Poem - Inspections, Detections, Neglections and Selections

My fingers are stained, covered in the sticky essence I've begun to crave.

My mind was painted long before my tongue finished its caress.

My skin is tortured by the anticipation of attention.

My eyes ignore boundaries and stare.

You in green, I'm full of verve.

You are a secret, only my smile knows.

You paint a dream, I'm addicted.

You are forbidden, only my temptation grows.

They won't understand... manipulation.

They stalk upon enlightenment... judgement.

They parade in grey... modification.

They don't exist... joy.

Nature Hobbling

We weren't up for crowds or company today so instead we hobbled (Bratworse has this hugeass blister which popped right on the ball of her foot) through Tilden Park's Botanical gardens.

Here are the results:






















-- Posted From My iPhone

Nature Walks

Bratworse and I have been taking walks around the neighborhood recently. See, we'll be going on a trip soon that requires a ton of walking so I've been a tad fearful I wouldn't be able to keep up.

To help motivate me to go on these walks, I've been taking photos with my camera. Photos that are designed to help inspire Bratworse's paintings.

I present my neighborhood and Oakland Zoo's flora!


















-- Posted From My iPhone

Inundation

Is this even a word? I am so going to be blogging more now. Just to start off, here are a few photos for your enjoyment:



Bratworse showing off her new shamrock confectionery.





Bratworse being surprised by me when she was watering her real shamrocks that she's growing.

More to come!

Wheeeeeeeeee!

-- Posted From My iPhone

iPhone Blogging

I'm trying out a new app to help me blog more. Can you tell I'm blogging from the bed? That's Bratworse asleep beside me. Heeee


-- Posted From My iPhone

Random Word Compilations

It's the land of a thousand eyes. Each one with it's own dream. Like the interrogation's bright light, they apply the pressure of sight. They have their secret code. The one they dangle just out of my understanding. Playing true to my curiosity, they tantalize me with what could be. I'm their puppet with no strings. Not merely a blind bird that never sings. 

Not for one, for there are two. The tights are torn. Lacie strands straining to get away. Knights run by too quickly. Their hold never firm. Leaves them slipping.

"I thought of you." said the monkey to the shoe as she rubbed a banana between her toes. Saying nothing, the shoe just stared. Oblivious or ignorant of what the monkey just reveled. Lost in fantasies of the great rocky mountain outdoors, littered with the sugary sweets of its favorite candies. The ones that are so good they're guarded by armies of bears. Having been ignored the Monkey juts its banana covered toe into the shoe's ear, "hey, did you hear my confession?" The shoe indeed had not. It was busy flirting with the bears trying to get a taste of that candy. It certainly had, however, felt the moist stringy gooeyness of the monkey's wiggling toe. Which having entered the dimension of touch, brought the shoe rushing back and away from the bear that was licking her ear. Quickly reactivating that part of the brain that had some inkling as to what was going on, the shoe covered, "The bananas not lasting that long?" At this the monkey laughed and began suckling her toe.

Poem - Lucid Simulated Dreams

There's magic, a fantasy painted true

With vibrant colors of a soft hue

Visually stimulating, even with quirks

My mind simulates fireworks 

I hide my eye so you can't see

The craving and illusion of what could be

Get your fingers wet in the paint of my mind

Leaving your fingers stained, a fading memory

Reminders, with temptations of something savory 

Away from you, I plot and scheme

When next, we will together dream?

Wondering After All

What are Savants?

They're people who can do ingenious things. They're creativity knows no bounds. They are more then proficient in either art, music, mathematics, or memory. Tests have been run to compare the brain function of a Savant to an average person. The results showed that in the Savant the areas in our brain, that are associated with our creativity, were extremely active. In the average person's, the areas associated with creativity were only slightly active. The theory is that there is a switch in our brains that controls the thing that filters our creativity. Most people are born with this filter on. Savants, have the filter off and thus, are able to use or have access to their creativity or ingenious. 

Evolution theorizes that we survive based off of adaptation. Our ability to adapt is relative to our ability to survive.

If we believe in evolution, how might it explain Savants? Savants are clearly the most ingenious of us. If there are less and less Savants, then we are not evolving in that direction. In fact, we are evolving in the opposite direction. Why would we evolve away from Savant-hood? Are we just a simulation that was given this parameter to keep us in check? How does turning off or ingenuity aid in survival? Is it a result of becoming "civilized?" What does evolving toward stupidity say about what we're doing?

I can see evidence of how we're evolving away from it. We use drugs and technology to compensate for our deficiencies. Plus educated people don't procreate so readily. I really wonder what it means for us... 

What is Pangaea, really?

One large land mass, surrounded by a vast ocean, that through plate tectonics/ continental drift, was separated into the continents we know today.

The expanding sphere makes me curious. What if the Earth is more similar to this sphere? It started out small, covered completely in land mass. As the planet expands the land would be pulled apart, also creating the continents. If that is what is going on with this planet, the theories of relativity and force need to be reworked. If the Earth is expanding, is it all just a simulation?

I think I've heard something about an expanding universe, maybe it's the same concept?

Free Will, just a delusion 'cause we're a simulation?

I don't think we have free will to an extent. I mean, I'm not saying that there's such a thing as fate either. But honestly, I wouldn't act out of character for Bratworse, so does that mean I don't possess free will? Bratworse acts like this, thefore I'm going to act in this way.

Maybe it's connected to that transmitter theory? That we don't die, just the tuner that was tuned into our frequency ran dry. I was tuned into Maria Katsyannis in a former life and was 'forced' to act according to what Maria would do. Now I'm Bratworse, and still searching for my free will.

Poem - Embarrassing

"Love moves me like a tornado.

Devastating my world without warning.

And there's never a thing I can do.

I'm head over heels, as the debris begins settling.

Love is so Embarrassing!!!

I'm this awkward and uncomfortable thing."

posted this May 06, 2008... 

(cream o' wheat's  birthday)

Entertaining Guests

A door has been opened, a house that has been there for a long time, but closed has offered to open its door. The neighborhood has awakened. First on the scene is excitement, she's young, naive, she sees pleasure in everything. Hardly thinking past what she can see. I'm overjoyed to be in her company, blinded by the same rose tint of her glasses. We picnic together in the beautiful paintings of excitement's reverie. She's adorable and cute, but young and I long for company, that doesn't blind me with their view. 

Second to arrive, motivation. She's as alluring as ever. The soft words that emit from the sensual line of her body, coax me to dance. Drawing myself from the picnic, I relish the feel of her hand in mine, as she brings me to my feet. She guides my hand around her waist and pulls me so close my breathing syncs with her's, having confused signals. I swoon internally, cherishing our closeness as we begin to dance. I'll succumb to her. I want her. She knows it. She has a tight grip on my hand and she's not planning on letting go easily.

With a party like ours we're bound to attract attention. Our greasy friend paranoia. I keep him around, because a masochistic part of me enjoys his perspective. He puts a spin on things in ways that put me on edge, and make me feel alive with 'what if'. He makes life tense and interesting. 

He cuts in, directing the graceful dance to a stumbling dark encumbered alleyway. He likes the dark. Prefers it. He says, it's where imagination lives when we get older. That's why it's so hard to find, we don't have time to go exploring dark alleyways littered with junk we can't see. 

He knows me well. Perhaps better then motivation, either that or he's always 'on.' Preparing myself for his strike, I focus on the feel of motivation's body pressing the cloth of my shirt against the skin of my back as her breasts and stomach mold the curve of my spine. I follow her arms that are around my waist, as she hugs me from behind, and am happy she hasn't run. He looks around nervously before striking deep, assuring he's got my attention,

"What if you're feelings are unrequited?"

-------------------------------------------------

The last few days, Oatmeal has been traversing the lands of my mind. With each passing time, a growing curiosity stimulates old memories, motivating me to act. 

When she leaves my mind, I find myself entertaining wonder. Whom entered by enticing my eye with a glimpse. Her body inaudibly raised questions. Is there something in my life going on that's attracting her? Is she thinking about me, so strongly it's palpable within my own head? Did something happen? What is she doing in my head? Imagination steps in and the subject morphs into possibilities of mind connections on that level. 

Can the electric impulses that are my thought of you, find the station you're tuned into mentally and project myself in your head?

I want to call Oatmeal and bring her out of my fantasy and into my reality. I don't have her number. The people that I thought might, don't have it. One of them, Card Shark, even tried to covertly talk me out of even trying to contact Oatmeal. It's become surreal. And yet, I still want to hear her voice. 

In trying to find Oatmeal's phone number, I stumbled across some of my old journals. Distraction growled hungrily as I read the scripts to memories I had forgotten. 

This was written May 05, 2008...

Poem - What the F' was I thinking?

Like a dream, my imagination builds a place for you.

Once let in, you take ahold and seldom leave.

You become an addiction.

A dopamine, receptors built to perfectly fit you.

I crave you.

Seeking you out, I quake with repressed excitement.

You are the secret thrill that fills in the holes of me.

Connecting with you, I breathe you in and am captivated.

With every moment, you finger a different part of me.

My skin crawls with life, tingling.

You heat the world around me, producing energy to tempt and tease me.

My mind is transfixed.

Coaxed by you.

Breaking the surface, erotic thoughts learn to swim.

Afternoons and Coffeespoons

The sun is ablaze and the sky is that calming grayish blue, it looks peaceful and serene. A painted portrait of happiness. It's like a reflection of how I'm feeling. So far, today has been unfolding so perfectly that it's a pleasure to experience. What balance of chemicals and brain activity do I need to sustain to perpetuate days like this?

This morning I was still wrestling with sleep when I slinked out of bed. I struggled through my exercises, my muscles were arguing for an undeserved break. Even my joints where taking sides. When I began my cardio, I twisted my ankle, but I 'walked it off' and trudged on, to get through my entire exercise routiene. With how much resistance a good portion of myself was putting up, I can sit back now and congratulate myself on this little accomplishment. It's good to be motivated!

Panic was roused in me at the presentation of curiosity, and it built a roller coaster that I couldn't resist. Promising to be as thrilling, exciting and sickening as any truly fun roller coaster, it lived up and for a change I rode it well. Stepping off only a little shaky.

The little furry creatures that roam about, caused a huge mess to probably the only area in the house that hasn't been soiled. I just stared at it. The mess, not the cute furry creature that caused it. Hey... how did they know I was in the mood to clean?

I don't know what makes today different. Why I'm able to cope with these things and still keep up that the day has been beautifully perfect? Whatever balance I've found, I hope I don't tire too quickly and lose it.

Feeling in such a great space, I dove off the board and with little expectation I spoke with Thirty-two. It's the first time in a long time, that I haven't internally grown sick with myself after stepping into her life for a moment. It was good. Today is good. A lot of things need to be done, and I'm going to have to face another ten hour day tomorrow, but right now, I'm at peace with myself. I completed my exercise, overpowering the stubborn masses! I've got a good hold on the door of doubt, and am able to enjoy the day. Passion has emerged and I am happy with writing, but not just the writing...

The Magician in Me

I was doing well today. Not bound to my own interpretation of that magic trick, "The Spinning Wheel of Death." The one where they've tied a volunteer to a wheel and spin it while the magician, blindfolded, encourages daggers to angrily soar through the air and exact their revenge or lesson upon the volunteer. Except in my "Spinning wheel of Death" I'm the volunteer, the dagger and the blind magician who's never done this trick.

I was maintaining a strong hold against the door of the magician. Who upon tuning in, was made aware of a surge in his fandom, and was currently thrashing against the door. It became something of the "Tell Tale Heart." The door, unintentionally tearing all of my muscles, almost as if the pounding upon it was the sound effect of my muscles exertions. 

Using my short little legs for support, I drew more strength and was able to keep the magician within, while life found the space around me, climbed on top of me increasing the pressure that had been fingering the breaking threads of my strength. It teasingly caressed my ear with its warm tongue, leaving a moist imprint of its alphabet, as it silently pleaded for me... to... 

let go.

It wasn't until the seduction became so overpowering, it was all I could smell, that my knees started to shake, the muscles within reduced to hanging threads, and I succumbed to my curiosity, letting the resistance subside, setting the magician free.

The force of the door opening lunged me off balance and on my back, drizzled in sweat, as if morning had just arrived and sprinkled me with dew and the sweet smell of blissful exertion. But there is no time for rest. With blazing wheels and gaudy fireworks, I'm mesmerized, hypnotized and forced to watch, as the show is revealed to me. 

I meld into it, becoming a puppet on a string, forcefully raising my hand to volunteer. Propelled by my puppet master, I am; all at once, dancing upon the stage.

The magician reveals my part in the trick, and before my puppet master or I can comprehend what was just shown, my senses are informing me that I've been captured with rope dyed red and am being affixed to the wheel.

Let's Pretend we Don't Exist

I wrote this April 18, 2008:

I dreamt about Oatmeal last night or this morning rather. Once there was a time when she roamed my mind and in such, was always near by. At least once a day she'd tap on my consciousness' door. It was as if my consciousness brought her to me, this morning though, it was consciousness' kiss that disrupted sleep's gift.

In the dream, I was at a party in a house filled by an ocean of people. I was in a room with someone who at first seemed to me to be Quatro, but as our actions progressed she transformed unrecognizably and I'm not sure who she ended up being, maybe herself again. She was professing attraction without opening her mouth. She was pleading for something more, with her eyes. Something inside me, was screaming "no," but was quickly replaced with a sinking feeling brought on by the soft crushing weight of her body as her lips graced mine. I broke free of her grasp and fled the room.

Leaving the warm sun of solitude, I was plunged into the cold pool of the party, swallowed by the waves of people who were in attendance. None of them mattered and they soon disappeared when I found Oatmeal sitting at the table. It wasn't until I was sitting in her lap that I noticed how incredibly there, she was. Like the sun being turned on, if it was connected to a switch, I was aglow with happiness. I just wanted to be close to her and amuse her. Other people in the room where vying for my attention, but she was the only one there to me.

It was pleasant to have been visited by her and spent a few moments in a dream wrapped in her arms.



Yesterday morning Tuki and I got into an argument. It's affect was me arriving two minutes late to class. I smiled some secret wicked smile as I entered the room to find my name written on a board, along with other names, creating a list of 'late students.' If my mood wasn't already set, this certainly changed it. I was humored by the act.

The instructor, none other then Mr. Compositor himself, that failed to enlighten us, last term about a program's automatic compression, must have been grinning wildly inside when I entered the room. He went through a three or five minute lecture on something. Something....

He ended it with, "But it's not very useful, since the projects you all are working on, aren't in groups."

More people trickled in after his lecture. Humpty Dumpty arrived nearly thirty minutes late, and was the fourth person to comment on my absence from the first day, "You missed the first day!" After many people scrambled to get their homework assignment printed out, Mr. Compositor decided it was time to collect it. Alphabetically I'm not the first listed, but I was certainly going to be the first called. So it was... I went up presented the assignment and then turned and left, as he read the lines on the back of his eyelids, "Looking forward to seeing it." I made sure Jack Frost was watching at me, as I walked back to my seat, I provided her with some entertainment, that sent her laughing wildly and me out of the room.

Lunch was weird. I talked Dexter into joining, Doof, Humpty Dumpty, Vomit Bag, Stinky and I, for lunch. There was conversation, but I didn't retain any of it. Like the whole day, I was there, but I wasn't and being there was weird.

Then there was Geometry. I'm going to call the instructor Mini Skirt, that's what she was wearing. I took a little pick me up before the class, and couldn't stop myself from staring at the bottom of her short tight skirt. She had on an off the shoulder stripped shirt and a black ultra mini, mini skirt with black tights. If her ass was a little flatter the skirt may have been able to cover it.

My mind wasn't on her, though my eyes had trouble leaving, and I floated through the class in my own thoughts of other people in other situations, having other lives, probably not thinking of me.

Today, I wonder about Oatmeal.

It's now June 16, 2009.  This was the second entry in my livejournal.  I don't keep a livejournal any more, for a lot of reasons.  One of them is this post.  When I wrote the line about Oatmeal, regarding how "incredibly there" she was, my frame of mind was to be spooky.  I knew it was all just a dream...   

I thought it was all just a dream...  

 

Peaceful as a Hurricane Eye

April Showers. They're certainly present in my life. I have a leather bound journal full of puddles from the storms, past Aprils have wrought. A cleansing of one's life, brought about once a year (at least), that floods the wells that lead to the waters of my mind and wrecks havoc on the bridges and housing I've built.

Am I just a capsule, replicating nature? As time passes a new season begins while another ends. Some running so quickly that their whole existence elapses over the course of one day? Some occurring at least once a month, on their own revolution, like a little personified planet bullying its way to the surface to drive for awhile.

It's easy for me to recognize when another has taken over. I'm outside myself watching, screaming, and writhing in an attempt to make it stop, but the driver doesn't listen to backseat drivers and mockingly increases in acceleration until I'm silenced and blinded by a cage of wind, captured just outside their world.

Find the door to this world and you'll see illusions, cross the bridge over that rushing river to another house where there are snow capped mountains and everything looks a little off, but almost real, it fails in comparison and isn't much to look at. There are many little houses, little worlds and within each little world, a little me resides, quietly waiting for their turn to drive.

With this April's shower a few houses were built, other worlds created. My life in one world is a faery tale, where I'm the jealous, angry, bitter witch, making demands upon the one who cast love's spell upon me and I her. I keep her locked up in a cage of misery perpetuated by varying doses of inadequacy. When she screams for it to stop, I laugh in her face and demand a recounting of what she's done for me lately.
Why do I marinate in anger and irritations, that are spiced by my own tired and loneliness?

That house has been slightly razed. Another house built on top, but it is still under construction and difficult to define with a language that is not mine.

It is peaceful here. There is love and happiness littering the saturated grass in the form of little crystals, reflecting the brilliancy of the color spectrum. I lie in the dew, imagining a world for two, with a white knuckled grasp upon my dreams. It is doubt that teasingly runs by and paints my knuckles white. For even though I try to show my love this world, I can not see through her eyes, nor have I figured out how to give her mine.