned on the bathtub faucet and until the water was steamy, just the way he liked it. He climbed in and relaxed. Too much had happened. There was nothing more with the salesman, he told himself. It was just a dream about a creepy guy who thought he was a comedian with his little tricks and his little gimmicks. What kind of gig can you get with that anyways? None, probably. He wasn’t going to let it bother him. He was going to be all right. Everything was going to be all right.
He took a nervous glance around himself, feeling that he wasn’t alone. When he didn’t spot anything suspicious, he cautiously walked back to the couch and sat for a moment in silence.
The dream once again crept back into his mind. He violently shook his head and pushed up off of the couch. He had been improving, he didn’t need this.
He went into the bathroom. A long bath would help. He plugged in his radio and flipped through stations until he found a song that could block out all of his thoughts. He turned on the bathtub faucet and until the water was steamy, just the way he liked it. He climbed in and relaxed. Too much had happened. There was nothing more with the salesman, he told himself. It was just a dream about a creepy guy who thought he was a comedian with his little tricks and his little gimmicks. What kind of gig can you get with that anyways? None, probably. He wasn’t going to let it bother him. He was going to be all right. Everything was going to be all right.
He stood in front of the mirror and undressed. His reflection wavered and doubled, no doubt a result of his self medication. His reflection reached out to touch the mirror. He was so wasted. No feeling anywhere, not even in his arm. He couldn’t even feel the mirror as he watched himself caress it in slow, methodical circles. “The mirror games are getting old” he said to himself, repeating phrases his therapist claimed would “help in times of trouble”. He turned and stepped into the tub. Only his reflection didn’t. Sure he was seeing things because of all the booze, Ronny took a step back and waved his hands. The reflection stared back at him. Ronny shook his head and gave his eyes a good, long rub. This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, and he didn’t need another know-it-all treatment center trying to convince him he was schizophrenic. When he opened his eyes and looked back at the mirror, his reflection mimicked him. Relieved at the avoidance of an “episode” Ronny turned and stepped towards the bathtub, except there was already someone in there. It was himself, in fact, dressed entirely in black.
He let out a scream and leaped back towards the door, only to slam into something cold and clammy. It was his reflection from the mirror. He had a little grin on his face, as he reached out and touched Ronny’s chest, right outside his heart. At 10:42 on November 23rd, 2009, Ronny Baesin passed away.
Olivia sat staring at the news reporter. Another death? Who even cared? If you’re drinking and popping pills, you’ve obviously got problems. The news reporter was hurting her ears. She shut off the t.v. and absent mindedly traced the scars on her wrist. Her thoughts wandered to a place far away.
A knock at the door brought her back as she quickly pulled her sleeves back down. She walked to the door and opened it to be greeted by a tall, pale, thin man dressed entirely in black.
A knock at the door brought her back as she quickly pulled her sleeves back down. She walked to the door and opened it to be greeted by a tall, pale, thin man dressed entirely in black.
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