new meaning.

Music has transcended above every painful moment in my life. The notes were always there to melt away the walls... and the words, well they let me climb right over and escape with them. I was lifted on an adventure to anywhere but where I was. One night, over 5 years ago, I was sitting with a few friends, on a dirty mattress, in a room that had barely escaped collapse after a tapestry on the wall had caught fire the previous night (we had already decided the black streaks were burned in the likeness of angel wings). There were bongs, pipes, lungs, grinders and papers of every kind littering the makeshift shelf above us. A stained towel covered the only window. In the far corner there were a few empty spray paint canisters, the same ones used to tag every street corner, fence or stop sign with one of our graffiti names. I am a little embarrassed to admit I called myself the 420 princess, and my friends tell me there are a few spots that have not been painted over. Remnant markings of those days still remain, and today I discovered, remnant melodies as well. On that specific night, one specific song clicked on the computers media player, and we all fell victim to the meaning it sought within each of us. No-one spoke. We just listened. Today, that song struck a part of me again, and flooded my emotions with a very different meaning. I wish I could say it's a song most of you will love, but the reality is, it's probably far from any usual tastes. Instead, I'll just post the lyrics below, the words that drove me to silence that night, and tears today. Words with new meaning.

Schism
I know the pieces fit cuz I watched them fall away
Mildewed and smoldering, fundamental differing,
Pure intention juxtaposed will set two lovers souls in motion
Disintegrating as it goes testing our communication
The light that fueled our fire then has burned a hole between us so
We cannot see to reach an end crippling our communication.

I know the pieces fit cuz I watched them tumble down
No fault, none to blame it doesn't mean I don't desire to
Point the finger, blame the other, watch the temple topple over.
To bring the pieces back together, rediscover communication.

The poetry that comes from the squaring off between,
And the circling is worth it.
Finding beauty in the dissonance.

There was a time that the pieces fit, but I watched them fall away.
Mildewed and smoldering, strangled by our coveting
I've done the the math enough to know the dangers of a second guessing
Doomed to crumble unless we grow, and strengthen our communication

Cold silence has a tendency to atrophy any sense of compassion

Between supposed lovers
And I know the pieces fit.

the desert.

My eyes flicker open, and the images around me fade into reality. Miles of sand stretch from one horizon to the other. It smells hot… and the drift of clouds is already dissipating overhead. A scorched sun rises through, and threatens to devour my world into infinite flames. Rushes of sweat are already trickling down my face… and I don’t know how I got here, but I know it’s not where I’m supposed to be. I have no shoes on, and what once was a dress, now hangs in black threads around me. A vulture circles overhead, smiling.

I try to stand, but my legs shake wildly and give out. So I crawl, slowly and without purpose, in no discernable direction. I will not die without a fight. Hours of dragging my knees has made them raw and with every movement, I grind more sand deep into the scrapes. Bloody handprints follow me everywhere, and I consider giving up, until the vulture calls to me. I look up with my last molecule of energy, and see him sitting carelessly by a murky puddle of water, still smiling, although not so morbid this time. He tucks his head down low, as if to beckon me forward, and I obey, slithering furiously to his side as he takes to the sky once more, and leaves me there alone.

I drink in desperate rushes, choking myself with a greedy thirst. In flickers a memory, wiping cum from my lips with the back of my hand, the same motion I use to wipe the water now. The same satisfying grin, of a potent desire fulfilled. Without warning, and almost as a direct reaction to my reminiscence, the sun burns with a new fury. I splash a few more drops across my face idly, marveling in the tactility of it all, before the torrid demons swirl in. Deep red and scorched, they turn my water to steam. Floating away in waves of heat, I sit, defeated. . I can still feel the steam, the heated weight of the air around me. The rising wisps and whispers of what was once there. I can feel it… but I cannot touch it. Cannot hold it in my hand.

I sink to the ground, and try to cry, but no tears can be made. So I begin tugging pointlessly at the ripped clothing around me, as though the simple repetitive motion could cure my death. It won't. This place will surely hold my last breath... an inescapable tomb of dust.

The vulture is back. Laughing at me as it all goes dark. At least he wont go hungry.

"green" humans.

To write: A script set in a time when Earth is so overpopulated, we can no longer grow the resources needed to feed even half the world. A crazy eco-obsessed marine biologist is recruited by a radical green peace organization who try to solve the problems by creating a crossbred symbiotic relationship between plants and humans (based on coral research) by infecting a new breed of single-celled algae under the skin of test subject X. The algae takes high doses of infa-red light and converts that energy into perfect human proteins, sugars and fats, depositing them directly into the body without any waste product or real food needed.

Help me pick a better title. Will post more plot points later (dont want to give it all away)

What is left…?

…after you find out you are meaningless to him from a distance, and the touch that could solve everything, is impossible.

My heart beats outside my body, and I can see the faded fabric of my shirt pulse forward around my chest, quickening with every shudder of breath. Crying seems useless, but then, so does everything… so I cry anyways. I know I broke him, I know he needs his own coping mechanisms and I know I can’t be a part of them anymore… but I can’t help asking him to notice… I broke me too.

I should be supportive. I should say I understand, even if I don’t and learn how to shrug it off. I should retreat to my own intangible solutions of distraction, or imagination. I should hit the temporary disconnect switch, and let him come to me on his own terms.

But he never will. We both know this.

So … I cling, desperately. I am selfish, childish even… and almost always over-react, but at least… it’s real. This constant, and paralyzing fear that his paper-thin responses and complete emotional monotony… could end up being inked in permanence forever. And the reminder on my wrist… will be known only as… the missing piece. The one I took from him, and set on fire, scattering the remains. Now the entire puzzle has been tossed in an unremarkable alley trash can somewhere, disregarded and ignored. I would search forever for those lost ashes, trying, and failing to rebuild the picture we were already making… but at some point, do I just surrender to the impending truth that… it’s never going to be whole again? If you keep reaching out to someone who never reaches back, eventually the habit dies.

I don’t know how to not want him, or not need him, no matter how much he needs me not to.

ayn rand - literary shame.

Upon delving further into the enigma that is Ayn Rand, I take back everything positive I have ever said about her, and would refer you to do some research before reading anything she has written as truth, or even half truth, and instead... leave her to lead her cult of sheep into an objectivist hoard of the proudly selfish, and laugh and point as they all consequently self-destruct. Her books are simply a dogmatic podium for Rand to infect the poison of her ideas onto the unsuspecting and ignorant world. To be read as fiction, and fiction only. Bad fiction to be exact, with zero relation to the real world, and how real people react to situations and emotions.

Great links if you doubt me:
http://www.noblesoul.com/orc/critics/personal.html
http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=2200085728

osama's death over hyped

"If inciting people to do that [9/11] is terrorism, and if killing those who kill our sons is terrorism, then let history be witness that we are terrorists."

Ironic words spoken by Osama Bin Laden in an Oct 2001 interview. So, when America kills thousands of innocents on foreign soil, it's called 'self-defense? Its considered heroism and patriotism... and when the rebel leader is murdered, a celebration occurs! At least Osama had the balls to admit what he was doing, and why. 9/11 was 10 fucking YEARS ago. How many more people have died since? By the hands of soldiers both American and not. Where is the publicity for those lost lives? Where is the media coverage on the Iraqi civilian death toll? I'd bet my life it is drastically higher then the deaths from the "terrorist" attacks in 2001. This is not only trivial, but ridiculously over-hyped. Just a cozy little blanket to pull over America's inflated head, so they can sleep at night, and think that the 9/11 deaths are now somehow justified. What about justice for every civilian Iraqi that had to die so they could find him? Sure, let's just ignore them because they arent as widely publicized, and pump our fists in the air patriotically over the death of one individual who the media have claimed was resonsible. Nothing has changed, no one is redeemed, and those murders are not ANY less tragic because one man was shot in the head. This is making me angry. I'm already sick of hearing about it.

lies. all lies.

Her mouth is dry, so she takes another gurgling drink from an almost empty 2L of stale Coke and looks in the mirror. Week old make-up is streaked across a paling face, and dark circles surround eyes no longer bright and blue… but hollow, and as black as the hair that falls in greasy ribbons around her, sweat soaked and matted to the back of her neck and chest. Her white t-shirt was always too big, but now swallows her whole, layered with a dirty grey zip-up that hangs off one shoulder. Skeletal wrists are concealed in the sleeves, sliced up and down in short, deep gashes… the way that bleeds more. Flecks of white dust can still be traced along her cracked lips… as she slumps suddenly to the bathroom floor.

Hmmmm… must be almost time now…

She smiles at the empty bottle of prescription sedatives, as it falls out of her open hand and rolls across the thick white tiles to rest near a crumpled pile of paper. The truth was there, in those pages, and she found it. The truth… that she was a liar.

One who would do anything to feel numb again.

Anything…

untitled...

I used to glance in the mirror every so often… and feel no desire to lie about who I saw reflected back… but other times, I would look in the mirror and not see anyone at all, just masks. Thrown on in layers so thick I’d forgotten there used to be someone underneath.

In my offline absence, those masks were recognized… and eventually exposed to the people I love the most. No… it was more than exposed. They were ripped off, and shoved back in front of my face so I could admit they were lies. I refused to… and in doing so, effectively destroyed whatever semblance of self, or trust that remained. I caged myself into a corner where there was literally no-one left to give a shit. From whore to psychopath and right back again. Me… as “the messed up girl who is fucked of mind, and who occasionally writes about the person she wishes she could be.”

Out of the wreckage, I’m still letting myself believe a few pieces were salvaged. And maybe that’s all another part of the delusion, waiting to be shattered again one day, but for now, I’ll keep looking in the mirror and know that… I’ll never be as beautiful, or intelligent or creative as I pretended to be with the masks on… but maybe whatever’s left without them… is enough.

youtube truth.

Maybe it's all fading into some fucked up web version of everything that’s wrong in the world.

Maybe sincerity on youtube has turned out to be too much to ask for… and maybe fame is worse than never being heard in the first place. All the drones seem to want now is distraction. (No, I guess they euphemize nicely and call it ‘entertainment’ now). Guns, tits and a car chase with a bunch of fuckin’ bad guys.

I’m not even sure I can be sincere there. I always had to be out proving something. Just a scared little girl, who, despite everything, was always left fighting a twisted need to be heard… and twisted only because of the part I chose to play to try and get people to listen. Honestly… I don’t know what went wrong, but at some point along the way, I lost sense of what I wanted from my youtube experience… and tried way too hard to satisfy everything it wanted from me.

Now comes the realization that 99.9 percent of the people that interact with any video I have ever done, or will ever do… wont ever give a fuck about who I am, what I stand for, what I want, do, think, or even what the fuck I’m actually talking about. Even being self confined to the “viewer-role” … it still feels exactly like I’m walking in circles through dogshit all day. At the end of a long and brutal night, I finally get home, and start scraping that same shit from the side of my boots, picking through all the bits and pieces to see if anything matters. And … maybe none of it does. Maybe I’ve found all the gold, and the rest… well, its all just fucking dog shit. Maybe… I can stop looking. Maybe we all can.

That seems like a lot of fucking maybes (7 on my final count) and a virtually pointless message… but hey, I’m a hypocrite, just like everyone else. Transcribing my incoherent late night mumbling to the few stragglers who have actually made it this far. At least… I’m here, against my better judgment, waiting around for a little bit more of that point one percent.

And yes, I will willingly trudge through dogshit every fucking day if I have to.

As a sidenote: If an explanation for my absence is somehow needed at some point, then I say… misspacman08 died, and left me her life. I’m trying to… find all the pieces, but I think most are probably gone for good… so this is a fucking reconstruction, or at least, the beginning of one.

a puzzle means nothing without it's pieces...

http://creativecollaborationexperiment.tumblr.com/post/3678319212/heather-a-puzzle-means-nothing-without-the-pieces