Now it is the twenty-sixth of December and I have updated. A lot. With Things Written Previously, of course. I do not enjoy typing this; it is agonizingly slow. In any case, enjoy, I suppose. You could not, but I'd really rather not be knowledegable of that.
All in due time.
12.26.2007
12.06.07
exactly what I always thought I wanted to be.
I am delighted at[with?] this new information.
well, aside from being some kind of super-genius. I always wanted to be that. learning through osmosis, that kind of shit. knowing everything about mathematics and science and literature and art and linguistics.
obviously, you have to learn these things; I wanted [still want, would totally trade a limb for it if I could] to just, you know. know everything.
it's okay.
I'm getting C's, whatever. no point in harping on about how little grades and scores matter if I don't bother to believe myself, and supposedly it's because I don't pay attention/try hard enough/apply myself, whatever reasons.
ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch. I think I can I think I can I think I can I think I am I think therefore I think I am
I can think and feel and see and taste and hear and love and hug and kiss! what else does a person need?
I'll get by. that's all you can ever really do. balance on a balance beam and balance the equation, because life is equations but equations are knowledge and knowing everything gets boring and stale, like bread but you know what stalebread tastes like and that is something that matters. greenbacks don't matter. the adjective describes or modifies a noun, that's what matters if it matters to you. does it matter to you? gold and emeralds and furcollars matter if they matter to you; do they matter? what does a summer morning mean to you? california, like it does to me, at the end of the year? so surreal, a summer morning on the west coast right after you turn ten years old at the end of december.
this is how I write, this is my thought process, not some refined nameless thing in a verse or a silly two-part story to try to grasp horror literature. I combine words to get rhythm across and use too many commas and conjunctions and clauses, and I feel like motherfucking golden literature and oscar wilde SAID! it is the highest form of art and that may be true for me, and that is what matters gloryhallelujah, does the louvre matter to you, then it matters to me and let's let it all be, let's get drunk and cry and laugh and poetize the world, describe the colours of the beach, because the ocean's not for me or you. we're not fish.
and that's what makes us beautiful, whirling in all these different directions see me movin' like a fuckin' tornado? swear words and pink rose petals, mountain summits and valleydepths of death, smiles and tears and laughter during sex, delight and anger and pain and shame and you and me, we're all the same.
maybe I could be a slam poet. is there enough money in poetry to feed me and my cat? would msi sue me?
I am delighted at[with?] this new information.
well, aside from being some kind of super-genius. I always wanted to be that. learning through osmosis, that kind of shit. knowing everything about mathematics and science and literature and art and linguistics.
obviously, you have to learn these things; I wanted [still want, would totally trade a limb for it if I could] to just, you know. know everything.
it's okay.
I'm getting C's, whatever. no point in harping on about how little grades and scores matter if I don't bother to believe myself, and supposedly it's because I don't pay attention/try hard enough/apply myself, whatever reasons.
ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch. I think I can I think I can I think I can I think I am I think therefore I think I am
I can think and feel and see and taste and hear and love and hug and kiss! what else does a person need?
I'll get by. that's all you can ever really do. balance on a balance beam and balance the equation, because life is equations but equations are knowledge and knowing everything gets boring and stale, like bread but you know what stalebread tastes like and that is something that matters. greenbacks don't matter. the adjective describes or modifies a noun, that's what matters if it matters to you. does it matter to you? gold and emeralds and furcollars matter if they matter to you; do they matter? what does a summer morning mean to you? california, like it does to me, at the end of the year? so surreal, a summer morning on the west coast right after you turn ten years old at the end of december.
this is how I write, this is my thought process, not some refined nameless thing in a verse or a silly two-part story to try to grasp horror literature. I combine words to get rhythm across and use too many commas and conjunctions and clauses, and I feel like motherfucking golden literature and oscar wilde SAID! it is the highest form of art and that may be true for me, and that is what matters gloryhallelujah, does the louvre matter to you, then it matters to me and let's let it all be, let's get drunk and cry and laugh and poetize the world, describe the colours of the beach, because the ocean's not for me or you. we're not fish.
and that's what makes us beautiful, whirling in all these different directions see me movin' like a fuckin' tornado? swear words and pink rose petals, mountain summits and valleydepths of death, smiles and tears and laughter during sex, delight and anger and pain and shame and you and me, we're all the same.
maybe I could be a slam poet. is there enough money in poetry to feed me and my cat? would msi sue me?
07.31.07
We lie on our backs in fields of glass and flowers. There are many, and there are few; we are aware of each other and that is enough. We smile as the shards cut deeper, we watch the sky turn black, blue, grey, orange, purple, pink. The flowers fade, and die; but they come back, and we watch. We wait. We are waiting for something bigger and smaller than the death and rebirth of silver orchids, but they push through the glass and cut into our bodies no matter what we are waiting for. Occasionally we will turn our heads to our neighbours, and smile, and whisper, but who knows what we whisper as we are cut to pieces turning our heads this way and that, almost reassuring one another but no one needs that. Some of us dream, but some of us prefer to watch the colours change, die, return.
We are all dreamers whether we dream or watch, though. We dream of a day that is both far off and near; we dream of the End and of the Beginning. We know things unspoken but realized individually, what is Beauty, and Love, and how to Wait, and Watch. We know Patience. We are happy to wait, we know everything is happening as it should, and how it was Planned.
Gradually, the world changes shape. We watch. The continents of the world move, and clash, and separate, and rejoin. We watch ice, and heat, and dust. We watch life; it goes much faster than the Earth, but we keep up.
We watch wars; we watch the souls who have not Realized suffer in life, and in death. We watch them through their rebirth and their new lives, as they make new mistakes and sometimes the old; we watch them progress through their lives determined to Understand as we already do. Determined to Act, regardless of the consequences, but we watch them, and we wait for them to Realize.
Our numbers grow, but we are the same. We wait as we did before, and as we shall for much time to come.
We wait, and watch, and bleed. The colours change, our wounds heal and are torn again. We watch the colours of emotions, we watch souls that are happy and angry, melancholy and calm. They are like us, we see, and we wait, and our numbers grow. We become happier. We see time, and how little is left. Our numbers grow substantially, and so does our happiness. We wait ecstatically, for the End and for the Beginning.
There you are; we have been waiting for you.
We are all dreamers whether we dream or watch, though. We dream of a day that is both far off and near; we dream of the End and of the Beginning. We know things unspoken but realized individually, what is Beauty, and Love, and how to Wait, and Watch. We know Patience. We are happy to wait, we know everything is happening as it should, and how it was Planned.
Gradually, the world changes shape. We watch. The continents of the world move, and clash, and separate, and rejoin. We watch ice, and heat, and dust. We watch life; it goes much faster than the Earth, but we keep up.
We watch wars; we watch the souls who have not Realized suffer in life, and in death. We watch them through their rebirth and their new lives, as they make new mistakes and sometimes the old; we watch them progress through their lives determined to Understand as we already do. Determined to Act, regardless of the consequences, but we watch them, and we wait for them to Realize.
Our numbers grow, but we are the same. We wait as we did before, and as we shall for much time to come.
We wait, and watch, and bleed. The colours change, our wounds heal and are torn again. We watch the colours of emotions, we watch souls that are happy and angry, melancholy and calm. They are like us, we see, and we wait, and our numbers grow. We become happier. We see time, and how little is left. Our numbers grow substantially, and so does our happiness. We wait ecstatically, for the End and for the Beginning.
There you are; we have been waiting for you.
09.17.07
Generations of abuse, of unhappiness, of love and sacrifice later, here I stand. Here I stand, world, here I stand ready to take you the fuck on, ready for almost anything you want to do to me, but make sure you only do it to me because may hell be let loose on you for fucking with those I love, because generations later I love everyone and everything. Generations of abuse end with me. Generations of love begin with me. The parents of my parents did not know this love, this ferocity, they cannot know me and they turn in fear of my harsh, bright love.
Generations after you moved here from Norway, Germany, Italy, Ireland, I embody traits of all of you, ancestors. Generations past have given me the eyes of Ireland, the ferocity of Germany, the languidness of Italy, and the goddamned obscurity of Norway. Generations, I revere you for giving me everything you had to offer, and what you had to offer was everything.
Generations later, here I stand in America, unable to appreciate modernity in all its ugliness. Here I stand in America, appalled at the ugliness and immorality and lack of compassion and I am ANGRY, ancestors! I am ANGRY! Generations later, where is what you wanted for your children?! Where is love to be found?! What is this litter of the streets and of the mind and of the heart?! I am ANGRY with this disrespect!!
Generations later, here I stand, looking back and looking forward, drawing on your beauty and on my hope, drawing on your gentle compassion and on your ugly mistakes, pulling close to me what I accept and casting from me what I do not. Generations later I know you are proud of me, I know you would accept my decisions and my ferocity with a proud face and a tight embrace and you would not be afraid.
My love and my mouth burn like the sun with a fierce grin and harsh words.
Generations after you moved here from Norway, Germany, Italy, Ireland, I embody traits of all of you, ancestors. Generations past have given me the eyes of Ireland, the ferocity of Germany, the languidness of Italy, and the goddamned obscurity of Norway. Generations, I revere you for giving me everything you had to offer, and what you had to offer was everything.
Generations later, here I stand in America, unable to appreciate modernity in all its ugliness. Here I stand in America, appalled at the ugliness and immorality and lack of compassion and I am ANGRY, ancestors! I am ANGRY! Generations later, where is what you wanted for your children?! Where is love to be found?! What is this litter of the streets and of the mind and of the heart?! I am ANGRY with this disrespect!!
Generations later, here I stand, looking back and looking forward, drawing on your beauty and on my hope, drawing on your gentle compassion and on your ugly mistakes, pulling close to me what I accept and casting from me what I do not. Generations later I know you are proud of me, I know you would accept my decisions and my ferocity with a proud face and a tight embrace and you would not be afraid.
My love and my mouth burn like the sun with a fierce grin and harsh words.
09.21.07
A flower in my garden of lovely memories. I will water you with irritable acknowledgment, a furrow in my brow, a hitch in my voice and movements for years to come. I will water you with a glow when I close my eyes and think of firsts.
But you will be no different. No different from my other flowers, except you grow on the vine winding on the brick house of my heart. You fall and bloom just like the rest of my annuals, and you will fade in colour until I decide to move you, for a little while, out of the melancholy shade of my poetry into the vibrance of the sun that bears my intensity.
The trees will outshine you in autumn, the snow in winter, new life in spring and even in the languid heat of summer you will be outshone by the beauty I am determined to experience, by the new flowers I am determined to plant.
Someday I will plant a little flower in a small clay pot and keep it with me wherever I go, to be prominent among all of you flowers, to be my favorite and most prized, to be public for everyone to see.
But you will be no different. No different from my other flowers, except you grow on the vine winding on the brick house of my heart. You fall and bloom just like the rest of my annuals, and you will fade in colour until I decide to move you, for a little while, out of the melancholy shade of my poetry into the vibrance of the sun that bears my intensity.
The trees will outshine you in autumn, the snow in winter, new life in spring and even in the languid heat of summer you will be outshone by the beauty I am determined to experience, by the new flowers I am determined to plant.
Someday I will plant a little flower in a small clay pot and keep it with me wherever I go, to be prominent among all of you flowers, to be my favorite and most prized, to be public for everyone to see.
09.23.07
Where have all the horses gone?
I am lonely in this sea of litter and booze bottles oozing their way onto my sidewalks, the sidewalks that I walk in the emptiness of Sunday because no one is at church anymore. oh, I am stuck in a place that is stuck between the South and the Midwest, housing the undesirable qualities of both. I am stuck in the Bible Belt, riddled with fiddles, in an area that just doesn't care anymore
because
it lost
a civil
war.
The South has never been the same. Where is the aristocracy? It has left in its wake hypocrisy, and filth.
I hate both sides, the North and the South, but I am inclined to sympathize with those around when I see the roughness of their faces and their hearts and how utterly defeated they are.
My ideas and opinions and compassion are not wanted.
I am lonely in this sea of litter and booze bottles oozing their way onto my sidewalks, the sidewalks that I walk in the emptiness of Sunday because no one is at church anymore. oh, I am stuck in a place that is stuck between the South and the Midwest, housing the undesirable qualities of both. I am stuck in the Bible Belt, riddled with fiddles, in an area that just doesn't care anymore
because
it lost
a civil
war.
The South has never been the same. Where is the aristocracy? It has left in its wake hypocrisy, and filth.
I hate both sides, the North and the South, but I am inclined to sympathize with those around when I see the roughness of their faces and their hearts and how utterly defeated they are.
My ideas and opinions and compassion are not wanted.
10.05.07
At the poetry slam in Victorian Square, the "main event" woman, the woman from Seattle, made a lot of girls sing and chant their names. She said, "Your name is a mantra," your name is powerful.
Hi, I'm Britney.
Whenever people want to show me that they are serious, they use my name; any kind of serious.
Hi, I'm Britney, and once...
I have always been neutral about my name. Britney Viola sounds better, but only in the South can you really get away with two names like that. Mary Jane, that kind of thing. But I'm not a Mary Jane, I'm a Britney Viola someone-or-other.
I cast my father's name from me when I was young. I am not a derivative of German "powerful," or some kind of English court bitch to the King.
I am Britney Viola, Chaotic Bretagne, Bretagna Viola. I'm Britney. Hi.
When I was younger, I hated when people shortened my name to Brit. Hey, Brit. Like you know me enough to not have to waste your time with that second syllable, those last three letters. Ne[y]? Hey, Brit, like I enjoyed their company to the point that they could refer to me as someone from Britain. The fact that my name does actually mean "one from Britain" is irrelevant; you don't call the British Britneys, you call them Brits.
I'm not a Brit, I'm a Britney. Brrrriiit. Knee.
I also hated it when people spelled my name wrong, because while I understood that Brittany is a more popular spelling, it made no sense that they wouldn't ask me for my personal spelling. I'm not Brittany, and I knew even then that there are Brittneys and Britanys and all manner of stupid spellings for that name that sounds and looks like mine but is not. "What's your name, hon?" "Britney." "Can you spell that for me?" Would it have been so hard?
Hi, I'm Britney, and I'll be your awesome for the evening...
I hide myself behind AIM screennames and MySpace and MSN display names and all manner of hiding the internet has to offer. I pretended I was not Britney, and for awhile I wasn't. Who was that girl living in Fort Wayne; she could not relax. That was hardly me. Oh, but it was, very barely.
I am all about names. I look up to the great names in history, literature, music, even the mafia...
Hi, I'm Britney. Remember that. I don't think I'll be changing the spelling of my name; maybe I'll start really going by Britney Viola, but I won't become someone else. No one I know loves me for what I am, but who I am. I'll become someone great, but with my name.
Britney Viola.
Hi, I'm Britney.
Whenever people want to show me that they are serious, they use my name; any kind of serious.
Hi, I'm Britney, and once...
I have always been neutral about my name. Britney Viola sounds better, but only in the South can you really get away with two names like that. Mary Jane, that kind of thing. But I'm not a Mary Jane, I'm a Britney Viola someone-or-other.
I cast my father's name from me when I was young. I am not a derivative of German "powerful," or some kind of English court bitch to the King.
I am Britney Viola, Chaotic Bretagne, Bretagna Viola. I'm Britney. Hi.
When I was younger, I hated when people shortened my name to Brit. Hey, Brit. Like you know me enough to not have to waste your time with that second syllable, those last three letters. Ne[y]? Hey, Brit, like I enjoyed their company to the point that they could refer to me as someone from Britain. The fact that my name does actually mean "one from Britain" is irrelevant; you don't call the British Britneys, you call them Brits.
I'm not a Brit, I'm a Britney. Brrrriiit. Knee.
I also hated it when people spelled my name wrong, because while I understood that Brittany is a more popular spelling, it made no sense that they wouldn't ask me for my personal spelling. I'm not Brittany, and I knew even then that there are Brittneys and Britanys and all manner of stupid spellings for that name that sounds and looks like mine but is not. "What's your name, hon?" "Britney." "Can you spell that for me?" Would it have been so hard?
Hi, I'm Britney, and I'll be your awesome for the evening...
I hide myself behind AIM screennames and MySpace and MSN display names and all manner of hiding the internet has to offer. I pretended I was not Britney, and for awhile I wasn't. Who was that girl living in Fort Wayne; she could not relax. That was hardly me. Oh, but it was, very barely.
I am all about names. I look up to the great names in history, literature, music, even the mafia...
Hi, I'm Britney. Remember that. I don't think I'll be changing the spelling of my name; maybe I'll start really going by Britney Viola, but I won't become someone else. No one I know loves me for what I am, but who I am. I'll become someone great, but with my name.
Britney Viola.
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