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Fingers tracing Merlot rimmed with cherry wine nail lacquer and too-big earrings that framed

a face of tireless searching, worn ambition, over-extended arms. Arms reaching out to who nowthe question penetrated her deepest consciousness with a worrying ache, relentless and insincere. Dim lights shadowing crevices of youth now vanished and irretrievable. Still reaching, she chuckled quietly in the golden particle light of her cozy recollection, clutching the glass stem as if it could bring her back. --------------------------------------That distant purple glow faint on the curling edges of the day a streaming black snake wet with liquid concrete and strewn with the smallest, drowning yellow leaves. The sad grey trees outside my window whisper soft echoes to the howling moon The breeze of autumn warms like amber on the tip of a honey-drenched spoon. -------------------------------------crashing waves turn white from blue, crunched and crisp the morning sang of sugar sand and turquoise water; jaded refuse of a winter infuriated. the streets ahead are paved with ocean, ghastly white like solemn snow flowers frozen and trapped in a glistening glass jar. that face reflects star-strewn summer nights from the darkest lake's perfect reflection. -----------------------------------------

in a yellow-dust attic in the broom closet mansion of my mind lies a metal chest hard and cold with the etches of previous incarnations scratch marks and blemishes from the harassment of past affairsand yet it lies fully open a still pond from early dusk's mountain stream rippling with every passing insects' beating wings writhing in the emission of its own ceaseless pining. ---------------------------------------------------------------------The sun shines brightly on a freshly formed patch of dirt, slowing tires, irreversible havoc on a dust top side stream alley. Spinning wheels show gold and red in the glow of tilted light. Our friends are silent, our friends are tame, our friends are not the same as us. We forget in time that it's all a bowl of spaghetti- a simple mash up of basic flavors, a hint of exotic herbs, but mostly just thick, dull substance. It's not a race, just wait while water boils and then you're done. Patchwork compass pointing always north, until you get there and what is next. It is ice and plastic and dim lighting. One step after another, leading us forward but really just far from where we were. Apologies for my disgust, it seems the tides have gotten the better of me. But when the sun goes down and moon goes up and nothing is left but the darkness of our solitude, the blight of our purposelessness, it is hard to ignore the impending nothingness that awaits. Gib jab, blib blab, what does nothingness matter? This is what we have to experience. This is what we have to live. This is our only chance. Why argue, why stop to think, why not just run full tilt towards the wall if the wall is what we've been given? There is beauty to be seen in frozen tundra. I know that, I still see that. There is perfection in a cold October day, walking briskly with hands tight in pockets, crushing blood red leaves beneath boots. Fireflies still scatter on the wind, mocking us to come and take a chance. We don't have to live in one world or the other. The isolated nature dwelling child (with friends in imagination) or the isolated urban dwelling adult (with friends in appearance). These can both be part of one whole. It is crucial to me that they be compatible, because I cannot have one or the other. Life would not be sustainable without imagination and animal shapes in the clouds, just as it would not be sustainable without jobs and creature comforts. It's burning now, the chance to see clearly, and yet the incapability to do so. That would entail a restructuring of the conscious mind. The subconscious already knows what it needs, what it would chose to see. But the conscious, adult, human mind is racked with restrictions, guidelines, masked figures we must follow. How can two beings reside in one body? In reality, there are so many beings, more than I can list. Child, adult, subconscious, conscious, depression, happiness, panic, calm, night, day, love, hate, excitement, nonchalance, arrogance, self-doubt, music, math, machine,

paint, clouds, earth, water, fire.... The endless possibility of countless words and feelings bubbling beneath the surface, ready and waiting to release themselves in eternal combination, be they in strife or harmony. The subconscious doesn't care if it's expression makes sense, if one combination proves disharmonious- it just wants to be released- it just wants to TRY. A chance is all we need and that is what we can have. And not just one, but as many as we can rightfully take before our time expires.Or until we give up.Which is basically willful expiration. Why not then live a million lives in just one day? That way when the final day eventually does come, we will have lived deeper and greater; a million times a million in the span of a hundred. -----------------------------------She chases her shadow across wadded sheets. The whole room washed in blue, even my mindin your absence. Wherever she lands, she pretends she was meant to be. ------------------------------------Decomposed and unfocused. A scattered blathering mess of incomprehensible nonsense.Too analytical, less feeling. All we can see is what we feel, so we immediately try to understand it. Feeling seems like something that can (and should) be bypassed, rather than something that should be experienced and left to its own whim- let it stay a mysterious creature with great, dark power. What does analysis do but soil all that is good? Why is it that certain atmospheres are more conducive to creativity? If creativity is truly in our heads, why would physical environment be a determining factor in its' ability to flourish? Because nothing is purely from our minds. Our minds are influenced by all that we see, the real and unreal. But we must see the real in order to see the unreal, and in this comparison (which produces one occurrence as unreal), reality must be analyzed and processed in such a way that it filters the mind upside-down. ...But isn't reality always upside-down? We all see different things. A slinky, a coil, a circle, shiny, amusing, annoying... In this vein of thinking, every thought, real and unreal, would have the potential of being unique. If each individual crafts his own interpretation of things based on unique experience, doesn't that mean every persons' filter is entirely constructed by unique occurrences? And then wouldn't our minds produce entirely unique thoughts? That's the rub of it. Two people may have very different experiences and interpretations and still arrive at the same thoughts. Isn't that truth? Isn't "truth" universally accepted concepts of how to interpret reality? How to properly construct reality based on commonly perceived insights?

It's funny how performing a specific action, smelling a certain smell, feeling a familiar feeling can totally recreate past scenes before you in your mind... This place in which we currently live seems so base until you consider that time and perception (and truth- if truth is just a series of perceptions?) are constantly changing. The jingle of a kitty's collar, the buzz of a heater, the sound of this pen and the sliding of my fingers on paper, the pale green glow shadowed over ink, the feeling in the air... all these factors change from one moment to the next, and our minds change with the landscape. Is stagnation of mind then a desirable trait? Are we truly ever done learning? Maybe there are stable, core pillars of existence, unspoken truths, and the rest is up for interpretation and constant re-evaluation- just to make sure interpretation is keeping up with experience. These things need to be monitored, and certain ideas need to remain fluid... The tremendous faith of fellow sojourners is mind boggling. The intricate manipulations which unknowingly (unwillingly) create our formal existence (whether abstaining from some deeper truth or not...) The ink runs too candidly in a current state of closed of malignance. Can't listen to my soul in front of anyone else. It's an encapsulated waste, this flesh extraction of pure metallic insight!...The ache comes not from the extraction, but from the relocation. Ground up and aching, this roof cannot stand solid- solidity comes not so much from arbitrary endeavors but from the escalated prospect of such in our minds. Freedom is relative, and the senses dictate far more than we perceive. These words are cryptic because they need to be. The one eyed leery bug has resurfaced and I cannot allocate enough energy to the purpose of its well-being. The well-being of another far too often impinges on my ownstate of well-being.

Wish I had that Grandma's quaint kitchen, warm with the smell of fresh pastries and sweetness lingering in the air. Everything warm, unthreatening, enveloping. A kitchen room with frilly pink knick knacks and colorful potpourri.A fabulous old vanity with a pristine ballerina dancing atop golden flames. The bed would be the best part- a vast expanse of soft lavender blankets and cloudlike quilt of cream. Pillows turned up, sheets turned down- the kiss of dried fig lips strangely soft on my cheek, the scent of ocean mixed with ageless wisdom and baby powder. The click of a silently glowing lamp. Maybe graced with a fantastic story about princes and dragons in faraway lands. When the door closes I know that there is only light on the other side of it. I am filled with warmth, and bear the solid glow of unconditional love. This is my eternal dream.

The grit and the smoke stings my eyes like winking half tangerines in a midsummer black-out. Is everything real in this moment, or just a lie?Honest moments mean processing which means immense pain (not sure whether I can withstand

it's force...) Isn't it the truth that we're all afraid of ourselves? We're all afraid of what life can be, what it might become. Hopeful, but afraid. Will reality ever show it's shining, burrowed head to those with bleeding eyes? We cannot see but for sleet and storm. Is not every second a precious waking breath, which might at any moment escape us? Do you see so much the past that it obscures the future?

Ideas that spread pages like warm marmalade under the summer sun. Growing silently in a strange rain of muddled reflections, she swooped sideways to find that it was only ever herself all along. The page flutters with a spectre demon wing beat- the chaos makes me cry. Meticulous, mechanical, rudimentary lines of chaos tangled red and blue.

I can see the thousand me's through other peoples' eyes. Your perception of their perception of you.Feeling the need to detach my internal self from the external world. Believing a lie would destroy me; is it right to have to wait to live?

My heart beats with the sky and this invisible tether ties me to all I've ever wanted to leave behind. The pastel feathers floating on a sea of tranquil blue cool my face in the stretching arms of a southern breeze. I want to remain untouched and untainted underneath the lush undertow brush of an oasis undiscovered.

All the moments I wished to be submerged in the waves, under effervescence, no self but bubbleswhere the sea glows nothing but navy-black and trees are green and crumbling at the center of the world. THESIS: http://www.scribd.com/doc/15361910/EighteenthCentury-London-and-the-Birth-of-Consumer-Culture (2009) ALSO:http://www.freewebs.com/fisherpublications/ (2005)

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