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Sunday, April 18th, 2004

Time: 8:33 am.

Buck was a dog that anyone would be proud to own. He fetched, he rolled over, he played dead, and sometimes yes, he posed for painfully embarrassing pictures. Buck was a Good Dog, in the tradition of Yeller, Lassie, Rin Tin Tin, and Wondermutt. Buck's owners walked him three times a day, and even when they were late he was still a patient pup. He tucked his tail beneath him and waited by the back door. Staring up at the hook where his leash was hung. Now obviously accidents happen. Messes occur. Things get broken or chewed. And yes, occasionally stuffed animals get humped. That's natural, nothing to get worked up about, no reason to roll up a newspaper or raise one's voice. Respect must be earned, and obedience is nothing, if not a biproduct of respect. It's said every dog has its day. Wether those days occur in the "dog days" of summer or in some season unspecified is not certain. What is certain is that Buck loved his family, he loved to run, he loved to fetch and play. He loved to be. If you tell a story long enough it always ends in death. So instead lets stop and just think about Buck on his one perfect day. I wasn't there so I can't say for sure... but I'll bet there was a trip to the park, and a few frisbees thrown. Most likely a squirrel was treed, and maybe some pigeons were scattered. He did the things that dogs like to do. We should all be so blessed.

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Time: 8:43 pm.

Motion is emotional. Stepping out with my baby, can't be wrong when it feels so right. Come on now, don't say maybe. Be mine be mine be mine. One, two, three. One, Two, Three. ONE TWO THREE. Come again, come again step on down and see the show. Everything is provided for, all you have to do is go. Come one come all come near from afar, see the dance see the star. In the center ring, of this Dantean ringed hell we have the dancer. Take a bow. She is one who would be the thing that she is not. As are all who strive and all who live. I do not take into account those who settle, they are dead. But she is as I said, in the center ring of her own personal hell. To dance is to partake in a circus of freaks and tents. The dancer must better themselves with each day, improve technique and reach beyond expectations. The dancer must defeat themselves, the bodies natural inclination to tire and falter. Defeat the marrow within that ages and becomes unable to do the moves that look so nice but put such strain on bodies not meant to twist and turn in such geometric intricacies. Some are made to dance. And some are made to want. The thinness of one may be natural, but not all can attain such shape. Not all are meant to. The torture of binding and disease of longing. To create from one thing something dissimilar. To deny. To achieve. Step to the line. It's the limit. It's the goal, the whole, the event. Now is the time, here is the place, this is the moment. Reach out and grab it! The stars are shining, the people smiling, everyone believes in you! Are you connected? Are you important? Or do you feel impotent in this practice round? There is no maybe, just yes. One. Two. Three. 123 won't you won't you won't you waltz with me won't you won't you won't you come with me on a never ending journey won't you won't you won't you dance with prance with love with be with live with die with laugh with lie with me me me me me me me me me me... 3 2 1 It is as it was meant to be.

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Time: 5:43 pm.

Sex is just a pretext. There is nothing behind door number three, but another door, another decision. So open it or close or keep what you found behind door number two. Love is a lie we tell ourselves when we are young and full of juice. Death is the truth that we accept when we are old and dry. The things we need are the things that age us, earth, air, fire, water. Each season is in its time the most important. For all things have a place and each place has a thing. Look with me if you will across this highly contrasted skin, the white that shines from me is not a mortal light but a filtered light of unusual opacity. I am as you soon will be, torn in two and set alight. Every piece of mail I receive is full of nothings that I did not write. But yet these things seem to say something. They contain a message of truth that cannot be doubted, unless one is insane or dislocated. I am either a small girl with a big gun, or a big gun held by a small girl. Like day and night | right and wrong | up and down | this is open to debate. And it is a debate that I cannot partake in, for it doesn't really matter to me. A meeting of minds or a meeting of metal is all that will soon be, and in the end will it truly matter if I was the flesh or if I was the bullet? For both will be spent, and both will bleed. The flesh will run red and the bullet will bleed smoke. A rich fire of consentual communication. A connection of unearthly joints. A tapestry of rich texture and vibrant colors. I am the red and black and white. The primary nature of my danse macabre is inherent in the figure I cut whilst out on the ballroom floor. Pirhouette and turn, there is no way for my feet to falter. I place one foot in front of the other cha cha cha. These things are easily understood to those who have looked into my eyes. My soul is not shallow, it is deep and brimming. Can you not see the reflected years? My hand tightens. My metal scrapes against itself. My fingers caress the grip. My tumblers begin to tumble. I smell the air of defeat. I smell the air of success. I am alive. I am alive. I pull the trigger. My hammer falls. I am one. I am none.

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Subject: not sure if it's 1000 but it might be wrth the picture. Time: 12:02 am.

The captain has turned on the seatbelt sign. Please close your lunch trays and return your seats to their full and upright position. Landing time is approximately 20 minutes. Local time is 7:15 PM. She unfolded the flimsy foil wrapper on the wriggly stick and popped it inter her mouth. Savoring the sugar burst as she bit down for the first time, her saliva mixed with the semi-flaccid stick of gum. The movement of her jaw helped her ears find level and she was rewarded as the pressure which had built inside her skull slowly went away. Three rows up a baby cried, no doubt suffering without its own gum to chew. Or perhaps the subtext of the Billy Crystal film that was wrapping up put the little nipper in an ill mood. In either case, it was thought to be the better part of valor to turn up the stethoscope ear phones the flight attendants had brought and ignore the noise of her surroundings. Tattoo boy was still asleep. His arm hanging limp at his side. She wondered for the hundredth time, what other designs this modern primitive had chosen to decorate his torso with. The star on the elbow thing was painfully common, but the rainbow dragon snaking under his sleeve had some possibility, or so she mused as she chewed her gum. The flavor had quickly leached away, all that remained was the sickly sweet after taste and the knowledge that she would be much happier when the ground was reached if she kept chewing while in the air. On one of these trips she neglected to pick up any candy at the over priced news stall before final boarding. She spent have the trip with her fingers clenching her nose trying to blow her ears back to normal. Nothing is more annoying when you are preparing to disembowel an opponent than not being able to properly hear out of your left ear.

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LiveJournal for Werther de Goethe in Blue. View: User Info. View: Friends. View: Calendar. View: Website (Diet Journal). View: Memories. You're looking at the latest 20 entries. Missed some entries? Then simply jump back 20 entries.