June 27th: Maerlyn's Rainbow and the Story of Creation

Do you know the story of creation? Then listen.



At the beginning of our era, there were no worlds and no universes, only the seething, raw, magic of the Prim. This phosphorescent soup of creation grew like a great, hungry, opalescent ameba. It ate the nothingness, and in the silence it murmured and whispered.
First to erupt from the depths of the Prim was Gan, spirit of the Dark Tower. Tall and grey-black, he pushed into the sky, the windows that spiraled round his barrel flashing with an electric-blue light. From the center of Gan’s forehead stared a great oriel window of twelve colors: crimson, orange, yellow, pink, dark blue, dark green, indigo, lime, azure, violet, brown, and pearl grey. Though the window was beautiful, the circular pane at its center glowed black as the emptiness of todash space.
As Gan stretched himself higher and higher, the waters of the Prim poured out of his navel. From it’s raw magic he spun Mid-World. As the Tower lengthened, so Mid-World divided into the multiple, parallel worlds. Gan set those sequin-like worlds spinning around the axle of his body and their movement created time.
As time settled on its axis, the sun and moon arose from the Prim and built their own roads across the sky. Soon they were joined by Old Star and his wife, South Star. But while the gods took their places above the stage of the earth, other more terrible creatures bred in the deeper waters of the Prim.
The most awful of the Prim’s new children were monstrous Great Ones. Some of these horrors had the bodies of squids, some of giant centipedes, still others of great, double-fanged spiders. All had clawed pincers and gaping mouths filled shark teeth, and all of them were hungry. But as these Great Ones cozened, diddled, and increased, the Prim began to recede. Some of the monsters died, but others shifted into the void places between worlds and waited.
As the magical Prim withdrew, many lesser demons were stranded upon the shores of the multiple worlds. Some of these demons strangled, but others adapted and thrived. Among those that survived were beings that looked like men but were not human. One of these unpredictable and dangerous creatures called himself Maerlyn.
Presenting himself as a powerful wizard, Maerlyn taught the people of Mid-World the philosophy of magic and its many practical applications. He showed them how to build doorways between worlds and tunnels between time periods. Under his tutelage, they built Dogans – experimental stations where technology could be fused with magic – and in these Dogans the Old People created annihilating weapons.
A powerful empire emerged which called itself the Imperium. Bloated with their own importance, the leaders of the Imperium claimed lordship over the whole of the time-space continuum. However, in order to truly control time and dimension, they had to conquer the lynchpin of existence. Hence they decided to rebuild the Dark Tower. When the architects, electricians, and builders arrived in End-World, they were amazed by what they saw. Not only was the Tower more imposing than they had realized, but what they had taken for stone was actually hardened flesh. Still, they wanted to earn their glory, so they set to work. But no sooner did the first wrecking ball hit that imposing edifice than the ground was rocked by an enormous tremor. This Beamquake increased in intensity until a gaping fissure opened up in the earth and a dense yellow fog arose out of it. But this was no ordinary fog. Oh no. It had leaked from the monster-filled void between worlds, the place where the Great Ones waited. All those who had traveled to the Tower seeking fame screamed and ran, but none of them made it very far. From the depths of the todash fog, a Great One burped.
All over Mid-World, monster-filled thinnies opened like sores on the skin of existence. The Imperium fragmented – each faction blaming the others for this terrible miscalculation – and soon there was war. Men and women fled in terror, but there was nowhere left to hide. Animals and plants caught in the poisonous crossfire mutated, and Mid-World was reduced to an irradiated wasteland. How Maerlyn laughed!
But despite the horror and havoc, the Tower survived. Listing to one side on his cracked foundations, Gan let one drop of blood fall from his flesh. The drop seeped into the earth at his base and on that spot grew a rose. The rose was pink on the outside, fierce red on the inside, and its center was yellow as the sun. Stretching up into the toxic air, the rose began to sing. As it sang, more roses sprang up, and more and more until the Tower, now surrounded by a field of harmonizing blossoms, righted itself. All over Mid-World, the clouds of poisoned gas parted and the monster-filled mists receded.
Like the land, the human society began to heal and the fabric of culture was rewoven. Warring clans made treaties and united into baronies. Leaders from the many baronies met to palaver and in so doing, formed an Affiliation. Together, the men of the Affiliation destroyed the lawless harriers who pillaged and ransomed; they hunted down the man-eating mutants hidden deep within the earth; they even heavy dams to hold back the waters of the Prim. During this time of struggle, one young warrior became known for his prowess in battle and for his ability to inspire confidence in his followers. His name was Arthur Eld. And though he still wore the sword of his fathers at his hip, he also carried a new, fearsome weapon which was able to defeat all enemies. Arthur called this new weapon a gun. By force of the gun, Arthur bridled Mid-World’s evil and reclaimed the land for men, not chaotic magic.
But not everyone was happy with this restoration of order. Deep in his cave on the lapping shores of the Prim, Maerlyn ground his teeth. In his scrying crystal, he watched as the glorious city of Gilead was rebuilt, stone by stone, so that Arthur, the new high king of All-World, could be crowned there.
Peace was boring. Men who did not savage each other were boring. Eternity stretched before the immortal wizard, both long and wide. Maerlyn taped his teeth, and then he grinned. It was time for more trickery.
Over the undying fire that burned in his new caves, Maerlyn spun the waters of the Prim into glass. Whispering secret words, he divided the white magic into twelve tainted magical strands. Finally, he rolled the strands into spheres. When nothing was left in his hands but shadow, Maerlyn rolled a black ball. Whereas each of the colored spheres contained a different form of magic – one contained the skill of levitation, another held the secret of telepathy, yet another the power to move between worlds – the black contained only the evil of the void. His work done, Maerlyn passed his hands of the Bends o’ the Rainbow, and in the heart of each seductive sphere, he placed a curse. Though magic was by nature neither good nor bad, these spheres would bring only sorrow to their users.
Maerlyn walked to the edge of the Prim and lifted his arms to the sky. He called out to his brothers and sisters, the Great Ones, and entreated them to the journey with him to the coronation of the new human king. There, disguised as men and women, they could wreak their vengeance on those who sought to cage them. There they could feed.
The Great Ones came. Though they arose from the Prim in their terrible insect-like bodies, as air touched their skins they became a parade of knights and ladies. The women wore silver dresses that shone like the scales of fish; the men wore armor which, out of the corner of the eye, seemed to be made of mollusk shells. For weapons they carried poisoned tridents and huge pikes, and on their banners fluttered the Wheel of Chaos. Last to emerge from the magical waters was the eldest of all the Great Ones. As her red, hairy, eight-armed body scrambled out of the water, her form became as beautiful as it had previously been hideous. In her gown and wimple of crimson silk, she reached forth and clasped Maerlyn’s hand.
In the renovated city of Gilead, the festivities began in earnest. Dressed in white, Arthur rode through the streets on his white stallion Llamrei. Young girls showered him with flowers while men set off fireworks and vendors sold cakes decorated with the new crown of All-World, its thirteen colored gems – one for each striation in the Dark Tower’s central oriel window – replaced by colored candies.
As the trumpeters blew their trumpets, Arthur was led into the throne room. He seated himself on the throne and his chief advisor, Sir Kay Deschain, held the crown of All-World above his head. The new high king pledged his life and the lives of his descendants to protect the Tower, and the jeweled crown was placed upon his brow. A great cheer went up in the hall, followed by cheering and dancing in the streets. The bad old days were over and the good new days had begun. But no sooner did the king’s advisors begin congratulating themselves than they had to pause. The sound of street celebration had ceased and had been replaced by silence. And from the silence arose the otherworldly music of flutes and lutes.
The courtiers flocked to the windows, and what they saw outside shocked them. The awestruck citizens of Gilead had parted to make way for a delegation of the most richly dressed men and women that anyone had ever seen. Their leader, an aged wizard, approached the Great Hall and stood beneath the throne room’s central window. Striking his staff on the ground, he requested permission to ascend. The people of the Prim, mankind’s oldest enemies, had come bearing gifts for the new king.
Never had either Arthur or his court seen anything more beautiful than those spheres. They seemed to glisten with the very magic from which they were made, and the desire to touch them, to hold them, to gaze into their depths, was overwhelming. One by one, the King of Eld held up the spheres which the sorcerer Maerlyn promised would bring peace, prosperity, and wisdom to his kingdom. Yet as Arthur passed each ball to his most trusted advisors, his face, and their faces, began to change.
Where once there had been generosity, now there was greed. Where once there had been trust, now there was suspicion. And as Arthur raised the crimson ball above his head to display it to his followers, he momentarily beheld his court through it’s colored distortion.
Suddenly, those whom he had known to be honest appeared deceitful, and those he’d thought loyal wore the smirks of traitors. Even Queen Rowena, his lovely young wife, seemed ugly as a hag.
The king who descended from the throne was not the same as the one who had ascended to it such a short time before. He was curt, he was suspicious, and he was impatient. The rest of the court did not seem to notice but Sir Kay did. He suspected that the king’s uninvited guests had brought with them an evil enchantment.
The banquet began, and a riotous affair it was. Men got drunk and danced on the tables. Women kicked off their shoes, lifted their skirts, and twirled form one partner to another. Servants threw hunks of meat to the dogs that skulked around the revelers’ feet so that they could watch the animals savage each other. And through it all, Arthur ignored his courtiers, his advisors, and his wife. He only had eyes for the Prim’s Crimson Queen.
Without excusing himself from the party, Sir Kay retreated to his rooms. It was all terribly wrong, even if he was the only one who could see it. Late that evening, as the rest of the courtiers fell into a drunken slumber, he went out to spy on the court’s uninvited guests.
Yet what he found, not even he had expected. When the last of the courtiers were asleep, the Prim’s lords and ladies shed their human skins. They were not men and women at all but great man-eating insects! Holding his hand over his mouth to keep from gagging, Sir Kay moved from shadow to shadow, skirting the gorging monsters, searching for Arthur. When he found him, the king was unconscious. But worse yet, he was in the arms of a giant red spider.
Bellowing Arthur’s name, Sir Kay charged the spider and pierced it with his sword. The spider shrieked and bit Sir Kay, but it had been gravely wounded. As it scurried away, it’s black blood seared the grass.
When the court awoke, the creatures of the Prim were gone, but so were many of the courtiers. Howling with grief, servants covered the bodies of the half-eaten dead, and the panicked advisors went in search of their king. They found him, still unconscious, in the garden. Beside him, his wound oozing black venom, his melted sword in his hand, was the body of Sir Kay.
Though Arthur ordered the Wizard’s spheres to be broke, the glass forged over the undying fire of Maerlyn’s cave proved to be unbreakable. Instead they were buried in a secret cave, but not even that worked as planned. Drawn by their glammer, thieves soon discovered the hiding place, and Maerlyn’s rainbow found its way into the world once more.
But the survival of Maerlyn’s demonic spheres was not Arthur’s only worry. Though the royal couple was visited by every physician and midwife in the realm, Queen Rowena remained barren. Instead it was the Crimson Queen who kindled. Within a year, she gave birth to a child that was both man and spider and declared him Arthur’s heir. As his father had sworn, the Red Prince was bound to the Tower. But whereas a human child would have been bound to defend it, Arthur’s monstrous child was determined to destroy it. All-World’s peace was over before it had properly begun.
But ka is a wheel and as it turns, even the fortunes of the wicked must change. Crouched in his cave, staring into his scrying crystal, Maerlyn had a vision that disturbed him. Based on that vision, he made a prophecy to the Crimson Queen. Her offspring would thrive, spreading a new kind of chaos throughout the multiple worlds. Yet one day a human kinsman would arise to challenge him. Though mortal, this child of Eld would darkle and tinct like a creature of magic. He would pursue the servants of the Prim from century to century and from one level of reality to another. This human child would be named Roland, and he would be the Tower’s final champion. As a warrior of the White, he would destroy the Outer Dark. Unless he was destroyed, he would kill the Crimson Prince and rein in the power of the Prim forever.


mental note to self: must learn how to type properly or at least without curling my pinky finger up in the air. It hurts!

June 26th: Fall in Light

I just found this. It's JB's New Years Eve Prayer. I'm in love with it. I've embeded the video down at the bottom cause it's so much better when he reads it. If you are familliar with the song then you can just siigghhh and melt and wonder.....like me. It is an evolution or a digression or a basis or whatever. My head is vibrating. If you don't have this song, ask me for it or go get it now. I'm serious, right now.


You my love are allowed to forget about the Christmas
you just spent stressed out in your parents house
you my love are allowed to shed the weight of all the bad years before
like bad disco clothes save them for a night of dancing stoned with your lover
you my love are allowed to let yourself drown every night
in bottomless wild and naked symbolic dreams
you my love in sleep can unlock your youth and most terrifying magic
and dreaming is for the courageous
you my love are allowed to grab my guitar and sing the idiot love songs if you lost your ability to speak
keep it down to two minutes
you my love are allowed to rot and to die and to live again
more alive and incandescent than before
you my love are allowed to beat the shit out of you television
choke its thoughts and corrupt its mind kill, kill, kill,
kill the motherfucker before the song of zombified pain and panic and malaise
and its narrow right wing vision and its cheap commerical gang rape
becomes the white noise of the world
turnabout is fair play
you my love are allowed to forgive and love your television
you my love are allowed to speak in kisses to those around you and those up in heaven
you my love are allowed to show your babies how to dance full bodied starry eyed audacious supernatural and glorified
you my love are allowed to suck in every single endeavor
you my love are allowed to be soaked like a lovers blanket in the new york summer time with the wonder of your own special gift
you my love are allowed to receive praise
you my love are allowed to have time
you my love are allowed to understand
you my love are allowed to love
woman disobey
women little man believe
you my love are rebellion



Oh my heart.

June 25th, 2007: An Alternate Me, Pt.1

Writing Prompt for6/25/2007:

You're eating at your favorite restaurant and order your favorite meal. A couple of bites in, you nearly have a heart attack when you notice something in your meal that doesn't belong there. What is it and how did it get there?

This one doesn’t seem very fun. I mean, who hasn’t pulled a long string of hair from their Arby’s sandwich, Jason? Seriously. Let’s look for another.

5/8/2007: While waiting at a doctor's office, you hear your name called. As you stand up, you hear another person say, "That's me," and head for the nurse. Another person with your name! You decide to follow this person throughout his day. What traits do you share? Where do you differ? And what is the one thing this person has that you envy and feel you need to incorporate into your life. You can post your response (500 words or fewer) here:

This would truly be an incredible coincidence, wouldn’t it? There aren’t many people out there with my name. I have met two and I remember them both. One was a country white girl who worked in an outlet shoe store. The other, a sexy black woman at a bar in Atlanta I worked at. She was interesting. Ooh, come to think of it. I kind of remember meeting another Greta at a restaurant. She was an older woman, which is probably what you’d expect with a name like mine. Actually, I was in office depot the other day and the very talkative cashier asked to see my ID. Apparently, you have to be eighteen to buy air-cleaning canisters. When she looked at it, she said, “Oh, I bet you go by your middle name.” Why? Is my first name that ugly? Sorry, I do not have a normal name like you, Lorraine, but it has taken me a while to grow into this curse. And now, I kind of like it. So there. My mom says she named me after three people. 1. My great-grandmother, Margarethe (it’s French and sounds like mar-ga-reta. Not sure if I spelled that right by the way.*wince*) 2. My grandmother, Gretchen. (worst name I could ever think of. People used to tease me in middle school by calling me that. hope those people are dead now) and 3. Greta Garbo. Whatever. Actually, my dad tried to save me. In the week or weeks after I was brought home from the hospital, neither mom nor dad could agree on a name so Mom walked around calling me Greta while Dad called me Sarah. One time, Dad slipped up and called me Greta and that was the end of that. There are a couple of other instances where my name has come up: in the Jim Carrey movie ‘Liar, Liar’, his secretary is named Greta. But of course, she is an old woman. Go figure. There have been too many times where someone tells me their dog’s name is Greta. Really? Wow, that’s awesome. Go jump in a lake. I do remember this friend in high school telling me she was reading a book and in it, a character had a fish named Greta. Why do I remember this stuff? I don’t know. But there you have it. Old women, dogs, and fish. And me.

******
I didn’t realize it at first but Greta and I are remarkably similar. Must be the curse of having the same strange and antiquated name. When I first started to follow-no let’s be fair-stalk her, I did so with an indescribable jealousy and curiosity. From the minute I saw her in the doctor’s office, I instantly disliked her. She was tall, dark and gorgeous. Her feet kicked aimlessly in her black, knee high boots. Her hair was long and black and seemed to waft in the non-existent wind. She thumbed through magazine pages without having to lick her fingers. She had taken the seat facing the window and would, from time to time, look up and stare off at the world outside. I could almost hear her mind racing through the maze of thoughts. For a split second, I considered playing Mystery Science Theatre 3000, and silently narrating her thoughts as she thought them. But that would require staring at her and I wasn’t ready to be crazy-stalker lady...yet. Plus, she probably had a menial job like bartending or beer tub girl and I had moved past that long ago. Ok, a month ago but I was now a freelance writer. Ok, a receptionist at the local paper offices. But I was writing and I had my foot in the door. And yes, all the muscles I had firmed up in running around the bar were now, nearly atrophic. And Greta’s toned thighs peeked over the top of her boots and from under her skirt and laughed at me. Yes, they laughed at us. At me and my own pale, soft thighs. It was probably around here, that I sighed and decided to stop abusing myself and just read the dammed Us Weekly that lay unopened, in my lap. But that only derailed me for a minute or two and the snapping echo of her turning the pages was distracting me. I tried to bury myself in the not very interesting lines of the beautiful people. Another party girl fell down and exposed herself; another celebrity couple was pregnant; another divorced. But I found my thoughts wandering to her again. What real celebrity would she be likened too? A classy one, I’ll bet. Who would she date? Some unbelievably handsome star, I’m sure.
Just as I was making myself upset, the door opened and the nurse called my name. Thank god, I thought. But I had barely started to close the magazine and reach for my purse when I heard the nurse greet me. “Come with me please, Greta”. I looked up to see one platformed heel disappear behind the door. No way, I thought. She probably just misheard. I approached the window and glanced at the sign-in sheet. But no, there it was: my name, in my handwriting still uncrossed at the bottom of the page. Two or three lines above mine, I saw the answer. My name, not my penmanship. She has the same name? I couldn’t believe it. It’s not everyday you even hear your name, let alone meet someone with the same one. Especially if your name is Greta. A little taken aback, I wandered back to my seat and stared at her empty chair. Should I say something? Introduce myself? Would she think I was crazy? Do I think I am crazy? Good question. Should I wait or should I try and intercept her in the exam rooms? What the hell am I talking about? I found myself wondering what her voice sounded like, what she did for a career, if she was friendly, if her teeth were straight. I was no longer afflicted with the little green bug. Now I was insanely interested. And the writer in me, would never let this one rest until I knew her. It was then that I decided to embark on a nosy, stupid and possibly dangerous mission. I had to know this alternate Greta. But I didn’t want her to know. It would be my greatest character study and it would begin as soon as she exited those doors. All I had to do now, was sit and wait.

Random thoughts that ran through my head while writing this,

that made me stop and take note:

1. Ooh, another interesting thing that happened at a doctor’s office!
2. I smell fish and chips. Very strong. Very dangerous.
3. What kind of crazy person decides to follow someone around?

-1,284 Words

June 19th: Strange Fruit

I had the most exquisitely strange dream last night. I was in the middle of a dark street. It was night. There were people around. It felt kind of like an event at a store or something close to that, an opening, a gala, a gallery opening, something like that anyways. Maybe a restaurant! A diner. I remember there being ketchup. The bottled kind. The one he could puncture the top of with his teeth, if he wanted. Which he might have.
At any rate, I saw him standing alone, like a little lost puppy. My dark love. I went to him. He was definitely lost. My dark lost love. There was an emptiness in his eyes. We talked for a minute. I tried to comfort him, feed him, soothe him, take him home. He actually did let me take him home for a while. I introduced him to Elsa, who, very politely made his acquaintance and then mouthed oh my god! to me when he turned away from her. This is the point where it starts to get hazy. I think I remember us talking for a bit, but I can’t remember what was said. I remember brushing his hair away from his face with my fingers. Then I remember him walking away. He just kind of walked away. My dark, lost, love. Lost again to the empty black nothingness of the night.
When I awoke, I was floored. Had I actually dreamed about Jeff Buckley? I am never that lucky. Exquisitely strange fruit, indeed.

-256 Words

June 18th, 2007: Supreme Silliness

Writing Prompt for6/18/2007: Your computer has met an untimely death and you've been asked to say a few words in its honor. Write a eulogy for your computer, remembering the good times and the bad. (500 words or fewer)


I'm feeling mighty silly today, and not much like writing. I'm sure this will come out. I wish I hadn't made the promise and could only post pieces I am proud of. Oh well, now I'll have to write something else to make up for this. And for the missed days. dern....


Good morning all. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Greta, the administrator. I spent eight hours a day working with Jocelyn. That’s what I named her anyways. She was the one of the best computers I’ve ever worked with. She shared my daytime clock, running fast and working well in the morning and then lagging in the afternoon. All the fantastic Photoshop creations that we created together we probably be the thing I’ll miss the most. She had such an eye for detail and color; I could not have done anything without her. But there are surely other things I will miss. All my music; KCRW’s Morning Becomes Eclectic; watching Michael Jackson dance on Youtube all day long; all the silly little programs I tried to install and Jocelyn would not let me; the clickity-clack of my fingers...sigh...So many words formed under my fingers and on her screen. So very many words. Jocelyn had the most admirable user-friendly, timesaving buttons and so many hidden folders. She taught me so much about the technological world. Html; remote desktop connections; the German language; and hacking are all things I would have never looked at if she hadn’t whispered her little tips into my ear. But I suppose the thing I admire most about Jocelyn is her way with words. Her way to take the words I had scribbled furiously on bar napkins and legal pads and transform them into something readable. Some of those documents, I will never recover. And If I never said it, I’m sorry Jocelyn. I’m sorry for all those times I got impatient with you and cut you off. But we always came back, didn’t we? I always turned you back on and then you were fine and we got on with our “work”. I told myself I wasn’t going to cry...I’m sorry.
And even though my new computer is faster, and slicker, and prettier, it’ll never be you. I’ll never forget you and what you taught me. Your finicky opinions of blogger.com and the way you and deviantArt never got along. That mean old Celeste and the way you stuck up for me, and kept me from being mean right back to her. You were right. It is always better to be classy. I forgive you for the spoonfuls of cookie dough you made me eat, or the endless train of cigarettes you made me smoke. We were inseparable, best friends, and I’ll never forget you.

-503 Words

July 14th, 2007: Beneath the Furious Pen

I'm going out of town tomorrow so I won't be able to post. Hopefully, I can write something anyways and just post them all when I get back. In the meantime, however:


The word:
Baby curves and adolescent lines. Holding each other, hugging, tails swing happily, lazily wrap back around to feel it's own warmth. Touch it's own holy lips. Born from mud, and clay, made permanent, cut into the earth. That first sacred line. That first finger in the sand. The need to record, to tell, to write, to read, to retell. That's where it starts. The word. The ablity to create, to release. When your head moves faster than your hand yet you prefer the pen and paper because there's something magical about the transition from what I hear in my head and what actaully forms beneath the furious pen. Surely there is much lost in the translation. In the ink. In the process. I tried the keyboard. The clickety-clack is satisfying. It is. But the ink. Oh, the ink is magical. To transform blank, white, empty spaces into scribbles and scrabbles and scratches and scars. To mar the page with marks. Cryptic, ancient markings. And what of your wandering mind? It's almost like an exercise. Put the pen down and don't pick it up. That's holy to me.

"There's no poetry between us, said the paper to the pen." - Gary Jules

While you were copying that, a million different things have run in and out of your head. Some make your eyes squint with a purposeless jealousy and some make your lips curve in a grin. Purpose is an interesting idea. Purpose, meaning, life, love. Get it out. Get it down. Create it. Live in it. Play in it. Bathe in it. You can only hope that one day, the cramp in your hand from speed writing or the headache you sometimes develop from reading in low light or the ache in your jaw after smiling and laughing all night doesn't tire you too much. I can only hope that you never tire of the power of the word.

-353 Words

June 13th, But it's only Wednesday!

I can't really think of anything else except this upcoming weekend getaway and due to Writer's Digest's refusal to post a new prompt all week, I figure it's ok to post my packing list here. Hey, I wrote it...

Destination: Panama City Beach, FL Duration: June 15th-June 17th

Days: Saturday, Sunday (2) Nights: Friday, Saturday (2)

Possible Activities:

Friday Night: Dinner (?), Partying

Saturday Afternoon: (?)

Satuday Night: Dinner, Partying

Sunday: Shopping (?), Lunch, Car travel

Packing List

Unmentionables:
(4) pairs of panties
(2) bikinis

Pajamas:
Navy deustches haus shirt
White & Grey Sweat Shorts

Tops:
Navy polka dot babydoll top

Coral Crochet Tunic

Blue Mexican Tunic

Green Scoopneck Tee

Bottoms:
White Jeans
Khaki shorts
Denim Shorts
White Embroidered Skirt

Shoes:
Red Sandals
Little Bow Heels
Brown Platforms



Jeezy Creezy! I think that's enough. It's only a weekend.

June 12th, 2007: Ode to My Nola

When I started to write this, I was sober. When I finished... well, let's just say I was not the same. It reads like a list, a rant, if I could read it on Def Poetry, it'd be awesome, but it's long. So I'll just post it here. I dedicate this to you, Momma. You rock.

Ah, yes! I remembered what I wanted to write about today. The secret of the city that care forgot. Secrets, rather. The way we won’t send tourists to Coops. Or the way the Mardi Gras Indians keep their parade details so secretive. That. The way the moon hangs-sags-drags, silver usually, but sometimes gold in the velvet ebony firmament. The way the wind from the city-from the quarter- sweeps across the river and picks up the jasmine blooms of the green-thumbed Algiers Point residents and wafts gently and so sweetly into your bedroom. The way the humidity wraps you in its sticky arms and presses you closer and closer to the moist earth until you feel you might melt or cry. Whichever comes first, who cares? The way the air, the laissez-faire, can suck you into it, and breathe life into you. Into everything. Everything is more alive down here. It’s the palms, the elephant ears, the moss, the oaks, the iron wrought balconies, the courtyards, the swamps, and the sexy sweet, dangerous breeze that never succeeds- tries but never succeeds- at cooling you down. The way if you go somewhere you originally thought was hot, isn’t so, after enduring a couple NOLA summers. Those cicadas, those freakishly enormous roaches, rats, grasshoppers. The sniiiff, you can hear in any bathroom. The graffiti on the inner door of the stall, “I fucked a Rod Stewart look-a-like in Maxwell’s bathroom”. And the way you completely believe that somehow, that’s true. The music, oh it’s everywhere, drifting from bicycles, cars, and jukeboxes. The people, your friends, your enemies, your acquaintances, the awful, awful roads, the diversity, the strange gutter punks, the businessmen, the corrupt politicians, and law enforcement, the run down buildings and historic homes. The way we almost adamantly fight to not look forwards. The way we walk backwards, even at the extent of our own necks. Always looking back, at our history. Never caring about the future. When suddenly you realize it’s not that we don’t care about anything (although deep down it is) it’s that we don’t care about the future. Because almost nothing matters more than our history. But god, it’s so charming. It’s the pink and green houses. The parades, the festivals, the sheer celebration of life. The frustrating amount of time it takes to get anything done. The lazy laundry day Mondays, red bean Mondays, happy hour, laughter, volume, raucousness, sex, drugs, rock and roll, hope and faith, despair, hope again, voodoo, easiness, southern hospitality, heritage, history, heat, mint juleps, accents, beignets, cafe au laits, pomp and circumstance, full three piece suits with suspenders, stereotypes, whiskey, john grisham novels -I don’t even own more than one coat-, something about the way the warm weather changes brain waves, the routine, the formality, the iced tea, grits, bloody marys, inked up bikers, bar flies, free pours, to-go cups, clowns and jesters and tourist traps, alligators, and jazz, soul, Zydeco, Cajun, Acadian, mulatto, yats, nutria rats, the secrets.
Don’t you understand? Silly me, of course you don’t. And you never will. Until you get lost in the projects. Until you go from work to parade to work again and again and again. Allen Toussaint, Dr. John, Harry Connick Jr. Louis Armstrong, Anne Rice, Trent Reznor, Harry Anderson, John Goodman, and our newest addition, Brangelina. They all know. The pussyfooters, the camel toe steppers, muses, Krewe D’etat, Bacchus, Orpheus, balls, costumes, pink slips, second line parades, wetlands, Tabasco, crystal, blue crab, crawfish, shrimp. Do you know what it means? Do you? The dome, Decatur st., burgundy, Roberts, ghosts, and bartenders that you know, and table dancing and just pure dancing. Grand parties, the end of stuffiness, all contradictions to end, death to the cold, to the new order! What’s wrong with history? We’ll absorb ourselves to death if need be. And oh give them Bourbon. It smells, and it’s not real It’s the facade. They can have it. But the marching bands are ours. Dancing girls, ode to fireworks over the river. To selling your soul to the devil, to brass bands and okra and spiced green beans and oh my...Mike West. RIP Mike and Katie West. To snow in New Orleans-to jackson square- on Christmas eve. To goddamn mother f*&@#g Brett brown, swinger couples, and FIT graduates who gave me hope, to floods, to English teachers, who taught me or rather showed me that I already knew better. It was colder than Lafayette, Indiana. How does she grab your heart like that? High tides, low tides, lakefronts, barbeques, ferry boats, Caribbean markets, free everything. To magnolia trees, magnolia projects, magnolia streets. To weeping, crying, sobbing willow trees. To romance, true love, lazy southern afternoons, to twilight, to dusk, to hurricanes and hurricane parties, mojitos, tire swing bars, friendly neighborhood dealers, and no, no one will look at your nails. Because after all, who cares? Let’s waltz, let’s go to the levee and dance at sunset, Purple and orange, and pink and turquoise. Shells, and brackish water, driftwood. Let’s slow dance. Late nights and long mornings. Plantations, class and dirt. The kind you love underneath your fingernails. To honesty, to unabashed brutal truth that slips from your lips even though you don’t want it to, as if the heat greases them, loosens them, pries them open. To the way that most of them that left (even if they did so of their own accord) come back eventually. They all come back. Let’s put on pretty dresses and take our shoes off. Let’s sit on the porch and sip something. Slowly and savor it. The moment. The night. The life the color, the picture, the cold blue grey smoke that wraps around, curls around us and drifts off into space. Joins the nebula, to become part of another world. To potted plants, to strays. And dog bars, and dog parades and even cat parades. To bulldogs that sit in chairs at tables, to liquor license classes, slack ones. To lucky numbers, 14 beers, floors, 1408. Sushi, gin and tonics, trivia, Pink Floyd laser shows, punk Madonna covers, casinos, never ever, but yes, when you fall, sitting on the toilet seats. Miss and Mr. first name to your elders, hot sausage, andouille sausage, sucking heads and pinching tails, debutantes, tuxes, white dresses, big hats, blonde wigs, family, friends, fiddle-dee-dee and all that jazz. Do you like it? Do you love it? Why? Airboats, cypress trees, hoodoo, Marie Laveau, riverboats, tourons, white tees, juvenile, paneled ceilings, mansions, Audubon zoo, Audubon park, French, liberated, black, red-headed step children. Makin groceries. Yeah you right. Who dat? How’s your mom and dem? And I bet I can still tell you where you got those shoes.

June 11th: The Red

Ok. Maybe I'm trying too hard. But this story is alluding me. I've been working on it all day. Now I'm tired and my head is on the verge of exploding. I'll give you a little. This is neither the beginning nor the end. In fact, I'm not quite sure where this goes but I like it. A little.

******

They were nearing her house. Here came the trash tree, nearing her side on the left. She found herself thanking god it was on the passengers side and not on his. This way she wouldn’t even have to look in his direction. The trash tree, was not in fact, a tree that bloomed garbage. It was an affectionate nickname for the large magnolia tree in the Winfield’s yard. An inside joke between Lydia and her father in reference to the large white blossoms that always decayed in the ugliest fashion. Had they already come to her neighborhood? Time flies when you’re trying to ignore your boyfriend’s death threats. She had better start gathering her thoughts. Maybe she could invite him in, and not let him leave. She wondered if by not letting him be alone, she could stop him. Forget trying to change his mind, right now she just wanted to stop him. There was an idea in her head that if he could sleep on it, he’d feel better in the morning. Dad would help her. Although he had never really liked Robbie. If she had to lock the door, and call his paren-well, call the cops, she would. She found she didn’t really even care why he wanted out, and wondered if that made her a bad person.
Now they were rounding the last corner. Robbie turned the wheel slowly and cautiously, like an old man. She thought of what she would take with her to school in the fall and what she would leave behind. Now they were on her street. Could she set-up a studio in her dorm? Now they were pulling into her driveway. Sarasota was a long way from Baton Rouge. What if he was serious this time? Robbie put the car in park, and reached for the door handle. Lydia reached for him. He flinched at her touch. This startled her and she returned her hand to it’s previous position underneath her leg.
Robbie opened the door, reached down, popped the trunk open, got out, and shut the door behind him. She bowed her head and pressed the tips of her fingers to her eyes. It was blessedly cool and therapeutic. Black spots swarmed behind her eyelids, swam with the red shadows of her blood like a lava lamp. She pressed a little harder. The black engulfed her vision. It was nice and dark. She glanced up at her house. No one was home yet. The garage door was closed. Back when her mother was still alive, the garage door had stayed closed. Since she had passed though, it pretty much stayed open. Dad was too busy to worry about silly things such as burglars. Maybe he just couldn’t bear to be reminded. Lydia, thought maybe this was the case. She didn’t like the look of the garage door closed anyways. She didn’t want there to be one instant where she’d look at that door and see it closed and think her mom was still inside, cooking up something awful, television blaring, and chatting loudly into the phone. Lydia was relieved to realize that she could still daydream. There was a moment where she thought, maybe Robbie had ruined her favorite activity. Ha ha, Robert Loudin! And then she was instantly ashamed of herself for thinking that. It wasn’t that she didn’t love him. After all, he had helped her make it through the tragic and accidental death of her mother from an unexpected prescription drug reaction. She once valued him above all others. Teenage love. Her inner voice scoffed. No, it wasn’t just that. They understood and complimented each other. In the beginning, it was perfect. But then things had happened. Horrible things.

******

Yep. That's it for now. Please and thank you.

June 8th, This Honey Coated Life

I'm in a sticky spot today. It seems my horoscope, instead of reading something like this:

Your optimism continues to push you further outside your protective shell, and if you are careful, you can feel safer once you break through the initial resistance. Remember, however, that everything is not as it appears. Slow down; sensible caution will serve you well. Your chances of success are better if you wait a few days until you feel more secure.

Should have read more like this:

Your history will come flooding back to you today. In all shapes and sizes. It will send you reeling, unable to shut the door against the flood of memories that threatens to wash away your sanity and sense of now.

My sense of now, being extremely strong (for those of you who don't know).

It all started this morning when I read my Great Aunt Elsa's story she sent me. It seemed to be semi-autobiographical account of her mothers death. A great woman who I never had the privilege of meeting. The one who I was named after. I was floored, left wishing (yet again) that I had known her. Later, I found an old, old, old, old friend of mine online. Seriously. so old, I can barely remember. These memories, wishes, dreams of mine, are like rotten honey. Slow and sweet and sad. I tried to capture it but it is so fuzzy. I can't quite describe it. But I tried to anyways...

***********

These memories are not like the others. They are bittersweet, and sticky. Perhaps it is just the weather today but these... They are different. They do not flood, they trickle. They do not smell, taste, or feel. They are only there. They are fuzzy and sticky and make it hard to breathe sometimes. It’s dark in here, in this corner. I can only feel with my hands, which are numb from these sticky recollections. I can pluck a couple of visuals, some words, some girly screams and giggles, and soft and distant a piano playing. It’s a tune I don’t know. But it’s beautiful.
These are the levels of the tower that is my subconscious. On the bottom, it is wide, deep, and bright. As we move upward, the tower gets narrow, the pool shallower, and the light dims. Here, at the top there’s not room for much. It’s everything ugly and painful and hard like stone. Better not to stay up here long. Let’s move down a level or two. Besides, this is not where we need to be anyways. These sticky memories are not located here.
They are here. Down here with the fluffy ones. But they are heavier and have sunken to the floor. I can kneel, if I close my eyes and hold my breath. If I try not to breathe any of those fluffy, airy ones, I can get to these, maybe. Ready? Deep breath, let’s go. I see an uncomfortable little girl in a scratchy strawberry costume. The painted foam is itchy and she scratches constantly, a permanent frown etched onto her face. I can see a garage, some stairs, soft, clean Berber carpet, a red-headed kitty, plaster face casts, black lacquer-it’s fading- I know there have to be Barbies in here somewhere but I cant see any. Karate costumes, Dorothy Gale costumes- it’s almost gone now – is that a fireplace? A porch? I can’t tell anymore. It’s gone now. Is that all there is here? It’s almost like not breathing. I could try to find something else but these sticky memories aren’t going anywhere so let’s go. That music is growing louder and it’s so beautiful, I can’t ignore it any longer. It’s up a level or two. Come on.
This level is so hard to reach. The air is thin. The steps are large. I almost have to climb. It’s such a labor. As soon as I get up here, I realize it’s a false level. A fake, a trick. I can’t even hear the piano anymore. I have tricked myself into thinking that I could know her from those who actually did. There aren’t very many stories. There’s a nice, painted portrait with a regal sort of gold frame. There’s a violin. And that’s it. How do we finish this level? A white kitty doorstop statue. How do we know her? I only have other people’s memories. And that is not enough.
They say each time you remember something, your only remembering the last time you recalled it. Memories can change frequently and quickly and without warning. Especially if there are never recorded. Who will write the stories? Who will keep the tower standing when it starts to crumble? I will, if you tell me your stories.

***********

June 7th, 2007: I Dream In Abstract

Writing Prompt for6/7/2007:
Recount your most vivid dream. (500 words or fewer):

I am ten. It is a strange dream I’ve had on many occasions and won’t be able to attribute to anything until I get much older. I am looking on a cutaway of a piece of earth. Really, it’s more of a vertical hole in the mud. There are at three levels. There are two large mud balls on the middle level. They roll and roll and roll. When they roll away from each other, I feel a sharp pain in my head. They don’t care. They continue to pull apart, stretching each other’s sides like bubble gum caught between the pavement and your shoe. It hurts. It hurts so bad, I think I might die. I try to cry, nothing comes out. I wake up.
If you know me, then you might know what I was going through at this age and the re-telling of this dream might break your widdle heart. It was an ordeal that my hard, outer shell will not let fully explore, no matter how long I sit here and stare at the blinking cursor. I surrender and try to trust that when I am ready, it will come.
There was this dream my Dad told me I told him that I had when I was younger. He loved it so much he drew up a visual representation, and put it onto a patch for the quilt my mom made me. I’ll retell it for you but if you steal it or any part of it, I’ll murder you.
There is a table. On the table sits a bowl of tomato soup. Around the bowl, licorice jellybeans dance. That’s pretty much it. Actually, I’m not sure if it was tomato soup or whatnot. I only know it was soup. And I’m not even sure if they were licorice jellybeans, I only know they were black. Actually, I don’t even know that they were black! I thought it was a pretty cool visual and apparently, so did Dad. Refresh my memory, Dad? I think this one needs an illustration to help you out. Maybe two. I’ll get started on that.

Oh well I only finished one. So sue me. Something like this anyways.

June 6th, 2007: Eavesdropalicious

Don’t think that the fact that I don’t post everyday means I don’t write everyday. For example, last night at the bar, I was privy to the most extraordinary conversation. Conversations, actually. The first was some Hollywood working types talking nonsense about a script he had written. It was strange. I can’t really remember it but I know when he was done explaining, you could hear crickets chirping. It seemed his colleagues didn’t feel the same. I remember him saying “I tried to think about what would scare me”, and I remember thinking tigers, genealogy, trees scare you? Oooh...k.
Then after these men left, three business men in power ties began to perk up. I learned their names quickly Taj, Dan, and Scott were obviously feeling the effects from the extremely expensive shots of cognac previously ordered, and were getting rather loud and boisterous. I was engaged in a word puzzle but they were so good, I had to stop and record some of them. I saw three distinct drunk personalities. A loud, aggressive one, a quiet watcher, and a sober one. See if you can figure out which is which. Here is what I was able to scribble furiously:

“What are you so afraid of?” Taj has had enough. He sits up in his chair and leans closer to Scott. “You are so a nice guy”
“Well-“ Scott begins, nervously twisting the cap on his bottle of water.
“You come across like you are afraid of something because you are so nice.”
Scott’s face curves into an i-dont-know-i-dont-care sort of grimace. Taj is not dissuaded.
“You will make more money-If you get fired tomorrow, Scott, you will still make more money than I will in my life!” He emphasizes his words with sharp, jabbing pointing motions. “So what are you so afraid of?”
Silence from Scott.
“You got more power than you’re willing to brag.” And then he repeats this as if to stress the point.
“I’m confident today that Rick-“ Scott begins
“No! You’re not listening!”
“From my perspective-“
“There is no perspective! I am telling you”
“I’m trying to read the tea leaves.” There. Scott has finally gotten a word in. He looks satisfied.
“There are no fucking tea leaves!” Taj nearly shouts.
At this point, Dan, who has been as quiet as a monk , opens his mouth, throws his head back and realeases this shockingly high-pitched giggle. The table grows hushed for a moment. Then Taj leans into Scott and prepares to drive his actual point home.
“I hate to be crude....no, I really do”
This is my favorite part in the conversation. It’s what I call the uh-oh point. Where you realize you’re shouting at somebody you should be trying to impress. I see this point and smile. Actually, I hear it. Scott, who’s back is turned to me now, facial expression must look something like yeah-right-whatever. And I hear Taj’s mental uh-oh, louder than his thunderous voice. It becomes clear to me that Scott IS too nice. He obviously wants to go to bed, and is not listening anymore. And if he is still listening, (which he probably is because he’s so nice) then he doesn’t really care what Taj is saying. I feel like interjecting. I feel like turning around and saying:
“Excuse me gentlemen. May I speak freely?”
They would be shocked silent and turn to face me.
“Scott, “ I would start. “ You are too nice. But it’s not a detriment to your character as these gentlemen seem to think. Taj, what’s wrong with you? You’ve had too much to drink and I think you’ve forgotten your manners. You all need to go to bed, right now. Oh and Dan? Please try out another laugh for a while. The one you are currently employing is ridiculous. Good night.”
They would sit in amazement for a minute, watching me walk away. Then look around at each other, their brows furrowed. Just as I get out of range, I hear Taj say:
“Dan, you really do need to do something about that laugh.”

June 5th, 2007: Working Title

I think the reason I haven’t been able to fix the story that I’m working on is because it seems a little hollow to me. I am long-winded as hell and sometimes I think that’s a vice, but really, it can be a blessing. I mean, maybe that’s what it takes to sell the plot. I spent all day yesterday getting to know the not-so-surprisingly similar to me, Lydia Mabin and her slightly sadistic boyfriend, Robert Henderson. Here are the results of that.

Lydia:
The Basics
Full Name: Lydia Jane Mabin
Birthday: July 13, 1990
Birthplace: Austin, TX
Current Location: Baton Rouge, LA
Heritage: Welsh & German
Eye Color/Hair Color: Green/Dark Brown
Right or Left Handed: Right
Major Strength: Loyal and intelligent
Major Weakness: Grossly unsympathetic
Fears: Change, Death, Abandonment
Life Goal: travel
Dream Profession: art photographer
Actual Profession: none
Favorite Meal: corned beef and cabbage
Coffee Drinker: Strong, and black with sugar
Favorite Alcoholic Drink: vodka
Has Character Been in Love: yes
Is Character Attractive: a simple beauty
Does Character Think of Self as Attractive: extremely self-consicous
Healthy Habits: eats very little red meat
Unhealthy Habits: occasionally/recreationally drinks and smokes
Favorite Movie: donnie darko
Vices: unforgiving, distant
Tattoo(s)/ Piercing(s): none, but wants a tattoo
Number One Regret: putting grandma in the home

Robbie:
The Basics
Full Name: Robert Alan Henderson
Birthday: September 18, 1989
Birthplace: Baton Rouge, LA
Current Location: Baton Rouge, LA
Heritage: Scottish and English
Eye Color/Hair Color: Blue/Black
Right or Left Handed: Right
Major Strength: Diligence, Creativity
Major Weakness: slight insanity
Fears: Being alone, failure, no recognition or approval
Life Goal: to be loved
Dream Profession: famous painter
Actual Profession: developing film in the photo hut
Favorite Meal: Mom’s chicken delight casserole
Coffee Drinker: yes
Favorite Alcoholic Drink: anything
Has Character Been in Love: yes
Is Character Attractive: slightly. brooding and mysteriously so.
Does Character Think of Self as Attractive: not at all
Healthy Habits: none
Unhealthy Habits: smoking, drinking,
Favorite Movie: doesn’t really watch
Vices: taking things too seriously
Tattoo(s)/ Piercing(s): one tattoo grim reaper on upper left arm
Number One Regret: not taking school more seriously

Twenty-Questions with Lydia:
1. If you had a free day with no responsibilities and your only mission was to enjoy yourself, what would you do?
Take my camera down to New Orleans, pop in my headphones and see what happens.
2. What impression do you make on people when they first meet you? Howabout after they've known you for a while?
I think people think I’m stuck up at first. Or withdrawn and judgemental. But after a while, they get to me and they realize I’m just quietly curious. Whatever that means...
3. What's your idea of a good marriage? Do you think that'll happen inyour life?
A good marriage...hmm...One full of love and trust and where both partners bring something different yet equal to the partnership. I don't want to get married. Not for a while anyways.
4. What are you most proud of about your life? (If they answer withsomething other than a personal statement, like a business achievement,ask "What about on a personal level?")
I got accepted into Ringling. I can’t wait to get started.
5. What are you most ashamed of in your life? (Again, if necessary ask"What about on a personal level?")
I can’t shake this feeling that Robbie is mad at me for leaving. I know I’m doing the right thing for me but I feel awful leaving him after all he’s been through.
6. If you could spend the day with someone you admire (living or dead orimaginary), who would you pick?
Oh there’s too many. Merri Cyr is awesome. Michael Kenna, Art Kane. The list goes on and on. I’d love to follow any one of them around for a day.
7. Do you think you've turned out the way your parents expected?
Not exactly but I think my dad’s proud of me and if Mom were still here, she’d be too.
8. What do you believe about God? (If they believe in God, ask "What doyou suppose God thinks of you?")
I don’t quite know. I’m still exploring. Ask again me in ten years.
9. Is there anything you've always wanted to do but haven't done? Whatwould happen if you did it?
I’ve always wanted to sit up in the middle of class and scream at the top of my lungs. Wouldn’t that be wild?
10. What's the worst thing that's happened in your life? What did youlearn from it?
Definitely my mom’s death. I am afraid of doctors now. Those bastards, shelling out their experimental drugs as real medicine. And I really miss her.
11. Tell me about your best friend. (If you think it might beinteresting, ask "How did you meet? What do you like about this person? What do they like about you?")
Robbie’s my best friend. I love him to death. He’s so talented, it’s scary.
12. What's the worst thing you've ever done to someone? Why? ("Why" isusually a good follow-up question to any response!)
I get a knot in my stomach whenever I think about leaving Robbie for school. He’s said to me numerous times that he couldn’t live without me. Once I caught him staring at me in my sleep. Either that or he was sleeping with his eyes open. If I leave and something happens to him, I’ll never forgive myself.
13. What would you like it to say on your tombstone?
Lydia Jane. Immortal Beloved. Haha, I don’t know.
14. Describe your ideal mate.
Self-sufficient, creative, able to think deeply, intelligent, ambitious. Man, I could make quite a list.
15. What are you most afraid of?
The dark. I still sleep with a night light. I’m both scared and excited for this change.
16. What's the most important thing in your life? What do you valuemost?
My family, without a doubt.
17. What do you like best about yourself? Least?
Good question. Um, I guess that would be my ability to daydream.
18. What do you like best about [the other character]? Least?
Robbie? God, he’s so freaking talented. He’s amazing. If he could just quiet his demons for a second, he’d see the good parts.
19. How do you feel about your life right now? What, if anything, wouldyou like to change?
My life is on the verge right now. It’s either going to be the best or the worst thing that’s happened to me. If I could. I’d bring Mom back. And give Robbie some optimism. He’s so depressing sometimes.
20. Are you lying to yourself about something? What is it?
Wow. Am I lying when I say its all going to work out? Does everything happen for a reason or is it just random bits of blood and flesh colliding, like Robbie says? Sometimes, my optimism seems like a false shroud. I guess we’ll see, won’t we?

Twenty-Questions with Robbie:
1. If you had a free day with no responsibilities and your only missionwas to enjoy yourself, what would you do?
Be with Lydia. We’d take a picnic out in the country and she’d finally let me paint her.
2. What impression do you make on people when they first meet you? Howabout after they've known you for a while?
They are scared of me. After awhile, they think I’m pathetic or they feel sorry for me.
3. What's your idea of a good marriage? Do you think that'll happen inyour life?
As long as Lydia is there, it’ll be good. I don’t know.
4. What are you most proud of about your life? (If they answer withsomething other than a personal statement, like a business achievement,ask "What about on a personal level?")
I have this one painting. It’s hanging in the art hall. You should see it. My teacher said it was dark, and complex and one of the most revealing pieces of work he’d ever seen.That was pretty cool.
5. What are you most ashamed of in your life? (Again, if necessary ask"What about on a personal level?")
Where do I start? I got rejected from every single school I applied to for one. Next question.
6. If you could spend the day with someone you admire (living or dead orimaginary), who would you pick?
I’d like to get inside a tortured souls mind. Van-Gough maybe. I’d like to see the madness unfold and capture that visually. That would be mind-blowing.
7. Do you think you've turned out the way your parents expected?
Hell no.
8. What do you believe about God? (If they believe in God, ask "What doyou suppose God thinks of you?")
God is a kid with an ant farm. Fuck him.
9. Is there anything you've always wanted to do but haven't done? Whatwould happen if you did it?
I’ve been asking Lydia to let me paint her for months now. I think she’s afraid of the outcome. 10. What's the worst thing that's happened in your life? What did youlearn from it?
For christ’s sake! I do not want to talk about this.
11. Tell me about your best friend. (If you think it might beinteresting, ask "How did you meet? What do you like about this person? What do they like about you?")
Lydia is my best friend in the world. She’s my only friend. We met in Algebra class where we were partnered by the teacher. I don’t think she would have talked to me otherwise.
12. What's the worst thing you've ever done to someone? Why? ("Why" isusually a good follow-up question to any response!)
I close myself off completely sometimes and I think I really hurt my mom’s feelings doing that once. That look in her eyes will haunt me forever and ever. But nothing compares to what I am about to do.
13. What would you like it to say on your tombstone?
Here lies Robert. He couldn’t hang. So he left. I don’t know, and I don’t care.
14. Describe your ideal mate.
She’s sitting in the other room. You’ll meet her soon.
15. What are you most afraid of?
Being utterly alone and suffering. Two separate things.
16. What's the most important thing in your life? What do you valuemost?
I don’t think I even need to answer this. There’s nothing in my life now, except for the good that she brings. Without her, I am nothing.
17. What do you like best about yourself? Least?
I like the person that I am when I am with Lydia. That guy is funny and caring and creative. When I’m alone, the monsters in the black of my mind dig their claws in. They confirm the fact that I am nothing. Sometimes, I think about bashing my brains out just to shut them up.
18. What do you like best about [the other character]? Least?
Lydia has this awesome ability to go away in her mind. We call it mind-tripping. She says that’s where she works through all her problems. I wish I could do that. Instead, my problems fester in a constant consciousness until they drive me mad. She also has many people who adore her, and she can always, always find the good parts. She can be a little distant at times, but I can be too. So...
19. How do you feel about your life right now? What, if anything, wouldyou like to change?
My life is complete shit right now. I have nothing in the future for me to look forward to, my family has picked up and moved across the country, my creative impulse has waned. All I have is Lydia and she’s about to leave too. I would change lots of things. It didn’t have to be this way.
20. Are you lying to yourself about something? What is it?
Isn’t everyone? If I told you what that was, I’d have to kill you.