this is so stupid to mention, but in keeping with talking about society and what you’re unconsciously projecting
I got the strangest look from a man who watched me go past him into Spencer’s. why am I laughing about this? this is wrong, it’s too idiotic but no! he actually stopped in his tracks and watched me go into Spencer’s.
so what? i mean, what was he thinking?see what I mean? they sell other things in there. it’s in a family mall. they also have lava lamps.
I don’t know; I suppose I find myself disturbed. As I look at life, whilst doing my research …. I am researching all the impactful writers, thinkers, artists, and philosophers of a wide span of eras …. perhaps I too look to this work I have decided to spend my creative time on as it goes with my interest in understanding meaning ….
purpose ….ive been so engrossed in this research that I am even dreaming g in it now —I guess I go all the way when I do what I do …. you know it was like that for me in theatre…. I was so into my character —on stage I forgot to be shy and it was magic to become another’s journey; feel their sorrow and wish to convince everyone of how I see her…. I loved being on stage. So writing became that extension for me but —what I was thinking about was something else
That Keats and Shelly —who were my original heroes from ninth grade English lit; hardly fifteen—ripe for their plucking ….but to find they died so young—that they had tragic lives. But sadder is Shelly in a way because of the way he sank into sexual filth. I got sad as I researched all this…. their competition with Mary Shelly and all that about females are brainless; meant to be brainless; property —how could Mary Shelly create Frankenstein ? No, it had to be a man who wrote it. Because—guess what? We are back there now. Women are just brainless property still so how do I feel about that? I shun the world. I really don’t like people.
The French Revolution writers —the idyllic fantasy to free humans from chains; free their minds —remove them from their rulers and all that
well…. It would be nice but seems like utopia; really though, it is not like all of them went to extremes in thought but it seems naive as look at what became of industrialism and upon whose shoulders do they drain the lives
But look at naturalism as they saw it —there is something I must have not seen until now and that is what disturbs me. You see? They were —Coleridge too, they lost their heads in a wild fantasy when they should have been more industrial so— there we have William Morris who was the success story but he had a few lucky breaks; still, he was not a miserly person at all and wrote the book that inspired Lord of the Rings for Tolkien.
I think it’s about what I should decide I’d rather focus on and what the message is I am conveying…. is that my role then? i don’t care, i think i need it to be said and maybe that’s the only reason; who cares who reads it?someone has to write this; like why hasn’t anyone done it?
Shashi Kapoor
in Heat and Dust —it is one scene, and it is only because of how he touches her
*literary aside notes (for my reference)
such an unexpected subtle shock of surprise (he is more erotic than if it were explicit;so hot)
On a post-it writes
“he puts me in chains and makes me endure hours of torture upon my sex with constant onslaught of a soft mouth ….how do I confess this?”
—found in the translations letters of ancestor
*frame story/subStory
not to give away my new writing work, but I need to work out a few thoughts here. I can only say that as I research this —vaguely, I’m looking at how western movements of thought have influenced human lives especially seen through art —I thought it was a trilogy but it’s growing legs and to wrestle the beast I write now a tiny anecdote of a side thought
consider the actors of Shakespeare time. Of Sophocles time. Of Oscar Wilde’s time and consider all those immortal works and their muses or those that portrayed them on stage or sat at salons for paintings
To read Forster or Jane Austen as a nerd girl and then see Hugh Grant, Julian Sand, Colin Firth, these lovely men embody characters …. and I have to consider our time and era and what one we are—or were in—QE2? the knights and dames and our a.s.byat
i don’t know.i suppose it is a stunned feeling;watching the car thst hit you drive away as you fall down feeling sense;half alive. I keep thinking about that phone call last year which got me out of where I was; what if I’d missed the call?what if—and ….i only had seconds to understand what was going to be my escape hatch out
I’d waited a year or more for that call but no, I was obligated where I was when they called a year before over a car—if Uhtred could give a year to king Alfred for a coat of armor —what for a car?what torture is worth anything except that was a necessary asset.how else could I have driven away from there in the middle of nowhere?was not as if there was a bus.why would I gamble on chances?this I relive over and over.but no, they all got me out of where I had to leave.there were never any other choices.but I hate when people say I’m a survivor as if what —if I’d not been —a tycoon would have saved me?or I roll over and die in front of an oncoming car?I don’t see that I ever had choices but to be sharp and ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. I guess I am good at that. this is what I find so weird is the combat isn’t coming at me and I am still waiting in the corner to be hit. reliving is an understatement.i am trying to learn how to walk for the very first time without having to duck for cover and I really find it unwise to stop ducking anyway. so the calm confuses me.and noise.ive studied human behavior, so i am aware this fits the description. it takes no genius to calculate the events and time span to consider how long before ….the reliving all in splices stops—but then, i am an anomaly according to my mysterious Dr. Rothschild I have written here about. she has a different name in real life.and I was her case study—so there’s a peer reviewed case about me in some journal over how I survived complex early on abuse/physical/emotional/sexual perpetual-over-time and walked away.i don’t care about statistics as it’s all predetermined in my mind —by them. what do they know but i do read their studies and I have a degree. Dr.Freud I really like him because he was literate and had imagination—wasn’t it all basically theory?what did Dr.Rothschild decide about me in the end well—the anomaly. She had no explanation why I keep getting up after and won’t back down
they say you re-live your trauma. over and over. so how long before it finally goes away?but which one?there have been so many back to back.
when does it stop?when does the warmth and safety ever come
There is such agony within the emptiness. It is necessary to identify those things we have learned that truly matter; the elevation of how far we have come; evolved, not repeated the same mistakes
I think repression is the root of all evil.upon realizing this, it occurs to me that I’ve really never been interested in perpetuating negative cycles of mal intended games played through forms of mental abuse —to me an enlightening discovery as it simply means I see it was just a kind of a blindness I’d not examined.
Therefore it can be better understood why physical forms of confinement or chains; ties etc. that becomes a fetish is adapted as it creates a venue for the expression to be exhibited through a decoy channel hidden as a subterranean ‘acceptable’; but as an act of perversion; like an eccentric or secret social deviant
<<so what hemisphere are you on?>> he asked her
But she was still in that state
<<you can’t know that. I keep my lives totally separate>>
<<why did you come over here to the Internet cafe—don’t you have those over there?>>
<<over here?—like, yours?no, I’ll forget this conversation in the morning. I don’t want to know where you are—ok? Oh—because the downloads are better—duh!>>
And it was only because he caught her in a mood—a very bad day and a few slugs of cheap vodka so,
in front of the webcam she shot her bright teal lace panties then opened her legs and looked into the cam,
<<let me be the object of your desire>> and fell flat on her face from the last shot hitting her just then
arching her back sharing an unintentional view of a nether factor realized and faced around
<<just joking>>
and fell flat on her face again
The Internet Cafe was on the ‘other side’ of the northern hemisphere; she had taken the Broadband Cable Jet across which happened to be—at that time—during her coffee break at work
Anyway she got back in time but —there’s always that second lag between time zones and your virtual self isn’t quite honed to you.
It was hours later before it occurred to her to check her messages. The In Real Life work hours sucked the most, and it’s mostly because people don’t know how to talk to each other anymore. Well, Roux thought, anyway—and she was the worst example of this exact thing, she knew.
They had to watch a boring lecture. On video! So what was the point? And then after, the discussion—in a circle like the ‘Round Table’ concept —and? Everyone is texting each other and no one says a word out loud.
It could be about that they record the meetings. And everyone is encrypted —or whatever they call it.
But it gave her such a headache! People can still get in your bubble without actually being in your physical bubble which —big brother counts on.
So, after downloading her daily stats she went home and ate a burrito and reached for her laptop to write, remembering what she meant to put down —and there was his message —this is not a Pipe man/guy/person/entity who was on the other side of the hemisphere and she ….had his pipe. That’s how this all started with them. That pipe
<<I like to visit your place in your head>> he said
<<but that’s not a real place>>
She had gone home with his pipe, as he’d asked and things got complicated ….
my latest obsession has been cooking.as it is practical why not make it entertaining and educational.i feel like going backward in time starting with Julia Child’s recipes and then move on to medieval cooking recipes I’ve read about
Roux found her way to the Internet Cafe with the help of google maps. So it was up three floors and then several more horizontal escalators later, but because the canopy with the name of the cafe written on it was hidden under a heavy oak tree she couldn’t find it when she looked along the long display of store fronts in front of her. The tree she did see as it left an impression on her. Was it a real tree, she wondered? And looked up in search of sources of photosynthesis. Someone just then at top speed ran right into her and knocked her heavy bag right off her shoulder, sending her off balance so that she fell to the ground.
Whoever it was who slammed into her kept running leaving Roux in a heap on the cement ground.
But that was when she saw the sign:
“Welcome to the Internet Cafe!”
Oh. She saw it now— that she was beneath the branches of the oak tree looking up.
Rubbing her bruised knee she got up from the ground, as nobody bothered to stop to ask what she was doing on the ground, thank god, as maybe that would be worse. She swung her heavy bag back onto her shoulder and walked right to the door of Internet Cafe, swinging it open.
The atmosphere inside was cooler, slightly darker too, with only the slightest hint of music which came from someone playing lightly on a piano. There were interesting neon signs on the walls of each section, and recognizing her favorite genres, Roux headed in the direction of the dark purple and green lava lamps and the koi pools where the music hushed out to silence along the rows of personal booths. Roux found a spot in the corner by the window that overlooked the path to the entrance with a view of the oak tree. From this angle she noticed someone had cut initials into the trunk of the tree.
Then pulled her laptop from her bag and plugged in immediately as this had just given her an idea for something she was writing.
She was about four paragraphs into her writing when a sudden message appeared on her screen
<<hi—can you do me a favor?>>
Roux stared at her computer screen and this new odd message from —? After a moment another message came
<<I was just sitting at that terminal and I think I left my pipe behind>>
At that terminal …. oh—it was a messaging platform through the Internet Cafe she realized looking closer at the pink bubble that the message came in which matched the paper napkins on the table and had the letters Internet Cafe written in tiny letters
In search of —this pipe, Roux looked around at the objects on the table; there was a fake crystal vase with a fake black rose, a fake crystal votive with a lit red candle, a bottle of soy sauce, a bottle of agave, a little crystal holder with packets of sugar, fake sugar, and set of salt and pepper shakers and a shaker with parmesan cheese— concluding her search, she believed, Roux was about to reply that she didn’t see it there—when her shoe came in contact with something on the floor.
She bent down to look at what it was, twisting her body to peak under the table, reaching…. she felt the smooth bowl of a wood pipe under her fingers and grasped it in her fingers.
<<I believe I found your pipe>>
dear readers, I do believe that
my blog has been hacked —and as I wrote: I will be taking my blog down
I’m considering that for publishing reasons I would rather be sure I’ve got my Copyright protected
so it’s staying up. I’m cautious of the recent hacking going on with my blog and am paranoid of things I say now so I have reconsidered how I henceforth will be treating my blog
My “voice” and tone may seem not as candor
awhile back I referred to an existential crisis
well, I was referring to something that has come upon me. It is a kind of balance that has been disturbed in a way but it is, for my own experience about my Fundamentals.
the values
personal values that for me must work with what I produce in life. How I mean ….for instance, I quit jobs that went against my personal ethics —this is my example to explain what I’m having trouble trying to say here.
So, I walked away from opportunities because I hated myself doing the jobs
only it’s never been choice as much absolute need. my ex friend from the book shops once told me I was more devout than her most religious catholic priest because of the extremes that I went to not go that way.
I don’t know what that is about me. But as a writer and artist it makes sense if you knew me. I am this through and through. I live the artist’s mind every moment I breathe. I digest life as seen through my dark framed glasses. Through my glass darkly
So my existential crisis is to do with —how to continue in a world I grow further from
I am organic. not digital. I touch. I feel through all my senses. I am very touch sensitive and everything is more intense to me
I suppose this is why I need armor —
but the way to live a life not focused on what our society judges as success
verses that I as an artist have always lived by my creed.
And : To give back to society a positive or nothing else if it can only be instead a negative
I can’t do jobs I know are in, my ethical sense,bad for society, it is not in my nature. It is counter productive to joining the planet, is my view. So, if I’m not benefitting I must find how I must —is how I think of society in general. Is that very socialistic? or utopian?
so you see each step I took I did this at places I went to. I searched for what was needed most and put myself there.
I was influenced by people like William Morris. His books are not as known as his art. But yes, clearly his art —I reveal how my mind is going
But whether or not I am understood by my contemporaries —my worth is gauged this way for me. Not by the material monies because when you die it’s not yours—am I earning my soul’s worth here? am I positively effecting the souls I touch? And the ones who burn me, do I turn poisonous too—or let it roll right off my back knowing I am more pure and they cannot trample my journey
The existential crisis I refer to is about this realization— and here is why I feel as a social commentator —I find myself owing a debt I must repay from the minds I have been prepared for battle by—like a social responsibility but more the agony of the world —where my people came from —my nomadic soul
requires something to be left here I guess that is not for me but for — the ongoing conversation
