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moon beauty to live and to love
in delirious bitter gardens
the vision floods under the mind sky
night breaths, whispering symphony
after a blood sun storm
love light relieves
with a goddess and a dream
in sleep's misty shade
with a goddess and a dream
i lie beneath imaginary worlds
sing a true moment, recall a trip
no language can heave through life
like an ache, a sense, the blinding wind
making believe that if there's a sandstorm
you'll come and rescue me
help me find my way back to the waking world
with a goddess and a dream
in sleep's misty shade
i lie beneath worlds imaginary
with a goddess and a dream
in sleep's misty shade
i'm going out to meet an old friend
the desert knows we are strangers
until the sands of time see through our eyes
we could be lost perhaps forever
but there's space in the air
and it's ages till sunrise
Delerium - "Nature's Kingdom"
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So the days go by and I find myself sitting here at 3.20 in the morning, mind spinning 9000km an hour, full of words and nothing to say. I've pared down my schedual to a managable load, salvaging what I could from the great depression which was my academic career until approximately a week ago. I'm writing again. I'm smiling again. I'm going to class and work and doctors appointments, just like I said I was.
And the kingdom prospered. Or some bullshit like that.
In other news, here's the opening paragraph to my latest work of genius: "Once upon a time, there was a little girl who made out with another girl. And she lived happily ever after. Too vague? Ok, then allow me to back-track . . ."
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I've created a new blog tonight - a text unfettered by the shackles of public knowledge. If you want in, leave your name and email in the comments feature, and I'll get back to you with the address.
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Scribblings from the margin of my notebook:
If a dominatrix uses a 3 foot long rawhide flogger on a client 4 feet away, how long will the sound of leather on flesh take to reach the client's voyeristic girlfriend, skulking in the shadows 11 feet away?
Bonus: how many cigarettes does the dominatrix smoke in one session?
Answer to bonus: AS MANY AS SHE WANTS, YOU LITTLE FUCKING SLUT! Now kiss my boot and say you're sorry.
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"Moo," said the kitten . . . and then I ate it.
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Note to self: Purina puppy chow NOT made from real puppies. Must write company and complain about false advertising.
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"I'm too drunk to vomit . . . . *blarrrrgle* Oh wait, never mind." (overheard at frat party)
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"Two hamburger patties, two slices of cheese, and two strips of bacon. I call it THE DEATH BURGER."
"My god . . . Mitch . . . there's so much meat!"
"Sexy, isn't it? I'm consuming as many animals as possible, ALL AT ONCE." (cafeteria)
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Minori! Minori!!! MIIIINORRRRRRIIIIIIII!!!!!!!! (my room)
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A young man stopped me today, as I was on my way to Kung Fu practice:
"Excuse me, miss, can I take your picture real fast? For photography class?"
I turned and found myself staring into the glare of a camera lens. The boy smiled wide. He asked me again if I would mind posing for a moment. All I had to do was act natural. Naturally, I agreed.
He bid me to sit on a nearby wall and play with a cigarette, which he lit before handing to me. At first I played with the smoke, wafting it to and fro with my fingers. I heard the shutter begin to chatter but kept my eyes low and pretended that I was alone. I put the cigarette to my lips and sucked smoke into the chamber of my mouth. Then, without breathing, I opened my jaw and allowed the smoke to seep out in thick, ashen tendrils. The shutter snapped a final time.
"Perfect!" he said. "That was just PERFECT. Thank you very much. If i see you again, i'll show you the prints."
"Will the shots be in color?" I asked, running a hand absent-mindedly through my indigo hair.
The boy grinned. "Of course," he said.
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Dude, ok, here's a questionaire. Just copy, paste into my comments feature, and fill in the blanks! Please answer, even if you think it's silly. I would love to see what people think.
I ____ Larkin.
Larkin is ____.
If I were alone in a room with Larkin, I would _______.
I think Larkin should_____.
Larkin needs _______.
I want to ____________ Larkin.
Someday Larkin will ___________.
Larkin reminds me of _______.
Without Larkin _______.
Memories of Larkin are _________.
Larkin can be _________.
__________ is how I describe meeting Larkin.
Worst thing about Larkin is _________.
Best thing about Larkin is ________.
I am ________ with Larkin.
Larkin ______ too much.
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1. Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 18, and find the 4th sentence: "In this study of tattooing, I recognize the direction provided by other sociologists as a theoretical and conceptual terrain upon which a study of mody modification seen through a figurational perspective may be mapped."
2. Stretch your left arm out as far as you can. What do you touch first? The leg of a Brishish man sleeping in my bed.
3. What is the last thing you watched on TV? I don't recall. I don't watch TV.
4. Without looking, guess what time it is. 3.50am
5. Now look at the clock. What is the actual time? 3.42 am
6. With the exception of the computer, what can you hear? The soft respirations of a sleeping person
7. When did you last step outside? What were you doing? 2 hours ago, I went outside to chat with Rebecca, my dear friend who lives down the hall.
8. Before you started this survey, what did you look at? On the internet? Porn. Lesibian porn. S and M Lesbian porn.
9. What are you wearing? A thong and some chapstick
10. Did you dream last night? Yeah. I kept trying to sell my body to a clergyman.
11. When did you last laugh? A few seconds ago. I'm drunk.
12. What is on the walls of the room you are in? Posters of Dali paintings, a pin-up girl, a few photos, xmas lights, hooks, stickers, chewing gum
13. Seen anything weird lately? A man talking on a cell phone about shooting George W Bush with a sling shot
14. What do you think of this quiz? Not bad.
15. What is the last film you saw? Monty Python's "the meaning of life"
16. If you became a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy? Tuition for grad school, plane tickets, a decent car and home
17. Tell me something about you that I don't know. I'm afraid of being dropped on the ground. Not heights. Not falling of my own accord. I'm TERRIFIED of someone picking me up and dropping me on the ground.
18. If you could change one thing about the world, what would you do? I would institute fantastic public transportation in the US
19. Do you like to dance? LOVE TO
20. George Bush: Is a muppet.
21. Imagine your first child is a girl, what do you call her? I don't really want children, but Aspen or Jacob or Sarun sounds good.
22. Imagine your first child is a boy, what do you call him? Cyrus, Xenos, Thespus, Crispin, or Onix
23. Would you ever consider living abroad? YES. I'd love to live overseas!
24. What do you want God to say to you when you reach the pearly gates? "Dude! Hey man, what's up?! You wanna go smoke a bowl or something? I got me some fine-ass shit I'm willing to share with you for the rest of eternity . . ."
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Few people understand the meaning of my body art. Really, my reasons for self decoration are quite simple: I wish to regain control over my physical form. This control of which I speak has been usurped over the years by illness, steriotypes, and physical abuse. Tattoos and piercings assert my independance; I was not born with them, but put them in my flesh by means of my own will. In other words, this is my body - I mark it thusly, and make it so.
By the thrust of a needle, I am liberated from my skin.
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So the latest bout of depression is over; love has ablated my desolation. Once again, my skin smells of life, and I am saved.
Sometimes I feel as if it would take less effort to lie down and stop breathing than to struggle on. This week, I held my breath a moment too long.
Too many people react to depression as if it were a weather phenomenon - board up the doors and windows, give it a few days to beat its rage against the earth, and in no time you'll be right as rain. Not so. It's a cancer. It's a psychic tumor thriving on your lifeblood and swelling at an exponential rate. And although it can be treated, there is no cure.
Treatment hurts even more than the affliction itself. You must excise the sickness - strip your brain to its simplest layers, forcibly pry depression's germ from between your synapses, and then flood your veins with poison until you're nauseous, until every metasticized fragment has been weakened.
Thanks to love, I am in remission. Without my friends and mother, I would no longer be.
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