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confessions of a hope fiend

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(heaven from hell)

[05 Sep 2007|08:19pm]
In Greece’s capital city of Athens, I cannot walk a few feet without beholding the phenomenon of true beauty and awakening. It is home to the Acropolis, the temple of Olympian Zeus, and the semblance of myth whose principles live in the structures of their architecture and the faces of their men. Women are breast feeding children on balconies as men play cards and smoke below them, the looming scent of cigars drifting up to them incites a desire for liberation, but no actions are ever thought to be taken. Their eyes do not divert from the area in which they are forced to reside, their stares never travel down beaten paths. Their ears are closed to the lives of others screaming from afar, they do not want to hear them and thus, they do not. The residents of Athens are immune to the presentiments of marital conflict, their ears are not as perceptive as a land-of-the-divorced tourist, and that is what I am here.
I am as foreign as I appear within this city of olive-skinned brunettes; their city. I walk with luminescent hair that I am too conscious of as grandparents wave and smile at me from their ancient klismos, unaware of the screams I hear too well from afar. By my side my father walks unabashedly through his country, appearing most likely as a gracious travel guide to two young Americans. I exchange a worried look with my sister, my species, confirming the existence of a genuinely distressed voice and the mutual decision to ignore it, for this is not our country. I am consoled by the untouched attitude of the district we are in and silence the fear within me as a car whizzes past my face, allowing me to rid of my uneasiness and submit to the gonzotic mortality of the traffic.
The horns of vehicles are feeble in Greece, and do not merit even a startled blink from the rows of natives that line the crippled streets. Small cars speed by, as broken as the roads upon which they arduously travel. They attempt to break through the barrier of barefoot children who are playing football using the empty space below a market seller’s table as a goal. I smile as the men chase them off with brooms and withered hands and they laugh loudly, scurrying between enraged moped drivers, tempting death. My instincts are abound here, where it is absent of authority and the people rule the pavement instead of vice versa, as it is in my own land. I don’t yell any warning despite my intrinsic desire to, though I cannot help but gasp every so often because I have been conditioned to do so. I catch my heavy breath and continue to walk without interruption past signs I cannot read.
The streets become more populated and it births a conflict between fear and comfort within me. Where I grew up, the setting sun is a proverbial timer, and all children must be home before it’s disappearance. In New Jersey, however, we did not have the luxury of afternoon siesta to elongate our days, and essentially, our lives. The moon replaces the sun and I notice as we traipse that the screaming voice I had heard earlier when it was still day belongs to a woman. My father and sister discuss archetypal Greece as my heart responds to the cry of this woman with a mixture of fright and altruism. I want to run far from her, to a plane that will fly me back to the place where women scream in a language I can understand, my language. Though more strongly, I want to run to her aid, and I instinctually I begin to extend my head around corners and through windows until I realize that she is above me, limp and naked she looks into my blue eyes.
Paralyzed, I realize that I am standing in blood that has dripped from the mounted fire escape above my head. My father grabs my arm firmly and sighs, impatient and unamused by my willingness to witness this scene. Though I saw her only for a moment, the man standing beside her and the sound of his palm against her face is something that I repetitively see in an emotional fever as we walk hurriedly. More clearly than the Acropolis, more profoundly than the temple of Olympian Zeus I recall no person paying her attention. The faces of passers by react not to the display before us, but to me and my apparent spectacle. The edges of their mouths twitch with compassion for another culture as I sob like a drunk only able to continue walking with the support of my small, brown-eyed sister. My father guides us both, the hand of his Western child firmly clenched upon his shoulder.
We reach our cottage and I travel to the outhouse for solitude, unafraid of the darkness as I normally would be. When I get there, I realize that though it appears to be a bathroom, there is no mirror. There is no square into which I can look and confirm my existence. There is no fixture on the wall where one once did hang, where one might have indulged in vanity or self-loathing. Alone and reflectionless, I let myself slide onto the warm dirt floor and grasp it with my clean, sixteen year old hands. The earth dries my tears as quickly as they fall as I passionately resent my upbringing and how unprepared it has left me for tonight.
My father opens the warped wooden door unapologetically and joins me in my fecal cave with a look of ultimate reluctance strewn about the Hellenic bone structure of his face. I look into his black eyes and know that he is picturing the source of my illogical reaction tonight as well as all evil in this world, my blonde-hair-blue-eyed American mother. This essential Dadism makes me laugh and he accepts it as a finished job and notions for the door. Standing there, sixty years old, he displays an innocent neutrality to women and their inherent way, forcing the sudden realization upon me that tonight was not foreign at all, only seen through a far-sighted lense.

(heaven from hell)

george [18 Aug 2007|06:08pm]
forever bereft
of his touch i'll be
i felt it yesterday
its not enough for me
don't forget his scent
those compliments he lent
you get more beautiful he said
i walked away
turned my head
back to see him once more
he looked down at the floor
6 1/2 hours to finally close that door
but its still ajar
though hes so far
my hand wont release
just one day is a tease
do i deny my visceral
insides, i'm miserable,
his eyes, are kissable
like the dream
we're in white while babies scream
my lips to his lids
hes the father of my kids
and now im branded
with an undecided fate
destiny has landed
and does not know which road to take
i put my body against his
doing my best not to fear it
close my eyes and pull away
i want to smoke american spirits
anything to remind
my simple mind of that time
that yesterday so young
feeling as though hes the one
he says im no tourist
i say of george i have a piece
letting his mind twist
into that possible release
the poet within me fights
the romantic holds me tight
convincing all that it
was mutual, he'll see
jump into seas for me
its so fucking unrealistic
that it simply has to be

(2 thought they could tell | heaven from hell)

californ-eye-aye dream [14 Aug 2007|09:58pm]
goin' to california tomorrow..
no achin' in my heart.
a thirst for nicotine but i'm done with that scene.

i love my family so much. more than anything.
i love my boyfriend so much. more than anything.
my friends can fuck off, except for kellee and elias.
they tell the truth.

to the pacific!

(heaven from hell)

hmm [03 Aug 2007|10:26am]
a soul dry and unrelentlessly scathing.
eyes degress into unapproving slits at the childs playful nature.
grunt; chort; condescending not-laugh.
convictions that are beautiful as words,
but not practiced as actions.
"only the elite! the rest best fuck off"
but it's a lie,
for her.
she's a child,
i'm sure
that i was one once,
too, with no fruit,
only reruns,
and stale ideas,
no ideals,
only i forget that now,
i don't see,
how one could be,
and unfree.

rhyming makes me feel better.
bitterness crawls up my spine but stops before it can tighten my neck oncemore, sigh deeply with mixed feeling and a fair amount of intolerance for my intolerance.

TO THE MUSEUM- and the god damn furtherance of my knowledge,

not the opposite.

(heaven from hell)

[24 Jul 2007|10:24am]
i asked why,
did you see
a hint of green in my eye?
he said no,
in mine.
as i
rememeber that time
green with envy
now i too see
that jealousy
resides in me.

(heaven from hell)

mike skinner [18 Jul 2007|10:22am]
the hand
of an englishman
touches my abdomen
in my day dreams
so he seems
across seas
the queens regime
thoughts of mike skinner
must be thinner-
for that airport encounter
he'll say 'i've found her'
i'll be bloody pleased
these dreams
will cease
haunting me
til the fateful day
we meet
in the streets

(heaven from hell)

pearls and swine [18 Jul 2007|10:21am]
forever bereft
of his touch
to dreams
child scenes
sleep delaye
longing, his sentiment
on replay
a carousel
of memories
i can tell
how he renders me
those few minutes
before sleep

(heaven from hell)

[17 Jul 2007|10:17am]
a lesson can never suffice-
to infinity or thrice.
the only real teacher,
the main feature-
what we learn accidentially,
and its all pre-planned,
in this reality.
of love and mourning,
to take, to give,
wake up one morning-
i've got my whole life to live.
every decision,
a reflection,
of what we've seen,
what i REALLY mean.
the purpose, to reproduce,
plants die bearing fruit!
beauty, in art,
its structureless, lawless, can
be anything, its flawless, in
it's approach.
the human way, debts to pay,
paths to travel,
dharma bodies to unravel.
dreams- the only truth,
kurt vonnegut dreamed up
suicide booths.
god bless you,
we're all doctors,
with our remedies and solutions,
to society and pollution.
reverse thought,
what we've been taught.
but, have trust,
i'll always take,
what's mine, i see the signs.

(heaven from hell)

kf [16 Jul 2007|10:15am]
language shows traces
another world-
separate races,
and battles,
to be fought, lessons
to be taught, around
the world.
once a small girl,
now an entity,
of another society.
whose more free-
thats the commodity,
to be purchased in fear;
profits rise every year.
but it's beautiful here,
when travels of afar,
are released from her hand,
now a part, of this preplanned
transient land.

(heaven from hell)

condemned [14 Jul 2007|10:09am]
kharma serves all
and i am yet
to pay my debt.
claim to be
a voice of re-
ason but it's
treason. i've
always tried,
to practice
what the fact is-
all pawns, cover land.
strategic, cruel hand.
i offend,
more than most.
there will be no toast,
nothing to sip-
no nasal drip.
no inhalation,
need ventallation.
let the thick air escape,
through the vents,
i won't relent.
always the voice,
but the choice,
is all done,
its all fun,
the Fear has me tight,
desperately i cling,
whats right-
what i'm feeling.
nostalgic rise,
my peace compromised.
tension high-
a show,
of that scene.
but this ending,
i've seen.
words muted/ tears fall,
forgetting them all.
let go, fallacy,
tragedy- i feel raw,
if only- what i saw,
make that call-
make that speech,
another legacy,
more principles,
see them fall,
never reached.
no vacancy.
the weight,
my fate,
my choice,
my battle,
will imitate
and win prizes
for penis sizes,
and maximalism,
hedonism, green
light till death- seen,
more in retrospect,
don't want it
but i need it
i flaunt it,
that i don't feed it-
my head,
what's read,
sobriety, not your
priority, not your path
travel back,
remember that,
him, the last
song sung-
forever young.

(heaven from hell)

[06 Jul 2007|11:02am]
this is an unedited rant,

with no point, but its valid,

because i'm writing in pen, its solid,

can't be erased,

everything i taste,

makes me know that i'm smarter,

but when i look back i face,

the fun stopped and i'm a martyr.

but thats all bullshit, its a lie,

i enjoy being on this side,

the pure life,

but there are no sounds of childrens play here,

i'm immune to the sounds,

i am shouting lessons because i fear,

you'll soon have what i've found.

its not always the easiest,

in fact it hurts the most,

so lets make a toast,

instead of denying our sacrifice,

let our vices echo,


but don't ever roll the dice.

don't gamble with god,

tempt fate or kharmic beasts,

for the ruler once did pardon you,

but now on your blood he'll feast.

but despite your pain, your smile still is wide

and your eyes just the same.

Despite your past, you still seize the tide,

just you and the ocean remain.

For both are as deep, both are as wide,

like rivers run steep and friends will confide.

Teen- an Age where toxins are filled,

though you are immune to the poison thats spilled.

I am the sand, the beach, the shore,

I am one million pieces, you've felt me before.

When you've no one to run to, not one to adore,

when you can't find the door you've run through

In the department of mysteries,

everyone has a history, life is just references,

and bereft of his,

touch i'll forever be but i've felt it once-

that's enough for me.

he caught my falling limbs as i fell into a tree,

dark desert and warm air i'll never forget that phonecall,

buts its all,

over now and i have you to thank for that,

for it was never really the End before we met,

i used to bet,

my life for yours,

i knew you were meant to be, me, chelsea,

the one whod restore my faith,

and my hope, we both quit dope and feels good because its right,

our wings took flight and now its free falling for us.

No more drugs,

and no more lies,

its been years for me, i had to make a compromise,

with god, you see, he said i'll give you your eyes back,

if you promise to take these lessons and carry them in a sack,

weighing down on your shoulders but you'll soon become older,

and have to help a younger one

that will be at that same point when the fun

stopped, and her body dropped, no more pretending to be naive,

no more pretending that life won't stop.

the foul feat of fate hit my face like the breeze,

lose not hope when adults are not pleased,

for their life and their house and their cars don't appease,

what we have- here, now, us, God's given us ease

we're fucking teens.

But it's all a tease.

We're only pawns in this game,

you've heard it before,

my rants are all same,

but i'm SANE!

unlike these judgmental foes,

they're not pros, they just have age,

not wisdom,

they are incapable of change,

and they,

praise uniformity,

but we're not a commodity,

to be bought and sold,

to be wrought and molded to their liking,

or their views,

i can remember sitting int he pews,

but the world does not end at ceilings,

it does not end at skies,

it ends only when people,

close their minds,

to ideas.

because thats whats beautiful-

whats new,



(heaven from hell)

[19 Jun 2007|12:11pm]
Comeuppins: a Savage Betrayal of Saguaro Gods and the Sentiment of Shit
Anastasia Grace
Despite our longing for New Age fearlessness, in times where the only punishable crime is getting caught- The Old Testament has found us here in cookie-cutter-clone-city. And though we might like to believe that the almighty Saguaro gods may protect us from the cruel and unforgiving balance of kharma, their ultimately majestic and albeit magical arms have betrayed us, and all those who trample on their native warland with weapons of stucko and steel. Their open arms are now condescending; a mockery of wisdom and righteousness as their betrayal forces one resident into jail cells and cubicles, and leases. The curtains have been drawn. What waits behind them has been moving swiftly along the trail of life with us, each following their perpetual wormhole, as it were. Only a step behind, just one sliver of space outside of our poriferal vision, never to be seen until the scene turns a deep, ugly shade of fear. We were warned that tall, hostile dieties with 1,000 miniatures swords protruding from their spines are not to be incited. They are cruel, vengeful gods who ought not to be tempted. By all laws of eventuality, we are all to meet our fate; where hoping, wishing or praying do not exist. Only denial can be found, and that too can only be held onto for so long, soon to evaporate into anti-matter, like trying to cup water in your hands. The ugliest of kharmic beasts have been lurking behind trees and signs along our paths, keeping a close tally of our deeds. Waiting for their perfectly opportune moment to reveal themselves and take a swift and deserving bite out of our reality, to suck the rich aryan blood from our veins; the diagonal line has been etched atop our four vertical strikes, forever to remain carved with regret upon our bitter stone brain, charastically "hard" because of the Bull we are involuntarily a slave to. But we must not forget all other laws of balance. Kharma is a vicious woman, pitying no one- always unrelenting, forever powerful and most importantly- just. One must not forget that she rules the light that all wormholes travel toward. Despite our deepest and most honest rejections toward the punishments that life serves us with, they are all necessary. They are all deserving, however unfair the circumstances of life may make them out to seem. We were born as maluable creatures, forced to be savagely shaped and re-shaped unwillingly by our experiences, by our pain. Universally, we discredit our disadvantages. But they must be deemed valid if for no other reason than the beautiful blade they bare that cuts off the branches of our paths that would have eventually turned out to be dead ends. Have faith in the Way that has been previously been chosen before you, conjure courage to face the horrible shit that you are destined to overcome, and always stay armed with the sharpest, most brutal and savage tool known to man: the acceptance of ebb and flow.

(heaven from hell)

The One Percent by Anastasia Grace [01 Feb 2007|04:22pm]

The O

She was fifteen and fearless; a dangerous combination that often resulted in slammed doors. The one she violently threw behind her one fateful day belonged not only to her house, but to what destiny then determined as the life she left behind. After an impassioned argument with her mother and step-father, she forced the lock into its accordingly shaped place in the world where a silent spark ignited. Though she did not realize it then, the emphatic click of her door reuniting with its frame was the starting gun of what, at that very moment, became the newest chapter in Grace’s life.
She departed for her parent’s grocery store seeking revenge. The store had been owned by her mother’s family for what seemed like centuries and their pride in it never faltered. They had caught her stealing once before and were dishonored and ashamed by her sense of entitlement. With a decade and a half of experience, she set off to do exactly what they had scolded her for. She walked for three miles as rocks and debris left temporary impressions on the bottom of her black, calloused feet. She walked on diligently, the shape of her flat-footed vehicle renewing itself with every other step. She found the dents in her oversized feet very much unlike the experience she just had with her mother, which grew in her mind from a dimple to a cavity as she walked on, refusing to reclaim its original shape.
The sun went down rapidly, coinciding with the setting of her adrenaline and the surge that made her forget the essentials. Among other things, she would first need cigarettes to last for however long this journey would live to until the fun stopped. She was equipped with her mother’s black bandana as well a faded black shirt five times too large that depicted Albert Einstein on a bicycle. It was her most valued possession and the only material remnant she had of her father. As her mother would always say, it was the only thing he left “when the Angels took him.” Despite her mother’s dull conclusion, Grace knew that he left her with one other thing: the gene that ran through her that made her know she was different. She had the mental strength needed for the arduous mission ahead, but would first need any type of stimulus a five finger discount allows.
The automatic doors of the grocery store marked “exit” reacted to her presence regardless of their title and shot open awkwardly. The man whose job was opposite the greeter’s instinctively muttered a goodbye and demanded that she come back and cheer him up again. Unlike Grace, he had rehearsed his lines well and left her with a perplexed smile. She knew he would be crushed when he saw her run out of the store with her hands full of things illegal for the owner’s fifteen year old to purchase, let only steal. Fighting her conscience, she thought of her idol, Hunter Thompson, and one of his many useful mantras: “For every moment of triumph, many souls must be trampled.”
It was not long before one of the clerks noticed the aura of guilt that surrounded her and the red basket that was filled to the brim with Lucky Strike cigarettes and Wild Turkey 101. Grace continued to pillage shamelessly, unaware of her detection until she was abruptly removed from her oblivious world by a cold hand on her arm that matched the cold, harsh voice in her ear.
“Come with me. Now,” he whispered.
Her senses became overwhelmingly acute as his hand dug further into her skin. The man readjusted his grip from her arm to the back of her neck as they walked quickly toward an unmarked door. Once inside the dimly lit room, her eyes widened uncontrollably. She stared at his severely scarred hand as it fell from her neck and pressed gently against her mouth. She surveyed him nervously, following the trail of tattoos that started at his knuckles and ended beneath his pronounced jaw line. His black hair fell to the top of his cheekbones, where a swastika was tattooed in ink that time had turned green. Grace focused on the most noticeable of his bold reminders, a large tattoo on his neck that read “1%er.” She had seen the symbol before. Though she desperately tried to remember where, it was lodged too deeply within her subconscious to recall. He held his index finger to her lips as the distant sounds of vindictive employees drew near.
Suddenly, the room faded from a sepia tone to pitch black. She caught a glimpse of the man falling to his knees before he disappeared completely. Grace thought she heard the sound of keys, though the clamor was muted by the heartbeat that occupied the space between her ears. Before she could resist, the square that she had been standing upon disappeared and she was pulled underground into the arms of her nameless captor.
Grace stood with her mouth ajar, trying to analyze the events that had taken place, but it proved to be more useless than trying to cup water in her hands. She surveyed the room curiously, touching the decaying art that enshrouded each wall from floor to ceiling. She ran her hands over the Polaroid pictures and newspaper clippings that camouflaged each wall, leaving her fingers covered in dust. Their beauty had gone untouched for decades. The biggest picture was of the man who had saved her. He was leading a mass exodus of men on motorcycles through the desert. She noticed a smaller picture stapled on top of it. It was titled “Stein and Sonny, ’68.” The flick of a zippo lighter jolted her back into reality, leaving her with a nauseous feeling, as if she walked up an invisible step. Suspicion began to flood from her brain to her nervous system. She pivoted toward the man that, for a moment, she had forgotten was there.
“Your name is Stein?” Her broken voice interrupted the unnervingly loud silence that had surrounded them. He nodded and pursed his lips. He was visibly nervous and had already smoked three cigarettes in the time it takes to smoke one.
“Einstein. Like your shirt.” His stare never left it as his eyes began to swell with what Grace recognized as nostalgia. He smiled for the first time. Grace noticed two gaps in his mouth where teeth should have been. She turned around to resume her fixation on the deserted haven that lay dormant and undiscovered beneath her parent’s property. She paced, trying to ignore the puzzle pieces that were coming together despite her fear. She sighed deeply as the weight of her subconscious forced her to the ground. While trying to distract herself, she lit up a Lucky Strike and picked up a stack of pictures.
Her hands shook uncontrollably as her eyes focused in on the first one. Like everything else in the room, it was covered with a thick layer of dust that took more than a decade to accumulate. Paralyzed, she stared at the faded black and white picture that her mind did not believe. Stein sat next to her and rested his head on her shoulder.
“That was the day they took me.” She jumped up immediately, struggling for an explanation, tears coming down her face despite her will. It was a picture of Einstein with her mother standing outside of the grocery store wearing employee uniforms. He was holding a crying infant as her mother held a black leather jacket high above their heads. It had a bright “Hell’s Angels” patch sewn onto it.
“I thought you were dead,” the words exiting her mouth as less than a whisper, “Mom always said…”
The physical agony that shock had infected her body with vanished. She looked at him and smiled as the overworked wheels within her mind came to a subtle halt. She understood everything. He wrapped his arms around her and silently withdrew the tag from her shirt that had once belonged to him. He thumbed the logo that had been written on it so many years ago: “1%er.” She removed her face from his and rested her temple on his shoulder. While staring calmly into the tattoo she had previously recognized, Grace opened her mouth to inquire about its meaning. No more than half a second passed before she saw the answer to her question scribbled on the back of the photo in pencil.
“The one percent that don’t fit and don’t care.”

(heaven from hell)

impurity is not free [01 Feb 2007|04:18pm]
bow to temptation and let it cut off your fucking topknot.

(heaven from hell)

i knew the world was over so i took a look outside [05 Dec 2006|10:40am]
its been one year and eight months since i've seen your face and i still love you.

new york for yet another revivial.  a solution that is not poisonous, the only kind i'll allow my troubled soul. 9 days until yet another brush with mortality and  along with several other passengers- we will look forward. 9 days until i can escape and feel at ease like i haven't since last august during my last visit. 13 days until my flight home, which every time then becomes the worst day of my life. flying at such a rapid pace away from everything i love qualifies as the worst feeling i've ever experienced with one exception, of course. trying hard not to focus on the limited time- which isn't hard.. the anticipation of feeling young again.. seeing those places, those smells, the atmosphere and evironment of my chilhood, it penetrates my calloused heart like NOTHING else in this entire world can.

demon rum,

(heaven from hell)

shake off the nerves and kick the habbit [28 Nov 2006|08:20am]
[ mood | impending doom ]

just another tuesday?


(heaven from hell)

the ache... [01 Nov 2006|10:24am]
shall never cease.
it cannot be cured, only subdued.
think of me,
when you forget.

(heaven from hell)

I MISS NEW YORK [23 Oct 2006|08:34am]
over half a decade later, i am still a roaming foreigner in this godforsaken valley.. aside from knowing the grid system 50 miles relative to my cookie-cutter reality that is. and adapting as one must; clever sayings about the heat and riding peoples asses so as to not get cut off by a hummer or a truck with a ten inch lift that ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY MUST be one carlength ahead of where it once was...

there is no sense of neighborhood here.
there is no culture.
the divide is great between the wealthy and slaves who live off doing their yardwork and moving their TV's.
this place is dry of everything but aesthetic beauty,
and it's always hours away.


(heaven from hell)

not so evil. [16 Oct 2006|09:17am]
[ mood | almost content (never) ]

a change of scenery and some unexpected words of love and longing from two familiar voices was all it took... sedona is beautiful eases my troubled soul in a very necessary way. i thought only of love, not love lost. thought only of life and not life lost. the pieces always come together in a truly fascinating way.. always on time, always perfectly placed in an unnervingly organized fashion. the signs all work together, as one, to draw the curtain from all it conceals and reveal what's been lurking behind it. there is a softness in my day today, something i haven't felt in a long time. no evil thoughts, no unhealthy analyzations, brutal memories refusing to leave my mind and relent back to their permanent home, shallow within in my subconscious. there is no torment in a day like today. no painful curiosity about the cars passing by and the drones that control them. i am happily swaying on a porchswing watching the rain from my heavily fortified compound in the rockies, today. i am enjoying the breeze and watching birds and calling up cousins today. i am revisitng an old friend later, whose stupid face i miss, and who left me a consoling message last night when he knew nothing of my innertorment, because he is a component of god as we all are.. submitting to the fate that has been chosen before him, to be my medicine for that moment though he knew nothing of my sickness. the overwhelming urge to "get out".. of this town, this stagnant, poisoned way of life.. is eased by the grace of a long drive, good music, menthol cigarettes and a very worthy companion. today.. i do not know and i do not want to know. it feels as though it's been years since the desire has lessened even a fraction of a percent.. and in actuality.. realistically, that is a true estimate. i want to be alone.

(heaven from hell)

the story is in the soil- keep your ear to the ground. [12 Oct 2006|03:37pm]
[ mood | 19819 ]

i've been working on a new novel entitled Interim: A Trial and Error Story/The Saga of Trial and Error.  It's focus is the 'meantime' between the two most major points in humans lives.. The Beginning and The End. Not in reference to birth and death, but the start and finish of all processes. I have outlined the characters, they are formulated by default as pieces of people and characters i have encountered "along the way." And that, "along the way" shall be the premise upon which each characters story is presented. the place along the path that they are currently on, whether idling or degressing i don't know. it will most likely remain an outline forever, to lay silently on my desk until one day, when the scenery and timing are right, it screams for attention. my first novel, half written in pieces in over 10 different notebooks and the other half in scattered online entires and word documents- has no hope. as it was started at such a young age, the editing has never stopped, and almost all of the details and metaphors once used become subpar in retrospect, which leaves half of the written words crossed out with feeble attemps written illegibly above them. the novel, which has no right to be called that in the first place, hardly has a storyline at all.. though, i hold on to it for sentimental purposes.. and the fact that it has so many parallels to my own life, unlike my short  stories, where i try to stray from all that i know and create another world in which i've never lived. next semester i am going to take a creative writing class at the college, i decided. i have the inspiration, but i truly have no writing skills, in the truest sense of the word. my organization, event placement, supporting details, and most importantly corresponding relevance to the story itself.. well, they are all considerably nonexistant. my writing reads like a blog, reads like this entry does. i'd like to produce literature, though my genre is nonspecific. i used to try to produce vulgar imagery, now i'm leaning toward beautiful lives too. however.. there will always be the ongoing problems of environment, mood, timing, scenery. though.. in actuality... it is all in grace's hands..

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