I Am My Brothers Keeper

I've Moved

2009-06-01T15:26:00.000-07:00

www.beccahupp.wordpress.com

Time moves along so fast

2009-04-30T21:15:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I was seven and tomorrow I fear I'll wake up with wrinkles on my face and children all grown up and a husband who can no longer achieve an erection without pills

2009-04-20T00:14:00.001-07:00

Emerging a slight crack, your voice carries
Seeing sleep from the inside, bumping against my eyelids when I blink
You little piece of me
You little piece of me so in the way
And helplessly wail, a tiny blowhole gang popping rainbow soap bubbles
Little calloused feet with big silicon mothers
Getting in the way again
Soles on the carpet to walk it off
Burying ash, gray to float away and praise, hallelujah
With my knees in the grass to say I hope you never find out
Lucid and laughing at nothing at all
Soon I’ll need another and another and another and…
Dionysian grip with Apollo all dressed in crimson
Billowing above from a stream of gray elation
Skin, illuminated forearms reflect the ceiling and hands catch
From flaky white surface, sins as a crutch

Shake it Out

2009-03-25T12:18:00.000-07:00

I found this little treasure hidden away in the depths of my hard-drive.

2009-02-19T10:08:00.001-08:00

Points like trumpets, swallows and sighs
Self-loathing grows little feet and runs around
An awkward tap dance for the indifferent sky
To make sense of the heavy shouts rolling down
Or the bolts of light setting fire and blinding eyes
Gashing down yellow strips of jealously in rage
Splitting the soliloquy of the sublime oak tree right in half
Cutting hands away from the golden box
Bloat its legs when it was once so proud
Make it an art to find yourself stumbling around
Smile so big is just flipped upside-down
Hyper-sensitive, give in, give in god-damn
I’d claim you were tipping back the bottle, holy father
I caught you sneaking around the corridors with their daughters
Whispering “submit, submit” to make no martyrs
Grow your hallelujah gut cute creature of immolation

2008-12-13T11:35:00.000-08:00

How could this happen? I keep playing it over and over. Is it possible for this to all just disappear? Please God, please.

2008-12-06T22:23:00.001-08:00

Am I delusional when I see what Ive been asking over and over again? Is there some plan, some intricate design to all of this? Because when I saw what some person wrote, I started to wonder if God was listening.

But God is not listening. Because God does not exist. God is a construct we make and fall back on when we are feeling weak. This idea that we call God is the ideal of humanity, humanity at its pinnacle. I noticed it, she noticed it, and Frank noticed it. I live by reason, even the Bible says our hearts are deceiving.

Nature vs. Nurture

2008-11-17T23:07:00.000-08:00

I thought for sure I could manage the explosions, they were, after all, mines I laid myself. Carried like newborns, cradled rather, like Christmas ornaments or glass China seconds away from shattering, I placed them all with careful consideration. These were mine, these buds of anger, cracking the dirt like seeds straining to see the sun. I sat back to watch, trembling. Have I sewn seeds of things I will grow to regret? When the time comes, will they explode in my hands as I struggle to find them before my enemies pass? Will I protect them once again? Or stand in silence, the proud owner of their wrongs; a machine they have created, their prodigy child, perfect replicas of their sin. Are we just patches of experience molded by the quick hands of lust, rage, gluttony, fear, negligence, and disgust? What of nature, what of innocence at birth? I'm not sovereign in my own body.

"I also have in my mind that seemingly wealthy, but most terribly impoverished class of all, who have accumulated dross, but know not how to use it, or get rid of it, and thus have forged their own golden or silver fetters."
-Thoreau

2008-10-22T21:44:00.000-07:00

Rumbling like empty stomachs
Talking, begging questions, assuming induction
And criticizing logic derived from honest ache
This is not a God I plan to create

2008-10-15T11:38:00.000-07:00

Come down to the washroom

Breathe where you can find it

Slap the words on your body

World of caterpillar dances

Hold your best friend like a newborn

Through the trampoline living-room

Euphoric quiet black doom

Held over like a falling blanket

Or a stream off a cliff

Ever changing, rolling, released hips

Smash together with addict violence

Where the water falls, lift your head and swallow

Spin like spin like spin like carousels

Kiss the animals that toss you

Up and down, latchkey kids grown

Hold on to the flight

Its such a wonderful lucid night

2008-10-02T22:26:00.000-07:00

It was a small cellar of sorts, a narrow passage divided in two by an oversized plastic shower curtain. The white reminded her of the hospital. She removed her clothes piece by piece, standing at last, slightly arched from the day spent huddled under florescent lights, her mind like a mitt ready to catch. She had found she enjoyed her compulsive studies above all other escapes, alcohol alike. The dwindling of her sex drive was obvious; she spent her time sleeping when she used to crave the pleasure, the tickle of sex. She looked down at her body without opinion and rubbed the small of her back, pressing against the pain of early aging. She turned the knob in the shower to hear the sound of water, crisp as it hit the bottom. Hidden in her bag she found the instrument of the demons, used to weld a shrine to the evils in the world right there on her body.

She took off her shower shoes. She had never before felt the pit that drained the dirty water from her. All the diseases that crept there would catch instantly to their first host and she would close her eyes to feel the alternating pressures press against the thick skin on the bottom of her feet, and she would know for the first time what it felt like to catch a disease. She had to turn her face when she washed her arm, the smell of rusting metal made her sick with contempt. Would she grow old, she wondered. The constant stream of steaming water had numbed the back of her neck, and she had found how it felt when the dirt is too thick to wash off.

2008-09-28T16:49:00.000-07:00

Where I trade sin for pain

Alleviate the social qualms and count to ten

Gasp for air where I could've let it seep out

And tuck my head in my knees to wait it out

A caravan of calm voices and busy hands

I know how to make it better but...

A trade off so simple and easy to hide

Makes sense like a pill that they'll force down

But with certain aches and nauseous coughs

They swear it trumps injury in ethical costs

Blue swells on my arms where I "ran into doors"

Im starting to wonder if this is really worth fighting for

2008-09-09T08:15:00.000-07:00

how many times can a man turn his head and pretend that he just doesn't see?

I am my brothers keeper. I will be my brothers keeper.

2008-09-02T20:15:00.001-07:00

2008-08-22T21:19:00.000-07:00

It still haunts me, the way his arm fell off the couch like a rushing waterfall with no outlet to the sea that would, with time, become nothing but brittle cliffs. The subtle shallow breaths that lightened his lake a little every time, sighed slightly upon exhale when the pernicious odor leaked from his cracked lips. I am nothing to him. I am furniture that gets in the way. I am evidence left behind. With rage which has calloused my heart I can only imagine releasing upon him the same physical wreckage which he has laid upon us, emotionally. I want to let go, I want to hurt him more than I want to save him.

When I start hitting him I cannot stop. The world turns black, I cannot see where I am steering the car. I end up half way off the road but I cannot stop. I am a demon, slave to the vengeance he has deemed funny until now, when the true horror of my inhuman heart tears manically at my own kin, my own brother. See what you have made?! I want to scream. But I don't. I say nothing. I grab hold of the wheel and throw the two of us back onto the street. 45 miles an hour, I am just like him.

2008-08-14T22:33:00.000-07:00

So narrow the glades of fastened acute
Pieces of swallows of childish repute
Endless and quaint, tallied and judged
Harshly upon wallows of cypher and aspen
Called upon as soldiers, drilled and re-designed
A picture so stolid and quickly defined
Sordid and peachy, insipid and kind
Not a bigot at all, a human body and mind
Coldly washed ashore the banks of south Maine
The frigged and careless garbage of crabs
The tiny parcels of beige and dense atom compounds
The fucking insanity of pierced heels and tattered toes
Eats at our body and fastidiously shows

The Way To Fly

2008-08-07T08:02:00.000-07:00

This could be the bridge

May I be so bold to claim

The dim lighting brewed bean smell

That wrinkles in our faces hold it all

The secret that formed constructs of religion

The fettered wiggle free from grudges rope

That with time and space

The wrinkles again

Which held for years await

The darker deeper crests of weight and trial

To the touch, softer than spikes recalled

And from demon eyes

Rose human life in every form

From malice, resentment, indignation

A child soldier

From remorse, negligence, solitude

Widows of war

From joy despite the soreness and ache

The aged and illiterate

The wrinkles, which examined closely enough

Peer into the heart

The identity, though perceived at a time

A monster as relentless as time itself

Now only and simply a human form

2008-07-24T14:53:00.000-07:00

I am so sorry.

this is no place for christian boys among us lost unsubtle girls

we drink into the night and pass out on the bathroom floor

and when the curtains all rise up youll find the scars of lucifer

Im coated in the ash of brimstone but I swear it could be worse

Everywhere I go I leave behind the poisons of this world

My body falls limp in your arms, in a world all my own

The bland of blurry eyes mold crosses into stop signs

I'm sinking quickly into sleep - the lure that God designed

2008-07-15T11:31:00.000-07:00

i wont put up with this any longer

ill find a god who's not a ghost

15 Things You Might Not Know About Me...

2008-06-26T19:59:00.000-07:00

The longest thing I've enjoyed doing is writing, seven years (but I secretly think I'm not very good at it)
I never admitted my first love because he didn't love me and I knew he never would. It has been years and I still haven't really forgiven him for hurting me like he did.
I think every uncle is a pedophile. And I have a hard time envisioning pedophiles as any other ethnicity except Caucasian.
I am jealous of Indians.
I am overly thankful for all my friends because when I was a child I was so overweight that I thought that I would have no friends in highschool and that no boys would like me and I would live alone the rest of my life.
I'm not scared of blood because of the night she bled on me. I'm scared of blood because of the time I didn't think it would stop coming from my own SI at 14.
I saw my first unrelated penis at age 9 when my friend pulled up a porn webpage on our computer and told me it was funny. (She turned out to be a lesbian)
My first 'C' in a class was in Bible. (I went to a Private Christian School in early elementary school)
I feel like I am living a lie because my parents think I am a Christian but I'm agnostic. I can't tell them because they would be very upset by it. And I don't want to hurt them because I love them more than I can even explain.
I haven't spoken to my brother in 6 months, except in one letter to explain that I haven't forgiven him and that I was glad he found Jesus.
I am suspicious of every conservative.
I wish Walt Whitman was not gay because his poetry turns me on.
I think city lights are just as beautiful as stars. (but not more)
I'm in love right now. After almost 2 years I am still madly in love with him. (It is one of the greatest accomplishments of my life)
I have many secrets I still can't tell.

2008-06-06T21:23:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I think that humanity is just a silly little constructed complex not unlike "society," or "civility," or "superiority." I often think that thought itself is just a reflex to the fiction of our individual reality - yet saying so presents the obvious contradiction. Yet in a strange way, I'm not sure you can explain the nonsensical with sense. And our existence is nonsensical, along with our thoughts, our concepts of reality, and certainly all intangibles. What really makes sense, in the realm of humanities 'humanness,' does not actually make any real sense. Our presence here on earth - whether it be by science or God - our constructs of social conduct, and our perceived emotions are enigmas fought over by various opinions in the world of scientist, philosophers, and anthropologist.

Reality is only real because we make it that way. Reality begins in ones head, and plays out in an indifferent and unplanned world when we act as though it is so. It is our own lack of imagination that traps us into a "reality" we don't wish to be apart of. Though I can not say for sure, that would be speaking in absolutes (which I've heard one is never to do - which is yet another paradox). We make so very little sense. Slapping a ubiquitous perfect genie like paternal filler in the sky may be a readily available answer to our contradictions as a species but I find this explanation unsatisfying, and in general even more head spinning. Yet science, in all its intellectual trend and elicit sleek, does not proficiently explain the evolutionary benefit of altruism, morality, or emotion.

Humanity and reality are simply concepts - and right now I understand neither.

That Which We Call A Rose By Any Other Name

2008-05-13T20:00:00.000-07:00

To change a name, to morph shapes, letters; to twist semantics, to pry and bend and hammer at definitive syllables; to place vowels in their proper order - I have done these things to change one simple word marred by years of internal warfare and heartache, to weld the jagged edges and crescent moons into an opponent word so hideous in contrast, so heavy, even I, its Creator, could not have anticipated its influence. To call things by their right name. This connected the previously arbitrary blimps of hardly traceable disagreement between me and the religion I once claimed. Now I am one semi-circle, open to the ground beneath, curving inward and pouring downward on the right side until it drips into a single dot of embarrassing and self-proclaimed unbelief. In the bible-belt suburbia, I have little time to toss my hands in the air in frustration before the protestant EMTs come rushing in to heal my scraped knee with morphine and a lobotomy. "I am a" meant nothing without "Christian" strapped to the end; when I walked away from "Christian," I walked away from the present, labeled it past, and carried the physiological shell of me into a Godless place I struggle to name "Reality," or "Hell." I am hesitant; changing a name changes everything.

Belief-O-Matic Quiz

2008-05-07T21:06:00.001-07:00

1) Unitarian Universalism (100%)

2) Secular Humanism (97%)

3) Liberal Quakers (85%)

4) Neo-Pagan (74%)

5) Nontheist (73%)

6) Reform Judaism (67%)

7) Theravada Buddhism (67%)

8) Mainline to Liberal Christian Protestant (60%)

9) New Age (58%)

10) Bahai Faith (50%)

I'm a Single Cell on a Serpent's Tongue

2008-04-29T19:53:00.000-07:00

When I came home, I stuffed it in my purse, to keep it hidden, to keep the cover close. I felt a little ashamed like I was 16 stealing my parents liquor again with the same regretful smug defiance. I know the words, "The God Delusion," would be a cherry on top of my negligent church attendance and my journey through the Qur'an, to them. I doubt they are willing to admit the assumed conclusion of this evidence, that I am no longer a Christian, but as their suspicion rises, I'm beginning to feel the sting of deception.

I am in no way proud of my unbelief.

2008-04-13T17:30:00.001-07:00

Im agnostic, btw.

WE

2008-03-25T21:11:00.000-07:00

The rotting steal infrastructures, lines of rectangles and triangles screamed, crying at the passage of a quiet mass, solemn with 20/80 vision. We hear the dulled version through hours of foggy memory and swallows of cheap liquid poisons that burn our throat and churn our stomach. We move as a flock, as an entity shuffling our feet and tripping against the strings of nothing, as nothing smiles back. We are one, the unity of ten thousand tragedies, indifferent to us as they trudge along. We are dizzy from the madness that perpetuates with time and those quiet moments of solitude, though rare, often irreparable. We have one aim, one mind geared toward the three pleasures eminent enough to corrupt. We name them: God, love, and drugs. We name them magical realism, selfish satisfaction, and false sensation. We name them excuses not to think, immoral though admirable. One day we may name them petty, but not today.

The subway roars; our impatient anticipation transforms every clank and echoed footstep into a raging machine of transportation, eating the tracks as it comes our way - certain to remain its cycle long after we end ours. But our imagination fabricates sounds and it doesn't come for another five minute eternity. Flying underground we fail to determine the temperature of the current swooping us up with the weightlessness of feathers that form a wing. As we fall to our knees in suffocating laughter we feel the glare of solitary shadows, soldiers of the straight-edge, kings of condemnation. As if pressure diminishes in the pool of now vague sensation, our body melts into a misshapen cup, unable to hold substantial content without spilling all over your shirt. We are stains. We are the embarrassment of past mistakes still apparent to everyone, "Not so past," we laugh. We are a confused temporary agnostic, like everyone else. We are waiting for justification to believe in a God but we do not find it. We tried to fall in love but we stopped believing in it.

Today we admitted our disbelief to a surprisingly apathetic audience. We spoke with our trembling voice, the words advocates use to excite emotion, but we found them unconvincing. Our eyes filled with the tears we spent years building up, but the millstones pulled harder and the ocean was none-the-less drowning us. We almost lost our footing at the halting screech-stop of the iron beast, to the amusement of the annoyed wrinkled faces among us. To lose our faith, we feel aged; to lose our mind, we feel we never used it in the first place.

God. Sex. Drugs

2008-03-13T20:00:00.000-07:00

In APenglish5 today we were discussing what is called a "level three question" which is basically an open ended question on philosophy that is derived from literary themes and situations. The question was (without references before)... What is faith?

My initial thought, my Freudian slip if you will, was "blind-belief." My conscious quickly took over however to tell me that it was a, "strong belief." Perhaps we should listen to our intuition more. The church teaches that faith should be without doubt but that doubt fortifies faith. My secret: I've never been without doubt. (And I don't think I ever want to be.)

My belief in God has slipped to the point that if you could see it as a line on a graph, I have recently slipped below the zero mark and lay somewhere close to the top, but just below. I feel I should almost say I have disbelief with doubts saying, "maybe God is real and maybe he does care", (the reverse of the last 6 years).

And tonight Ben, a Watershed employee I work with, came in to talk as he usually does. He told me all my music was about sex. I laughed and told him I went in weekly patterns of listening to music either about sex, drugs, or God. He told me this made since because they were the three most incredible feelings capable of humanity.

Suddenly, they all seemed on the same plane to me. That they are all just fixes for the emotionally strung-out and... weak hearted. I thought briefly then of the Buddhist ideology, of Hinduism, Christianity, Islam, Deism, ext and I wondered... is religion a hoax? Is this a drug we've come to accept? Is this an orgasm of entire fantasy? Is it a socially acceptable cop out into a utopia we are unable to achieve on earth?

It seems logic is above this. If I can rationalize my way out I wont be waiting around for the next fix - for Sunday night, for a high or a shot, for sexual attention. While one day I persue one, the next day I persue another waiting until God, drugs, or sex satisfies. In a small way they all do, but in the biggest way, they dont.

Good feelings currupt us - they are a lust we all search after. Does it matter which medium we satsify this hunger in? Is it really healthy to have faith? I am full of questions and scared of their answers. For the past six years religion has defined me, and suddenly, I don't know if God is real.

I want to believe, I really do

2007-11-04T19:32:00.000-08:00

I haven't fully understood this, and unnervingly never forgotten it. I feel like I could say that about a lot, lately. Ive been very introspective, Ive been interrogating my past. Tonight at church I was overwhelmingly flooded with a memory that didn't really make sense until now. I was in the seventh grade, undoubtably optimistic, unrealistic, and uncommonly happy. I went to a rally on the state house steps with my church, when Daniel was the youth pastor, I remember his missing fingers in this picture. I couldn't tell you now what the speaker said, I'm not sure it mattered, but I remember the worship. I dont remember the songs. I remember my knees pressed against the pavement, I remember my forehead on the ground. I remember me crying and crying and crying, and I remember what I was saying.

I prayed, "Please dont ever leave me. Dont ever leave. Dont ever leave me. Please. Please Jesus dont ever leave me. Dont leave me like everyone else. Dont ever leave."

I was twelve. Who knows where that sense of abandonment came from. I remember how hard i was crying, and how I didnt understand. Half way through I felt like a fake, I didnt have anyone leave me. Why was I crying about being alone? I didnt know why I was so upset, I thought maybe I was bringing this on, that none of it was real. It felt real though; I felt God. And now it feels like I was crying for what I had no idea was going to happen. I just kept on and on, "dont ever leave, dont ever leave me."

Looking back on it now, maybe he never has.

I see God in a lot of petty things; on most days I dont need convincing that he exist. What I wonder is if he cares, what I wonder is if hes active. Ive known the answers all along I just didnt want to accept them, I didnt want to accept that there is no single person to blame for all of this. I really wanted God to storm down from the clouds and stop these things that hurt; and he never does; and he never will. I do struggle with that, and I will, but I really want be with him again. Im ready to bury the image I had of God; Im ready to start over.

God, does grace reach this side of madness?

2007-10-18T19:44:00.000-07:00

Cause I know this cant be the great peace we all seek.
oh my heaven, why do you have doors to close?
do you have clouds to stop his voice?
wont you come down from heaven
wont you come down
wont you cut through the clouds
wont you come down
and brother have you found
the great peace that we all seek
you say take a look around,
if theres a god, then he must be asleep

The monks are rising in Burma. Some have damned the soldiers as they beat them, and the soldiers broke down and cried because they honor who they're killing.

Bush met with the Dali Llama; apparently he has the right to meet with the "universal sign of

peace." What audacity.

Ron Paul is the most popular Candide on college campuses. This sudden rise in libertarianism is stemmed by bitterness and distrust in those who have power. This is our generation who has lost hope.

Barack Obama was asked last night why he wasn't wearing his AIDS pin like the rest of the candides. He said he didn't want it to gain him votes. What respect for purity. If hes just another lying politician, hes the best damn liar Ive ever heard.

Venezuelan children are having 'red' forced down their throats. No one will care.

Another raid in Darfur. Have anything to say UN? UN? Hello? Are you there UN?

As China's elections approach, democracy seems even further away.

As our elections approach, democracy seems like a farce.

The leaders of the Muslim faith met with the leaders of the Christian faith in Jerusalem to establish a public sense of peace between the leading monotheist religions of the world.

Switzerland isnt happy... impressive.

The State Fair is making news.

Nine More Months of This

2007-10-07T19:31:00.000-07:00

I should go ahead and warn you, this isn't what I usually do.

If you're hoping for something that isn't going to complain, don't read this. And I mean it. It isn't interesting; it's just broken.

Take One, Action: I want this to be healing for me, not fuel a self-pity party, so I'm going to honestly try. When I came home from church today my fathers car wasn't in the driveway. That never means something good. I sat there in the dark, it was a little past 10, I had just gotten home from Midtown. Ted had left earlier, this weekend I cherished every second I had with him. Love is strange, sometimes you know it, and sometimes you feel it. It's a lot like God in that aspect, it's a lot of work, but Ive never regretted it. This weekend God let me feel it; I think he knew I needed to. Well when I walked inside out of the dark, my mom was sitting alone on the couch watching TV and drinking wine. When I asked her where dad went, like I couldn't have guessed, she only said, "the hospital." I knew from the awful awful stillness in her voice, that stillness only someone who has been broken by their environment can have, that my brother was the blame... again.

I'm filled with rage, anger that is so foreign to me save these past few months.. or years, it all starts to blend together. I wasn't born with anger like my brother, I was born with an allure to sadness. This rage in me, it is something deeply and darkly acquired. It is a demon now working in alliance with sadness and I am without restraint, without human boundaries, without ambition. Those few moments I am filled with hope are ripped away by the haunted walls of which I call 'home'. I saw a child with a gun and I shot back because I can't excuse him for his age, and I can't let him win. While he is laying in a hospital bed having calming drugs pumped into his veins, as they put him to rest, I hate him. And I'd call it something else less harsh if it weren't that, but I hate him, because he didn't just hurt us, he's hurting us. Nine more months of this.

It's all my therapist wants to talk about. I hate it because its such an cop out. It's such a easy way to talk about my pain without ever having to talk about me. Is my brother part of the problem? Yes, I couldn't fool anyone by saying otherwise, but there's so much more. He's just a cherry on top of it all. I guess it isn't just one thing it's an accumulation of things. Stress from school and work is a big one. College, the future. Fighting the perpetual and piercing loneliness. That lure, that hook in my lip, that metallic shine; the sharp sting that makes it fade away. It feels like every composition I craft doesn't mean a thing and I'll never be apart of Lexington though they say I'm left here for a reason. And guilt; that's a big one. When I hurt, it hurts everyone else. I just want to be happy for their sake. But I don't want to lie about it.

I feel like I'm losing control and I just want so badly to reason this out. Somethings don't make sense and that isn't something I like to accept. Knowledge has become my religion and... and I can't in my small frame of reference justify why this is happening to my family. My parents deserve so much better and it is not just, it is not fair, and God is somewhere, too far away, with or without condolence and doing nothing. I'm so angry with him. And my therapist is a moron, she can't help me, she doesn't even know me. She thought cutting was just a bad habit and once I 'stopped' that I was cured. If it weren't for my panic attacks I would have 'graduated'. She has no clue, and I'm angry with her too. Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if God had intervened eleven years ago. Or three years ago. Or two summers ago. Or this past July. Or Friday night. Or two hours ago. Or right now.

When God and the Devil are sleeping around, and my shoulders are worn from their angels and demons, I will be doomed to pay for my years of silence. And I will have deserved every pang of solitude and morsel of brokenheartedness that the world would deem fit, because I should have saved them in the first place. I should've wanted to.

"Faith is Not an Intellectual Matter"

2007-10-04T20:27:00.000-07:00

I know I believe in God because I will critize him to the deepest and defend him through eternity. I will tear down every institution that has built themselves in his name, and never lose hope in the individual. I know I love Christ because I dont claim a shred of faith that I dont have, but I am not faithless. I know that this will last becase while I fight it tooth and nail, I am doomed remember the miracles I have witnessed, and doomed to account for them on my dying day.

A Little Light Reading

2007-09-06T19:25:00.000-07:00

The bodies were burning like charcoal in a furnace, emitting the same awful smells that traced the same awful memories for those watching in numb indifference. I was holding my breath waiting for a reaction from them, waiting, but they didn't even flinch. I could feel my stomach drop against the coarse moments of utter compromise; I was drowning in the cacophony of their silence. The smoke and ash billowed up with human flesh, and I was a thousand miles away but I swear I could feel the warmth of a house ablaze. I quickly realized how unadvised it was to breathe this air so I cupped my face in my hand, so dishonestly, and curled up on the floor, my only chance of survival was in being submissive. The smoke was draped over me like a thick wool blanket in the middle of summer. I was being strangled by the strings of cloudy human hair and skin and marrow from their bones; its all filling my lungs now...

I see a class, they're all sitting around talking about a book. And she's walking into the ocean. She's going to find freedom and she finds it by never coming back. They're all just sitting there, just sitting. I don't understand why the room is so foggy and why there's laughter over the intercom, awful drunken laughter. She turns around before she walks in, like she knows how much I want to follow her. But then she's gone, into the water. The waves are tossing and turning at her waist; they fill up and pummel her over and over again. The rise and fall of such a vehement force knocks over her small frame, and she reluctantly begins to move forward, her weak arms paddling, her thin legs shuffling sand around her ankles. I know she'll make it. It's easy to succeed when your objection is to fail.

But then she starts to transform, the whole scene, transforming right before me. Her hands grow thicker, larger, her face more angular, with stubble etched on. Her eyes and skin darken. Her hair falls out. The waves toss into sheets and blankets of royal blue and she lashes out at me, her boyish face in anguish, a lust bursting at the seams from her thick eyebrows. From 'his' thick eyebrows... I can feel the pressure of his body like a thousand feet of sea water. And it's all coming down at the same time. He's breathing so fast but I can't get enough oxygen to say a word. And I know in my silence is the acknowledgment of consent. I would swim, but I've lost fear for the sharks in these waters. I'm not sovereign in my own body.

I'm Down By The Tracks Watching Trains Go By

2007-07-25T19:34:00.000-07:00

To remind me

I'm starting to realize that 20,000 dollars a year doesnt materialize from hopes and the desire for a good education. I'm starting to feel threatened by state lines. I'm starting to worry there wont be a way and I just keep praying there is some amazing undiscovered South Carolina school I have somehow missed in my college searches. I hate that I know there isnt. As much as Id love to go to school in Asheville, invisible boundaries spike the cost $11,000 more than in-state. And I simply dont know what to do about money.

There are places that aren't here.

Shelter Me O Genius Words

2007-07-09T10:42:00.000-07:00

I'm a murderer

Your dad said you would be fine

And I cant even help myself

But God, he lied

On July 16th when you let me go

Your mom said stop calling nights

I wont come back

At least sometimes

And you can count on that

Your grace never looked as good

Congratulations

As it does this morning

You were just a waste of my time

In the daylight

Again

I'm tired of wasting time

I'll give it a few months

On a body that has no life

Before you figure that out

On a rhythm that has no rhyme

Luckily

Tonight

I refuse to die by my own hand

How do I fix this alone?

Rain Rain, Go Away

2007-06-27T14:21:00.000-07:00

Outside it was raining. I traced the dots of precipitation that found their way to the mesh an inch from my window. Their circumferences stretched far past the point of my index finger pressed tight against the inside of the glass. Nowhere is really safe from the rain. The little drops of water and I almost meet, save our boundary, as we both submitted to gravity. These zephyr filled spheres that once danced merrily in billowing white clouds stood evidence that something happened, dirt happened. You see, we don't fall victim to gravity, gravity was always there, we give way to that little piece of dust, the dust we not only asked to enter, the dust we formed our entire existence around. I feel bad for the raindrops because just like us, they never planned to fall.

Come again some other day.

2007-06-22T21:57:00.000-07:00

Half Blind We Wrote These Songs on Sheets of Salty Wood

2007-06-07T11:03:00.000-07:00

If there was no way into God,
I would never have laid in this grave of a body for so long.

I'll be gone this time tomorrow

And, Christ, when You're ready to come back,
Then I think I'm ready for You to come back;
But if You want to stay wherever exactly it is You are,
That's okay, too...it's, it's really none of my business.

Sailing away from this whore house I sleep in. Away from the thirteen year old sluts that crawl around my carpet in the morning when all reasonable people are still asleep. Away from all the empty Jones soda cans of my room and perfect hockey puck espresso shots of work. Away from those I love and equally those I dislike. Into a bed where I'll sleep alone. From the lake to the ocean. The South to the Caribbean. Fragments

I must confess, I'm glad to see it go.

Peace.

Id never want someone so crass as to want someone like me
But a few legues off the shore I bit a flashing lure
And I assure you, it was not what I expected it to be
I still taste its kiss, that dull hook in my lip
Its a memory as useless as a rod without a reel

The God I Believed In Worked On A Campaign Trail

2007-06-04T00:21:00.000-07:00

I know its 3:30 and I shouldn't write because I'll say too much, or make it too emotional, or too simple.

Today my father was talking about the eerie weather and joked about it being the end of the world. My mind saw Jesus sporting a peace sign and a full beard, riding down on a billowing white cloud to save a few and condemn the rest. And while the world was separating in my head I was standing between the two groups, the believers, and the non-believers. The line was drawn but I was straddling it. Sometimes I don't know if God will forgive me for doubting him, for betraying him, for blaming him. They always said in church that I shouldn't have doubts about where Ill end up, but I have no idea. To be honest, I don't even understand what gets you into heaven anymore. I don't think its believing, belief isn't a choice. But they say it isn't actions either. They say its Jesus, but whats going to make Jesus want to take me there with him? I don't understand it, but I really want to.

I'm frustrated with the church because it feels a lot like every time I go to one they either give off the impression of "if you re not here to worship than leave" or they just flat out say it. But that's me half the time. Sometimes I go because I need to see God, sometimes I go because I want to learn, to hear what someone will say. Every church would tell me they want me there, but I have yet to walk into one that acts like they do. I just need to believe that God is better than the reflection in his followers.

I'm not totally sure if this is coherent but its getting late and I need to sleep.

Well... heres one way to start the summer

2007-05-25T21:12:00.000-07:00

So... I got a ticket for trespassing today. It was $460.50. Oops. The whole ordeal was quiet humorous until the cop (one of three...) gave us all our tickets. What we thought would be a warning turned out to be the full-fledged guillotine. None the less, I cant help but find the whole thing quite... funny. Perhaps not funny on the level that I'm out for nearly $500 (theoretically. Im going to court to get it lowered... hopefully), more so funny on the level of what a story it makes. And I dont mind the fact that it baffles every single person I tell. Ill let you know tomorrow if I still think its funny after telling my father about it...

Anyway. I've started training at the Wired Bean since I wrote last. I like it a lot there (good thing because Ill be needing the money now). Its a lot to learn but I like it a lot so far. Yippee.

Mmmm. I think Im going to do Sudoku until I fall asleep. Romantic.
Peace

Prozac Summer

2007-05-22T20:43:00.000-07:00

My brother is home for the summer. I decided early on that I would try to create peace with him. I suspect that has been sustained... like a stain in a new shirt. I passed him coming up the stairs tonight. He was passed out on the couch, arm dangling off the side like some kind of lifeless ligament attached for no clear reason, purposeless. It hung there, smooth like a waterfall falling, dispersing at the bottom, falling, like the twin towers before they hit the bottom. It was grotesque, vulgar, obtrusive. His mouth was cracked open like a child's, but hes nearly 14.

Whenever I ask something of him, to turn down the music, clean up after himself, I have to do it in such a careful way. He is so terribly defensive, a body guard on speed unsure of what he's guarding. If I don't first explain why what I am asking is logical and assure him that by asking him to turn his music down I'm not trying to hurt him, his eyes grow pregnant with anger and then... BAM the explosion (a proper visual representation would be my garage two years ago, if you do recall). I guess "walking on eggshells" is a good cliche for this. I can't say things haven't been better than they were before, I guess in someways they are. There are more drugs and less fights. Well, you win some you lose some. I need to go to school.

2007-05-15T19:58:00.001-07:00

I got a job!

VT

2007-05-09T05:49:00.000-07:00

X
Bell ringing cider
Sliding steps slippery wetness
Bandits
Brick walls
Iron doors, cylinder sounds
Ion mixes, metallic flight
Wooden cracks
Fleshy holes emptied out
The chains of madness
The freedom of weight
Every color pigment; American
The sound of speed
Cold metal
Calloused finger
Buicks on the asphalt
The smell of rubber melting away
When no wheels have turned
No minds have changed
Video-camera shame
Apologies from far away
Morning’s earnest
Stopping late
Fear through the window panes
Fear of life
X

Candy-Cane Summer

2007-05-01T19:11:00.000-07:00

Silence
Written in blue ink all over their bodies
The scraps of fabric left over
Pieces of string dangling from her coat
Its summer and she always wears clothes
Quiet
Talk from all the boys
That say she isn't really that pretty
Cannibals; teeth gnashing at ears
Happiness; summer fear and short hair
Whispers
Ear to ear to ear to ear
Truth to hyperbole to myth to lie
Gibberish in the best of forms
Summer heat, swimming at night
Banter
Girls gossiping, laughing, chocking
Bellybottons pierced, stomachs hungry
Water splashing; startling engines
Cars driving fast, summer envy
Laughing
Desperatly sadistic wilderness
Unsure of their existance
Witty, gut-churning sickness
Summer jokes of the misshapen
Gabble
Music, voices, giggling, screams
Boys and girls, too many at once
Curiosity, deeply vocal, lungs collapsing
It seems so eminent in the summer
Noise
Unable to make for the words
Incoherant, mind-altered, nonsense
Trees strung with a candy-cane taste
A selfish existance, allowed only in summer
Screaming
Unattended children
The possiblily of drowning at their fingertips
Water laced with something sleepy
Nocturnal summers; everyone's dreaming
Praying
A thousand pleas at one time
Two ears to hear their millions of cries
Sad chimes of the unfortunate minds
It's summer solace for the danger of moonlight
Silence
Boys alone with girls
The pressing of tired mouths; relapse
No more screaming; no more sound
Its wrong, but summer has to be expressed somehow

Leashes

2007-04-27T20:54:00.000-07:00

Anchored children nailed to plastic seats
Their bodies squirming, aging too quickly
Teeth are gnawing at a hopeful dash of life
Every eye twitching in florescent light
In front, one stands, tall and mighty for command
Frumpy sweaters, stained slacks, a beaten man
They raise their heads, 25 at a time
And salute a flag with a lethargic chime
All day they sit, listen but never hear
Learn but never apply, dream, but its not advised
They carry away, scratching graphite into trees
Taking notes that they will never read
Musing for seconds in-between
The constant stream of worthless lecturing
From day one they’re trained quite viciously
Mouths shut, your chattering is useless bickering
Your "brilliance" is incoherent thinking
Untraditional and belligerent, youthful bitching
They speak all day, but of nothing real
Losing life, favoring collectivism with a certain zeal
They breed mediocrity in the most insidious manner
And laugh as the great starve for something better
They favor the few, obedient and bright
And hold the rest on a leash that’s too tight
Risking the chance of strangling them
A leash is a rope with a noose at both ends

Dam it!

2007-04-25T19:03:00.000-07:00

How do you fix an overflowing river? Dam it.

My brain, the overflowing river if you will, was twisting around sharp rocks and drowning everyone in sight when I decided I needed to slow this ship down. My dam - a question I cant answer. Do I value compassion over competence?

Of course at first I jumpped all over compassion. Saying you value compassion the most makes you seem like an ethical person. Of course humanity isnt humane so... then youre just a liar. However that works the opposite way too. Saying you value competence in an inept world suggest that you are the only competent one alive, how egotistical of you. I dont think egoism is a sign of true competence either.

So finally I decided I value a combination of the two but not either alone or either above the other. A compassionate person without competence is a waste of vehemence. A competent person without compassion is a waste of a mind.

Well...
I feel like
I just spoke
For no reason
Whatsoever so
peace love and asia

"Snookle Poochie Poodle Sugar Muffin Baby Boo Boo Bear"

2007-04-24T20:09:00.000-07:00

I have nothing else to say. The title.

"Youre so good at talking smack"

2007-04-17T17:32:00.000-07:00

"two forces that had fought since the world began - and every religion hand known of them - and there had always been a God and a Devil - only men had been so mistaken about the shapes of their Devil - he was not single and big, he was many and smutty and small"

Im fasting tomorrow for everyone suffering as a result of the VT shootings. I want to watch the few clips I have from the video Jenny and I attempted to make that I took at VT back in November. Its so scarry.

Of all things going on right now, uncertainty is the most daunting. I have so many thoughts racing through my mind. Every breath I take steals oxygen from someone else, every bug I swat prevents millions and millions of future generations of bugs from occuring. Every tiny little dint I put in this earth alters the corse of humanity. I am one more person who will walk by you and never notice, nor care, nor ask what is wrong. I will sit down in hour and half long segments, zone in and out of some useless lecture, sinking back and forth between apathy and gibberish. I am one more set of eyes that will read someones vehement words and not be changed at all. I will cut someone off, and never consider what hell they went through already that morning. I wont see my struggles in you, I wont be willing to put forth the effort to save you, and I only help people because it makes me feel good. Its sick, the sickest of all things. I once heard that servitude is the key to joy, but if that is true than it isnt servitude, its a flashy self-sating meal for a phycological appetite. Pardon me, but Id rather vomit.

I have to go, Im getting ranty. I wonder if anyone understands.

"You know how people long to be eternal. But they die with every day that passes. When you meet them, theyre not what you met last. In any given hour, they kill some part of themselves. They change, they deny, they contradict - and they call it growth. At the end theres nothing left, nothing unreserved or unbetrayed; as if there had never been an entity, only a succession of adjectives fading in and out on an unformed mass. How do they expect a permanence which they have never held for a single moment?"

"We are fornicating in the sight of six billion people"

2007-04-11T17:30:00.000-07:00

My Capital Punishment project is finally finished. Our presentation/discussion/debate lasted an hour. I was so worn out after it. Robert Lawton against Jenny and I, wow it was intense. I feel great about it though.

After doing so much research (and changing my mind a few times, vacillating between ideas) I am now very certain that I am anti-capital punishment. My reasons being, in general, it is too inconsistent, too arbitrary, full of racial and socio-ecconomical bias, too costly, and it defiles human life. And I think that the arguement that it is a deterrent to crime is bullshit. Besides, in the past ten years the violent crime rate and the execution rate has decreased together.

I want to go see Barack Obama on Friday. Actually Im pretty positive that Im going to. I also want to go to Europe this summer. Not so sure about that one though.

K peace. <4

"There is no difference between lies and complements. Its all the same if everyone leaves"

2007-04-07T19:07:00.000-07:00

I made a list a few days ago of what I know about God, and what I feel about God. The differences scare me. The presence of such a struggle is terrifing. Ive always heard its okay to doubt, but it only feels like Im slapping God in the face. If it were all to end now... would I be forgiven for fighting him? Im doubting Him, im doubting myself. I dont know who I am or who I should be or even who I want to be anymore. Its just a blur of existance. I love conditionally and hate without reason. I watch TV even though I hate it. I cant tell the difference between what I like and what I dont like. I am lethargic. All of my writings seem to ask God where He has been. I see Him everywhere when I choose to, except my life. I know Im not good enough for him or Him. And I really dont how to fix any of it.

Im going to mess things up if i dont pull myself together. Im so scared of things fading like they have before that Im pushing things I know I shouldnt. Its so fucking ridiculous, my mind set. Im doing what it feels like would keep him here longer, when I know its only going to tear things apart in the end. It always does. I only know destruction.

I dont really pray anymore. It feels worse hoping for something that wont happen than never hoping at all. Im being depressing and annoying. Bleh.

Goodbye.

Reading-words-reciting-verses-bland

2007-04-05T21:29:00.000-07:00

I cant think of anything to write. Stream of conciousness. Yay.

Sweet smells and worn knees
From hours of bending
What the hell is wrong with you?
Calloused fingers play away
You’re showing off again
You’re apologies were shot to hell
Time after time after time

You’re screaming louder than the rest
But I don’t miss your voice one bit

Well I’ve got my hands clasp for the last time
And I know I won’t have a chance to tell you again
Time healed all the wounds it could
But I’m still injured and looking for closure

I use you like a bad excuse
What did you expect me to do?
It’s all a masquerade
A god without believers
And on that day, they poke around
I’ll raise my hand and run down
Aisle by aisle screaming
Jesus save me one more time!

I’m screaming louder than the rest
But He won’t speak until I’m quiet

Well I’ve got my hands clasp for the last time
And I know I won’t have a chance to tell you again
Time healed all the wounds it could
But I’m still injured and looking for closure

For the Storms That Will Come...

2007-04-01T10:54:00.000-07:00

We listened to the humming of an old engine and shook with the consistency of rumbling car vibrations while driving to a Columbian bar. I was in the passengers seat of my boyfriend’s white 87 Acura watching the monotonous streets of West Columbia pass by. The streetlights blurred together to make green and yellow streaks stopping only for run-down buildings and the ruins of a once booming ninetieth century economy. I caught a glimpse of a heavy, older black man resting in a chair next to a flickering “Open” sign, stroking his chin, staring at the road with unseeing eyes. We drove past with increasing speed, toward the venue to see the show, and I lost the treasure of his mystification.
The scenes flashed like the story of someone’s life; someone who had been through much and learned very little. Above the cracked brick walls of a half dilapidated house rested a leaf infested roof furnished with deep depressions in the middle where nothing was left to support it. Vines curled up drain pipes and around weather-worn once white window frames that were aesthetically pleasing at some time but now just faded into overall indifference. The porch jutted out to imply that integrity was once a defining architectural trait, but now dignity was a mere memory too painful to recall for long. The visual legacy of storms cast about the house in chipped paint and bent wooden planks seemed to make it invisible. It stared at me, as to warn me to stop calling on the storms, to stop temping the billowing clouds. It cried of mortality and threatened my sense of invincibility. We drove past.
There was a certain repetition that could be noticed; cheap paint overlapping cheap paint overlapping cheap paint. Years and years of disdainful weather, blundering sleet, relentless heat, and vicious winds tearing at the walls of meticulously planned but hastily erected buildings. Ambiguous ambition stood too sensitive, unplanned for the aches of time and irregularity of fiscal fortune. Sad attempts at saving the mislaid homes and family stores were often seen from the road, yet they appeared to just be amusing and feeble redemptions endeavors, like trying to fix a foundation with super glue and duct tape. Crumbling neighborhoods disappeared into a horizontal infinity adjacent to my journey. The loneliness on each doorstep was vainly lit by a patient dim light. It hung from the brick front and waited every night for the clunking of devoted fists that never seemed to knock.
The engine quieted as we approached a red light. We sat parallel to the pews in a church to the right of us. The wall closest to us bore massive windows revealing the audience to a sermon we could not hear. They sat still, hands folded in their laps, staring toward the front of the building whose inward delicacy was hidden from me. I could feel the liveliness of an active God moving through the rubbish of decay in the neighborhoods we had just past. The hunched over people in the streets behind us carried a burden only God himself could lift. It was as if in the brokenness God could be found more genuinely than in the Sunday suits and hair spray. The music playing in our car burst from the wires, forced its way through the speakers, and screamed praise that I had to believe was more honorable that the ennui of the night-time hymn singing Lutherans. I thought, God must be bored out of his mind with us. Until the light turned green, I scratched at the eerie feeling of vacancy that irritated my sense of spiritual decency and itched the gut of discomfort.
What God is found in dishonestly? Certainly not mine. I would rather be a house that once was, than a church that never will be. Amongst the fallen homes and worn out places stood a church, vulnerable to the outside world, whose occupants vomited creeds and slept through prayers. I find God more prevalent in the older man under the “Open” sign who is thinking on his own for the first time. I see Him in the testimony of barely existing houses which have been unoccupied for years apart from the weeds, somnolent plants, and frivolous mice that now eat away at the decay. That is just God’s way, to take something that is ruined, and recreate it in a way inconceivably creative and baffling to humanity. Inside the four walls of plaster, steal beams, wood lining, and the stained-glass nativity scene, a vacuumed sealed out all possibility of God. A God as infinite as the sky simply cannot fit in a box as small as a building. A God as raging as the ocean cannot be quiet enough to fade in with the congregation’s whispers.
The thundering of bass rattled our bodies inside the car. It had been raining for months and I was tempting the heavy clouds with my strength against the seas that they should lash out and flood to the top. Each decrepit strip of closed down stores seemed to beg me not to fight, but I knew that I must. The light flickering from my eyes sent out an SOS call, like a lighthouse in the eye of a hurricane that believes it will be saved. They say that it is faith, but it may just be hope I am too scared to doubt. I have as much of a fighting chance as an abandoned house left to fend for itself against the hungry gnawing jaws of termites and suffocating vines. I leave the light on so that God can find me, let the locks loosen so that when He comes knocking, He can get in. A house is only as living as its occupants. After the show my voice is strained from out-screaming the thunder, my hands are burned from catching direct rods of lightning, and my skin feels like melted and smoothed out plastic. Beneath a slightly convexly bent door I notice my hanging porch light still flickering rhythmically against the storms, and I know from the streets of wreckage, that it will be okay.

"Men Hate Passion. All Great Passion."

2007-03-29T18:16:00.000-07:00

"What is kinder - to believe the best of people and burden them with a nobility beyond their endurance - or to see them as they are, and accept it because it makes them comfortable? Kindness being more important than justice, of course."

"Compassion is the greatest virtue. It justifies suffering. There's got to be suffering in the world, else how would we be virtuous and feel compassion?"

"If there is anything greater than belief itself it is the desire to believe."

2007-03-29T17:55:00.000-07:00

Okay! I love everyone now!