Fountains of Joy

Lets keep it short and sweet, angelSo, this is what happens when I get labrinthitis and cabin fever. I was climbing the walls, really.

I never really realised that home can be anywhere you want it to be.

If I could choose, my home would be summer. It's not a genuine location, but I've always been a bit of a strange one...

And I can't wait. Genuinely can't wait for summer.

So, bring it on.

This is hollow

There are spiders crawling in and out if this place
This is hollow
It's spitting smoke and tar through gritted teeth
this is hollow
It's a soft elegance of musk on dusted lids, behind which the worms grow,
the quick burn of slow slow decay in this hollow place, always hollow.

Oh for all the relics in the world there is something sweet, sickly, cacophanous

Choking with victory, benevolent with life
in this place that is hollow.
How slow, the quick quick time could drop by, still slathering as its eyes roll
as we all fall to its beauty

We have chained it here, this monster
With golden bolts and locks of obsession. Our very arteries embrace it
There are spiders crawling in and out of this place
This is hollow
A rising sickness with the fever, through its throat and to its mind
Upwards, like the tide to a lighthouse enamoured with its duty, depreciated.

This place is golden and oozing with decadence
This is hollow
It keeps up to fall behind, ever losing against the time,
All skin and bones, all nails and iron, still slathering as its eyes roll
And we break under its beauty

Sweet release, the exhaled breath is all but inky bruises
Under the pen, oh for all the relics you can see it in the eyes!
This wound is festering in the place that is hollow
Behind the eyes, where the worms grow
Keep time with the rising sickness and bite down a distancing hysteria
It is spitting smoke and tar through gritted teeth

And feel the show roll out as the mercury rises
To the place that is hollow
This is all face down floating in the sickness
Touch the poison where the worms grow,

It’s the eternity behind the eyes.

I feel a hysteria coming on like I'm diving and twisting into a sea of madness. I don't think I can stop with the poems.

Dear diary,
today I learnt the value of pressure.
Yours sincerely

The end of the end

previously on buffy the vampire slayer...

ok so i think i'll explain myself.
I really feel like writing, so I will.

That's it. I love revolutionary, hard hitting words on paper and I'm trying to recreate that. Not with much success often, but hell. I try don't I?

This blog has been going a long time now, and I'm not sure what it's for. A creative outlet? An unspeaking therapist?
It's true most of the things here really are laid out for the world to see. Blogs are strange if you think about it.
They're often an open invitation to come and see the inside of someone's head...please?

Are we really that misunderstood, that unrelatable that words on a screen are the only way we express ourselves. Am I really like that too?

No. I don't think so. Because ideas are viral. They spread and catch like fire in a haybarn, to the right people. I think blogs are just here to remind us what was in our heads.
And I like it like that.

Come look at this site

www.bakerella.com

I'm going to be making the pecan pie when I'm a granny for my grandchildren to remember me by ;)

The hunting ground

It's the light of the fire that's flooding through the park tonight and everyone is gathered round, some huddled, some at arms length. It's almost winter now and everyone here can tell, the girls in their dresses shiver slightly as steam rises from open, laughing mouths.
The fire itself casts a iridescent, ethereal glow on this unlikely meeting place. It's as if we are all pixies or magical beings participating in an ancient ritual of sipping vodka, staggering around and then as the night draws to a close, coupling off like woodland creatures, scared of their own company.
Because god forbid you're the one left behind to nurse that hollow feeling in your chest, the one that's put there to tell you you're not complete, you're never complete.
Leon has been telling me all this damning stuff about society and the rigors, rituals and expectations that have been put on us. His girlfriend stands glassy-eyed a few feet away, not really participating in the conversation, her long blonde hair flowing and at times, the fire behind seemed to mix her hair with the red-haired girl next to her.
They were a weird couple, like fire and ice.
Leon was all fire, hot-tempered and full of ideas - ideas which at first don't seem to affect you until his revolutionary thought chain licks up into your consciousness to burn and char away your previous beliefs.
Jas was ice. She was quick, to the point, unfaltering and seemingly guarded. Her ideas were shared if she was encouraged, but she took no pleasure in making people see as she did. She was stubborn and liked her ideas to stay hers. Jas was perfection in a blonde-haired blue-eyed package.
Who knows how they got together, but they equally needed each other as much as they fought.

A girl in front of us was laughing loudly, carefree as the boy besides casually slung an arm around her shoulders and left it there. That's as smooth as it gets here.

I wasn't too interested. A couple of us eventually went home to Leon's and the night faded to inconsequential words in the past tense as I basically blacked out into his sofa.

life plays out like the movies

It actually does. I see things through the eyes of a film.
This is Chuck Palahniuk and he is a God. Author of Fight Club, his style of writing is a vivid testament to a brilliant mind, twisting and turning. I love basically.


"Truth is stranger than fiction, at least for those blessed with interesting lives. The rest of us have no choice but to live vicariously through their stories."
written for ChuckPalahniuk.net by Joshua Chaplinsky

Born February 21, 1962, Charles Michael Palahniuk spent his early childhood living out of a mobile home in Burbank, Washington.

His parents, Carol and Fred Palahniuk, divorced when he was fourteen.

Chuck never knew his father’s parents. His grandfather shot and killed his grandmother after an argument over the cost of a sewing machine.
Chuck’s father, who was three at the time, watched from under a bed as Nick Palahniuk searched the house for additional victims, before turning the gun on himself.





Chuck claims his interest in writing started when his fifth grade teacher, Mr. Olsen told him,
“Chuck, you do this really well. And this is much better than setting fires, so keep it up.”

I draw inspiration from this man. He's the most amazing writer I have ever come across and his work just astounds me. One day I hope to be able to write like him.

Maybe self-improvement isn't the answer.... Maybe self-destruction is the answer. ~Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club, Chapter 6

Last thoughts. I wrote a very long message, imagining myself as a character in a plot line. It would be called Shutters.

"We're too good to be remembered exactly as we were forever. That's what makes us secret and special. 300 years on and they won't know how we met, what's your favourite band and why I don't drink out of glasses. I think that makes us exciting. This piece of time is ours. It's less than a heartbeat in relation, but it's ours."

glass fists, glass jaw.

In the rain, your life misted up against the glass,
shifted; slight shuffles with sly feet towards the warmth
and the ripples of the glass, fogging more and less as with the tide
sure, steady rhythm bringing you home as if to the arms of a lover.

The beautiful cold splinters, baptized in rain and glass,
new eyes and new rain all precious gold dust in distant mines,
and life escapes upwards to dance with the sun in warmer skies,
with your memories of gold and red flooded sweeter dusks.

But in the rain, your life misted up against the glass,
safe inside, whole. But I stayed hollow
while mine flooded out, my mind on the outside,
shaking and fumbling home in the rain.

it's happening now and it's always been like this.

We are just drifting forward,
and living in the moment,
keep pushing up the blinds,
the shutters across your eyes
drawing down oceans of calm,
all the scars across your heart
they kept you standing proud

I built these foundations with my own hands,
they're fumbling forward, just drifting onwards,
join on and draw near,
race on with laughter courting tears,
sweetheart, are you the one calling,
my lover, bright rapture, the one who I fear?

Truths sung as lips chasing dreams,
shaking the venerated, I hope whisper brings
in the echoes of your arms and subeams
we race forwards, slipping in and out
of your ever elusive scheme.










|I do have a cool picture to upload but I'm tired. The lack of creative output manifested and overpowered my simple nature :)


Oh, by the way,
"Always like this" by Bombay Bicycle Club

No mas.


\freddie x