And she swayed to and fro
As she walked in and out of the room,
All eyes on her.
Her movements,
The shifting of her round hips,
Rotating her ass with each step.
Everyone knew this walk,
Everyone knew what each sway of her hips implied,
And what it would mean if you could get her alone.
Jo.-
May 30, 2009
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
Art of smoking...
An excerpt from the book I'm writing:
She leaned her side against the wall, took a deep drag, and exhaled the stingingly sweet smoke from her lungs out of her nose and mouth.
Clara perfected the art of smoking, and she thought about her actions deliberately and carefully each time she lit up. She loved it. She loved the look of it, the smell, the way it felt between her index finger and middle finger, always between the top and middle knuckle. It always irritated her to watch people who socially smoke holding a cigarette like it there’s a bomb between their fingers and a stiff hand. Stiff hands are always a dead give away, when you were dealing with a novice smoker. That and the way they took a drag.
Clara liked to let the thick tendrils of smoke creep out of her nose and mouth, draw it back into her lungs, and then blow it out in a long steady stream. When an "amateur" smokes, it's always a quick drag. Then they hold the smoke their mouths, never taking it into their lungs, until they practically spit the smoke out. Why bother, if you aren’t going to learn to appreciate it?
"Ok, so maybe I take smoking entirely too seriously," she thought sarcastically and smiled to herself as she watched the cherry burn and creep up the cigarette paper turning everything in its path into ash, "Like a fucking metaphor for exactly who i am..." she thought. Being a good girl was tough for someone who can’t help being bad.
She leaned her side against the wall, took a deep drag, and exhaled the stingingly sweet smoke from her lungs out of her nose and mouth.
Clara perfected the art of smoking, and she thought about her actions deliberately and carefully each time she lit up. She loved it. She loved the look of it, the smell, the way it felt between her index finger and middle finger, always between the top and middle knuckle. It always irritated her to watch people who socially smoke holding a cigarette like it there’s a bomb between their fingers and a stiff hand. Stiff hands are always a dead give away, when you were dealing with a novice smoker. That and the way they took a drag.
Clara liked to let the thick tendrils of smoke creep out of her nose and mouth, draw it back into her lungs, and then blow it out in a long steady stream. When an "amateur" smokes, it's always a quick drag. Then they hold the smoke their mouths, never taking it into their lungs, until they practically spit the smoke out. Why bother, if you aren’t going to learn to appreciate it?
"Ok, so maybe I take smoking entirely too seriously," she thought sarcastically and smiled to herself as she watched the cherry burn and creep up the cigarette paper turning everything in its path into ash, "Like a fucking metaphor for exactly who i am..." she thought. Being a good girl was tough for someone who can’t help being bad.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Stupid Quizzes
I've been taking those quizzes about what certain things define me. Ugh, I hate them. I got Wuthering Heights in the latest one. The one book I obsessed over for decades. Stupid book, that I love so much. And of course this would be my most favorite part:
"I cannot express it; but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is or should be an existence of yours beyond you. What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained here? My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff's miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it.—My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being."
Aww, now I have to go back and read the book again for like the umpteenth time. Reading Wuthering Heights is like sweet torture.
"I cannot express it; but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is or should be an existence of yours beyond you. What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained here? My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff's miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it.—My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being."
Aww, now I have to go back and read the book again for like the umpteenth time. Reading Wuthering Heights is like sweet torture.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Reading Writing Remembering
It all feels like such a joke, but I feel so happy when I finish writing a chapter. I'm consuming book after book like it was crack, and I can't turn my brain off for shit. I'm also constantly haunted by images of my past. It's coming at me in waves. I want to ask questions and find out answers about my life, but I can't. There isn't anyone to ask anymore.
I'm feeling like a pariah, a recluse. I want an apology, that I know will never come, and if it did... it's too late. It would be empty and worthless. It's so sad to see someone you love so much...and know they don't see themselves.
I'm purposely reading books written by women, and I"m finding that there is an underlying emotion behind a lot of broken characters. I find a lot of parallels.
He thinks he's a young bright thing, that someday someone will save him from his self-loathing. He thinks if he confesses his sins at the start, that if the woman knows what she's getting into, then that somehow proves how much she loves him. If she doesn't accept it then he's just nipping in the bud whatever real relationship that can develop on its own terms. What he doesn't understand is that all that invokes in a woman is either to love a broken one-legged dog or realize what a pathetic weakling he is. Either way it turns out, it's all true. He feeds off the love, sucks it dry, because he knows he can never be the man she's hopes he can be. It's silly, but women want to be the one that saves a broken man... but the only thing that can save a broken man is himself. No one can save him. EVER.
This is what I have relive every time I write.
I'm feeling like a pariah, a recluse. I want an apology, that I know will never come, and if it did... it's too late. It would be empty and worthless. It's so sad to see someone you love so much...and know they don't see themselves.
I'm purposely reading books written by women, and I"m finding that there is an underlying emotion behind a lot of broken characters. I find a lot of parallels.
He thinks he's a young bright thing, that someday someone will save him from his self-loathing. He thinks if he confesses his sins at the start, that if the woman knows what she's getting into, then that somehow proves how much she loves him. If she doesn't accept it then he's just nipping in the bud whatever real relationship that can develop on its own terms. What he doesn't understand is that all that invokes in a woman is either to love a broken one-legged dog or realize what a pathetic weakling he is. Either way it turns out, it's all true. He feeds off the love, sucks it dry, because he knows he can never be the man she's hopes he can be. It's silly, but women want to be the one that saves a broken man... but the only thing that can save a broken man is himself. No one can save him. EVER.
This is what I have relive every time I write.
Monday, April 27, 2009
8th grade life, no life...
My parents are cleaning out their house and have stored away many of the books that I left behind. I had more than 400 books at my mom's house. Everything from children's books from the 70s to all of my books from college. Among them were some of the journals I would keep, dating back to 2nd grade. It's so weird to read them again. But what's even weirder is that I found a journal that I used to write my stories and poetry in.
One of the poems was Satan's Scream, which I've posted before. The other was a story that I never finished about a group of high school friends who learn that one of their friends has a dark history filled with suicide and accidental deaths. They find out about his past from a new and mysterious kid at school. The friend with the dark past had moved away because he was sure that his best friend's suicide and his girlfriend's car accidents were murders. He was convinced he was next. So, he moved started a new life and never spoke about his past to his new group of friends.
I wish I had finished the story. The writing was juvenile, but the story and plot were actually pretty good. I was tripping out. I didn't use a computer, I would write everything down, and it wasn't the best way to write a story. I was 13, and I didn't have any patience. I was filled with happy nostalgia reading the story. I didn't do much as a kid or teenage, except write and read, so my memories are inside the volumes upon volumes of journals that I kept over the years, and rereading some of the favorite books I had as a child. It's kinda fun, and a little pathetic that I didn't have much of a life.
One of the poems was Satan's Scream, which I've posted before. The other was a story that I never finished about a group of high school friends who learn that one of their friends has a dark history filled with suicide and accidental deaths. They find out about his past from a new and mysterious kid at school. The friend with the dark past had moved away because he was sure that his best friend's suicide and his girlfriend's car accidents were murders. He was convinced he was next. So, he moved started a new life and never spoke about his past to his new group of friends.
I wish I had finished the story. The writing was juvenile, but the story and plot were actually pretty good. I was tripping out. I didn't use a computer, I would write everything down, and it wasn't the best way to write a story. I was 13, and I didn't have any patience. I was filled with happy nostalgia reading the story. I didn't do much as a kid or teenage, except write and read, so my memories are inside the volumes upon volumes of journals that I kept over the years, and rereading some of the favorite books I had as a child. It's kinda fun, and a little pathetic that I didn't have much of a life.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
I consider myself a pretty tolerant person. So long as you appear sincere and logical, and you have no intentions of hurting yourself or anyone else, then I'm pretty much okay with how most people live their lives. People who lie to themselves are the most intolerable people. People who can never admit that they are wrong or inflexible with their thinking, narrow, close-minded... they are the ones that I mostly take issue with me.
I was reading a book, and I came across something that really broke down how I felt about a recently falling out I had. A very significant falling-out...
The conversation takes place after an argument between old friends, where one attacks the moral character of the other. Basically, the friend is judgmental and critical about the way the main character is living her life. Another friend sees the encounter and as an unbiased third party makes a pretty accurate assessment about the situation...
"She's a whore, that one," Pam said.
I pulled out a Kleenex out of my purse to blot my tears. I often cried when I got angry; I hated that. Crying just made you look weak, no matter what triggered it....
"I wouldn't call her a whore, but she's truly not careful as she might be about who she goes with," I admitted.
"Why do you defend her?"
"Habit," I said. "We were friends for years and years."
"What did she do for you with her friendship? What benefit was there?"
"She..." I had to stop and think. "I guess I was just able to say I had a friend. I cared about her kids, and I helped her out with them. When she couldn't work, I'd take her hours, and if she worked for , I'd clean her trailer in return. She come see me if I was sick and bring me food. Most of all, she was tolerant of my differences."
"She used you, and yet you feel grateful, " Pam said. Her expressionless white face game me no clue to her feelings.
"Listen, Pam, it wasn't like that."
"How was it, Sookie?"
"She really did like me. We really did have some good times."
"She's lazy. That extends to her friendships. If it's easy to be friendly, she will be. If the wind blows another way, her friendship will be gone. And I'm thinking the wind is blowing the other way. She has found some other way to be an important person in her own right, by hating you." - from All Together Dead by Charlaine Harris.
That pretty much sums up how he is. He uses people, and then he finds someone else to use until they are completely useless to him, and then he moves on. Never really giving back what he takes, and never really understanding respect and loyalty to others. He can never be a part of anything, because he never really belongs anywhere. There are no good qualities about him, because he has to constantly remind himself of his manners and consideration of others. Good people, don't even have to try. It just comes naturally. He is the kind of person to kick you when you are down, and throw things in your face because he doesn't know how to articulate his feelings. I mean, I've actually seen him throw a tantrum. It's an amazing thing to watch a grown man throw a tantrum. He's like a lost 5 year old trapped in a 35 year old man. It's sad and it's pathetic.
I'm glad to accept the fact that he just doesn't belong in my life, and I am sorry to have extended my generosity and love in vain. I can't even say I wish him well, because even that would be a wasted wish...
I was reading a book, and I came across something that really broke down how I felt about a recently falling out I had. A very significant falling-out...
The conversation takes place after an argument between old friends, where one attacks the moral character of the other. Basically, the friend is judgmental and critical about the way the main character is living her life. Another friend sees the encounter and as an unbiased third party makes a pretty accurate assessment about the situation...
"She's a whore, that one," Pam said.
I pulled out a Kleenex out of my purse to blot my tears. I often cried when I got angry; I hated that. Crying just made you look weak, no matter what triggered it....
"I wouldn't call her a whore, but she's truly not careful as she might be about who she goes with," I admitted.
"Why do you defend her?"
"Habit," I said. "We were friends for years and years."
"What did she do for you with her friendship? What benefit was there?"
"She..." I had to stop and think. "I guess I was just able to say I had a friend. I cared about her kids, and I helped her out with them. When she couldn't work, I'd take her hours, and if she worked for , I'd clean her trailer in return. She come see me if I was sick and bring me food. Most of all, she was tolerant of my differences."
"She used you, and yet you feel grateful, " Pam said. Her expressionless white face game me no clue to her feelings.
"Listen, Pam, it wasn't like that."
"How was it, Sookie?"
"She really did like me. We really did have some good times."
"She's lazy. That extends to her friendships. If it's easy to be friendly, she will be. If the wind blows another way, her friendship will be gone. And I'm thinking the wind is blowing the other way. She has found some other way to be an important person in her own right, by hating you." - from All Together Dead by Charlaine Harris.
That pretty much sums up how he is. He uses people, and then he finds someone else to use until they are completely useless to him, and then he moves on. Never really giving back what he takes, and never really understanding respect and loyalty to others. He can never be a part of anything, because he never really belongs anywhere. There are no good qualities about him, because he has to constantly remind himself of his manners and consideration of others. Good people, don't even have to try. It just comes naturally. He is the kind of person to kick you when you are down, and throw things in your face because he doesn't know how to articulate his feelings. I mean, I've actually seen him throw a tantrum. It's an amazing thing to watch a grown man throw a tantrum. He's like a lost 5 year old trapped in a 35 year old man. It's sad and it's pathetic.
I'm glad to accept the fact that he just doesn't belong in my life, and I am sorry to have extended my generosity and love in vain. I can't even say I wish him well, because even that would be a wasted wish...
Monday, February 23, 2009
Haze
Sitting in the backseat of a car, close to dawn, when it's not quite dark, but it isn't quite day break... just a hazy grey light filling the atmosphere. I should be tired, but it was one of those nights that you know you'll remember forever, maybe not in detail, but that feeling... and my mind won't rest because you feel that perfect moment of contemplation. I could feel the effects my alcohol binge literally evaporating at the back of my throat, and it feels like it's coming out of my eyes. But I'm happy. I'm happy because it was good times.
I had one of those nights when I was with my friends, we partied, I met a boy, I fell in love with him, I loved him for about 2 hours, and then I fell out of love with him. I threw a drink at a girl on the dance floor, and I can't quite remember why... We laughed and we stumbled all over the place in 4 inch heels, I held back my friend's hair as she threw up behind a bush.
I remember going to an after hours club, falling down a set of stairs... like literally all the way down the stairs... jumping up when I hit the bottom and announcing that I had to pee... so I did. I dropped trou, squatted down, started peeing. Then BOOM, the doors of the club open and everyone comes filing out. Was it wrong that it was kinda kinky peeing in public in front of an audience? I don't know... I was wasted. So, I just kept peeing, smiled and waved at everyone as they walked by.
There are so few moments of true mindless nonsense and meaningless happiness that are this genuine. There are so few moments in your life you're actually allowed to be this stupid. Because before you know it, life happens and it's like someone pushed fast forward and your youth ends... and your other life begins. There are moments upon moments of happiness in my life. Different types of happiness, and many moments of complete perfection, existing all in synchronicity with my low and painful moments... and this memory of that hazy morning was one of stupid joy for me. I had stop and write it down before it becomes of those things I forget to think about.
I had one of those nights when I was with my friends, we partied, I met a boy, I fell in love with him, I loved him for about 2 hours, and then I fell out of love with him. I threw a drink at a girl on the dance floor, and I can't quite remember why... We laughed and we stumbled all over the place in 4 inch heels, I held back my friend's hair as she threw up behind a bush.
I remember going to an after hours club, falling down a set of stairs... like literally all the way down the stairs... jumping up when I hit the bottom and announcing that I had to pee... so I did. I dropped trou, squatted down, started peeing. Then BOOM, the doors of the club open and everyone comes filing out. Was it wrong that it was kinda kinky peeing in public in front of an audience? I don't know... I was wasted. So, I just kept peeing, smiled and waved at everyone as they walked by.
There are so few moments of true mindless nonsense and meaningless happiness that are this genuine. There are so few moments in your life you're actually allowed to be this stupid. Because before you know it, life happens and it's like someone pushed fast forward and your youth ends... and your other life begins. There are moments upon moments of happiness in my life. Different types of happiness, and many moments of complete perfection, existing all in synchronicity with my low and painful moments... and this memory of that hazy morning was one of stupid joy for me. I had stop and write it down before it becomes of those things I forget to think about.
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