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

the light

I need to start writing again. Get the idle thoughts in order. Scribble myself onto the level of clarified delusion. Make some goddamn sense of it all. Random words echo through my fingertips, ones I would happily type off in a frenzy, if they weren’t all submersed in the darkness. I remember, it felt like chaos in the tunnels of my mind. Scrambling faceless strangers, each one a representation of some failed relationship. Everyone is suffering… some of them don’t even know it yet, but the pain is inevitable. Then, the tunnels all collapsed one day… no structure in place… and what I managed to pull from the wreckage, I savored. I take none of it for granted. Not anymore.

the circle room.

He unlocked the door for me, stood back and told me I had to turn the handle myself. My heartbeat took off at a run and my feet froze in place. I stared blankly for a moment and turned up with a desperate plea to meet the steady gaze of the key master. He smiled, kissed me and said… “You have nothing to worry about. Look. I’ll go first.” Damn. He made it look so fuckin’ easy. Went striding through that door as if it wasn’t there at all and the moment I realized He was waiting on the other side, all hesitation slipped quietly into the background. I reached out, firmly grasped the handle and walked slowly into… a room. A room so very far from normal. It was burning with a particular brightness my retinas had never been exposed to, and I had to shield my face with my hands. My eyes slowly adjusted enough to distinguish four walls, each one spectacularly different from the next… but with painstakingly complex patterns that melted into one another to create a beautiful circle. No discernable beginning or end… just a profound connection of detail. Awestruck and uncomfortable, I lurched across the uneven floor to steady myself in His arms. “It’s okay,” He whispered, “you’re safe now.” With His words and love to fuel me, I became comfortable within that room and surprisingly enough, that room became comfortable with me being there. The walls seemed to make more sense. I memorized those patterns, immersed myself completely within their very fibers. I helped to repair extensive damage when the rain or wind or mold or termites took over. The light that had once blinded me, was now one of my only conduits of true clarity. I began to see the same details appear on my own wall, and let myself believe I would get to be a part of it. A part of Him.
Then, one day without warning… someone changed the locks.

Now I am no longer invited in at all. I am deemed personally insignificant, and discarded to the next room over. Every now and again I hear someone scream my name, followed by an endless supply of indistinct murmurs. And so… I sit here in the corner alone, the dull ache of exile sinking deeper every moment. I hug my knees and cry out for someone to give me a new key. They aren’t listening. Everyday I’m left to wonder what is happening. Left to my own intangible devices of assumption and inference. Everyday, the details on my wall fade… and everyday, it gets more difficult to remember why I ever wanted to be in that room in the first place.

could it be?

A long time ago, the darkness in me defined love as an unattainable daydream of the naïve and childishly optimistic. The entire world was certainly just a vague mirage of lonely half-people, masquerading as clowns with fake smiles and painting their faces over and over again with masks of each other. I watched my feet falter and trip so easily over every uneven impossibility. Sprawled out on the street, bruised and bleeding, I watched faceless and fearful strangers pass by without a glance. Then, without warning, someone stood tall beside me and offered not one, but both hands down… and they slipped into mine with an ease I had never known. Outstretched and with the strength that millions had never dared to use, he lifted me up, above the endless procession of no-ones. I was safe. I was warm. I was healed. In that moment I would know  I was loved. Sure, the tension can cause every worn string to snap, but new ones just fall into place around them, now perfectly tuned. The entire puzzle can crackle, crumble and come crashing down all around me… but every piece just gets rebuilt, and glued into place forever. Sorrow waves in and tears drown every moment I’ve ever known … but then I just realize I can breathe underwater.

if only for tonight...

Let the usual things shuffle quietly into the background. Forget everything you've been told about how you should be. Tonight, envision all you could be. Suffuse yourself with the possibilities circling into your world at every moment. Spend the night imagining, dreaming and scheming. Dress differently, eat the foods you've never tried. Carry a notebook. Write of things to do, places to go, people to meet, and dreams to realize. Write everything, even if it seems silly. Draw pictures. Cartoons. Stickmen beating each other up. Create something.

We see an eagle glide slowly over the tidal river that divides the tiny town, and Peter (we call him P-ball) looks over. "Get his attention!" he yells. We start a choir of whistles completely void of any harmony... followed by a brief silence before Andrew (we call him Crayon) shouts out..
"Faggot!"
We laugh hysterically... though (at this moment) I'm not quite sure why. The eagle ignores us.

small town life.

The laughter here is thick, long and uncontrolled. I crack a country boy heart or two with my disinterest. There is no nice way to dismiss the attention gathered from new-girl allure, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll come right out and say ‘fuck off’ if there’s no other way to make it clear. This is the small town life. A place where I toss out coyote howling sounds at every opportunity, drink beer like water and bake weed cookies with my mom. A place where taking refuge from the coastal heat, means a swim at Fred’s Hole and every second person walking by offers to smoke a joint with you. A place where my worst mumbling is somehow understood perfectly. Where thoughts are said out loud and everyone knows your name before you’ve met them.

i want to play in the rain.

I want to be the girl seen dancing barefoot at the park on Sunday mornings. I want to read out loud, take a million pictures and never upload them anywhere. I want to write what the entire world is feeling. I want to be overwhelmed with desire and laughter. I want to paint every nail a different colour, and wear skate-shoes with skirts. I want to always have a book with me and never wear a watch. I was rolling a joint just now, and wished the entire world could wonder themselves aware of the elation that comes from the littlest things in life. The future obsession is drilled straight and heavy into our paradigms early on. Planning for later and letting the now slip past our fingertips. The silly nuances never rising through a complicated world... but I’m with Bueller. “Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

fishes.

Most of the new men I’ve encountered lately, remind me of fish-sticks. Molded into row after row of the same damn shape… mushy, pre-cooked, tasteless, and unseasoned. With standard yet questionable origins, they are manufactured to fit perfectly in that freezer friendly cardboard box. Adorned with flashy colours and arrogant one-liner catch phrases, they can be plucked from the shelf and into the cart with one or two effortless movements. Sure, there are several different types to choose from. Box A is healthier, Box B will save you money, Box C is conveniently located and Box D has that awesome cartoon ninja plastered on the front. So many viable options and alternatives to choose from! Or so you think… until they’ve made it out of the store, into the oven and onto your plate. Then it takes exactly one bite to realize that a fish-stick, no matter how appealing it may have seemed when you hand picked that particular one… is still just a fuckin’ fish-stick. No amount of tartar sauce is going to appease your now-shriveling taste buds, and somewhere around chew number five, you’re already trying to indulge an appetite that doesn’t exist anymore. Pleading for that elusive smoked salmon, or impossible lobster, but willing at this point to concede to some anchovies, or even a can of flaked tuna. Maybe what they say is true, and maybe there are a lot of fish in the sea, but too bad the majority of the world doesn’t even own a fishing pole, and instead, we simply buy the fish that have already been caught, processed and packaged for us by someone else.