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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in
April Rose's LiveJournal:
| Sunday, November 18th, 2001 | |
| 9:16 am | The Panhandler He fell through the cracks, and aside from wise-ass comments, no one wants to remember that he exists. "Hey man, can I get five dolla's to catch my bus back home to Niagara Falls?" Maybe you'll throw him a buck, or two, or hell, even all five... knowing everything he says is a lie. That's when he's on his meds. When they've worn off, you might try to fuck with his head. No one knows who he is, not even his case-manager, or doctor down at the psych center. They know he's easier to manage when his brain chemicals are managed by certain meds. He just fell through the cracks... he can't pay taxes, so the government just doesn't care. Society doesn't care either, and it's their taxes that cover his social costs. Maybe someone cares. Maybe the pharm companies care. They make money making drugs that make his brain idle. While he's yelling at the parking meter, you're laughing all so amusedly. It's easy when you're recognized by upstanding and civilized people. None of whom really know what makes this man tick. Oh and he ticks. Even through the cracks he ticks. No one knows what malevolence caused this chemical chaos in his brain. No one knows exactly how his "medicine" sedates any remaining understaning of reality left in the ticking of this man. No one knows that what was real to this man, was a daddy who hit too much, a mommy who touched too much, an uncle who touched too much... and so on. And who cares? He's fallen through the cracks, and it's much too late to ever come back. "Hey man, my church group left me stranded here. Can you lend me a dollar to get back on the bus home?" He clutches a torn bible. |
| 9:10 am | A little help for my friends... Hurting inside makes hurting outside feel great. At least physical pain gives you something to show for your troubles. Emothional pain on the other hand, multiplies itself in your own guilt for bringing upon yourself your own troubles. Sometimes, you just don't know how to stop it. And life, is so easy, life flows on so smoothly. We should ride it gently, understanding that things of importance cannot be controlled. There is no control. Only to float on the breezes, inhaling this planet, bit by bit. Troubles being to seem so valueless. Inhaling becomes of utter importance. And pain takes on less and less meaning, meanwhile, there is less self to feel the hurt. |
| 9:07 am | If I had anything interesting to say now, I'd say it. I hardly have anything of interest to say anyway. And I still say so much. Slowly, it kills me. It's how I slow my brain down... Talking. Quietly, I try to forgive myself. The damage is already done. |
| 9:02 am | This Itch I'm feeling this itch. Can you feel it too? Some outside gust of prickly wind is wrapping round, telling my body what to do. It forgot to tell my brain what to do. I am left thouroughly confused. It wants me to get up, and move rathaer than sit and think thoughts unnecessary. Most thoughts are that way. The prickling wind has found it's way to me now, slowly reminding me how I torture myself unknowingly. |
| 8:44 am | Crazy Mary Crazy Mary's heading down to crack-town. She's begun to prescribe her own medication. Her glasses fogging, and cane a-smacking the ground, Crazy Mary should have a grand-family by now. Instead, she's heading for her neighborhood crackhouse. She's getting ready to spend her government aid on the meds that she prescribed to herself. Rather pleasantly, she shouts "Can I walk here?" at the driver of a Mercedes who happens to be edging off the brake in front of a long awaited green light. She's begun walking already though, cane a-smacking the ground. He sighs and steps on his break again. Falsely assuming that nobody knows what she's up to, she stabs the ground with her cane, making her way past downtown. Crazy Mary, I've got news for you, I'm on to you. I can tell the difference between your antipsychotics wearing off, and your new-found ecstacy via smoked rock. Have your fun now Mary, have your fun. By tomorrow, you'll no longer remember how you shouted at that preist, how you told him to stop drooling over your corpulent self, and to stop leering at you in such a lewd manner. His prayers are with you regardless. And, you'll forget all about how you spent 20 minutes yelling at the coffee shop door. You'll forget all about it, because by then your nurse will see to it that your regular meds have kicked in. |
| 8:41 am | "How can I, my dear go on without you...." Et cetera, et cetera. She sang smooth and silky pudding words into my ears. It reminded me of you, and your fingers in my hair... feeling all tingly and warm. Her words reminded me how lucky I am, and I hope I never have to............. |
| Thursday, October 4th, 2001 | |
| 2:56 pm | Fighting is like shrinking. You become more and more useless. You can't ever really win a fight, even when you think you've won - You're less. You've been lessened, worn, tired. I guess the next logical sentence is one that must express growth. You allready know what makes you grow. Love more, be more. |
| Wednesday, October 3rd, 2001 | |
| 2:29 pm | Never knew how it worked, Never asked. Heat sprawled itself throughout myself, A pulsating, stronger than the one of my own heart. Still, have no answers, But love to ask the question again, and again and again. Appendages reach out calling for love to come closer, and closer and closer. The whirring music is swallowed by my ears, The humidity around me is swallowed by my skin. None of the stars in the sky nor tremors on earth can answer it. Yet the bend and bow to the asking. |
| Saturday, September 29th, 2001 | |
| 2:44 pm | Blood, sweat and testosterone upon which, we have established that which we call home. Home. Homes that are rented; pay money on land we can't own. Broken backs and gnarled hands shriveled and worn from scrubbing other people's things we'll also never own. From serving people food we didn't cook, nor will we join them to eat. From work on the line assembling things time after time after time. All to have a place to call home, a place we'll never own. |
| Friday, September 21st, 2001 | |
| 2:49 pm | Thick air fills the chest cavity, and gets pushed out, re-entering the atmosphere. Stiff, tired limbs plof foreward, accomplishing nothing all too quickly. This didn't used to be this way. For now it's reality, and water laden atmosphere smothers this jogger today. Just waiting, waiting for the gray, gray grayness to pour itself away. |
| Thursday, September 20th, 2001 | |
| 5:36 pm | When the wind blows leaves off trees We're always hurting ourselves. And the days go by too fast. Our hearts are harder to break. And we're always wanting more. I've been living on the surface of myself For far too long . Little did I know, there was Nothing to protect. Nothing Yet I prodded at old wounds, and poked at newer ones. All for nothing. And this body won't last forever. |
| 5:34 pm | You Y - O - U Not part of you Not some of you Not the good side of you Not the mood you're in Not the clothes you wear Not the foods you eat Not the books you read Not the thinks you like. You. |
| 5:33 pm | Rain rain, washing the dirt, rain, dirt's not dirty anymore. rain, freshens the air, cleans the dirt from it, and the dirt's not dirty anymore. |
| 5:31 pm | Doodley Squat It feels like sometimes you work so hard, only to achieve doodley squat and have absolutely doodley squat to show for it. And then the free time we have when we're not worrying is worth all we've got. |
| 5:29 pm | Justallow the winds to stream through; The sun to soak in, Truth in beauty may trickle its way back into you. |
| 5:25 pm | This little girl This little girl isn't so sure of anything really. She often does as she is told, no questions asked. Not because she doesn't have questions to ask, but because she doesn't trust those who'll answer back. Not because they're devious, but because the correct answers to her questions, they can't possibly know - else they would never suggest she do the things they told. So this little girl goes on and the story goes too. |
| 5:22 pm | I just don't get it A cold breeze blew hard at my back, moving quickly, its particles are still cold. They infect my own back-skin-particles, and they become cold too. And the cold trickles down my back, making me shudder, and wonder.... how is it that millions of invisible pieces of everything can move by quickly enought to make the napkins in the street dance..... but still be so cold. Yes, I am entranced, and I don't know that I'll ever understand. |
| 5:08 pm | Love Poems Are So Boring Always about the same mushy poo feelings anyone can have about anyone if they're open to it. It's true, I swear. This is not what poems are about, poems are about life and passion and pure beams of sunfire that when you get them, make your brain wanna get up and leave home. If you must write about those puppy feelings and the one you love best; please, please, for me, at least write about 'them' write about their souls, write about their very being. Really put your love to the test honey. Be in love with everything and your love with sugar-bear or love bunny will transpire, leaving you to write a brand new form of poetry.... thouroughly relieving me. Thank for listening. |
| Wednesday, September 12th, 2001 | |
| 5:03 pm | It fell on me, hard. And I can't seem to shake it off of me. No one can. Someone once said that those who don't expect to reap evil, shouldn't sow evil. Everyone here thinks he's evil, and they're scared that they are too. Revenge, they shout, trying to prove that if we as a people united, kill those people who have inflicted their evil onto us - good shall have prevailed. Vindication! They'll shout, assured that they are among the good; or at least, the lesser of two evils. |
| Tuesday, July 24th, 2001 | |
| 5:01 pm | Carmella Woman walks by, Hobbles really... slowly. Cane functions as third leg while wind whisps white hairs perpendicular to head. Inside of which, is playing a tune, melody really... An old Cuban song she learned once as a child. Amazing how her life has sped up and slowed down so much since then, while the meter of her memory has always stayed the same. She smiles. |