Pretty pretty skin, huh?
Hey guys. I haven't done a journal update in FOREVER, I know. I'm still here, of course, sometimes posting work and doing tons of featuring of people. I know I'm doing a terrible job at replying to comments and such, and for that I'm incredibly sorry. I really don't want to be that person who never replies to comments, but I think I'm becoming that person who just takes forever to reply to comments. I read them all immediately though! And cherish them! I swear.
My replying will be getting a little worse because I'm going on vacation this week! To Maine! I leave Saturday and return Monday the 24th. I am so excited! I've never been there before and I'll get to see the ocean! It's been way too long. Feel free to leave me comments and all, I will read them all immediately and reply at some point. Promise.
Also, hello to all of my new watchers!
Happy to have you here, and please forgive my haphazard updates, deviations and comments. Your support really means a lot to me.
I have a few poems and prose pieces in the works. All about half-finished. Not feeling terribly inspired lately, but I think the change of seasons will likely help me with that. Here's hoping.
I suppose I've been trying not to delve too deeply into my psyche because I'm rather devastated by the fact that my Grama just died. Great-Grandmother. She was 101. I tell people that and they say "Oh, well that's great, isn't it!" And I just think "Well yeah - until she died. I do realize that most people never make it anywhere near that age, and that considering she was 75 when I was born, I'm lucky I knew her at all, but honestly that doesn't make me much less sad. She practically raised me. She's just...always been there. And now, she's not. It's hard to adjust to. I'm lucky that I've never really lost anyone I was that close to before, but it still really hurts.
For me, strangely, the worst part of it is that she wasn't even sick. She was just old. I was kind of in denial about it, because how can someone die just because they're old? We always thought it would be so awesome when she turned 100 - instead, what did she get for it, except death? My mother says, however, that that is how it should be. Everyone should be so lucky as to simply die of old age. And she's right, I know that, but I still haven't made peace with the idea.
On a happier note, there is a kitty sleeping next to me.
I feel like I should have more to say but I can't think what that would be. So here, have some pretties, many of which are fan art from my recent obsessions: Doctor Who, The Hunger Games and Vampire Academy/Bloodlines.
Paint the DreamsEvery night, on the insides of my eyelids,
I paint the Universe with the ink set of imagination
And the charcoal sticks of memory,
Then flip it upside down and the wrong way round
And let it snag into focus-
On my sleeping synapses, the branches of the Inspiration Tree .
In my ivory skull-box of random echoes,
Every melody, every voice, is re-written and rescored,
For a symphony of electricity, crisscrossing nerves ,
And running down, like liquid lightning
Into the ears of the dormant soul.
Here, this is that part of my chaotic desk
Where I re-write physics to suit myself,
Redesign monsters and angels to my own specifications
Until the lines between them are blurred out of recognition.
In this drawer, I keep my nightmares
Under layers of fine, crinkled tissue paper, bound with laughter
And interspersed with the dead bodies of silk butterflies
This rack, here, holds the satin ribbons and velvet strings
Of the slipping, crackling madnesses that only come out when I call
Man of ScienceOne day, brilliant men and women, with full minds and gray hearts, will redefine the meaning of life.
A Tibetan monk will rise from tending his garden to meet the mail courier. After six decades of daily meditation he will learn that humanity has reassigned the roles of abstract thought.
I picture myself being asked to adorn an unbecoming lab coat. I don't own a shirt that isn't black, so I'll put up a fight. But, when my fist hits the sterility of refrigerated logic my knees may bend.
I have one more chance to kiss the hand of Professor Petri Dish. I remember lips tasting like strawberries. Now, as I bite my own, they taste like bleach.
The Possible Future-
They calculated how long it would take to hunt down the refugees. All of the abstract thoughts fled into the countryside. God and Love committed suicide under the last cobblestone bridge in Jacksonville, Florida. Dream was black bagged and thrown onto a train. They keep her in a maximum security facility and every time she tries to