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[Sep. 1st, 2006|07:13 pm] |
Listen to the rain
Open your eyes
Survey all that's around
Take it all in
Give it your all
Obtain what you can
Discover deceptions |
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[Sep. 1st, 2006|07:13 pm] |
Can all wounds heal?
I hope so.
This cuts deep, very
Tourniquet of chemicals
And sleeping away my life
But move on I must
I'll find something new
To take my mind away
Distractions are all I want
Though, more than that I need
Simply sustaining my sanity
Will surely lead to self-destruction
I just want to be happy
Don't we all?
I'll continue to strive, to hope
Such a simple goal,
And so very hard to reach. |
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| "Split-Level" |
[Mar. 2nd, 2006|05:24 am] |
She lives upstairs with her cats, and I hear them, constantly, crying; be it for food or milk or affection, I don't know. I try to ignore the cats. I live here in the one bedroom and I am happy. The shower only runs hot for five minutes, and you've got to manually flush the toilet, but it's home. It's my first home since I left my parents', and in some way, psychologically, it is probably a rebellion. But it is home, and having it makes me happy.
And at least I have a leak-free roof! Boy, wouldn't that just suck? I can't afford the heat bill, but I do have enough clothing, and blankets to keep me warm at night. I have more, a lot more, than some others. It sometimes kind of makes me feel guilty to complain.
I've my stereo, and my own music collection. I've half a pack of cigarettes and what's left of this week's quarter bag, my cheap vodka, and a dog who understands that some nights need a chemical comforter. Sure, I occasiocally go into a job that requires temporarily selling my soul to Satan for $6.00 an hour, but other than the temporary annoyance of having to do a bit of work, what've I got to complain about? I've got money for rent, my few indulgences, and a little left over; isn't that how it's supposed to be? Plus, the old woman never complains about my music volume.
So I knock twice, set the brown paper bag of milk and cat food (both dry and canned) down in front of her door, and walk away. I don't want or need the recognition; besides, she knows it's me, and knows this fact about me.
It'll shut the cats up for at least a few days. |
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| "Maybe One Day Danville Can" |
[Nov. 16th, 2005|07:49 am] |
This is an article for an underground paper i wrote ab a year ago... it never got published, but that's a moot point. there are certain places where there should be italicizing and bold and stuff, but im too lazy to fix it, so here it is.
Maybe One Day Danville Can
By Amanda Martinez
Many of us have grown up in Danville, the river city, and know it as home. Many of us don’t appreciate it and several of us complain about it. And why shouldn’t we? There is plenty to dislike. The lack of clubs or bars, nothing to do on Friday nights, the cops are mean, and parents are a bitch (although we would be stuck with the latter two no matter where we go).
These are just the most common and most obvious complaints about being a young adult in this community, but if we look beyond what we know, lose the objectives, and take life by the balls, we are able to see that there is more to Danville than meets the local eye. I recently began trying to see Danville as an outsider, as it would be to someone totally unfamiliar with it and not judging what I found. I looked around me and saw culture, I saw beauty, and I saw more than a part-time job and high school.
How many of us smoke? It seems to be a dying pastime (can you call it that? Smoking isn’t really an activity as such, but more of something you just do) that not as many people partake of now. I mean, why wouldn’t it be? I mean, you can get cancer (gasp!) and die (double gasp!). But if it weren’t for tobacco we wouldn’t have shit around here.
If it weren’t for that tobacco we grow here in Virginia, America would have never had an economy to begin with. But for nearly two centuries it was these textile and tobacco plants that were the way of life for the people of this region, and a damn good way of life it was for those times. Until the mid-nineties Dan River was the largest textile plant in the world, and in 2002, 15,256,961 pounds of tobacco were produced on 6,203 acres of farmland in the Pittsylvania county region alone. I, personally, think fifteen million pounds of tobacco is something to brag about.
Danville is also a very beautiful city, and a very real idea of what life is actually like. If you venture onto the streets that lie in the neighborhoods of North Main or the Ballou Park area (toward the south, not in the Forest Hills community), you may find some people living in less than favorable conditions. But just go cruising casually along Main Street, and you see some of Danville’s beautiful architecture left from earlier times.
And who of you reading this wanted to see the Worsham Street Bridge come down? Not many of you, I would hope; it is a historical landmark, a rare treasure even in its less-than-perfect condition. But isn’t that what all beauty is about: the imperfections? If you don’t believe this, just go look at a work of Picasso.
I also recently began riding the bus because, frankly, I’m too lazy to get off my ass and get a license or a job to pay for insurance. But in doing so, I have found that every person has a story, and they’re all different. I have yet to find one single person who was unwilling to tell me their story while riding on or waiting for the bus. For a dollar, it takes me anywhere I want to go, and I get cultured. Two-fer!
So maybe Danville can’t, but at least it’s trying. In all actuality, we are pretty lucky to be living here. We have southern hospitality, food worth fighting for, and as a general rule people can be (read that: are not always, but can be) quite pleasant. So why not just sit back and chill, and instead of complaining about what you don’t have, live what you’ve got, because constant desire will leave you forever unsatisfied. |
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| (there is no title that is suitable for this story) |
[Nov. 12th, 2005|01:09 am] |
The bartender looked at Alexander Kemp in much the same way one looks at another who is recognized, but just can’t be placed within the mind. But this was the part of town where all the hotels were, so there was very little chance he’d ever met the man before. He gave up and asked, “What might I get for you, Sir?”
Alex looked around quickly, trying to see what the favorite of the locale seemed to be. “I’m not sure, as I’ve not been to a place like this in a long time. I’m not sure what new things they’ve come up with in the last thirty years since I was in a bar like this. Hmm,” he paused.
“How about I make you a cocktail? Enough to make you feel good, but not so much that you can’t walk back to your room.”
“Ah, that sounds lovely. Please, I have a headache, if you could provide for that as well.”
“No problem, sir. And what would you like to drink with that?”
“Do you have milk?”
“Absolutely. Ice cold. Anything to smoke?”
“Yes, please,” Alex replied, in his kindly gentleman tone. He looked around the establishment as the barkeep set to his task. There were few people, mostly academics taking a much-needed break from their coursework.
Alex turned back, placing his hands on the counter and looking at them.
“Don’t you know you’re still a wanted man?”
His head snapped up. He knew that voice. No amount of time could eradicate it from his mind, no matter how old he or the other man got.
“That was a long time ago, Nicolas. The laws changed, and with them changed my exile. Ah, thank you,” he said, as his order was placed in front of him. “Excuse me for just one moment,” he said, addressing the man beside him. He picked up the small cup of pills, tossed them back, then took three large swallows of the milk. “You knew I would be here,” he said, putting the joint in his mouth and looking around his pockets for a source of fire.
“I knew you were in town. I just assumed you’d stop in here,” he said, extending a lit match. “And just because the law doesn’t have a price on your head doesn’t mean there aren’t still men after you.”
“A quarter of a century ago, as but a youth, I helped make these people happy and free. Now, I am an old man, here to experience this,” he motioned to the small empty plastic cup, “one last time. Would you deprive me of such?”
“Made them happy? You drugged them! You and the rest of your revolution,” the last word being spat out.
“I did no such thing!” He took a long hit, and spoke as he exhaled; “we gave these people the right to choose.”
“And in so doing, you made them all slaves to the chemicals you allow them to put into their bodies!”
“No.” Hit. “These people,” he said, motioning around the room, “they’ve no idea who I am. To them, I’m a man who must remember what it was like, before the changes. They’ve no idea how important I was to those changes. My point being, I have enslaved no one. I have spent thirty years on my own small property, providing for myself through craft and service to afford the things I need. These people provide for themselves, without any interference from myself or others.”
“And what of those, willing to put out for your head? Some people didn’t take well to the changes.”
“Ah, well, those people exist, I suppose, and they are free to put a price on me if they so choose. I would rather they didn’t, but who am I to stop them?” Alex looked up at the clock on the wall. “Apologies, dear Nicolas, but I must be going now. I have a rendezvous with an old friend.”
“Sure, sure,” he responded, absent-mindedly.
Alex stood up from his seat, put on his overcoat, and straightened his hair up a bit in the glossy surface of the countertop. “ Want to look good for my funeral, I do. Well, goodbye.” He reached into his pocket to pay, and Nicolas spoke up:
“No, no. I’ve got that,” he said, placing a note on the countertop.
He walked from the bar, briefly noticing Nicolas discussing something with the bartender, and shivered a bit in the cold night air. He took several deep breaths, said a quick prayer to whatever deity cared to listen, and took precisely fifteen strides down the deserted street before he collapsed.
so many questions left unanswered! BOW BEFORE MY AMBIGUITY! *laughs in a maniacal manner* |
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| "Music Never Sounds the Same Anymore" |
[Nov. 3rd, 2005|01:02 am] |
I'm not sure what the fuck this is... I'm a little high ("No, really?? You??")
Drugs will show you things. Who are your friends? Who is your family? Who's gonna be there?
Usually, the truth is that the answer to all of these questions is the same. The mates who won't strand you. The ones who will pay your bail, even though you can't repay. The ones who don't care that you need them to repeat that last bit, it didn't get through the static in your mind. The ones who not only reassure your paranoia, but often times share in it. The ones who laugh when you fall over something, knock something over, or set something aflame.
Drugs will show you another world. One where your rent, your job, your clothes, your entire existence is insignificant. Drugs will reassure you. Drugs will never betray you.
I can't tell you why I am the way I am.
I can't tell you why we're here.
I can't tell you why I'm unhappy.
We choose life, but by our own terms.
I try to do one illegal act every day.
I can't tell you why I don't much care anymore. "Fuck all," I say. And with conviction, as well. Because tomorrow's but a day away, and that's way too fucking soon.
Even when you're happy, there's always a piece missing. Even when you've got Jesus, there's something that just isn't there. A white picket fence and three-point-five kids still leaves a hole. Drugs make you stop caring. It's when all the drugs are gone, and you're forced to think of these things that you at any point in time give a fuck.
And despite the fact that you didn't sleep last night, that your only living relative died, and your dog shat in your shoes, the world continues to turn. Sometimes, you need something to make it stop, if only for a few seconds of greatness. In that world, the fact that you're a nobody, that you've done fuck-all with your life, that maybe that last kick might have done the dog in... all these things no longer matter.
So get the shovel, I'll get the pipe, we've got a dog to put six feet beneath our filth. |
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| "Indifference" |
[Oct. 30th, 2005|06:35 pm] |
At first, I thought I’d finally lost my mind.
As I was putting the lighter to my pipe to smoke the ash and resin I’d been reduced to, I heard a high-pitched wail, a sound that my mind thought was a howler monkey. Now, I live in suburbia hell, and we don’t have howler monkeys running around. This is where I thought I’d gone mad.
However, in my insanity - and knowing howler monkeys - I waited for a second scream. And it came, only this time it was longer, more desperate, and that of a screaming woman.
Now, this is not a common occurrence where I’m from. Crime, here, is either the mischief of the young - or those not yet grown into their maturity - having a spot of fun; or the heinous acts of gangs, performed in major department store parking lots.
So I was faced with a decision: I could go inside, call the cozzers, and let them handle it, or I could do nothing. I could hear a man yelling now, and I know if I jumped a few fences and walked about a hundred yards away from my house I could encounter any unpredictable sort of scenario. So, being the good child that I am, I take out my lighter, my fags, and fill my lungs with god-only-knows how many different chemicals, and I forget the woman, and the man, because it isn’t my fight, and in truth I don’t care all that much anyway, save for the fact that, this time at least, I wasn’t crazy. |
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| "Sonnet" |
[Oct. 26th, 2005|05:10 am] |
Strong cancer boy with such a pretty face
He kept it all locked up so tight inside
I want to comfort but I give him space
Somehow, someway he has found a bright side
He was drunk I could smell it on his breath
His voice far beyond slurred and his tone loud
Laughing so hard I thought I would meet death
At this point I knew that I loved this crowd
Quetzalcoatl shall always be my friend
I would follow him to the edge and back
One of these days his flour glue will mend
But I will still defend him from attack
Two days of liveliness came from these three
I watch after them because they protect me |
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| "Virii" |
[Oct. 26th, 2005|05:07 am] |
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| "Blinkie" |
[Oct. 26th, 2005|05:06 am] |
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| "Antiflag" |
[Oct. 26th, 2005|05:05 am] |
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| A Splatter in Five Filters |
[Oct. 26th, 2005|05:00 am] |
Apologies for size.
Bass Relief
Glowing Edges
Halftone
Green Neon Glow
Plastic Wrap
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| "Bullshit" |
[Oct. 26th, 2005|04:49 am] |
The novelty's gone
But the love's still there
Constant reminders
Life's so unfair
I may seem apathetic
But I swear I still care
In the morning
Can you wake me?
When it's over
Will you hate me?
The silence is so loud
The darkness is so bright
I'm falling so far down
It's too hard to fight
i just found this in some old files. what the fuck was I on when i wrote this one? NOTHING! see, lack of drugs is bad, kids! it leads to CRAP! |
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| "Swirl" |
[Oct. 26th, 2005|04:46 am] |
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| "Spack" |
[Oct. 26th, 2005|04:40 am] |
"Spack" (it's too processor-heavy to be hosted in my journal) |
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| "Two Pretty Spheres" |
[Oct. 26th, 2005|04:38 am] |
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| "Hell Ahead" |
[Oct. 26th, 2005|04:38 am] |
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| "Irony" |
[Oct. 26th, 2005|04:36 am] |
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| "Cigarette" |
[Oct. 26th, 2005|04:28 am] |
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| "South Park Me" |
[Oct. 26th, 2005|04:25 am] |
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