Exit, Pursued By A Bear

Our world is a strange one. That really does go without saying.

This is the world where greed, revenge and sex are our gods, and fame the alter we worship at, degrade ourselves even mutilate ourselves till we are only desperate pieces of unwritten pages lost to the fire, screaming as everything we ever thought we knew was entinguished and stamped out, ground to dust under a creul steel boot.
Then you have people like me who think they have no one to listen to, to believe in, to drink in as a fountain of sacred knowledge, poisoned tree of mocking flesh fruit. I'm the girl who got too wild and was "get thee to a nunnery'd". I rebelled and was passed off as insane to avoid the scandal. I'm begining to be Frances Farmer.
You see?

Bitter still as I am, bound to reality, even as I goad myself into the ether, try to force my crippled brain to beat it. I am fasinated my sensation, obcessed by my own pain, pulverized by this latest thing, each and every day, I need it like i need a hole in the head. Of which I have ever dire need. I looked in the nightmare box, and all I saw was the ghost of me.

I need to create the music to soundtrack my acid dreams. If theres' a chain of blank smiling paper dolls, who march serenly on, not knowing how thin thier truth is that can be ripped to shreds so easily and kissed by the wind of all four corners of the world, I beg to stop sheparding on. If i can be a bon vivant, babble and travel and do it all, rip myself free and devour my plain limbs. Bite down on the bullet, as the cut me off. Cut me free.

I want to be a wealthy, obnoious weirdo. A cult figure with a lisense to vulgarity, fasinating, captivating and unable to look away. I'll drink, curse and swear, I 'll insult, I'll create. I'll love, I'll dream, I'll run off in my patent leather boots.

But if I move out, can I still dream away of high ways and madness? Can I still lose my mind in runaway hopes? And write my fasinating biography for when I become a deluded Neely O'Hara star? Remember me already! I'm somebody. Or maybe that's only in my mind, I have no idea as to what it feels to think as somebody else. If I'm a paper doll, plain white ripped paper, I'll deal in the traffic of whimsy and whip smarts, doodle full body tattoos, so there's no denying what I am.
I'm not a good role model. Not somebody you want to mess with. I want it all right now down to pain and grit and tears and virtue. I want the rocker and the leather jacket and the peach silk ball gown, Not my misbigotten evil sister who every sees as potential, bait for rebellion and adventure. Sail the seven seas in gladness.

But these nights, I tiptoe downstairs in my watermelon party dress and a conical birthday hat, bright and beloved and sit it the dark kitchen drinking ginger ale out of a champagne glass. I sit still in the dark in tears, watching the portait of total despair and sadness, the renoir girl drink and drown in salt. I don't know why I cry. I just can't do anything else. I can't even breathe as I watch myself from outside the walls, I'm a stranger I don't recognize and I want the girl to go.
I sit on the steps and watch the night race by through the picture window. If i stop thinking realitionallly, I can believe that they're all racing off the save me, but no one ever comes. I'm cold all the time. I'm boilng in the oven. I'm done. I hold myself 'cause no one else will.
I try to hold on.
I'm slipping...

I can resist anything...but temptation. But I've never know myself to be tempted. I've just begun to wander the desert, I set out 40 days ago, but I emerge no wiser. Only that much bitter for the effort to understand. I belittle others for lack of intelligence but drown in mine own. It doesn't make me smarter, bitterer or prettier, just chutes and ladders as I head back to start. I've been here so long I recognize the trees.

My grandmother gossips in apple kuchen german in the next room and it fades to dulcet tones. I only knew what to say. I can't ever voice my ambitions in words when I spend my life devouring and committing them to my archives. I just don't know anything.
I just know everything. But I can't sort it out. Living is becoming a dizzy dream , the worlld like a veil over true reality as I spin to oblivion round and around on the carousel, I'm getting less mature ansd stable with age. One day I'll wake up and forget how to care for myself. I can feel it coming. I'm just so weak, meek, so gauche.
I'm awkwardnes personified but it feels like heaven.

Morning is a dream, and ripping pages of the calender of borrowed time is like ripping my paper heart to phoenix pieces, my nadir, base memorial.
If I only I could rise again as I once was safe, confident and stable. Before I was pieces that forgot to fit together.

I had a dream that I was a sort of killer. In a white dress, I woke up in my bed drowsily in the early morning as the sun started to rub the last fragments of sleep from its eyes, and wandered in the bathroom squinting in the artifical light. I sqeeze the toothpaste tube, holding out my plastic brush, but all that comes out is organs and innards, a mess of spare parts scarlet and guts. But there's laughter. Someone is laughing as I watch in silent shock. This pretends to be real but it does a better job existing than it does in mocking me. Laughter drives me into insantity and I've forgotten how to read, how to count how to need. Blue eyes adjust to the bitter glare, and I see my other hand holds a knife. It drips in blood. So much I'm drowning with no time for a caucus race. But the blood, is revealed to belong to me. I'm just a gaping hole. A wound dripping blood from my own shiny glinting knife. The laughter is coming from me.

What's that knife?
You smile at me.

Who Needs Blood When You Have Lipstick

I made a little doll of Marie Antoinette.

It's head broke off.

Is that supposed to mean something?

He sits at the end of my bed, reading me my life...
She has to nurse him back to health, his wings are broken. Sleepy, smoky kind of lazy. Big white feathers.
The earth, it tilts, begging us to suicide.
To decide to end the splendorific night.

I try not to imagine him hanging from the ledge. Try not to imagine him falling
I try not to die every day. But its been getting harder

I wanted passionately to know what it feels like to want something passionately.
They wanted to keep us from getting lost.

Beating out/looking in/the shameful smiles/the chesire grin/i’m the dog howling at the moon/ i am a stark mad raving loon
It hits me, baby take a bow. You’re nothing but statistic now
Fools separated by sheets/Stolen virtue/Delve into the streets/eat out of the gutter/’til the lights go on/at last.

You can't try to make sense out of this.

- Catatonic Angel of Solace

I Am Possessed Of Some Sorta Crazy Witch Powers.

SO, lately I've been watching 80's movies running through Ghost, Working Girl, Dirty Dancing, etc. Before stumbling onto the works of John Hughes (not for the first time, Ferris Bueller's Day Off was one of the movies played in our grade school bus on our grad trip to Ottawa {where I move in less than a month}, and Pretty in Pink was watched a long time ago on the advice of my mother ) which is some sort of irony considering that I recently graduated high school without viewing what is commonly acknowledged as the seminal movie of the high school experience. Earlier in the summer I also watched Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles and that Back to the Future Family Guy spoof and my Father's favourite actor, John Candy in Uncle Buck.

So, for that, as well as the recommendation of my new future college pal who I'll call Blondie who counts it as her favourite movie, and due to the Futurama episode with Fry's eight leaf clover which he hides in his prized copy of The Breakfast Club soundtrack LP, I decided to watch the movie for myself yesterday. For the record dolls, in case someone asks I find myself in retrospect looking back over my high school experience, yeah, I'm a basketcase.

I'm so Allison Reynolds, only not so exagerated (ie I don't have dandruff or growl at people). Funny thing through, he ending up with Andrew the jock, is kind of like Juno saying that all the popular boys secretly want the weird girl. Except, I really do like my boys bad. Like maybe, Bender.

"The funny thing is that Steve Rendazzo secretly wants me. Jocks like him always want freaky girls. Girls with horn-rimmed glasses and vegan footwear and Goth makeup. Girls who, like, play the cello and read McSweeneys and want to be children’s librarians when they grow up. Oh yeah, jocks totally eat that shit up. They just won’t admit it because they’re supposed to be into, like, the perfect cheerleaders, you know? Like Leah, who, incidentally, is into teachers".

I hope that's true. I read McSweeneys and wear bright red Miu Miu cat's eye glasses and give myself winged eyes every morning. I will certainly be a interesting adult.

Anyway, I think I may be the fourth witch of Eastwick. Today I find out that John Hughes, the creator of most of the classic 80's Brat Pack movies died while I was sitting there watching the movie. Really, at the exact same time. I hear the intro essay read by Hayley Mills look-a-like Anthony Michael Hall at the movie's beginning and John Hughes is alive, but by the time the essay is read again with all the kid's voices and the camera freezing on Bender as he leaves the school to Don't You (Forget About Me), John Hughes is dead

so, yeah.

I'm creepy. And scared.

Run away from me. You may be next in the line of my unintentional killings.

But if you're like me, you'll stay tuned. I may just be a compulsive liar.

-Starry- Eyed

The Last Piece Of Pineapple

More and more i am realizing how much i want someone to love me. In my world, in my once familiar life, my rooms, I am suddenly exposed alone and insecure. I dream of someone, one person in the world who i feel comfortable with sharing my every shameful secret and kinky desire, someone whose judgement i do not fear, but whose exceptance i willfully earn through odiendece. I yearn for someone who loes me for the profound essence that is me, that they listen in rapture to my stories, and allow me no shame or respite in secrets, that they want to see my baby pictures, loving even a little me, wishing to slip into to touch me in my life. I have only known one person outside of my immediate family who loves me, and remembers what I dream of, what i am most imtimately and remembers even my shallowest surface truths. The simple caring of insisting the last piece of pineapple in the orange chicken is mine, because I love pineapple.

Someone who can raise me in ways that have been neglected. While i am well versed, an old hat in matters of capable intelligence and historical and current events, i am but a stranger, a left behind child in essential other ways. I am still a child who plays with dolls, is enraptured by everything i see, laughs for no reason, has imaginary friends and has never learned that less is more. I have emerged from high school without the natural maturity of self understanding and acceptance, without my feet on the ground and my mind ensounced in reality and sense. My mind is unable to comprehend to reality, shunning painful facts and ignoring bitter truths even when confrontedhead-on by them, it only accepts what it is able to, a coping mechanism running on sunshine and self presevvation instincts too strong for my own good. Truly, I have been sheltered from the realities i have chosen to be, but no one has forced me back, to think of the practical descions and responsibilities of taking care of myself, keeping myself alive without interference or supervision. I need guidance in my every action, rules and lists, otherwise I will do nothing. Simply, I am unprepared, just not ready to live with out my reliant well-worn support system. I am at the point where there is precious little fundamental lessons my parents are capable of teaching me, past the point where their rules or customs will stick with me, where i am now, i am heavily intrenched in my beliefs what i know now may be all i am able to ever truly learn. I almost need a new parent than i need a lover, to take me in, teach me, and keep me in line, force me to do the things i really want. How in the world is it possible that i am becoming less mature, less secure as I grow up, as time passes, that I am steadily enytering my second phase of childhood as I should for all extensie purposes, be leaving it.
I am seventeen, a recent high school graduate who has done nothing yet, who has only herself to blame, and who is running short on time, on saniety, on strength to carry on in a sea of emptiness. In truth I am inexperienced, but I have allowed myself to continue on this path.
I watch my peers fall in the reciprocal love i am denied, make love and have meaningless sex, get drunk, do drugs, drive cars and crash and burn. Yet, i am nothing for doing nothing, i am not more valuable or lucky for not living

I live in a different world, I am a good girl, but I never decided to be.I was simply uninvited to the party. Its not that they hate me or dislike me in the least, its just that in my introversion in my twitching fear of unacceptance, i do not warrent even a second thought. I leave high school without a footprint in the sea, an imprint on their lives, though they have shaped me ,
There is no one I shall truly miss, no one who will truly rememberme, the girl who floated for four yearsin desperation amnd deteched fear, and refused to put down roots. I was a like porcelin doll who found herself to be less breakable then she’d ever considered.

I am just not well these days. Lately, I’ve taken to checking my set alarm over and over again before I am finally calm and assured enough to sleep. Really, its not just to remind myself that the alarm is set, that it will go off, that its at the right time. Really,its not just that I’m overly worried about the alarm not going off, and having to miss school, though I am. At the heart of things, it scares me to say, to confess, I’ve forgotten what the numbers mean, in triple checking, quadruple checking, i’m only trying to remind myself that 5:00 am is in the morning, trying desperatedly to remember if it comes before or after 4, or 12 or 1 o’clock. I cant help wonder, if i’m only losing my mind. Forgetting who i am.

I want three marriages, just like Mary Pickford or Marilyn Monroe (1 youthful lust, foolishness, 2 true love, 3 saftey )