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Saturday, August 22nd, 2009

(Strike With A Knife)

Subject:-x- What's Left Is Bitter Because It Remembers
Time:3:00 am.
Mood:nostalgic.
After tossing and turning for two hours, this is what I decided:

I don't blame Tim for being a catalyst; calling eight years after the fact to tell me he still sees me, to tell me I'm beautiful, to tell me he is still enamored of my alabaster orchids that grow on the moon.

I blame Bukowski. That maniacal, that simple genius. to the whore that took my poems always stuck with me... was it War All The Time? I remember it so fucking well.

'as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.'

Fuck me, ain't that the truth.

I'd like to lie to myself and say it's buried or trapped or neglected but, it isn't. It's gone: evaporated. It used to flow out in cryptic crimson that stained and remained and now it's simply not there. I could be grateful I got my Magnum Opus out then, all three parts of the Eros, but that's gone too, left behind one of those times when I shed my skin.

What is left is bitter because it remembers being something better than still remains.

Friday, April 24th, 2009

(Strike With A Knife)

Subject:-x- Asleep At The Switch
Time:12:38 am.
Mood:exhausted.
I think I've been abducted by aliens and replaced with a clone that comes from some back alley universe where people work. I HATE work... then again, it's all I seem to do lately. I have two jobs + college right now. I'm so pineapple fucking tired I can't see straight.

Nothing like a good hard dose of minimum wage to put shit in perspective though.

I completely and utterly had to go beg for my job back, for a 3rd time, after making 7.28$ an hour. How the hell does anyone survive on $291 a week. And that's BEFORE taxes. I was getting nailed for near 20%. I haven't paid taxes in years!

So yes.. much begging ensued. 1350$ a week is so much more reasonable, don't you think? Me too! I finally feel like I can breathe again now that I'm not pulverizing every penny for what I can get out of it. In a few weeks I should be able to get my head above water.

And now.. if you'll excuse me.. I have to go back to work. >:)

Wednesday, April 22nd, 2009

(2 Open Wounds | Strike With A Knife)

Subject:-x- Where The Hell Am I?
Time:9:50 am.
At work, so I'll post later.

Tuesday, October 24th, 2006

(2 Open Wounds | Strike With A Knife)

Subject:-x- Ugly And Green
Time:3:05 am.
Mood:numb.
What exactly is the "American Dream"?

If you had asked me recently I would have said the four car garage, the picket fence, the 2.5 kids, faithful husband, good job. Now, I just don't know.

I never.... get cake. It seems like everyone gets to have their cake and eat it too, at least once in life. I never get any cake. At least, I don't remember having cake so it must not have been very good cake if I ever had it. Maybe more like a Hostess Twinkie; or a Ding-dong. Being fat and semi-unattractive, girls like me don't get cake. We get ding-dongs. We stay home, skip the bar scene altogether, miss huge chunks of life we don't life because of our looks, because of our self-esteem, because everything else we can seem to do is a whiter shade of pale next to rejection. We're smart... maybe too smart but we don't act smart. We act retarded to make other people feel smart. We act quiet and mousy and we yearn for someone to see us differently... under the pink.

I'm 30... and I can only think of two guys who ever "saw" me. One I fucked and one I didn't. I should have done them in reverse though. One wanted to fuck me for a reason I can't fathom - the other just wanted to cheat on his wife. He saw me though. Saw me in retrospect of what he no longer had. I didn't fuck him then, not when he could see me. I've never fucked anyone who could see me. I ran away. Their reasons... were not good enough anymore, not when they could SEE me.

So there's this really good guy. I have this really good guy. I have him on-line. He's.. perfect for me. He sends me money to pay my bills. He talks to me every day. Sometimes, he's a dumb ass. A supreme one. He doesn't mean to be... but he still is; it's forgivable. He doesn't walk away. He wants to work on things. He trusts me. It's the kind of love you feel from a distance. The love you feel when you can shut the computer off. He's only 21. He's a virgin. He wants me. He doesn't see me but sometimes I think he catches a glimmer. When he's wrong he doesn't always see it but he's sorry because it hurts me. I have this really great guy. I want to be a good woman.

Now, there's this other guy. He doesn't see me either. Doesn't know me. I don't know what is in his head. But oh, he sees me physically... and still wants me. No one wants girls like me. Fat semi-unattractive girls with bad teeth and glasses. Girls who don't care enough to shower every day, change clothes every day, keep the house clean every day, hide. But he wants me enough to want to fuck me which isn't wanting me at all. He spends money. He's here. He will only go as far as I let him. He's... chivalrous. He doesn't lie so he twists the truth instead. He could take me away. He could be a really nice guy or an asshole. He'd let me meet his family without fear. He'd listen to my music.

I knew better. I knew more than to be a booty call. I really did. But attention works on girls like me. It works all to well. So does anal sex when you're on the rag. I never let him cum. I didn't either. I couldn't.... stop myself and I couldn't not stop either of us. Now he's gone. He'll return. A day or a month from now; who knows? This guy will take me to the other guy. He could know. He could be in the know. I could fuck him and I could go to the other, the really nice guy, and never tell him a thing. I could.... have a metal heart. I could eat it.

My cake is ugly and green. Should I eat it?

Sunday, May 1st, 2005

(4 Open Wounds | Strike With A Knife)

Subject:-x- Under pressure...
Time:8:53 am.
Mood:bouncy.
I wanted to post tonight so as to not keep abandoning my journal in that fashion I have so that when I return to it I have only have David who remember me, heh, but in typical can't focus fashion, I spent the night cybering some hot boy from Cali instead. Hey what can I say? He could s p e l l ! So, since I have no post right now, no creative words flowing off the lips, no inspiration from life, no rythem from Kensin, I decided I'd post some art instead. Haven't done that in awhile and yes - I'm still good.



Friday, April 22nd, 2005

(3 Open Wounds | Strike With A Knife)

Subject:-x- making every promise empty
Time:4:48 am.
Mood:nauseated.
my dog is dying. he can't walk. there's nothing i can do. so he suffers, achilles. in the morning, i'll take him to the pound. because i have no money. maybe they'll take him because they have to. more likely they'll put him to sleep. did he chew on a piece of plastic that's tearing him up? it's killing him. either way. if they could save him i'd adopt him back.

i could run it together in short, unpunctuated (new word) scentences but there's really no point. i'll probably tell you how it goes but who knows when. i'm tired and i'll sleep rather than keeping an unfailing death watch because i've learned to let it go when there is nothing i can do. how very cruel.

Wednesday, January 5th, 2005

(1 Open Wound | Strike With A Knife)

Subject:-x- Acrossed the universe....
Time:3:41 am.
Mood:responsible.
I still love him; think I might still be in love with him - quietly, un-necessarily. I need to get laid. I need a better job if I still have one. There's always more weed and more coffee.

Thursday, September 9th, 2004

(Strike With A Knife)

Subject:-x- The offering is molasses....
Time:9:53 pm.
It does fade. It fades and it fades until it's completely gone.. and then you know what happens? There's still an imprint of where it was and what it used to be... and that shadow is the biggest lie of all, because it lets you convince yourself there's still something there; let's you see things that don't exist.

He actually invited my sister to the bar and was wearing the ring he stole from her when she got there... what kind of lunacy is that? Spite or stupidity?

But how well do I know him though.. to know all I had to do to get him to call me after calling him for 4 days with no answer.. was to just.. stop.. and there he was... offering excuses. Offering another lie.

How the lion becomes a mouse.

Wednesday, February 11th, 2004

(5 Open Wounds | Strike With A Knife)

Subject:-x- Harshing My Buzz....
Time:1:44 am.
Been awhile. Don't know why I'm here. I'm not stressed... or upset. Depressed but that's normal.

He gave me this yanno. That's what has gotten under my skin. That 'line'. I know he didn't mean anything by it... or didn't even mean it the way I -heard- it. I know he just handled it badly, but still... that 'line'.

All I want is the smell of myrrh melted into carnuba wax. I want to be curled against a warm body when I sleep. I want to watch his hands while he plays guitar and listen to him sing even though he can't remember the words to his own favorite songs half the time. I want to grin over coffee as I listen to his tales of evility and debauchery. I want to know that even though the love isn't gone it hasn't FADED either.

I miss the simple freedom of being simple.

From one Bastard to another and both of them thinking I'm not... something enough... well, where's MINE to fuck up?

Wednesday, December 17th, 2003

(4 Open Wounds | Strike With A Knife)

Subject:-- Then again.... when yer drunk....
Time:1:17 am.
He's a freakshow... but he gets me drunk and puts out.

And you two... the both of you act like I'm the loser here.... like your soooo special cause you never fucked me... well guess what.... your both stupid.

Yeah, your right.... you both kept yourself up above it and from me... but the truth is... there's no one like me... there's no one that will ever love either of you like I did.... and in the end.... wether you regret it or not... you'll never know.

One of these days... I'm gonna love myself more than either of you... heavy as the baggage is... maybe then... that will be enough... because right now... nothing else is... and I... I am utterly alone inside myself.

Tuesday, November 18th, 2003

(1 Open Wound | Strike With A Knife)

Subject:--Now That The Laundry Is Done...
Time:7:11 pm.
Mood:crazy.
There are alabaster orchids growing on the moon. One is you and the other is me. We are alone there; nothing else grows. At least, not as permanently as we do. As we are the progenitors, all life springs from us. We are still there long after the children are gone. It is our world. It is us.

Before you, I never knew such a world existed in men. Women speak and women listen and of this... women do not speak. I know now there's more there.

Because of you, I see this world in men. Where men build.

Do you understand? What you did is open up many worlds. Well... maybe not so many. Some unwanted, some impossible. Worlds within worlds within.

I don't know what's happening between us anymore. Tell me where we are..... and then I'll be quiet, while you drive.

Tuesday, October 7th, 2003

(Strike With A Knife)

Subject:-- Trailer Park Girls...
Time:9:30 am.
Mood:aggravated.
He's doing it again. That thing where he feels the need to prove how much he doesn't need me. I slept alone last night - and so did he. Still had to deal with the same issue the second I woke up though.

If I try, I can almost see it. The way it cracks or threatens to shatter when pressure is put in certain places. Even the strong spots are fading thin now. I need to get the hell out of this business.... or get a raise.

And you. Where are you? Don't you do it to me too. I won't let you.

I won't let you do what they do... all of them. Share it with me and then disappear... no. Fuck no. All or nothing but nothing halfway inbetween. Wish you were here. Wish you could just take me up out of this place. Wish everything you said was solid enough to touch so I could FEEL it. Wish it didn't have to be like this.

Come on. Let's just get into your car. You can sleep while I drive.

Friday, October 3rd, 2003

(Strike With A Knife)

Subject:-- Still Holding Onto Unproductive Bothers...
Time:10:33 am.
Thought and action should not be in opposition to each other - and I'll come back to this statement in depth if I have time.

Right now, there is activity. Shall we say... researching is being done as to the BEST course of action. (In this case the cheapest actually lol.) In my head I can hear the optimistic voice saying, 'It's a start.' and I cannot argue that point - but activity can be the same circular trap as communication or thought. The activity itself can become the focus, distracting from the goal of action that leads to completion. The last act, hmm? The finish.

I guess I've been feeling a sense of.... the wheels spinning without the car moving in any direction. A lack of completion in my actions that robs me of the feeling of accomplishment. When I clean the house, each room is an accomplishment. All of the rooms taken as a whole is another feeling of accomplishment. Being appreciated for the pieces as well as the finished puzzle. Cleaning the house becomes rewarding on a multitude of levels. A tangible goal that's reached and appreciated. Simple things.

Simple things are always the easiest to do though, aren't they? It's the challenging tasks and goals we set for ourselves that are harder to reach but offer the lure of a greater sense of accomplishment.

I lack and it leaves me unfulfilled. I want but live without. I need but survive unsated. The sense of accomplishment stops filling the void when tiny, routine accomplishments are all there is. I think a lot of people go through life with a sense of wanting to accomplish something that is bigger than themselves. To accomplish things that they are remembered for even, like leaving a legacy. Of these same people I also think few ever accomplish much. It seems to me like most in this group put so many goals of massive porportions on the horizon for themselves that they are stretched thin between all those clustered thoughts, unable to give any single one enough attention that it reaches completion, giving up the reward of accomplishment.

Maybe it's just MY problem. Action is not an overused word in my vocabulary. Sedintary is a much more apt description of my personality and thinking habits. If I am struck by a sense of thrist I won't always rush immediately to action. Usually I'll wait for more things that require action on my part before I move so that I can do them all together and be 'done' for awhile... the while it takes for more thingS to need attendance. I've never much liked this particular trait. It holds me back and torments me with stagnation. It strikes me at this moment that the feeling of stagnation is what robs away the slight pleasure to be had from small accomplishments. Like if I'm not doing something BIG I'm not really doing anything at all.

I know that's not right. I know all action is causal. Action, even completion, is a wave of energy that doesn't dissipate. Positive actions leading to positive rewards..... karma.... if ya wanna get spiritual in the phrasing. Because the constant sense of immobility keeps me from the simple, small accomplishments, I loose my mind and turn my focus to higher, harder goals that don't get reached... only serving as a temporary distraction, an attempt to prove to stagnation that I really MEAN to take action, hoping to quiet it's nagging whispering for a moments peace. Not that I ever do anything with that moment.

I am not... in my own time. I am not in the design but just a few steps outside of it. I rarely remember to enjoy the moment... to feel it in that moment.... only after... in reflection. The moment gone. Never allowed to be lived to its fullest potential.


I'm rambling, I know. It's the meth, the mind, the boredom and waiting combined. I'm also not delving into other issues I should but dwelling on this instead. I see that I'm doing it... but I don't have the ability right now to be alone with my thoughts and a comp.

Maybe later. Maybe never. Maybe.

(3 Open Wounds | Strike With A Knife)

Subject:-- The Edge Of Good Intentions
Time:9:47 am.
Have I ever told you guys how I feel about Meth? Bah, I know I have. Despite my gripes I infrequently find reason to indulge when circumstances seem right for it. Tonight was one of those nights.

My main bitch is the same as always - the lack of action. When I look back on it, nearly every single time the outcome is the same; talk. Talk and talk and talk. Talk can be a lot of things. Magic. Mystery. Music. Mood. The talk is always.... beneficial. All night endless talks are like therapy in my mind. Healthy in that any sharing of spirit between people striving towards the same goodness in their lives is like a holy act. Talk can bring change. Talk can bring clarity. There is no end to it's magic.

I admire and in a way worship speech, the act of honest, open, heart-felt conversation. I am aware of that powerful magic. I just feel that talk can extend beyond itself into empty words.

Been said 40 times, been heard, been known and this is the key for me, it's been *settled*. An idea is a blessing. From it might spring plans. Plans, I love.

This morning, after talking all through the night, we are... still... talking. Can't we talk while we acheive on other levels too? Can't we share more than one thing at a time.

I can't speak for anyone else, but I come out of a meth all night talk session with a sense of.... well, many things, but among them, accomplishment. Communicating ideas is an accomplishment. Make sense? I guess to make it basic, I could say I feel like..... afterwards, doors are open, opportunities are waiting in the wings... and more often than not, fruition is not attained. When the talk first ends the energy put out is still strong and electric but without attendance it fades. Without action.

Everyone got to put their ideas on the market. Specifically in the realm of business and the directions we could go in... the direction we could start in. Now, to me, if this ends with one action, one goal for the day accomplished, one things on the to-do list crossed off. Thought, speech, energy... action. There are a million ideas out there but how many get action?

I'll finish this later maybe. If I still care.

Sunday, June 22nd, 2003

(11 Open Wounds | Strike With A Knife)

Subject:-x- Connections...
Time:10:57 am.


Sunday, May 18th, 2003

(Strike With A Knife)

Subject:-- Voices....
Time:4:02 pm.
Mood:sympathetic.

Wednesday, March 26th, 2003

(4 Open Wounds | Strike With A Knife)

Subject:-- Feathery Wings...
Time:4:31 am.
Mood:bitchy.
You there on the bridge
where've you been?
what's your name?
And you there on the wall
where will you go to
once you've fall'n?
You lost at sea
do you need me?
do you need directions?
Hey, put down the gun
what are you thinking?
You were someone's son.

The taste of tears
the sting of pain
The smell of fear
the sounds of crying
(as you stand here
at the edge of you life
what do you remember?
was it all you wanted?
I'm tryin' to earn
a set of feathery wings
I wish I could protect you here
oh, please don't cry now, smile
as you stand here
at the edge of your life
your troubles are over
mine are just beginning
I'm tryin' to earn
a set of feathery wings
to take me away from here
it's me you leave behind.)

A long, long time ago
I fell to this place
from another dimension
and thrust amongst the beasts
and the way they behave
it borders on dementia
And now after all these years
I can barely take it
I don't think I can make it
take me away from here
I want to go home
I'm so sick and tired of....
(chorus)

Oh, if only I could have been there
I'd be a hand for the sinking
If only I could have been there
I'd be a prayer for the dying
See the pain etched in my face
Oh, I'm so sick and tired of....
(Chorus)

(you're gone from here
don't leave from here
don't leave me here
I hate it here.
You're gone from here
don't leave from here
I need you here
I need to see you smile.)


Voltaire

Friday, March 14th, 2003

(Strike With A Knife)

Subject:-- The Same Reason Vampires And Dark Angels are sexy...
Time:5:40 pm.
Mood:artistic.

Thursday, March 6th, 2003

(Strike With A Knife)

Subject:-- Recumbent...
Time:12:42 am.
Mood:pessimistic.
I need a new drug. I need a new sweat,
bleeding, jazz and cold-water flat screaming fall, down into love.
Saying things that if said are suppose to last.
But then you burn up, and your gone in a flash.
So I want to see you differently?
On your knees.
On the ground.

Tearing through, give
tones for loans and
broken homes and dimes.
Got bitter bottles, got
carcenogenic lungs. Got
red hands and fun.
Said if you could see me now.
You don't say that you don't.

'Guess you go to far when piano's try to be guitars.'

Thursday, February 13th, 2003

(Strike With A Knife)

Subject:-- Humpty Dumpty Sat On A Wall...
Time:8:47 pm.
Mood:satisfied.
No Name [3:51 PM]: see your the popular one ::runs to get his pad:: oh please oh please can i have your autograph!!! i'll do annnyythhhiinnnggg
Phynix Ash [3:52 PM]: ::knowing and calculated air of a movie star, whiskey smoked words falling from her lips like a jewel:: Anything?
No Name [3:53 PM]: ::shakes a bit:: anything for a movie starrrrrrrrrr
Phynix Ash [3:55 PM]: ::that typical flash of cruelty that comes from all 'old money':: But what could you possibly have that I want?
No Name [3:56 PM]: ::grips her shoulders and backs her into a wall:: its not having what you want, i may just have all that you need
Phynix Ash [3:58 PM]: ::a biting edge that was diamond brittle... and just as sharp or bright...:: Nothing special then.
Phynix Ash [3:58 PM]: ::gives up the ghost of this game first, kicking him in the shin:: Shut up before I rape you.. or let you rape me. ::winks::
No Name [3:59 PM]: oh oh oh my!! :passes out::
Phynix Ash [4:01 PM]: LOL
Phynix Ash [4:01 PM]: Flake.
No Name [4:02 PM]: ::wakes up:: oh my goodness
No Name [4:02 PM]: im sorry, whoa
Phynix Ash [4:02 PM]: Ju was possessed....
No Name [4:02 PM]: sooo much excitement
Phynix Ash [4:02 PM]: By a ... hmmm.. cunning man.
No Name [4:02 PM]: really?
Phynix Ash [4:03 PM]: ::feels like she's a in an Ann Rice novel... can you smell the jasmine and honeysuckle in New Orleans??::
No Name [4:05 PM]: ummm i can smell the cajun food, if that counts ::rubs his head::
Phynix Ash [4:06 PM]: ::chuckles:: Course it counts... I could really go for some pistolettes. Am I being obtruse and making yer head hurt? I do that at times. My bad.
No Name [4:10 PM]: no no, i just fainted from the thought of before, must have slammed my own head into the floor. no no you being obtruse is like me being a philanthropist
Phynix Ash [4:12 PM]: ::grins, twinkle twinkle:: What, the thought of rape or the thought of gleaming diamonds? And do you treasure your philanthropic side as much as I love my shrouded garb of incontinuity?

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