membraine

Why not blog? I haven't blogged in over a year. It's like that. I just randomly get high one day and decide to write. I have no journal dumping. All this is just "flow".
The boyfriend and I moved to a new apartment in a high traffic area after escaping bedbugs by throwing away ALL of our worldly possessions and starting fresh. Damn Cincinnati and it's bed bug Capitol-ness (fighting with New York City at the moment). Those damn vampire bugs ruined my life. Now my life is coming back together one piece of cheap furniture at a time. Today, I got a fouton delivered for our living room. It was a generous gift from a friend in theater. Adam, my boyfriend/roommate should be home soon to put the shelf together. I've had enough fuss putting the fouton together.
Tonight is D&D night. I play a mermaid sorceress who's been cursed to have legs and walk on land. I am currently level 1 and can barely swim. It's a hoot. (Listen to me, "a hoot"? What year is that?)

Good 'ol Natural Medicine

Cliche #1 that I adore: "I think I think too much"

I laid in corpse pose. Energies grew thick, strong, and heavy as they lulled me through the floor and into the ground. The sand was soft pastel colors grazing my skin in vibrations and tickles that don't annoy but excite. That was a good journey -untimed. Fnord.

I've got nothing of worth or value to leave you with. No wisdom have I. 

Hypergraphia

"Again, what is my object precisely in writing? If it is not for the benefit of the public why should I not simply recall these incidents in my mind without putting them on paper?...For some reason I believe  this if I write it down I should get rid of it"   -Dostoevsky  Notes From The Underground

I stayed up late even with the benzos in my system. I was told my journal has become a barrier of sorts. A wall I put up when I don't want to play. That happens a lot. Someone asks a question I don't like or know the answer to and out comes the notebook. I get in a spat and I grab for the notebook. I'm home alone on a random Friday morning and I write in that damn journal instead of opening the drapes or washing my hair. At a party? You'll find me scribbling away in the corner. Dining at any establishment? I don't need their crayons because I brought my own art bag.
It's almost getting out of hand.
I'm avoiding real life scenarios and writing them down instead. I have more unsent letters than I know what to do with. I make To Do lists I end up never looking at again. I write 1-20 pages every day and have been since I was 7 years old (minus a handful of sick days in the hospital when I wasn't allowed to have a pen).
I thought I'd try something new this morning and not stretch out that fake leather binding but now I'm hunched over the laptop tapping away nonsense.
Enough of that.
I write a lot. Eventually I'll write it all out. Inevitably it will all come to an end. Then what happens to the hundreds of notebooks?

I picked up a wise man off the streets.
He is made of plastic and sits on my balcony now.

So my life plans aren't going, well, as planned. Held up by loans and debt. Have to go to school to work. Have to work to go to school. Can't smoke pot during any of this because apparently that makes you a criminal and you aren't capable of working with animals if you toked last night to quell your anxieties about the inlaw(s). Bull shit system. Too bad I can't get paid to be a journal junkie. Right now I take work for my Grandpa running errands, filing, sorting, moving shit around, basic tasks of life. I wish I could do that forever. Listen to him recite poetry and offer me a prune whenever he notices my "shadow face" (the face I make when I might cry). My grandmother and my mother tell me to "get a real job". They're powerhouse women and I'm always dancing wildly in their dust waiting for my chance to maybe one day shine. Alas, I'm 24. I think I might have time. If all goes according to plan.
Plan:
don't die yet- you got shit to do.

This has no fucking point.

and that's the point.

I've been putting off the blog because I'm too busy playing with ink and luscious pastels. They remind me why hands exist. Not to press man made buttons but to squish a berry across a piece of wood and watch the colors drip. Lick the scent off your fingers.
I'm at war with my mind today. And often for that matter. War. What a brutal word and how I mean it. My mind, your mind, our minds are all on fire and we can't put it out. No, we think and thinking to me equals chaos.
What does chaos equal to you?
...because I don't know what I think of it anymore.
I always had the need to be in control. To put on the smiling, talkative Remme show people seem to expect. I had the need to control the reactions so that I would know how I would react next.
Always thinking a few steps ahead
Always walking at a different pace
Always talking in the dark.

I was told I have Hypergraphia= the incurable desire/compulsion to write. It comes along with the frontal lobe game, mania in the bipolar mind, and the desire to communicate.
Is that why I keep this blog? To communicate? Who am I communicating with?
What do you want to know? I will answer.
I don't wear my heart on my sleeve anymore. It kept falling off. Now I keep it in my palm so I always have a good grip.

You want something new? Something honest?
Here you go,
MY FEARS
-that everyone is walking on eggshells around me
-not living up to my potential (whatever the fuck that is anymore)
-being abandoned/rejected whether real or imagined
-losing my mentor
-going mad/insane/sad again
-being a fearful person
-that shit being laced
-you think this is stupid
-that I care if you think is stupid
-[enter annoying comments about body]
-[enter annoying comments about mind]
-that I'll never leave legacy
     Sound familiar to you?

So this is 2011. This is me being a twenty-something with "so much potential" if "she'd just make up her mind already" and "get off the damn couch". Oh the voices and vices and victorious feats.
Correct dinosaurs.
Pluto's not a planet but that is!
Egypt?!
13 astrological signs. Okay. 
Still at war.
I'm still human I think but the medications got a hold on me along with the growth hormones and radiation, right?

Being a touch 'n go boho diarist with nowhere to go at night but the realm of weary dreams. 

ringing it in

    My new year feels just that- new. I haven't felt so... solid? I may not have great life plans mapped out but I've decided to pursue veterinary school after all. And I'd like to do this in Rhode Island. I want out of Ohio. My lack of income tells me it is not too wise to hop in the station wagon and go east but, damnit, there are magnets pulling me. Those close to me will attest to the fact that I'm a runaway. I never stay anywhere long. I even switch sides of the couch when I need a change of scenery during a movie. But these past 3 days have been a recoup from the fantastical journey I took from 11pm New Year's Eve to 6am Jan. 1, 2011. I don't think I've ever broken through like that and I've done my fair share of tripping. There was a moment on the yoga mat where my body adjusted itself with vibrations from all of you out there. Your energy was strong that night. Thank you. I don't call it enlightenment. I won't call it zen. I'll call it what it was- a trip. And that experience was exuberant. 

    Oh, and getting busted? I got off with a $100 fine plus court costs. Nice. The 3 counts were dwindled into one "attempt to possess marijuana" minor misdemeanor. Thank you Mr. Public Defender with way too many gold rings. If I'm caught again I'll be looking at jail time. Words from the defender himself "Just don't have that shit on you".

A Big Bust

      Beau was driving because I was too tired from watching the guys play "Risk" all night. It was about 2:30 in the morning on Thanksgiving day. Sitting a vigilant passenger, I see a cop car and ask if we're going the speed limit. "Yeah. We're fine." he tells me.
Sirens.
      "Are you aware your license plate light is out?", the cop asks me. I tell her no and apologize. She says she's writing us a warning and will be right back with it.
But it seems to be taking awhile.  I assume it must be some sobriety checkpoint which is no problem since neither of us drinks. She comes back to the car and looks us both up and down.
      "Could you step out of the car please?"
      "What's going on?" Beau asks.
      "I'll explain over here" and she walks away.
I step out and see:
Two more cop cars had pulled up behind her car
A k9 unit being walked to my car
Beau being pat down and questioned
     They don't pay any attention to the small, white girl but they sure give the man with dread locks a hard time. He has nothing on him. They pry but I can't make out what they're saying to him.
     Finally, "Ma'am is this purse yours?", one of the cops asks me. He then asks if I know what would've alerted the dog. I tell him a minute amount of marijuana.
      The cops finally let Beau go and put me in the back of the cop car. They come back with 2 pipes, a gram of shwag, and my pill case.  "That looks like Hydrocodone" one cop says to the other, pointing to my multi-vitamin.  They decide to take it "to the lab to be tested".
Seriously?!
     I got a summons for possession and paraphernalia. My court date is the Dec.20th. I want to plead illegal search and seizure, profiling, and unnecessary force. Fuck Ohio.

This is a Title

Liberated a pair of bad ass cowboy boots.
Wearing them for breakfast.
Feeling tall even when I sit.
and ne
...goddamn I am high.

I was shown the real slums of the internet. 4chan /b/ is [fill in your choice of adjective]. O. Dear. God.

I love it when all the Halloween stuff is on sale. I have added a glow-in-the-dark dangling skeletons strand to my balcony. Boo. No, that's ghosts. *crack* yes, that's much more skeleton.
I want to be in costume again. Being someone else. We act like we don't want it but there are those times. And you know those times.

My car won't start. The Republican man just towed it away. I don't think he liked my stickers. My ride is sort of an eye-catcher I guess. It's a silver '94 station wagon with over 15 bumper stickers (ex: "It seems our technology has surpassed our humanity", "the Pinstripes", "Legalize Freedom", "Habitat for Humanity Foundation", and of course "Peace"). 
My tape deck is bitchin' with an R.E.M. cassette.
I named her "Clarissa".
(I so enjoy pop culture references)

Running out of cigs.
Out of food.
Without vehicle.
Insufficient funds.
Monday.
Lame.

Excerpts From the Notebook

Something to Forget About
It had no fear
It's red, knit hat kept the chills away but the little white capsules barely took the edge off.  Funny how it was on the edge of that ravine when it spoke, "What makes man alright?"
Questions that could be misunderstood, mis-construed, and misinterpreted always twinkle delight in that wise mass.
The edge went farther away with each tread exact.
"Man is alright when he plays."


Beau Tie
Out about stout behaviors     so obtuse
we found inside those gaps only our tongues could touch.
Then we swapped spit, dreams of nomadic adventures with tree houses, horses of every color, alternate realities... We let our existence comingle a bit- a vibration pulsating another, an unchoreographed dance we don't know what to name.
You once saw her dance. 
What was she then? "Bohemian Beauty" could be so obscure so we go with "How much did she do?".  But all is well when out pupils catch that exact and very brief glimpse, time of complete and utter lack of disturbance. Where that silly love drug makes eyelashes curl and fingers tickle. We stop asking about the circumstances in that moment of blissful Be.
She always said you could be a captain without a ship. You always said she'd be first mate.


Got High and Found You Again
That night went on but we didn't have to speak about it. We saw it in double vision- ours combined and shared. Your heart ran faster than mine but I remember making it even faster. Our red eyed mirror, our sheepish grins, our frailty.
We didn't need to pass notes. We check 'yes' or 'no' in our cognitive section and send it via hand held holding. The heads that piece together. Fragments of our lost human emotions pieced together only for the breaking, wandering soul-like creatures to finally catch that glance. That glance where you both know your soul's kin is close and reaching for the bright gaps in the fragments.
We did not speak of what we'd be when we "grew up". We grew into each other instead. And we found our muse.

Call Cannot Connect

Perhaps I'm misunderstood
because I don't explain myself.

I want it out of me.
Put it on paper?
Get a reaction of some kind?
Talking doesn't always do the trick
and some are hard of hearing

I've been told I talk at too rapid of a pace,
  and my stream of conscience doesn't flow
Told I'm not an outcast, but "unique"
Told I'm not deviant, but "opinionated"

Limitations and expectations stretch
the nodes and nodules squeeze

An odd fondness for humans, I have
We have to give a damn
  or we have to make it known that we don't give a damn
   which is really just giving a damn
     about not giving a damn

I've been told I think too much

Speaking in quips
making metaphors for life and time
 I come off as being a bit stuck in my own reality

Criticize Me in My Trip

i have not been fascinated
       <like this>
In such awhile
Thoughts a flutter
 Images: distracting
    the ones I never paid for
    Or paid much attention to
The key that makes the door more than    
    A wall
A story more as
    A synopsis
Language more than
    Meer communication
Is this what I find so fascinating?
   A whirling, vibrating fan
   An ashtray full of our last night’s adventure
   Sleeping cats, yawning cats
   Dirty clothes strewn about
i know this place is lived in
Comforts  e x t e n d s my stay
progress
movement
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