check my videotape.

Archetypal Themes of Transcendence in Lady Lazarus

2010-03-04T15:02:00.004-05:00

*NOTE: This is a research paper I wrote for a class while attending UPG. I have posted it because there is not much information on the topic. I have provided citation information at the bottom of the page. If you have any questions about anything, please email me at caslpierce@gmail.com

By Cassandra L. Pierce
University of Pittsburgh at Greensburg

Using writing as a documentation of her life, Sylvia Plath was known for her dark and somber style. With the abundance of media available, there is difficulty bypassing the drastic biographical undertones in her work. While these undertones are very apparent, they detract the reader from seeing beyond Plath as the narrator. For instance, in the poem "Lady Lazarus," the plot appears to be a direct view of the life of Sylvia Plath. In summary, a woman in her thirties recalls how she escapes death, once a decade, and what her plans are for the next experience in this decade of her life. The assumption that Plath is speaking as herself disallows the reader to appreciate the many archetypal symbols utilized throughout her work.

In this controversial poem, which compares a modern human life to that of a holocaust survivor, it is easy to overlook how Plath is drawing subtleties from her life to compare herself to a phoenix. In Greek mythology, a phoenix is a bird native to India. At the age of five-hundred, it flies to a frankincense tree to fill its red wings with spices. A priest in Heliopolis covers an altar with twigs, which the phoenix lights on fire, and then burns with the destruction. A small worm is found the next day, crawling through the ashes. Over a span of four days, it transforms back into the phoenix and returns to its place of origin (“Medieval Bestiary”). The symbolism of the phoenix blatantly reveals itself in the last stanza of the poem, “Out of the ash/ I rise with my red hair/ And I eat men like air,” and again in stanza 14, “They had to call and call/ And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.” The image of transcendence in poetry, as described by Carl Jung, is the speaker's journey into mental or spiritual rebirth, where a new attitude may be attained. The inadequacy of the former attitude is, thus, transcended (Bodkin 72).

The symbol of the phoenix is present in more than just the idea of transcendence. In the last stanza of the poem, Plath mentions her “red hair.” While the phoenix has red wings, the symbolism of the color red should also be noted. Research has indicated that red frequently appears in relation to the transitional change of emotional extremes, between the symbolic realms of life and death (Bodkin 44). In Lady Lazarus, Plath has written about this precisely, as her phoenix rises out of the ash.

The work of Otto Rank suggests that death, in the eyes of a poet, is seen as a quiescent resolution of affective excitement, or, the poet realizing itself anew in consciousness, to attain a new character in synthesis (Bodkin 66). The unsettling craving of death is apparent in stanza 15, “Dying/ Is an art, like everything else,/ I do it exceptionally well.” In stanzas 22 and 27, she addresses a doctor, in German. Plath refers to the doctor as her enemy, God, and Lucifer. While the phoenix is longing for death to achieve transcendence, the doctor, who is the enemy, provides medical treatment, causing the phoenix to avoid the state it thrives for.

“I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies, and whoever lives and believes in me will never die” (Trigilio, Brighenti, and Arny, John 11:25-26). The idea of the phoenix and transcendence goes beyond mythology. The entire theme of the poem is located within the title, “Lady Lazarus.” The story of Lazarus of Bethany in the book of signs tells how Lazarus rose from the dead. Like the phoenix, Lazarus was dead for four days, until Jesus wept, and called upon him to restore his life once more. While this shows a direct relation to the story of the phoenix, it takes the meaning of Plath's poem a little further. Throughout the Bible, Jesus wept on two occasions. On this occasion, it was to show that although He was divine, He was also human. Plath relates the poem to her biographical life, and the title shows the inner turmoil a person can suffer, while longing for human understanding (Trigilio, Brighenti, and Arny 198).

While it can only be speculated that Plath never found her pathway to humanity as Lazarus did, it is apparent through this poem that the craving of death was not crude. The speaker longs for a new life through death, regarding herself triumphantly as both the phoenix and Lazarus of Bethany.

Works Cited

Bodkin, Maud. Archetypal Patterns in Poetry. London: Oxford University Press, 1971. 44-45, 66, 72. Print.

Hale, Cynthia Anne. "Follow the Red: Exploring the Archetypal Experience of Color." 2007. Web. 2 Mar 2010. .

"Phoenix." Medieval Bestiary. 31 JAN 2010. Web. 2 Mar 2010. .

Plath, Sylvia. “Lady Lazarus.” Ariel. New York: Harper Perennial, 1965. 6-9. Print.

Trigilio, John, Kenneth Brighenti, and Rose Arny. The Everything Bible Book. From Genesis to Revelation, all you need to understand the Old and New Testaments. Avon, MA: Adams Media Corp, 2004. 198. Print.

Citation Information:

Pierce, Cassandra. "Archetypal Themes of Transcendence in Lady Lazarus." . 04 MAR 2010. http://checkmyvideotape.blogspot.com/2010/03/archetypal-themes-of-transcendence-in.html. Blogspot, Web.

getting ready.

2009-10-25T10:04:00.001-04:00

For work. At the piano store.

I have to open, and I may totally, 100% be late.

In the meantime, I'll be your mirror.

you can't shit in this house.

2009-10-12T19:53:00.002-04:00

son of a bitch.

see: everything I gave up when I decided to move out of my apartment.

flashbacks.

2009-10-06T19:10:00.003-04:00

I'm finding more and more recently that I am having visions of embarrassing moments in my past. It's kind of funny, they are moments that should be a part of any childhood, but I have found that I am particularly ashamed of them. Most of them are from fifth grade, which was a year I was growing more awkwardly toward puberty and a need of acceptance among my peers. That was the year I began to notice I did not fit in, and I'd mark it as my downfall, socially.

My teacher in fifth grade did not like me, which was tough, because my two best friends were his class favorites. I felt like I was picked on often, being not as pretty or well-spoken as the two. I just hadn't let myself mature. They would tell stories from their lives during educational classroom discussions, and when I would attempt to do the same, while striking laughter from some of my student counterparts, I was admonished by the teacher for changing the subject.

There was one good thing about fifth grade, though. Because I did not excel socially, I was pretty frustrated most of the time. I spent everyday doing the typing programs, trying harder and harder to increase my speed. At age eleven, I was typing nearly 130 words per minute. I found solace in patterns and repetition. I guess that would explain my desperate need to play Bach on my mandolin, almost every time I feel like I am losing it.

Fifth grade was an interesting year. Also, Mr. Gerstel, now that I am 21, I can say you were a pretty shitty teacher, and remain unbiased. You suck.

finances and music.

2009-10-03T10:56:00.003-04:00

I just sent in 1/10th of my school payment and paid off my credit card entirely, for the first time.

I woke up today and decided to be more responsible. I guess it feels nice, but, like, I have zero dollars now. Maybe just enough for gas to work for the next two weeks and a pack of cigarettes a day.

Too bad I'm going to have to use my credit card for more school books, but it felt good to just pay that sucker off.

My parents got me a small spinet for free. It's severely out of tune and one of the lower C keys sticks (who needs C?) but that's OK. I've been learning my minuets on it. It'll do for a year or so.

Music writing itself has gone down. A large break is being taken what with school and work taking over my entire life. I can't wait for winter break, perhaps by then I'll be good and filled with inner turmoil to spew on the page.

Verses On Youth

2009-09-09T23:50:00.003-04:00

I like to leaf through old diary entries. Today, I found this one, from 2007.

Lightning bugs flash across fields
The smell of summer rain and
Bug juice on palms.
The first time eating at a fast food joint,
Happy meal included.
The pear tree in the yard
Scary in night.
Mommy's fingers running through my hair.
Daddy and his paper nailed firmly to a chair.

Bittersweet sunset, children called in.
Rain and measles and watching all my friends.

Before the age of 7
Nothing seemed real
And everything after is just a dream
Of the future as I read upon my past.

I'm white.

2009-08-06T23:29:00.002-04:00

But I write killer r'n'b tunes.

"Toby is a stupid name."

2009-07-30T00:48:00.003-04:00

The cat comes out of hiding.
Michelle points, and says, "This is progress."

"Awwwwwwwwww! Hi, Progress!"

Because that's how we name things in this house.

California

2009-07-26T19:50:00.003-04:00

We rolled in the grass as if it were papers,
lighting matches and dodging lights,
and Billie cut thru speakers
in hot July.

What could a couple of beatniks
get into tonight?

5 times a day.

2009-07-16T21:40:00.003-04:00

Mom says she'll help me go in on a piano. I am fine with a weighted keyboard.

We'll get that the beginning of September, and I'll put it in my new room. I am going to miss this room a LOT, but I need to save the money.

With a weighted keyboard, my practicing will be up to 6 hours a day, two per instrument.

It's nice to have hobbies. God help me when I get sheet music for my flute.

She's a very kinky girl.

2009-07-16T08:13:00.003-04:00

Last night in my dreams, I definitely composed a short claymation film called "The Dinosaur Ate My Best Friend."

It was set in a large auditorium where a huge, lifelike model of a tyrannosaurus rex took up the front of the room. A teacher approached it, and it blinked an eye, moved around a little bit, then, kind of gobbled her up.

Slowly, each of the other students, even the janitor were singled out and eaten. The main character was having an awesome time watching everyone get eaten up, but the last person the t-rex eyed up was his best friend. The kid watched in horror as the dinosaur walked toward him, through the aisle, where his best friend was sitting next to him, listening to an ipod -- completely unaware of what was about to happen.

Then, Michelle knocked on my door and woke me up for work.

Oh, and a soon as the dinosaur ate the teacher, Superfreak began playing.

p.s.

2009-07-14T11:34:00.002-04:00

When I drink, I schedule random events that don't make sense, in my PDA. For instance, at 6PM today, I have to "fuclyoo bib ohteu."

I hope I don't forget about that.

surreality.

2009-07-14T10:18:00.002-04:00

I love my co-workers so much that I'd get a t-shirt made about it.

i love how you love me.

2009-06-29T00:34:00.002-04:00

science.

2009-06-28T10:37:00.002-04:00

"I just keep thinking that we're in a petri dish. We're little Amoebas just floating around. And I am the little Amoeba off in the corner. I keep thinking how it's possible someone is staring through a microscope right now, looking at me. And maybe someone is staring at them, too. See? This is why I am so fucking depressed. This is what I think about. I'm the Emo-moeba."

loggingg in

2009-06-27T00:17:00.001-04:00

it took me 7 failed attemps
and 1 sucessful

to makes this entry posible.

thankyo u, thankuo uy

"Pretend it's a cough. Ignore it."

2009-06-25T10:30:00.003-04:00

I'll talk to a few people before I go to sleep at night. Thankfully, this is typically done on the computer or the phone, and not in person. I have this problem. After I fall asleep, the conversation continues. There is no stage of "sleep" for me to differentiate what is a dream and what is reality.

This is sometimes a problem because I will continue the conversation, dream for several hours, only to wake up and continue the conversation from where I left off.

Lots of people often have no idea what the fuck I am talking about, and my body has an idiot for a person.

"Still not good enough."

2009-06-24T21:42:00.003-04:00

"Just like my father says to me."

"Just like Michelle, on top."

Not like the image I created of you, the image I shatter each day. One more pill, another bottle hits the scratched, wooden floor. I burn what you gave to me, because there are no excuses.

Maybe he is just an idiot, I would think to myself.
No -- it can't be. I would never have felt such a way for someone so small.

The mystery behind all of this is I never actually felt anything, not at all.
We are in love with our ideas, our situations, which we create for ourselves.

They are not permanent. They change, constantly. There is no such thing as stability. There is no such thing a consistency. There are only patterns we can hope are healthy, but no pattern is healthy. Nothing can be done in moderation. What is good for me destroys me.

I wrote a fucking awesome song.

value.

2009-06-24T17:20:00.001-04:00

I have tomorrow off.

I have a full 24 hours to give to something.
Well, subtracting a good 8 for sleep. And a good 2 to get ready for work.

But 14 hours, I have.
At least.

precision.

2009-06-23T08:18:00.004-04:00

I was stuck in, by far, the weirdest stage of my life. Ever.

The strange, nicotine dreams stopped. The random, caffeinated obsessions stopped. The biting of my nails stopped. It all kind of stopped and decided to make sense again. When G showed me how to play pool, it was reminiscent of my childhood, when I would play with my then young best friend, in the basement of her grandparents house. I was allowed to call them my grandparents, too, because I didn't have any. We would, every now and then, make a fairly easy shot, but we would also poke chalky holes in the Styrofoam ceiling that padded the unfinished floor. I haven't heard from my then best friend for a few weeks, when she called me to let me know it was possible she was going to jail. I was thankful and did not cry, because she was, at least, alive.

I like that you don't have to think. It's all numbers and shapes and angles. Point of contact, making the ball rotate one way or the other. For the past couple months, I have spent every night in the bar, piecing my life together in isosceles triangles. I lost my ability to do math in 2004, but it is still visually appealing.

Now, I feel partially human. No more or less than before. That's a pretty big deal.

I've said this a thousand times before, but I have a really good story I need to tell.

breakfast.

2009-06-21T19:34:00.001-04:00

well, I'm glad that's over.

I'm getting in the tub.

this is how it goes.

2009-06-20T00:10:00.000-04:00

vulnerable.

2009-06-17T11:24:00.002-04:00

A nightly crutch you could have whenever you want
and you know that.

Do you know that?

falling out.

2009-06-17T01:47:00.000-04:00

you woke me up.
the least you could do is entertain me.

ratio.

2009-06-16T08:47:00.003-04:00

the amount of time it takes a person to tell me they love me,
verses
the amount of time it takes that person to tell someone else they love them,
verses
the amount of time it takes another person to become that person's world.

Love at first sight exists, in an ordinary and foolish fashion.
I take pills for that, so it's fine.

Self-notage:

2009-06-13T01:12:00.001-04:00

Drunk + window shopping online + access to my bank card number = always bad.

it's not real, anyway.

2009-06-12T10:02:00.002-04:00

Last night, I got let out of work a full ten minutes early. I rushed over to the mall's annex to plan an eventful night of drunken art. The art store was right next to the liquor store, so I ran in to find a beautiful bottle of coconut rum and then ran back out -- but the art store was closed.

I've never been awesome at prioritizing.

(+) 50

2009-06-11T08:23:00.002-04:00

Last night in my manic stupor, I knew I had to be up by at least 5 to get completely ready for the meeting that I had to be at by 7. It was 12:30 and time was running out. Knowing I would be groggy in the morning, and also knowing I would have no clue what I hit myself with, I set my clock so far ahead that it hardly made sense -- a good fifty minutes. My alarm was set for 5, and I knew I would keep resetting it. I thought this time it might actually work out.

Unfortunately, I slept through/reset my alarm so many times, that when I actually woke up, the clock said 7.

Unfortunately, I had forgotten how far ahead I set my clock, and called my boss immediately to tell him I wouldn't be there. Although, I could have -- were I aware of the actual time.

When I realized what time it was, I realized how much I fucking hate the stress I put on my body. One day this will all make sense.

A melody is a secret only several dozen know.

2009-06-11T00:17:00.003-04:00

I refused to wear those shoes so
you wouldn't see me grow.
It turns out I am bigger than you
and stronger than you.
My muscles do not flinch when
I hear your name.

A long walk home,
but three inches I've grown,
and I cannot overstep
what was never there.

victory.

2009-06-10T10:43:00.001-04:00

The one thing he can never take away is my art; my freedom to express in large, fuckable quantities.

naked.

2009-06-10T10:33:00.003-04:00

Selfish window, I adore. Streaking solemn,
wanting more.
One eye open, looking forward. Haunting silence,
hit the ceiling.

Are you troubled or in pain? As it seems,
you will refrain.
Maybe we could speak again, in nude.

Heavy hollow and the halfway smolders bright
before it can lay.
Lying beatnik, sweltered touch. Dying
innocence; a rush.

In colors and in satin, fingers tearing
at the wrapping.
Mouth wide open, that's the last thing;
so subdued.

I, you taunt. You, I want.
Maybe we could speak again, in nude.

barely done.

2009-06-09T12:25:00.003-04:00

1) wipe off face
2) oreos
3) stare at pictures of hayden panettiere
4) slam doors
5) nap
6) fight someone
7) pet the dog
8) back to work
9) sleeping pills
10) day to myself.

utensils.

2009-05-14T08:17:00.003-04:00

walls crumbling
and I stumble to find the proper words,
as they shatter between the way the sky
lights up the dots on your eyes and the seconds
spent with your face in mine, much like pulling
out a spoon when you're vying for a knife.

should i eat today
god help me satisfy my right. oily skin brings
sweat to surface, almost suffocating unnatural
me. I pull for a knife. Surrounding debris stopping me.

naturally
you pull from behind, while I am
stuck in your drawers, vying for a knife.

black outs.

2009-04-26T19:06:00.001-04:00

total count for April, so far: 4.

To hell with this math. It's guitar time.

bare.

2009-04-14T00:07:00.002-04:00

Legs out, dangling, wind creeping up my shirt
The neighbors' lit walk way shines but does not gleam,
the smoke perforates the air on this night.

A window of my own, the heat from inside pushes the air into a
warm and pleasant medium. Ankles at my thighs; heels and underwear.

I am less alone than I thought I was.
An odd realization, when the smoke perforates the air on this night,
and a beat flows from my window sill,
and soda crackles nearby,
and the banana is the proper shade of yellow and brown
on my cardboard night stand.

I reek of A & D and ammonia.
Today was awesome.

five years.

2009-04-03T14:21:00.002-04:00

I got this in my email this morning:

The following is an e-mail from the past, composed on Saturday, July 31, 2004, and sent via FutureMe.org
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Dear FutureMe,

Drink Up.

- Cas

Birthday wishes from your sixteen-year-old self are the best.

asshole.

2009-04-02T00:52:00.001-04:00

I will follow you home,
or maybe just until you drive far enough out of my way
that I stop giving a perpetual, misconceptual shit.

<3

doo-wop.

2009-03-30T02:46:00.003-04:00

1940's swing, I lift my cup. Challenges, like stretched
rubber balloons, thick with security and do not pop.
Precipitating, impressions fair to say

this all happened before yet unlikely
it did not.

Directionless passenger, following through,
I run, you walk. It is cold outside.

Bask and gleam, this new discovery. This is what playing is about.
Timeless, energetic, more than half full --

No unforgivable childhood, always had what I wanted, never
wanted anything, speak for myself, deep-rooted
and uprooted, I can manage.

The catch is, I am timid beyond reason,
my writing suffers in my ability to be happy.

What about you?

(untitled)

2009-03-28T18:55:00.001-04:00

granting pleasure of the knowledge
that you are still all I think about.

it is tragic

forgive me

2009-03-25T09:45:00.002-04:00

for assuming you were trying to communicate.

next time I won't think about what you are saying,

after all, reactions are a man's world.

Didn't realize it.

2009-03-17T12:34:00.002-04:00

How tough it is to let go of the many ways I am constantly connected to everyone. Well, as it turns out, it only took one person to air dirty laundry on Facebook to make it that much easier.

I've been making a lot of music. It's kind of funny because I am so shy about it. The only person I ever share things with is Michelle, and I don't even give her the extent of what I've been working on. It's like I am embarrassed or something. That was never like me before. I feel like every other person I have tried to share it with has blown me off. Not really cared. Sometimes I want to be on a stage. All I wanted was 15 minutes.

I can't wait to start working. I feel like a lot will change once I have an apartment again. It is going to be so nice to go home to people who aren't my parents -- and no offense to them, I love them. But they put too much pressure on me. We're close, but probably too close. They need to let go.

I don't feel like an apartment will solve all of my problems, but it will at least give me some time to establish my own values.

I am going to start using this blog a bit more personally. I've had a lot to say, I just haven't been saying it. Isn't that the point of a blog?

dirt.

2009-03-16T13:01:00.001-04:00

on my face.

washes off.

addiction.

2009-03-07T16:18:00.002-05:00

Last night, I didn't stop to buy cigarettes on my way home.

I knew I'd need a reason to get out of bed this morning.

blue.

2009-03-06T16:08:00.003-05:00

Today, I will:

1) Take a nap.
2) Play guitar.
3) Play mandolin.
4) Babysit.
5) Write a new song.
6) Do a homework assignment.
7) Clean up my room.
8) Plan a fun time.
9) Check in on old assignments.
10) Finish cleaning out this God awful computer!

If God Wills

2009-02-26T23:19:00.002-05:00

An unfinished concept I am currently working on.

-- Cas

A box of unopened letters sat at the left hand corner of her dresser. Each one was properly labeled by a date in which it had been carefully written. Some of the envelopes felt more full than the others, an odd shape coated in thin white paper. I ran my fingers over the indentations, creating a new crease for every lump. Some of these must have gone undisturbed for decades now. The letters were not addressed to anyone. They were numbered, dated, and in order, but the blank space where a name should be etched my curiosity. I ran my thumbnail along the adhered lip of the very first envelope, careful not to rip the seal in case I regretted this action. I knew I could seal the envelope again as if it had never been opened, however sealing my guilt would be another story.

A bright yellow paper was neatly tucked inside the envelope's pocket. It had been folded twice, and reminded me of opening my acceptance letter from University. Unfolding the letter, it was not revealed to whom these words were intended.

I cannot wait to see you. My whole life I spent wondering what it would be like to meet someone like you. No one around me could even imagine I would long for something in the way I long for you. You are the most beloved on earth, and I wanted to make sure that you knew you were always wanted in every way. I love you.

There were hundreds of these unopened letters, all carefully filed, ranging from the time my sister was seventeen, until her untimely death at thirty-one. I don't like to place the blame on anyone, but the rest of my family likes to blame Frank. She met him sometime in the last three years, where he magically fell into her pathway, blocking any sort of escape. He was charming, though. He did it with flowers. My sister was a beautiful woman of the earth. Her garden grew taller than most grade school children can stand. She wore oils on her neck that smelled of sandalwood and her natural beauty did radiate like the glowing moon. She was able to stop most men directly in their path. It wasn't uncommon for her to start a story with so-and-so confessed his undying love for me today, which would follow by a flattered giggle, a sigh, or a look that said yes, him again. Her entertained audience would faun over her tales. Some of the women would become perturbed and jealous. They would make a tscch noise with their teeth and demand my sister tell them right then why men didn't react the same way over their presence. I knew the answer was because these women reeked of cheap alcohol, cheap tobacco, and cheap sex. My sister, the caring soul she was, would insist men do react the same way over these vulgar women. Knowing fully well that I have nothing better to do than eavesdrop on a lazy afternoon, she would call me into the room. Charley, doesn't Muriel look absolutely gorgeous today? My pupils would shoot at her like like chiseled daggers. Oh, oh, my yes. Is that a new cardigan you're wearing? The mauve does wonders for your eyes. And they giggled and blushed and deemed me a ladies' man. It was enough to get them to agree with my sister. If only they had realized that men who know what things like cardigans and the different shades of purple were, are typically attracted to other men. It was a secret I had only confided in my sister. Her torturous moments of forcing me to compliment her idiotic friends were to help us both.

I thought back to who my sister could have been dating at just seventeen. It was such a long time ago, so long that I probably wouldn't have understood what dating was at that age. There are no significant faces that stand out to me. I have watched my sister struggle through daily life in ways no one else even bothered to recognize, beyond her love life. Yet she always radiated that seemingly flawless beauty. Walking in on her with a butane lighter and small key she used as a cattle prod, making small marks on her inner thigh, she made me promise not to tell. I told her I would not tell, but that she needed some kind of help. I told her what she was doing was not right, nor was it natural. What I hadn't realized at the time was that she was doing something perfectly natural. My sister was longing for a fast route to happiness, an almost too common goal among the human species. While her way was somewhat unconventional, the pain she felt on the inside from the pressures of maintaining an image of perfection was stored underneath her nylons, in several parallel lines.

I am trying so hard, but Frank will not change his mind. I am at a loss. This is the man I love. He promised me so much. A fairytale life, a beautiful family, a steady career. But that has hardly happened. We've lived in the same apartment for nearly two years now, and he can't even talk about marriage. Yet he swears he loves me and that I will be the woman of his life. And when he comes home smelling like a bouquet of dirty sweat and infidelity, I brush it off. It is not his fault I am not what I promised I would be. Sometimes when I write you, I wonder if I am telling you too much. How will you look at him the same, should he be that important figure in your life? I know I will regret this.

Each letter I read seemed more personal than the last. I couldn't go through all of them, as it was not my right. The sensation that these words belonged to somebody, however, gave me the motivation to read on. I learned secrets that were not intended for me. How my sister secretly hoped I would one day find a woman to happily fall in love with and start my own family. How she despised our father for walking out on my mother after I was born. How the burns on her thighs were just the tip of the iceberg. My sister had been going to therapy for the past three years. She did not get better. Frantically ripping through each envelope, less delicately than the last, I had uncovered how the most beautiful girl in the room went unrighteously ignored for far too long, until the day she swallowed poison. Tomorrow, she will once again be the most beautiful girl in the room, and everyone will see.

Somewhere in the middle of the stack, I was able to locate the culprit. I decided to keep her failure a secret, as she had for so long.

And so I write to you, my unborn child, my concept, so that one day you will read these letters and maybe understand that I was once like you. I remember being a young child and feeling like I could never relate to my parents, no matter how much they told me they loved me or tucked me in to sleep. I will give these to you at an age that you will be able to appreciate the time I have devoted to you. I have written for you candidly about my life so that you understand even I have had my own personal struggles. I was not perfect. I did things that were downright repugnant. Things that no one would expect of me, things I would tell no one. I have made choices that were regrettable at the time, but they shaped who I am today. I want you to understand the true value of life and that there are no mistakes. My time capsule to you, for your seventeenth birthday, where this all began for me. I hope that you can see we are not very different, something that never came to terms for me with my own parents. Feel free to ask me any questions. I've enclosed small pieces of my life in each envelope -- a photo here, a bracelet there, and a myriad of revealing facts that you probably wish you never knew. My hope is that each humiliating detail will bring you closer to me, as there is nothing I have ever wanted more in this world than to have a loving family of my own.

When the autopsy revealed that my sister had recently suffered a miscarriage, I tried not to act surprised. Frank left the room, while my mother sobbed. Back at the apartment, I sat on my sister's bed and stared at the box of envelopes. If not physically, her tiny child existed through ink and paper. I cradled each piece between my arms, singing softly under my breath.

Good evening, good night. With roses adorned.
With carnations covered, slip under the covers.
Early tomorrow, if God wills, you will wake once again.
Early tomorrow, if God wills, you will wake once again.

The Marvel of Morning Gloria

2009-02-19T15:26:00.002-05:00

When provided with enough soil, light, water, and the freedom that only a lack of four closed walls can provide, the potential of a flower's growth has reached a great intensity, but not its fullest potential. It will grow. It will open up toward the sky, welcoming God into its blossoming petals. It will change from its initial green state like all of the others into a thing of individual beauty. They say, however, that simply caring for your plants is not enough. That you must care about your plants. Treat them as less than objects. Regard them as precious as a newborn child. If you sing to them and acknowledge their presence, you provide them with the confidence they need to know the world is a safe place.

The sunflowers on the Dunmire's lawn grow up over the tallest of weeds, creating a picturesque frame around each one of the windows. The flowers were somewhat a miracle. Gloria never saw anyone caring for the lawn, and wondered if anyone ever cared about the lawn. They had to at one point, she thought, noting the rusty push lawnmower that sat at the far side of the house. It must have been years and years ago that anyone attempted to plow through the jungle of land. Every now and then, Gloria would see small animals making their way from the paved sidewalk, slithering or scampering into the crunchy weeds of the summer lawn, finding a new place to burrow safely and hidden from the bustle of the busy world. She would sit on her porch swing and slowly rock back and forth, sometimes letting a breeze do the work for her. Always an observer, there was never anything of importance to be said. Gloria believed that the connections human beings made with one another were beyond social and with enough intuition, it was rather easy to collect the needs of another person. It was on that crunchy summer morning that Gloria's intuition had got the best of her, as she stared at the gorgeous sunflowers, which managed to stand up tall and proud, even without stakes. It took a powerful gust of wind to alter the flowers sustainable positions, and that morning, the wind hit with such an incredible force, which caused in imbalance in Gloria's world. The impeccably aligned environment she once knew had been coerced into a forty-five degree angle, as birds struggled to make it to their nests in the lowest of branches.

The powerful wind caused her swing to move forward precisely two and a half inches higher than it normally swung, as her heavy girth pushed it back and forth like a tightly wound clock. Human beings tend to be a species of habit. Our lives are filled with a basic pattern to take care of our primary needs. Sometimes these patterns allow us to miss the important details in our lives. As Gloria's swing reached the point of precisely two and a half inches higher than it normally swung, and the sunflowers stood at precisely forty-five degrees less than they would normally stand, as the sun worked its way across the late morning sky, shining an overexposed light onto the Dunmire's house at just the right angle, her eyes met an image she had previously missed. Through the many mornings she spent observing the world, the start of a daily routine which would later be filled with more trivial and mundane tasks, it should be noted that this was no coincidence. Even with her intuition, Gloria could not be aware of the phenomenal twist her life was about to take. Ever so slightly above the banister of her porch, she noticed a hand print that was stained on the glass of the window thats view was normally obstructed. With each push forward of the swing, this tiny hand print slowly began to engrave itself within her mind. She recollected a more pleasant memory in her life, when she would help her mother prepare meals as a child. Taking in a deep breath, hot air would propel from the hollows of her mouth and stain the steel pots with a foggy canvas. With her small fingers, she would attempt to write her name on all of the pots and pans before the canvas would magically disappear. While her attempts were fruitful, she was never able to finish the last two letters of her name, lacking the needed dexterity for such a task.

This hand print was a bit different from the markings Gloria would leave on her mother's kitchen utensils. Through the angle of the light, she could tell the print was somewhat soiled. In the small crest that formed the upper palm, a thin layer of dirt crept up until the point of each finger's tip, causing a contrast with the rest of the window. The dark tan curtains that covered the interior of the window, along with not being in the right place at the right time, would make this almost impossible to notice. Gloria got up from her position on the porch swing, opened the screen door to her small house, and continued on with her daily routine.

* * *

The next morning, Gloria put on her slippers and a summer housecoat, breaking the early silence with the daft sound of her worn out soles rubbing against the wooden floors as she traipsed her way to the porch. She had yet to remove the curlers from her hair, a task that was normally performed immediately after brushing her teeth. In fact, Gloria had yet to brush her teeth. Instead, she found her feet propelling her body to the tired porch swing where she spent each morning, this time slightly earlier. She sat down on the swing, and her girth allowed it to slowly flow back and forth. With each push forward, she craned her neck to see over the porch banister, in a rhythmic pattern, searching for the now familiar unruly hand print. The sunflowers stood up straight, stretching toward the sun, on one of the calmest mornings in the crunchiest of summers. The sun had awoken before Gloria, but was not yet shining down upon the Dunmire's house. Birds flew effortless to the tallest of branches. Gloria attempted to run her fingers through her typically curly hair, and realized her errs in her daily routine as a pin popped out, bounced off of the rickety boards of her porch, and landed at the bottom of the stoop, making a progressively quieter ping as it hit each step. She slowed the motion of the porch swing and slowly got up to retrieve the pin, as one curly lock of hair dangled from the side of her head. Carefully kneeling down to pick up the pin as to not put strain on her back, she found the small metal object and gracefully stood back up, rolling her back one vertebrae at a time. The very last motion was her chin becoming align with her stance. She found herself standing directly across from the Dunmire's lawn. The typically loud crickets had halted their chirping in the nearby tall grass, fearful of this new presence. The sunflowers stood perfectly still. Gloria's intuition mobilized her worn out slippers in a very courageous way. Before she knew it, she was standing at the Dunmire's front door, twisting the knob to find that there was no latch. A child's breath could have opened this door, Gloria thought.

Out of the Dunmire's house poured blackness and a putrid smell. A cat's eyes lit up from the small amount of light that had entered the room, followed by a hiss filled with spit and the thumping of its retreat into one of the darker corners of the house. Old, yellowed newspapers lined the floors, which could only be seen through the random placement of trash, dirty dishes, used diapers, as well as several smaller objects in which it was too dark to clearly see. Gloria opened the front door as wide as she could to try to let the smell escape and the light enter. To the far left of the room was a hallway that lead to the room that contained the window with the dirty hand print. As Gloria went on, stepping over piles of soiled diapers and broken glass, she became less aware of her actions, and more aware of her environment. With her housecoat covering her nostrils, she made her way to the only room at the end of the hallway. The door was shut. Always observing before participating, she moved her ear as close to the door as possible and listened.

* * *

It was on the morning of the dancing sunflowers, Gloria's life completely changed. A day that would normally consist of waking up with a plan of actions to achieve until the sun would set and she would retire to her bed, only to find the same routine awaiting her the next morning, had been dismantled by a kink that was made in her ordinary chain of events. Behind the door, as she listened so carefully, was a fleeting breath of life. On that day, Gloria's mouth was allowed to move, and called through the door – hello? The sound of her voice frightened both her and the creature that was separated from the outside world, as she heard what sounded like the rustling of papers. A rabid animal had been disturbed, and like the cat, sounded as if it were looking for a place to retreat. Gloria pushed the door open slowly and carefully as a small figure darted and cowered at the other side of the room. Peaking beyond the door's view, Gloria saw a small, naked child, covered in her own feces, with wide, shocking eyes staring back into hers. The child trembled with uncertainty as Gloria's mouth dropped in astonishment at what she had discovered. Gloria ran over to the young girl, who tried to scurry away from her, but a lack of proper nourishment made it impossible to make an escape. The child was tired, hungry, and covered in filth. It never said a word, just a few barely audible screams of distress. It did not react to Gloria's attempt to sooth, instead picked at her body ferociously, as tears welled in Gloria's eyes, making their way out of the dilapidated and vulgar Dunmire residence. Gloria traipsed as fast as her worn out slippers would allow back up the steps of her porch, past the swing, and into the kitchen, where she proceeded to place an array of foods in front of the child, in between pacing in disbelief.

* * *

The miracle of the sunflower's in the Dunmire's lawn, nor that a child could exist for so long in such a place, was not explainable, as most miracles are not. Without light or food, neither a plant nor a child could possibly survive. Judging by the young girl's presence, as Gloria had put it, it was not hard to put a number on the remaining days of her life. Each day, however, we are given chances to play. Whether it is a larger gust of wind that pushes us in a direction we wouldn't normally travel, or something as simple as forgetting to brush our teeth, it is dire to remember that each day offers us a new course different from the last. As the sunflower seeds began to slowly fall from the plants at the house across the street, the young girl grew several inches toward the sky. From the soil in which she had been left to bud, she blossomed into a unique thing of beauty. In the mornings, Gloria would sit on the porch swing, and sing to the girl. The girl, young and filled with confidence, pushed Gloria's swing to beat of her songs, as Gloria changed tempo from lullabies her mother once sang to her, to the fast paced tunes of popular jazz songs, and everything in between. Every so often, the young girl would miss a beat and Gloria's warm smile would remind her that the world was a safe place.

Happy Valentine's Day

2009-02-14T00:00:00.000-05:00

"As Is" Cover
Ani Difranco

Lyrics:

You can't hide behind social graces,
So don't try to be all touchy-feely,
'Cause you lie in my face of all places,
But I got no problem with that really.

What bugs me is that you believe what you're saying.
What bothers me is that you don't know how you feel.
What scares me is that while you're telling me stories,
You actually believe that they are real.

I've got no illusions about you.
Guess what? I never did.
When I said, when I said I'll take it,
I meant, I meant as is.

Just give up and admit you're an asshole.
You would be in some good company,
And I think you'd find that your friends would forgive you,
Or maybe I am just speaking for me.

When I look around I think, this is good enough,
And I try to laugh at whatever life brings,
'Cause when I look down I just miss all the good stuff,
And when I look up I just trip over things.

I've got no illusions about you.
Guess what? I never did.
When I said, when I said I'll take it,
I meant, I meant as is.
As is.

a spat.

2009-02-07T05:24:00.008-05:00

drink a nectar from your lips,
the pulses at my finger tips

and with the quips
the loss of grips --

a thrust of hips,
he sips.

A Dollhouse for Amelia

2009-02-06T03:00:00.006-05:00

Mary knelt down toward me moving her shoulders in the way I imagine the waves roll into the shore of the ocean, one of nature's beautiful wonders.

“You don't have to do this,” I said, pen in hand.
“Why don't you take some time off?”
“I have a baby at home, child. She turns three on Monday. She's a spoiled little girl. She doesn't have to be, but I want her to be.”

Mary was drunk. Or high. Or both. I've been around it enough to tell, but the ways she moved her body threw me for a loop. There weren't any tracks on her arm, and she was coherent enough to hold conversation. Her energy started at the tip of her nose, moving down through each bone in her spine, spilling out the coccyx and pouring madly over two of the most powerful thighs you would only expect to see on a figure skater. It stopped at her glass Cinderella slippers, two stilettos that allowed the many colors of light to shine through the faux illusion of height she gave as she hugged her matronly body around the pole.

“Do you have any pictures of her?”
“Oh, yes. She is the most beautiful girl in the world. Would you like to see?”
I pulled a ten-dollar bill out of my pocket. “Mary, I would love to.”
“Boss, give this girl the bed special,” her voice pierced over the shrill beats of the misplaced urban music, which made this rural club seem like the only part of town that held some grasp of liveliness. The catcalls and whistles of the nearby men reminded me of the air I resisted to inhale throughout the night.
“How long?” Boss mumbled over a dirty cigar. Mary glanced in my direction. I felt her hard stare glaze over my unkempt hair, and overall disheveled disposition. It wasn't the first time I had my net worth calculated. I pulled at the bottom of my pant leg to cover the glaring white portion of my sock from her view.
“It could be awhile,” she mouthed, hardly audible.
“All right,” he said, through a rigid cloud of smoke. “Melanie, you're up.”

Boss pulled at a curtain that was blocking the view of an offstage purgatory. Melanie was sitting on top of her boyfriend's lap, letting out little screams as his hands explored her in the dimly lit area. She giggled, pursed her lips, and whispered something into his ear. A kiss on his lips was her vow of faith. She stood up, adjusted her negligee, and barely pressed her feet to the floor as she made her way to the stage. Our eyes met as I passed her, following Mary down the hallway. I saw a girl who was younger than myself, but more powerful. Melanie wouldn't acknowledge the weight of her own body until she had a reason. Without the pole, she looked like a young girl imagining she was as graceful as a ballerina, full of barely in reach dreams. When a man would decide he was worth her time, her steps would become louder.

Throughout the hallway, there were several rooms. Each door lead into a different man's fantasy. One girl could easily become six different girls, if you had the time and money. I had plenty of time. Mary walked toward the first room, until I stopped her.
“Don't I get to pick the room?” I smiled sheepishly, trying to break the tension of reality I had just created.
“Oh. Well, yes, you do.”
“What?”
“Most people don't realize the rooms are different.”
She looked like she had more to say, but instead she shrugged her shoulders. Perhaps I was overstepping my boundaries in reminding her that I was a client. I perspired a little, reminding myself.
“Which room do you like?” I asked her.
“I never really had time to think about that. I guess it depends on what type of atmosphere you want. It can be sexy, gruesome, or as plain as a guest room in your parent's house.”
I walked over to the third room and pushed at the door, revealing a dark room with vulgarities spray-painted onto each of the walls. Chains hung from a bedpost, as the smell of leather infiltrated my nostrils. I tried not to act surprised.
“Which one is my parent's guest room?”

Mary walked me to the third room on the left. She was right, it looked exactly like a quaint and pure room, fit for company. Unfit for anything that had ever happened there before. I sat down on the bed and tightly closed my knees together.
“So, what can I do for you tonight?” Her eyes shone like a fiery furnace.
“The pictures. You said you have a daughter?”
“Oh, right. Amelia. I said she'd be three soon?”
“On Monday.” Mary let out a sigh as she removed her clutched purse from her side.
“Just a second,” she said, “I just cleaned this thing out and now I don't know where anything is.” She took a swig from a beer-can and handed it to the air in my direction, without looking up from her purse. I took the can and swiveled it around. Half-empty.
“Have a drink if you want,” she said, half occupied by the rummaging.
“No thanks.”
“They don't serve alcohol here.”
“I'm a writer. I drink before I go anywhere.”
“Suppose writers and dancers aren't that different.”
It usually takes three or four shots of gin before I can come up with an original idea, or at least the courage to put myself out there. With every word on the page, I wonder how much further I am pushing myself from the rest of humanity. How many times can I write about a two week cocaine binge before the editors refuse my content, for the sake of my health. How tiresome the rejection letters become. An erect pole in my backyard, I dance for all to see, dropping my armor in small piles at my feet. Their admonishing stares. Humiliation surfacing on the faces of my parents, in several shades of red. Their daughter, former president of the National Honor Society, born and bred to one day be a combat medic, like her parents, and her parent's parents, and so on until the beginning of time. A do-dos quill strapped fiercely to her hand, she writes what everyone else sees. Young girls are ravished before your eyes. You filter out their incestuous screams of joy, denouncing Freud. The president overrides a ruling by congress and we fill our tanks with Middle-Eastern blood. I'd call myself the messenger. Others would say perverted terrorist.
“Suppose we aren't. She's beautiful,” I said, as I caught my hand reaching for the beer. There is something about honesty that makes me crave yeast.

“Isn't she? She has the most gorgeous, long, golden blond hair.”
“She certainly does. Three on Monday? What are you going to get her?”
“A doll house. For my doll.” Mary blushed.

I hadn't written anything since we got to the room. I couldn't. I had planned to come here for my next story. Mary knew what she was getting into when she saw me. The piece of glass I used to separate myself from her, Melanie, and the other girls, had been shattered to a fine dust. Rejection letter after rejection letter, calling me a liar. I placed my hand on Mary's lower thigh.

“I'm sorry,” I said, “But I already have my story.”
“Oh,” she replied, sullenly, placing her pictures back in her purse.

We made honest love until the last cliché urban beat of the night, in this dead town. The men had left, but their catcalls lingered in the dank and sweaty air. Mary's face melted into the clean white guest room pillows, as I sat up and stared at my feet. Pulling at my pant leg to cover the glaring white portion of my sock, I quietly gathered my belongings. I placed my gas money on the nightstand, and walked home. On Monday, Amelia will be three.

bulimia on videotape.

2009-01-30T16:11:00.000-05:00

This is the first video I ever made. I didn't know how to edit or encode but I remember having a good concept. I wish I would have taken more time with it. Anyway, since it is the first, I thought I would post it.

February 4, 2008. "Videotape" by Radiohead.

P.S. This song was the inspiration for the screenname checkmyvideotape, in case you noticed.

insomnia.

2009-01-30T00:27:00.000-05:00

the more exhausted i am
the less i sleep.

don't they make drugs for this?

confession.

2009-01-26T20:56:00.003-05:00

I've been sleeping with my guitar.
It tucked me in these past couple nights.

For the record, I am really glad
you are not made of metallic strings and hollow wood.

Also, thank you for staying in tune
while I kick you in my sleep.

Rachim Balbozar

2009-01-25T22:38:00.003-05:00

"Rachim" is a 63-year-old philosophy professor at Berkley. We met in an Obama forum and began talking more privately when it was discovered I was the youngest of the group, he the oldest. We talk about things like the revolution, Vietnam, what high school never taught me, and his past.

I suppose if I can't afford the education, this is the next best thing.

[20:31] Rachim Balbozar: God...I'm almost crying here. Thinking about that poem is bringing so much back.

[20:32] CasXsia Scribe: Is it good or bad? Have you thought about it in awhile?

[20:32] Rachim Balbozar: It's been a long time.

[20:35] Rachim Balbozar: I was dating this girl, Samantha. She was the sweetest girl...We would sit together a lot of times late at night, and just write together. Nothing really publishable ever came out of those nights, but it was just that I could be there with someone I loved, being able to share with her something that I loved.

[20:36] CasXsia Scribe: That is a nice memory that I wish I had.

[20:37] Rachim Balbozar: You'll have your own memories. :) Don't give up yet. ;)

[20:38] Rachim Balbozar: It could be that you're taking certain experiences for granted right now. In twenty years, they'll likely be memories.

[20:39] CasXsia Scribe: That could be most of it.

[20:40] CasXsia Scribe: I'd find your argument more believable if I wasn't bored to tears though

[20:42] Rachim Balbozar: You're bored because you don't know yet all that you're capable of. You have so much power. All that you have to do is to exercise it. You hold the power to change your day, your week, your life; the power to inspire others to change theirs; the power to be a part of your own future.

[20:43] Rachim Balbozar: You're doing it as we speak. I know it. You're searching yourself. You just can't see in the moment how valuable every introspection and connection is.

[20:45] CasXsia Scribe: But when will I see it? If it is 20 years from now, does it still hold any purpose?

[20:46] Rachim Balbozar: Of course it does! You don't have to understand how you're changing the world as you're changing it. That's the beauty of getting old. You get to look back on what you've done without really thinking about it, and you finally get to think about it.

Conversation on September 07, 2008

First Day of My Life cover

2009-01-24T16:13:00.002-05:00

Creep Cover by cassiopeia

2009-01-21T18:24:00.002-05:00

even a brief cameo from the weirdo, herself.

imperfect shot.

2009-01-20T23:14:00.005-05:00

In Oakland, the birds perch in Satanic pentagrams,
behind buildings, only when your camera is a cell phone.

If I had an SLR, they would have flown.

In front, two men speak with iridescent cadence; valor.
Glints of teeth stained with age and caffeine poke through sable mouths,
all the while behind, a woman complains of potholes, the inauguration
of our first black president, the cold.

Identities obscured, public transit.
A tittering laugh masks such fury.

thom.

2009-01-18T00:00:00.000-05:00

11/21/08 "Unfinished Thom"

commercial.

2009-01-17T00:24:00.003-05:00

Done sometime in '08.

mad world cover.

2009-01-16T03:33:00.001-05:00

I have a really crappy microphone. This is mostly for me anyway.

monster.

2009-01-15T04:30:00.001-05:00

10/07/08 "Bad Habits"

magazine clippings owl.

2009-01-14T14:41:00.010-05:00

agoraphobia.

2009-01-14T03:47:00.001-05:00

"Every bag will hold three cats in it because you will be so lonely."

2009-01-14T02:08:00.001-05:00

guitar @ danny's, jan 13, 2009

mo athair, II.

2009-01-10T18:37:00.003-05:00

----------mo athair,
-----just yesterday i wanted to sing to you but
----------i did not

----------revving engine turns
-----my ears say it is you
----------empty driveway; otherwise

mo athair.

2009-01-08T23:02:00.004-05:00

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - flat rugged tips we play
- - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - lacking hesitation we do not argue
- - - - - strings or percussion nor does tempo
- - - - - - - - - - fall so bittersweet
- - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - as abandoned turtle houses do
- - - - - your blood trickles through me
- - - - - - - - - - in the key of C
- - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - mo athair and his ax
- - - - - soothing metronome crackles among
- - - - - - - - - - his charity.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

on flossing.

2009-01-07T18:23:00.003-05:00

Never
yearn to be someone
who appears to do something better
than you can.
The reality of the situation is
they are probably faking it.

Rather,
vie for their confidence.
Anyone can play
the Star Spangled Banner.

Jimi did it with his teeth.

amanda, my prince.

2009-01-03T23:48:00.004-05:00

Endless wasted days, trivialized
by the hollow sounds of a bastard guitar
(not unlike the memories you stole).

Fortunately enough, sentiment has
no face value, and my chair rocks
(until I plant my disfigured feet).

Hiding behind sleeves of black, she
traverses through the white halls.
There was once a girl so beautiful,
her eyes told my future through a
pasty aluminum reflection. She did
not leave at her discretion, it was the
doctor's decision.

Swinging sheets of metal close
(I have since lost her face).

Amanda, my prince, my ugly prophetess.
I killed you not once but twice and you fell
like wet down enveloped by my pillow case.

For baby Jack.

2008-12-30T19:17:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, my uncle died. He was my dad's best friend when growing up -- his brother-in-law. The ages in my family are all berserk. As it would turn out, my father is the only person in his age group aside from my mother. All of his siblings are much older, while all of his nieces and nephews are quite younger.

My mother snapped at me. She is quitting smoking. Which means she now smokes Marlboros. It must only be coincidence that I do, as well.

I felt let down by a friend. It's hard being told one thing and then having something else happen. I couldn't count these empty promises on all of my limbs. I still have the proper amount, too.

I got a flat tire. It could have been avoided, but as it turns out, someone else who probably also needed a Marlboro decided to take it out on my Hyundai instead. Thankfully they only did it to one tire. I can't fit more than one spare in my trunk.

I locked my keys in my car. Normally this is nothing less than an annoyance. Unfortunately, my keys were attached to my jacket. Unfortunately, the 60 degree weather only lasted throughout the weekend. Unfortunately, I wasn't wearing a bra.

But when I got home, I found a piece of paper on the kitchen counter. It said "7lbs, 3 oz. Full head of fine hair." I smiled a little bit. The will to live can be stretched and smeared in so many different scenarios. I thought, there is no way my day could have been as intense as yours.

I just wish I could have been there to know for sure.

c section.

2008-12-29T10:42:00.000-05:00

Somber is the way
we make our escape.

The first grasp is a gasp,
one breath toward the last.

on barfing.

2008-12-27T14:52:00.000-05:00

The cat stares at you like you’re a retarded duck that can’t figure out if it should eat the bread or spit it out. The bowl has lost it’s luster, mainly because the acid has eaten it away. Four years ago, you never dreamed your life would have traveled down this path. The down and up and gray area that is your disease. Other people call it a disorder; they are the doctors, those who have never experienced it and never will, only through a glass window.

Hours and hours and hours later you are nothing; it has stopped. You feel safe, secure, and empty. You flush three times to be safe. You say, I won’t do this anymore. You say, this’ll be the last time. I promise.

A week; you’re sober of it. You’re happy. You’re waiting for it to start again. Don’t know why it does but it will because the body is conditioned that nourishment is evil and you somehow deserve less than that. Less than what? Nothing? Don’t know. Whatever the body picks, this time. The body rules the mind, this time. You’re fucking sick of it, this time.

(November 5, 2005 9:12 AM)

on madness.

2008-12-26T13:39:00.000-05:00

I repress a lot. And it builds up to a feeling that is beyond comprehension. When that feeling manifests... oh God, stay away.

My body becomes out of my control. My mind is much worse. I get locked within myself, an unflattering form of self-centrism. It's like my mind and body completely detach from each other. Picture a toddler trying to wake a sleeping parent. They pull at their sleeves and move their arms around -- pinch their nostrils -- but mom won't wake up. You kept her up too late last night, bawling about how unfair life is.

My body is terribly worn out from comforting my mind.

(November 29, 2008 2:04 PM)

Christmas Day, 2008.

2008-12-25T05:25:00.000-05:00

i would rather be your accessory than your necessity.
wear me only when it is most flattering for you.

Christmas Eve, 2008

2008-12-24T03:25:00.000-05:00

there is this awkward period between death and recovery
that tastes like bile and migraines.

lacuna.

2008-12-23T00:16:00.000-05:00

it is as if the needle got bumped for
nearly six hundred red cup days.
no one noticed. we sleep in silence.

touched much.

2008-12-20T16:49:00.000-05:00

It's always been my hands. At all times of the year, they will chap
so badly that blood will creep out of the tiny creases without being
bothered. My fingernails, which I keep perpetually coated in black,
are faded blue underneath the thin layer of paint.

I learned early on what the men in white coats would look for.
As with most occurrences in my life, I chose to remain the obstacle.
Leg weights, face paint, and a gritty smile that attempted to fill the
boots of my typical amused smirk.

My knuckles. The kicker, red with acid; scarred.

It is said when you break a mirror, you have seven years of bad
luck. When I was thirteen, I smashed my fist into the center of the
vanity. I was unhappy. The crack dislocated one pre-pubescent breast
from the other; crooked pelvis, leaning to the left. Small triangle chips
shiver and burn under pressure.

One can feel the rough hands of a man and learn his life endeavors.
What a commendable scrap of art. The amount of work I've put into
carving out my body requires ointment to stomach steamed vegetables.

My hands, unlike yours, are detrimental to my health.

bourree.

2008-12-20T05:38:00.000-05:00

My fingers have never been so blistered. The pain is most exhilarating. I haven't felt this alive in years. I can't even begin to understand how I allowed myself to become such an ingrown hair on this life's body, slowly pushing my way from under the skin. Never quite strong enough to puncture and escape. And then I did escape. Inhale.

I play my mandolin for several hours a day. It is as if I realized I am worth something. I begin to remember that it is not so much the difference I make in the lives of others as it is the difference I make in my own. Survival of the fittest. I'm located somewhere in the middle of the food chain, at this point standing. I have no distinct reason or goal to make it to the top, however, if my actions take me there, I could not refuse such a position.

My insomnia is no longer caused by stress. It is fueled by a will to learn, grow, want more, more, more. Quickly, make up for the lost time. Create. Disperse. Smile and wave. Exhale.

I want to fuck Johann Sebastian Bach.

privacy.

2008-12-18T13:03:00.000-05:00

When I was sixteen years old, I wrote of my birth in June. I was born in April, regardless, that means not so much anymore. Maybe when I was sixteen it should have meant a little bit more. I went on to assume that because it didn't, I was maturing at an alarmingly fast pace, faster than all of my friends. Because I was maturing so rapidly intellectually, what I was doing seemed quite acceptable. After all, I was a grown up. A forty year old teenager, I would not so eloquently put it in furiously scratched diary entries. Each entry was hardly legible, just in case my mother decided to have a look. If she was able to decipher what I had written, she would have read a series of notes that I had placed around certain areas of my life. They were specifically written for her, because as it would turn out, a manic sixteen year old who really is forty doesn't have much privacy.

You could call me paranoid, but every now and then something will be said and my mother's eyes will lock with mine. Her lips will begin to move, but they stop, before defeat. And I, small smirk glowing on my face, would feel the weight of every burden being lifted from me, detaching one tiny follicle at a time. The greatest lesson I learned in all of my life is to give yourself a reason to deserve a second look.

It very well saved my life.

not about love.

2008-12-15T00:24:00.000-05:00

april 22, 2008.
peter & cas.

two all beef patties.

2008-12-14T00:06:00.001-05:00

heredity.

2008-12-13T23:55:00.000-05:00

my father in his sweats and ragged brown slippers, standing outside
- in the early hours of dawn after another sleepless night, with the old broom
in his hand, sweeping the snow off of the porch as he puffs a cigarette.

this morning, after laying on the couch for several hours, I got up,
- put on sweatpants, went out to the porch in my slippers and swept off
the snow as my lips touched a cold menthol cigarette and thought
- why am I this memory?

on trading appetites.

2008-12-13T16:27:00.000-05:00

Gathering my collection, I remain most careful while most careless. The sweat that lies beneath my arches mixes with a mourning sense of freedom and a ravenous courage to numb. As each spine screeches and halts for justice (some a more convincing argument than others), fusty cotton rubs itself against a tired cowhide, reeking its way closer into the nasal passages of humility.

The man at the counter, suspicious of long sleeves on such a summer afternoon, suckles at the edge of a dead cigar. If I smile politely, he will not refuse under uncertainty: what has caused this gray demeanor? The right corner of his face tilts awkwardly from the light as he insults my swallowed pride, and I accept. Today, I am a rich woman.

Heading home, I will ponder the importance of sole-less shoes and feet too small. I will then take her out for one last lunch.

smells of fresh linen.

2008-12-11T11:24:00.001-05:00

Sometimes I sit on the floor next to where my bed should be,
in a pile of unfluffed pillows. I blow smoke directly onto them.
At my old home, we were not allowed to smoke inside.

During winters, we huddled together on the porch making secret plays
behind a shoddy tarp that kept the wind from chilling our boney bones.
When we made it back inside, there would still be a lingering putrid smell
of energized happiness. Our fingers would yellow at the tips
because we were so very happy.

Here on my floor, I sit weak-kneed but not bitter.
Four walls enclosing me, a foggy stream is captivated by the light.
Through my lips the smoke exudes and finds its way on fresh linen.
Through my lips, I've lost the feeling of loving you.