xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I am getting so tired of fighting for my life. This life wants to be hell and I am not giving up. I want the beauty, the purpose, the love and the light. I have seen it, I do not doubt it nor the partnership with shadows. You hand me the dredges of dysfunction and of it I try to fold a miracle. Why do you want me to perish? Why must I be cruel in order to live a full life? No longer a member, I am to step on the writhing bodies of the damned? Use my strength to push aside the weak? The sheep are bleeding crocodile tears and I am cleaning the wool with a soiled tongue. 

Yours Forever,
Allyson

It is funny to say "Bukowski is right" but Bukowski is right on his epitaph to tell us not to try. Frankl tells us that our obsessions with our neurosis are in fact the foodstuffs to keep them going. We fear our fear and the fear comes to get us. We expect it, our hair turns white at the onset of this supposition. I am silly and try not to try. My attempts this year at harnessing my thoughts and reckoning with my emotions has been largely successful, however, I am all too aware of the dangers of ultimate control. I lose myself on nuances, crying tears of joy in crowds. I grow angry at the injustice on behalf of a small spider I tried to spare but lost in my hair. All in good fun, yeah?

Oh let me count the ways

Not listening to lyrics, not cleaning my car, staring at my car, hating my car, the dream cargo shorts I have in mind that don't exist and i still don't know how to thread the bobbin on my sewing machine, the gigantic handbag my therapist gave to me made out of white cow fur and red snake skin, laughing, the dream I just had about wearing a mint one-piece bathing suit with adequate side-boob and stealing my neighbor's porsche several mornings in a row, eating fried oysters and drinking halloween kool aid (ghoul-aid), writing messages to paul, having 6 pimples on the right side of my face but none on the left side, changing my pillow case, talking to my aunts all night on the phone, vitamins, crying in my car, raising my hand in class, too scared to write poetry but knowing it is the best thing for me, picking at my legs now 5 years and counting, listening to elizabeth smart interview on the radio hearing her talk about how there wasn't a good choice for sun glasses, picking my favorite alarm to hate later on

Trig Cove

Wanting to appear strong, like the asshole that takes all shit. The internet behind these screens, all these tubes, the ultimate vector through which we prostrate ourselves madly, sick little sheepies behind cadaverous 2-d veneers, mouths moving backwards "to hell with it". Come One, Come All -- A slinky whisper down the stairs.

If something happens and there is no documentation, did it ever happen? Was Spinoza right when he suggested that nothing ends? Does each moment continue on, seamlessly frozen to moving time? With no one to watch, no one to agree or condemn, no one to pat our little back and tell us how neat our efforts. Are they still efforts? This troubles me. I remind myself that what ever will happen will happen. Everything is ready. My fingernails are so long they snag my fly when i go to zip my jeans.

When i grow up i want to be an angel

I am afraid.

Bolaji

"The idea is that the creature must be graceful and angry at the same time, requiring slow, conscious movements. It is difficult. Backdrop here is just two meters high while I am two and a half with the suit on. I therefore had to be very careful how I move. While it is terribly hot inside the suit. The main mask is difficult to take off and when I finally succeed is my head wet with sweat. There is always smoke on the recording as well, so I often have breathing problems. "

"Well ... it has been a true and sad experience for him to be alone in that hotel room."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Well ... the producers put him in a different hotel than the rest of crew, some distance away from the shooting, that he would feel extra strange and scary when he showed up. And it worked. He was always very lonely on the recording. Sat in his swing. "

"Huh?"

"Well ... he could not sit on regular chairs because he had that awkward costume wearing, so someone in the team built a swing for him to sit on when we had a break. There he sat in his loneliness and rocked in silence, with the mask on. "