Wednesday, April 27, 2011

you only live twice--once when you're born and once when you look death in the face

You said yesterday I'm so bored of life, I wanna kill myself.

And to that, I answered Well, why don't you?

But you won't, and you know you won't, and I know you won't because you don't have the nerve and you only wanted the attention.

But seriously. Try it sometime.

Go out into the street and stand in the middle of it and watch the oncoming car screech and stop two inches from you

or maybe it will hit you.

Go out in the middle of the night wearing a low cut dress, no panties, and high high heels and then

run from the men trying to rape you.

Go out and make connections with dealers and do drugs like heroin cocaine and methamphetamine

get addicted and then dig yourself out of the hole you created

or you could always go into Mexico and join the drug trade there, I'm sure they need your help.

Go out and join the army then position yourself on the front line, take a gun, and pretend you're playing a video game

but if you die you don't have three lives, you only have one, so that kind of sucks.

Go out to a less developed country and hold the starving baby in your arms, watch it as it dies and then watch

as its twelve year old mother dies also.

Go out into Alaska and sit in the snow and the frigid cold and watch the aurora borealis as it dances across the sky.

Go out and travel the world by foot and by train, with the minimum amount of money to survive

placing your faith in the kindness of strangers.

Go out and climb Mount Everest and when you get to the top, sit cross-legged and contemplate your frost-bitten limbs.

Go out to a party, get drunk, then drive a car with your best friends inside and watch as they burn, trapped inside the car.

Go out and watch a horse give birth to a colt, then turn 180 degrees and watch as a lamb gets slaughtered right before your eyes.

Go out and cut yourself open and hand your heart to the ones you love most on a silver platter

then watch as they grin and accept your heart, then walk away from your life forever.

Go out and actually try to better yourself instead of whining for attention and digging yourself deeper into the hole that you let yourself

lie in, complaining that you can't build your own ladder to dig yourself out because it takes too much work and you'd actually

have to change the way you look at yourself, your relationships, and your life.

So after you've done all of these things, come back to me, tell me you're bored of life,

and I promise you, I will personally place the noose around your neck and shove the chair out from under you.

Friday, April 22, 2011

where the power truly lies

What fragile creatures we humans are. A simple word spit out to the air lands on the surface of our brains just so and we must attend therapy for ten years. A hand placed on the wrong part of the human body muddles our entire pH level and we must raise walls built of steel and keep vigilant guards posted lest another hand or piece of flaccid flesh or kind gesture or embracing arm allows our minds to crumble and our legs to give out, sobs destroying our entire frame. We believe we are strong, we delude ourselves into thinking that because if we only thought, only for a second, if we let the doubt seep into our brain, it would ruin us completely.

It is like asking yourself whether the life you live is real or whether you are only a figment of someone's imagination; whether your life has meaning anymore because we are so insignificant within the whole spectrum of it all. If we just let those hooks sink into our minds and our flesh, would they tear us open and apart and expose our weaknesses, flaws, inner deepest thoughts and vulnerabilities to everyone else?

Yes, Virginia.

Because if we cut ourselves open, scalpels shiny and dripping red with our hopes and fears, we are afraid that they will judge and ruin us. We are afraid of being fragile, of being broken, of being happy, of being alive. Strength is being a robot. Power is a mask. Because if we let the mask slip, if we don't oil the robot, we let our walls down and we will be beaten, broken, killed.

So we sew ourselves back up and seal our lips and eyes, those gateways to the soul, and we sit and wait. We prop a chair in the middle of the labyrinth, thick and deep within the steep steep walls of our mind and we wait for life to hit us. Because those walls that we've built are for our dreams and hopes, to keep them alive, to keep them protected and airtight, frozen and fresh. We sit and wait for life to spark the flame behind our lips and eyes (because life is so powerful that it can walk through walls, just like that) and we die sitting waiting rocking back and forth and back and forth wondering whining asking demanding ourselves what we did wrong. We built those walls to protect ourselves and we did the right thing, the noble good thing and so why did we fail?

The bars of cages protect the bird inside also. If the bird flew, escaped, he'd die in the outside, real world because he would get eaten or freeze or starve. He wouldn't be able to survive because he wouldn't be used to the environment. He would think that life is where his cage is, where his illusion is, where the pill will take you to the rosy world where everything is all nice and quiet. No disturbances, no troubles, no confrontation, no hiccups. Our dreams, hopes, sadness, ability to be happy are like birds thrown out of a cage. Stifled and dazed, their instincts buried deep in the recesses of their minds, they prefer imprisonment to freedom. Safety over liberty. And so they wither and die because they cannot deal with the reality of the world.

And neither can we. Why build walls when you are comfortable with your surroundings? We are oh so strong, free-spirited, ambitious. We are out to conquer the world and change it, mould it to our liking while under the surface of it all, we are simply cowards and babies. Cowards because we cannot accept that we are human.

Human?! How dare you. How dare you imply I am made of flesh and blood, that I am mortal, that I can die, become depressed at a whim, be broken down, and killed? How dare you imply that I can feel? How dare you imply that I am vulnerable, empathetic, loving, twisted, perverted, and that everyone else is just like me, paranoid that those around just can't understand what they're going through?

Yet we cannot step out of our self-inflicted walls, our free-spiritedness. We flounder, trying to discover what we really want to do with our lives. We want a family, a good job, a house, a dog, or whatever. You know. But do we really? We scoff at those who say I want to travel, I want to write, and we tell them that they're a waste of breath, of space, of society. We need more lawyers, doctors, businessmen, important, practical people who will make this world run like clockwork. We don't need dreamers and idealists who will only do what they want because that's extremely selfish and don't you know that's not what we were made for.

And what if I want to travel? What if I want to live my life, the way you've always been afraid of living it? What if I show you that you are a coward, that you are mistaken, what if I show you that I am who you secretly desire to be, the epitome of life?

I refuse to build walls to protect myself from myself, to deny that I am human and to deny that I want to live. Those walls are only fantasies of the mind, as fragile as we ourselves are, blown down with a smile tilted just the right way.To refuse to accept that we are weak, that we are human, that we are vulnerable, that we are in reality, free and wild, lovely and mortal, scheming and wicked, is the true weakness. So what if we are beaten, broken, and killed? As easily as we are struck down, we can just as easily get back up and strike back. We can just as easily believe that we are truly free from the constraints we place on ourselves, not limited by our fears of how others will perceive us, a flying bird in the midst of grass sky air already forgetting cages and ready-made food travelling the world by train the kindness of strangers the robbers in the street killing for organs the rape of the young girl in the alleyway the murder of the women and children and the eyes of those suffering for those being taught truth and the conversations we'd have in the late night and stumbling across an old friend in the desert looking up at the stars and knowing that all the beauty and evil in this world can be experienced and breathed in as our own wounds scars blood and tears heal only if we realize that

after all, we are ruled by the fantasies of our minds.

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Day of Silence Experiment

Yesterday was the LGBTQ (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgendered/sexual, queer) Day of Silence. Most people know of the one that the pro-life supporters do where usually students will place a piece of coloured tape (red for pro-life, purple for LGBTQ) on their mouths and not speak for an entire day. The reasoning is to spread awareness of the issue by calling attention to the silence that surrounds you. In a society where we must communicate, usually through spoken means, to get our point across, silence holds a special place of persuasion. Is it more effective to be silent or to speak out? This is what I asked myself yesterday as I prepared to participate in the Day. I made a theory based on several presumptions: in my liberal school of 3500 students, being silent wouldn't be as effective as speaking up. Being silent only shows a position while speaking up actually informs. Holding a conversation with someone has the potential to go on more in- depth issues and tangents than writing it all out.

Last year, I was silent and I noticed several things: those who asked me why I was silent weren't just satisfied with the card that I gave them to read that explained the reason why. The inevitable question came afterward: " Are you gay?" I had to explain that I wasn't, but this couldn't be spoken, this had to be written. Since my sexual orientation doesn't take only several seconds to explain, it's more of a hassle to write it all down than to actually have a spoken conversation. In addition, even in a liberal school, you get homophobes. A freshman boy yelled at me "Suck my dick! Oh, you can't 'cause you're gay!" and if I hadn't had tape over my mouth, I probably would have insulted him right back.

Yesterday, I decided not to be silent. However, what happened was definitely not what I expected. Absolutely no one asked me what my orientation was after they asked me why I was wearing tape. In fact, most people asked me why I wasn't being silent. When i told them I thought speaking up was going to be more effective, they wholly agreed with me. Unfortunately though, my mission was botched. I did not enlighten anyone and I didn't get insulted either ( I really wanted to get the chance to be verbally aggressive). Essentially, I had more success being silent than not. This could be because of several reasons: I'm not the kind of person who's scared or unwilling to speak about my orientation. If you have a problem with who I am, I couldn't hope to care. Verbal abuse does not hit a nerve and if I ever encounter physical abuse because of my sexuality, I also have no issue with finding that person (or people) and doing just as much harm to them. Most of my classmates know who I am because I'm not shy to tell them and those who don't are usually younger and haven't had to put up with me for four years. Also, putting tape over your mouth is much more noticeable than putting tape on your clothes. It's more attention-grabbing. And if you're like me and you have a hard time not hurling back insults, this can be an extremely good lesson for you. Physically not neing able to stand up for yourself gives you a taste of exactly why you're participating to the Day of Silence (basically supporting those who are being bullied and cannot speak up for fear of negative consequences from their families, friends, etc.)

I came to the conclusion that both silence and verbal communication are necessary to get one's point across--silence to gain attention and speech to keep it. Even if my second time didn't work as well as the first time, I think one try isn't enough to make a foolproof conclusion ( as I had initially hoped). Ideally, one would participate one year completely silent for personal empathy reasons and then do a combination--putting tape over your mouth until someone asks you the cause and then take off the tape and talk.
Since next year, I am going to university, I will take my own advice and see what kind of results I receive then. I have a feeling that the college I'm attending is similar to my high school so it will be interesting to see what happens.


Wednesday, April 13, 2011

to my readers:

i am no great poet
simply a thief of broken souls
a wolf in sheep's clothing
not here to hunt, but to belong

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

smoothie

You should have known, you should have known.
But it wasn't your fault, she pressured you.
Even if you had read the book, that book that she had given to you with the warning label of a bright pink (bright pink? really?) post-it with big blocky yellow highlighter words


YOU'LL NEED THIS
Even so, you could never have known. You couldn't have, how could you?
Her offer had seemed innocent. A date (oh, but not romantic we're only friends you know) to celebrate the coming of summer, the season that never disappeared, simply waned and intensified. June, the end of high school, the end of four years of LEARNING LIFE and she invites you for a refreshing drink of some sort in a frequented endroit.
Innocent. Simple. Alluring.
And so you go, dripping flesh and melting bone, swimming through the air all the way to the Place. That monstrous season, summer, the months where the body recoils in horror at Mother Earth's cruelty and misunderstands that she does not love man (no, that is not why she created you), she simply is amused by him. Puppeteer strings lifting up drenched human forms, wet laundry with parched mouths, croaking out

I think my eyeballs have shriveled up in their sockets
and I think my internal organs have committed suicide.
But I digress.

Thus you trudge until you see her, sipping her drink, looking fresh and cool in her air-conditioned paradise. You enter and she orders your favourite: mango peach strawberry smoothie with extra yoghurt. She smiles as her name is called out and comes back with the styrofoam cup, dipping straw into plastic top hole and smiling her wolf smile.

Drink. It's pretty good.
And you suppose that was the moment where you should have realized something truly terrible would happen. But it wasn't your fault. How could it have been? You were stripped of defenses and you needed to calm down your failing body.
She begins to speak about the art of making smoothies. You listen to her while she speaks-- soft, full words bubbling from her lips--

You see, you have to put the similar coloured fruits together--mangoes, peaches, they're orange, and they also work with strawberries--

Her words envelop you in a silky coating, warming you from the bottom of your soles to the split ends of your hair--pure heat rippling throughout you and you take that as a sign to drink more

--You don't put dark fruits in smoothies, it doesn't taste quite that good and a lot of dark fruit have seeds in them. The most important part is the yoghurt of course--


Of course, it's the most important. Yes, quite so. You feel tingling pricks all along your skin and deep within the crevices of your eyes. What is this feeling? Perhaps you're sick...

--without it, the smoothie isn't smooth and creamy. But you need to put the right amount of yoghurt to get that consistency. The perfect smoothie isn't so easy to make as you'd think--

No, no, it's not. Quite hard. You are drenched in sweat by now and your throat has constricted while your grip on the cup has left visible marks of fingernail indentations. Your thoughts stall and rush and stop and dribble as vines of flowers and thick ropes of velvet creep up your throat and behind your skull and under your spine and through your marrow and you see her face, her face, beautiful oh god too beautiful, the colours that make up her goddess lips those words that aren't words anymore they are actual letters in times new roman whooshing at you and hitting you in the face, but soft-like and oh god why is the ceiling moving and rippling

--but I think that this is a really good smoothie, one of the best I've ever had. What do you think? Good smoothie, no?

And she flashes that wolf smile again as she sips her drink and lays back in her chair on a beautiful hot June morning.

Monday, April 4, 2011

chameleon

Do not look in the mirror because if you do, you will not recognize yourself. Do not lower your head and try to gaze at the lines that make up your face, those thin white lips that purse together in a too-familiar stance, those dark brown eyes expanding with emptiness. Emptiness that should not belong there, that signal that the mind has crumpled up into itself and surrendered to the power of Death, or Insanity. Do not think do not think do not ask yourself

WHO AM I?

Your ego has died a brutal, sudden death and your brain has not yet understood what has just occurred. You have shattered, stretched, dilated so completely that you are not the same person you were five minutes ago, one second ago, one breath blink sigh heartbeat ago. Only moments are left until your mind will realize that something is not quite right and will calculate that the time it took for you to tilt your head and ask divided by the space that punctured a hole through the atmosphere around equals the number of years you will be surrounded by white walls and pills oncetwicethree times a day. Your mind recoils in disbelief and pure unadulterated fear as you lick your lips with your tongue and touch the glass with your fingertips and your throat croaks as you mouth the letters

of your name. There is still a name, the name. The sign of all existence--who are you and you say your name. No matter it is only a name that was assigned to you by birth, easily taken away by money and exchanged for a fresher, newer, prettier, more appropriate one. But you still believe, there is still faith that if in a name there is recognition then in a self there is presence.

Yet you say your name, scream your name, that beacon of familiarity that you held onto all of these years to point to yourself and announce to the world and say THIS IS WHO I AM AND YOU WILL RECOGNIZE ME BY MY NAME

But there is no spark, no connection of synapses, no moment of allelujah i have perceived.

You are nothing. You do not exist anymore. There is no more you.






Instead, there is a chameleon where your limbs rested a moment ago. A writhing neon green chameleon that changes colours with its breath. Red yellow green blue purple yellow blue green red orange yellow yellow orange green

But you don't understand

I am not human

I am a chameleon whose name matches the name of that human that stood here only seconds ago, but now seems to have vanished into the space time continuum warp

My eyes are the same, full of emptiness and deep brown colour pigment; my tongue flicks pink and swollen against my dirty unwashed fingernails while my hair strings around my head in a collection of grease and loose split ends.

You do not cannot understand that I am a chameleon now feeling in my veins and bones and reptile skin that is still pale white flesh my riveting eyes and my ability to change the room's colour to any shade I want

You do not cannot understand that this goes deeper than names or mirrors that what I seem to be is not what I am for what I am is what I feel and I feel like a

chameleon.