BallpointAddiction's Xanga

Story For a Friend

Sun, 20 Jan 2008 21:55:05 GMT

Once upon a time there was a little girl.

She lived in a chrome kingdom that was micromanaged by robot lords. The king was a very particular person who had a closed mind. He used his robot lords to keep the people of the kingdom from creating art or anything of beauty, as he feared it could one day incite revolution.

The girl's name was Pistis Sophia, but most just called her Sophia. Her parents were quiet revolutionaries who never gave up the idea of creation and art, so she was named Pistis Sophia, after the Angel of Creation. It was a fitting name, for she spent most of her time scratching small designs into the chrome, only to buff it out quickly when a lord would come by.

Sophia had a hope that one day she would be able to express her art freely. She grew into a beautiful woman, and though her parents died, their ideas lived on within her. She decided one day to appeal to the king to permit even small pieces of art to be created for private purposes. The king became enraged and frightened by her thinking, and threw her into the prison. The prison was not clean like the rest of the kingdom. It was stone, cold, and filthy. Dirt and grime clung to the walls. Sophia was sad, but then she discovered a small fragment of metal in the filth.

It was jagged, unkempt and uneven, but it had a tip to it, which was all she needed. She began to quietly scratch designs into the stone; intricate, detailed creations that truly lived up to her name. She drew a small amount every day for a month; she remained undiscovered because the only contact she had with anyone was for a guard to fling some food through a small slot into the dank room every day.

Then finally, she heard the turning of a key and the echoes of turning cogs throughout the dungeon. The room was filled with light, and Sophia sat in the center of her creation. Her murals covered the walls in every space, flooding the guard's eyes with unimaginable beauty.

And the guard fell to his knees.

And he wept.

The king heard this noise and came storming into the corridor. His face red, his shaggy face trembling, he dragged the guard to his feet. As he opened his mouth to shriek, he turned toward the dungeon. And he fell silent.

And he fell to his knees.

And he wept.

For it was beautiful.

Philosophy.

Sun, 20 Jan 2008 04:14:39 GMT

Me: You know how people say life is like a river?

Erica: never heard that before in all my seventeen years, why?

Me: Oh. Well.

Me: THOSE PEOPLE ARE FULLA SHIT.

Erica: why would like be like a river in the first place?

Me: Because it's always flowing, supposedly. Always changing.

Me: But I disagree.

Me: Life is like a calm pond. Content and unchanging, most of the time. And every now and then a helicopter flies over and drops a fucking nuke in the middle of it. and the tranquility ends for a period. In a loud way.

Me: but you know that it will be tranquil again soon

Me: So you try and stay there.

Me: But the goddamned radiation makes your skin burn.

Me: So it becomes tranquil, but because you decided to stay there during the nuking, you now have burned skin and possibly radiation poisoning.

Me: But it's worth it, isn't it?

Erica: i say no. haha

Erica: i wouldnt stay in that pond.

Me: But that's the only pond you know is tranquil.

Me: And you've been in poisoned ponds before.

Me: This one is clear, before and after the nukings.

Erica: but theres radiation and burning and pain. so how is that in any way tranquil for me?

Me: Because it rarely happens. It's not the pond that isn't tranquil, it's just that outside factors sometimes disrupt it.

Erica: eh well, thats life.

Erica: hahaha so i guess ill stay. yeah, maybe

Me: I'm staying in my pond. And over the past couple weeks, it got nuked. And I think it's starting to clear up again.

Me: God, I love metaphor.

Try Invulnerability

Sun, 06 Jan 2008 02:37:59 GMT

It still occurs fairly regularly
Hasn't it always
The nervous disbelief
The attempted invocation of nonexistent
Destructive
Even self-destructive
Phenomena
Filling, filing one by one
Into the cognition
Of an overused mind
At no sign with no
Warning
Spontaneity seems to have lost its quixotic
Qualities
You've taken notice
Haven't you
And said nothing
Feeding the festering burn
A gangrenous sore
And you pour that tainted alcohol
In a frail attempt to heal
To heal
To heal
And you poison
A sterile hex
And it burns like hell
Like we will

I want my sanity back
Here with me
For now
I smolder

creative writing week 105

Mon, 24 Dec 2007 20:08:36 GMT

Turn off that floor lamp, please
Too bright for now
With solemnity like a thin blanket
Surrounding, not warm
Almost intensifying the cold
Come, blind angels, to this place
In the shivering calm comes
Clarity
And the way icicles sound
Like chattering teeth sunk into water
Then, broken crystal stemware
Which will be replaced before next year
There's no hurry

The radio says
"'Tis the season to be jolly,
Fa la la la la
la la la
la"
Come, come contradictions, come
Start out just trying on, trying out ways
To bring about flame
Because the floor lamp is out
And the sun is melting on the horizon
Night is a dark, frightening thing
Wake in it and see
If possible, anyway

Narcolepsomnia
Call it that
And the sound is as cold as icicles
As cold as a thin blanket
Colder than contradictions
When sleep is inevitable
But completely unreachable
Distressed, yes
Restless at best
How unbecoming
How irresistable
Come contradictions
Come and turn out the light

Blackened Moor and Weathered Beach

Mon, 17 Dec 2007 03:22:22 GMT

Everyone worth sleeping sleeps
And I remain awake
A soldier in the march toward an
Inevitable
Cliff
Memories that belong to someone else
Revive my own
Words that belong to someone else
Spur my own
And nothing will be just fine
Nothing will be just fine

My memory serves me well
When I want to write
Even when I don't
And it doesn't bother me
It's the present that
Kills me
When I start to recognize
Or think that I recognize
Similar patterns lining my path
March on soldier
March
And nothing will be just fine
Nothing will be just fine

Explosions!
My crackling synapse
Turns my thoughts against
My thoughts against
My thoughts
Just enough
To remind me
Of how wrong this is
How I'm marching toward my death
I am a felled firefighter in this clash
I am a triumph and I am
A disease
I am my own cancer
And nothing will be just fine
Nothing will be just fine

If I could take my leave
To the beaches
Where bodies line the shore
Like frays on the edge of
A worn page
I would lay there
In the sun
With you
And now I am not a soldier
I am a man
I am a boy
I am content
And something will be just fine
Maybe everything will turn out just fine

Creative Writing 103.

Tue, 11 Dec 2007 20:04:27 GMT

My name is Lauren. I'm not exactly someone who is approachable. When people try to talk to me, I tend to shy away and say nothing, regardless of who they are or what they have to say. This is the first thing I want people to know about me.

I spend most of my time stepping in and out of my convictions... I wish my relationship with God was stronger. After all, I love him so very much for raining down so many great wealths in my life. If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't be happy all the time, even without people.

I am scared to be close to someone, even if it feels perfect and by all reason is perfect. Every break I've ever made in relationships has been entirely my fault and I was totally unjustified in cutting them off.

My parents tend to reinforce that everything will work out no matter what my life decisions are, and as a result I am completely apathetic about my perfect grades in school, my plethora of friends who always do things with me outside of class, and the fact that every member of the faculty loves me the way I am and genuinely believes that I have a bright future. And yet I am completely unloved.

I am happy where I am. I truly am. I never want to leave this place. The four walls of my current frame of reference keep me safe. The world is a scary place and it always will be.

I, for one, welcome our new robot overlords.

I despise all forms of art, including this writing. Fuck art.

By the way, I mentioned that my name is Lauren, right? Yeah, I thought so. Lauren.

And I'm completely confident about everything I have ever done. EVER.

Significance

Sun, 09 Dec 2007 19:19:23 GMT

    It was a time like any other, other than that it was its own time unlike any other. This is to say, it was a unique time indeed, although it felt not at all different from any other time, regardless of the significance of this particular time. After all, any time is the same as any other time, other than the spoken and recognized significance that we tend to give certain times, whether they really have any greater impact on our lives or not. It is not the time, but the events that define our lives. This event was one such significance that we imposed on an annual time which is known as Christmas.
    Christmas, as a significant time, holds different levels of significance to different people, as do most significant times. For some, it is a single day, a time for recognizing that it is that day because everyone calls it that day. For some, it is several days, involving what many people call "getting in the spirit," a general term meant to prolong the experience that comes with the recognized significance. This usually involves singing carols meant to honor the time, eating foods meant to honor the time, reading stories meant to honor the time. For some, it is a time stretched over several months, regarding decorations, shopping, and further caroling as a furthered attempt to "get in the spirit."
    For still others, it is a time that means nothing. It means everything except that it applies to them. It means annoying lines, obnoxious songs, general insensitivity to those who choose not to recognize the significant time which is not always significant, and it means an undermining of whatever they choose to be significant at that time. Some groups find significance in lighting candles to honor separate-yet-not-separate significant times known as Chanukah or Kwanzaa. These are meant to honor respective ancestors and cultures, festivals of lights meant to remember other significant times, or rather insignificant times supposedly made significant by events that were given significance by the people who experienced them.

    This is getting a bit tangential. I meant to tell a story, but I forgot what it was going to be about. I suppose that the time I spent writing those insignificant paragraphs turned out to be slightly significant to me, because I have now officially created something. It may just be a tangled mass of sentences intentionally contrived to be repetitive, subversive, and confusing, but it is something and it has made a significant point that significance can be found in insignificance. This ultimately worthless writing will make no change in anyone's life other than to take a few minutes away while reading it. And yet, it has a meaning. What it is, I do not know. I have only written it, and it will hold different levels of significance and eventual time to the different people who actually bother to read it.

Thanksgiving.

Thu, 22 Nov 2007 15:26:29 GMT

Yay for family togetherness.

Whatever that is.

By the End of Eyes Abstract With Psyoterapus

Wed, 21 Nov 2007 01:01:08 GMT

Tantric cycles and spectral developments
A contorted festival
Contraption, how do you work in such a way
How do you continue
To pick along at such
An alarmingly terminal rate
Until the climactic split-theorized tremors
Take the breath from my lungs
And replace it with hot syrup
Sticky sweet and steaming
Sweating
Boiling
Turning my innards into pure corrosion
Lowering my elastic arms to the floor
From a pure upright position
My demeanor becomes heavy
My face becomes a trite phrase
And you fade into an electric black oblivion
Leaving me with tracing echoes to follow
And a strange sense
That the world can be a sedative
Even in chaos

(For Creative Writing Circle.)

Goldurn, America.

Sat, 10 Nov 2007 00:07:34 GMT

Today we had a Veteran's Day assembly that bugged me. Not only was it filled with obnoxious "God Bless America" music and red-white-and-blue everything, but it revolved around Vietnam.

Vietnam wasn't what bugged me. There were several 'Nam vets there. A couple of them, teachers. What bugged me was that every fucking person that went up to the podium (to talk about how incredibly superior military members are for giving up further education for an M-16 and unquestioningly following orders) felt the need to say that every fucking veteran has fought to protect our freedom and our rights.

Bullshit.

All I have to say about that.

Not to disrespect veterans, even those who signed up for Vietnam after several years of war had already taken place and it was going nowhere. Even those who sign up for Iraq now. Even those who inspired the blatant Full Metal Jacket wannabe, Jarhead. I have to admire those who truly believe in what they are going to fight for. Can't say the same for those who just go to see combat and do it all for pride. Fuck pride. Sense is better.

Pride in your sense is the best.

Needless to say, I have a bleak view of the idea of military service. I was even approached by a Navy rep after my high scores in math and science. He asked if I was interested in the U.S. military. I'd be a good addition to the tactical and analytical division, due to my math skills and such.

Sorry, no. Not for me. Why do I say that? Well, I have this problem with authority. I argue when I disagree. Oh, sure I'll take a pamphlet. Right. Free college, I know. Right.

In the immortal words of the cast of Bloom County: "Thhhpphthhhtht."

What cracked me up the most was when everybody, save me and a few others, stood while they played a recording of Kenny Rodgers singing "God Bless the U.S.A." and then applauded. This was the point where I muttered something about everybody in this school being a fucking idiot before realizing that my zealot World History teacher was sitting in front of me and giving me a very stern look. Whether it was for me not standing or for my "fucking idiot" mumblings, I don't know and I don't care.

As a musician and a person, I hate patriotic songs and the idea of being a soldier. Karma probably says that I'll get drafted after posting this. The end.