not trying

My mom yells all the time.  i moved my some of my shit into yiayia's house about a week.  i should be working on my resume.  i like the way i wrote my last post...i guess i feel like i've lost my writer's voice over the course of the last year.  Note how i'm barely trying to use correct capitalization.  whatever.

i am writing in such a way...and I see it...and I make a note to self...

i am in the process of leaving david.  I guess this is what they call cold feet?  But, in actuality i was never actually happy with him.  it's like I forced myself to love him because I felt like it would be best.  and when i try to feel love it's almost like its intangible.  like it's cold in there...i would rather not try.

this is sounding so depressing.

i yelled at him all the time.  i didn't like the person I was becoming...the person he was becoming.
i tried.  i know i did.  but i didn't have to.

I should have left him a year ago but i didn't have the courage, the intensity, or the will to pull through with it.

i thought this would be more fun, but it's just turned out to be a sob story.

fuck it

i could force myself to be more uppity...like when you force a smile.  i guess that feels a teeny bit nicer. i met with a banker today to see if i could take out a loan, but saw that it wasn't possible.  i just have this crazy amount of college-student debt.  now i'm even thinking about taking out another loan so that I could go for my master's...i have been thinking about pursuing creative writing...but, i have not been feeling inspired to write in such a long time.  maybe i just need to feel the environment, or to have a push, to motivate me.  i should use my creative block.  i want to travel.

i don't want to go back to dave.  i don't want to feel like i'm trapped in his mess.

i need to do more work...iiiiiiiiii why can't i talk about anything else other than "I"

yuck.

FUCK.

25.  life is a quarter of the way over, and i've handled it terribly so far.
i mean, shit.  there's always room for improvement.

i've got to try.

HOLY Indian Cow...sensory overload.

I woke up this morning feeling a bit...uneasy. It was funny, because at first I thought the sour kind of energy was coming from a dream, but that proved itself wrong, as I've been in a funk ALL day so far. Yes, this is about to be a turbo combustion of venting. Which strata should I enter first? I could start with the outer most layer of the middle: Financial Obstacles and Persistant Unecessary (but fun) Wants. Finding a job, like...a real solid job that can pay off my debt...all $55,000+ (which apparently, isn't all that bad compared to other students). Monthly payments increase in June, which is when I need to start paying off my government and private (STUPID CHOICE. DO NOT EVER TAKE ONE OUT. No such thing, from what I've seen, as a fixed rate for private loans) loans. The looming shadow that hangs over the next few months majoritively comes from that pickle. You would think that it would make me a bit more motivated to get up off my ass and start sending out resumes left, right, and center. But, alas...I have only gotten around to sending out ONE, yes: ONE resume/cover letter for ONE position, since my JANUARY graduation.
MEN: The inner most layer, features sharp pointy edges extending into the core. Yes, so that that's the place I stand at STILL, even after four months of being quote unquote "Single". All I can and should (probably not) say is that I am in dire need of a pleasuring product or sorts. Bukowski's dirty DIRTY novel Women has helped throughout the past week and a half however. What may be a bit more painful to note about this particular reading (for me), is how closely I am able to identify with Chaniski, the main gluttonous alcohol infused sex-addict character. I certainly do not extend my immoral unreasoning to the lengths of this particular rowdy bloke, but there is a really hefty amount of emotional enchantment between myself and the character while observing the lengths he takes to act out of sheer resonance of the need to feel fulfilled by another person. Is this translating or am I completely bonkers? I'm talking about that sick desire to step so far apart from your own benefit/mental health/sense of self, just to feel the comfort from another person, whether you love them or just think they're damned sexy. But I am getting a little better at the need to give 100% of myself away to any guy that strikes my fancy. Just noticing smaller things. EXAMPLE: I ran into a dude that I had met a few months back at a Lotus afterparty in the city. When we met, we chatted for a few minutes and danced for a few as well...until he stumbled off looking a bit out of it. He was pretty funked up at the time and I volunteered my efforts to tend to his needs (got him water and walked him over to a couch so that he could debunk). The night ended and I left without quite recalling his name or anything about him really. Flash foward and rewind a half step to this past saturday in Albany...BaSSneCtar kicking up heady whomp WHOMPS from the stage, I'm chilling in the crowded building (which was full of underage kids...which was a little bit unsettling for me), just mindin' mah biznezz and shaking mah gr00ve thang...and I bump into the same dude. It took him a couple of seconds to recognize my face, which is no biggie...with some explanation as to how I had met him, a lightbulb went off somewhere up there and he remembered me (always a hilarious sight). Anywhos, he apologized for being so out of it the night we had met and then asked me if I wanted any cocaine, to which I laughed at and negatively responded. He seemed a bit confused as to why I wouldn't want any blow and made the same offer again about five minutes later. Again, I gave the same response. I for some reason ended up getting his number, I can't quite recall if he asked me for mine and I asked for his or if he wanted to give me his...Point of the Story: I am not interested in contacting this person because I am starting to FINALLY develop standards. I am not willing to lower my standards anymore, as where in the past, it was as if i was looking to help other people that I felt the least bit attracted to. Like, I'LL save you! YEAH, fuck that. I'm over and done with that part of my life, because it has brought me nothing but long eduring and emotionally draining relationships. I am over and done with involving myself with men that aren't willing to take care of themselves as much as I am willing to take care of myself. Anyways, I am really looking forward to completing the novel...which leads me to the next stratification of Kalliope (me)...
PROCRASTINATION: What is it? I have no freaking idea. According to everyone that wants/would like for me to get shit done, it feels as if a bomb or social justification clock of some sort is ticking away. I'm all for living in the moment, and I DO so much sometimes that I forget about time. Does this make me the perfect candidate for this human phenomena? Honestly, I am perfectly content with doing what I WANT to do. I consider myself to be...nevermind. I was going to call myself an AVID enthusiast...but then I stumble to say so, because that means that I would have to compare myself with another, at least to make it more clear to you, the reader. Is that a natural habit to make for many though? Like, we're always jumping to compare the subjective...why is that? I have a feeling this is a huge tangent, and it is...but I feel like this might be getting somewhere. Maybe not.

I'm about to delete my Facebook account.

Miraculously enough, after having announced to a mass amount of people that I would be deleting my Facebook account, I become quite twisted as I notice the date. April Fools...hm. Now. I have already considered deleting my account, keeping the promise I made to myself about a week ago. I have been debating the deletion for the past month, as I have seen the retaining of the systematic, habitual destruction of self -I'm still talking about having a profile- to be very inconsistent with my interactions with REAL life. So. On the other hand, I also thought of then creating a new account under an incognito name...Sally Fields, Mother Teresa, something like that...in order to maintain the cycle of debaucherous human existence. But for the sake of what? What good would that serve me? So I have decided to continue on the path of self-righteousness, or stubborness, and delete it. I also told myself that I would have done so an hour and forty minutes ago...and the clock is still ticking. I have good excuses I suppose...Eh. Here goes...feeling a bit edgy...daring? maybe. yes. ok...ah. A breath of air...leads me to feeling...feeling. Like i don't have a facebook account anymore. Not as bad as i thought it would be. Hm. Anywhose. I'm off to bed. Goodnight!

Liberation through Pages

I read Alan Lightman's "Einstein's Dreams" when I was a freshman in high school. I remember reading through the pages and feeling absolutely enlightened and enthralled on behalf of his unique writing style. I don't think the book "saved" me (I took this question quite literally), but I do know that I received the reading with great admiration; it completely changed the way I read books. I began to understand the importance of deconstruction when analyzing texts. I also noted the importance of deconstructing life. Lightman's work questioned facets beyond what I had lived with up to that point. I was absorbed by the concepts Lightman poured onto the pages. The book is stylized as Einstein's personal journal, in which he documents his dreams. Each journal entry is dated and separated into different conceptual worlds Einstein may have dreamed of when developing his theories on physics.

Feedback, Por Favor

Hello ya'll. Here's the four page short story that was due in class yesterday. Just felt like posting it here, I'm looking for feedback. What doesn't work for you, what does, what you'd like to see change... whatever it may be, it'll help me along. I'm looking to eventually turn this into something more... Thanks guys :)

Under the Sun


Her skin is caked with makeup. She looks like dough. They put too much lipstick on her. I don’t think I ever saw her wear lipstick before. I always told her she was too pretty for that crap. I bend over her casket and smear her red lips with my fingers, trying to rid her face of this superficial perversion of beauty. A firm grip on my arm tugs me away from Christine and whispers something in my ear. The words try to beckon me to a couch across the room, but I resist. Her face is smothered with the red coloring.
A young man begins to escort me and the others into an adjacent room filled with luscious plastic plants. Another attendant rushes by me to aid the movement. He nudges my shoulder and his hand falls to my lower back. I meet his eyes beneath a creased brow. He closes the mahogany doors and leaves me floating.
I am rocked through the waves of bodies. They examine me and hug me, with red eyes and sorry faces. Some of them are familiar, but I don’t know most of them. A lot of kids are here from Christine’s school, some of her teachers too.
I want to get away and find a quiet spot, just to be alone, away from this plaintive atmosphere. I make a mild escape to the restroom. It smells like baby powder. She was seven pounds and nine ounces when she came into this world, through me. There is an “Employees Must Wash Hands before Returning to Work” sign above the sink. They call this building a home. I look in the mirror, and try to rearrange my hair. Forget it. I dig into my purse for another Paxil, my 20 milligram friend.
The paper towel dispenser isn’t working so I shake my hands, sending drops of water onto the wallpaper. I watch them leak down through the floral pattern.
I return to the plastic jungle and moments later, the doors leading into the viewing room swing open. I can see the casket from where I’m standing. I am escorted back to my post by Christine. The attendants have cleaned the mess I made. Her lips are only a subtle rose tone; better. Her hair looks great. It’s alive and glistens with light from the sconces on the wall. A pink satin ribbon streams down the side of her face, embracing her cheeks. Last Tuesday, she burst into the front door and joined me in the living room, talking about a new crush in her Physics class. I knew she deserved better from the way she described him, but kept this out of our conversation.
The carpet looks clean, but its red color is faded from hundreds of feet that have trodden on the dye. I trace the paths of the carpet and walk into a separate room with a lengthy mahogany staircase leading to a lower level. The small room is quiet and filled with photographs; portraits of families who have probably made this service thrive throughout the years. I walk timidly around the room, catching the faces in the pictures. I spend a longer amount of time viewing a family portrait dated “1997”, which is engraved on a small piece of metal; bottom center of the frame. All but one face smiles: a middle aged man with pale skin.
The stairs began to creak; I couldn’t see anything walking up them though. I slouch back into the nearest corner and hold my breath, hopeful that my reality will be breeched by a supernatural being. A hand uses the banister as leverage to every step, coming closer. I see that this is not what I was hoping for.
A woman with shoulder length black hair and a plain face has stepped onto the top step, and stares at me. I shrug a little deeper into the corner. She minutely shakes her head and glides into the hallway, dragging the red dye along with her feet. I continue scanning the pictures framed on the wall; back to the ’97 family. I wonder about the man separate from the rest. I feel my mouth becoming dry and notice it is hanging open.
I need to be outside. I wander out of the room and around a corner, into a hallway. I find a door; it must lead to an outdoor backyard or something of the like. I push it open and in no time at all, a loud siren sounds throughout the building. I look down at the handle, and much to my dismay, I read “Warning! Alarm will sound if door is opened.” I walk through the door and find myself in a parking lot.
Pools of water have formed in potholes from yesterday’s rainfall. Gasoline swirls on the surfaces; so festive. A breeze nips at my legs and crawls up my skirt. I don’t recall where my car is parked. I try to remember the traffic patterns and turn signals I used earlier, as I fumble for the keys in my purse.
The alarm fills the funeral home, it leaks out through the windows and into the air. I look back at the building. People are piling onto the front porch, spilling onto the sidewalk.
There is a back exit from the lot onto a side street; this is the route I was hoping for. My keys have found their way into my hand and I stab the lock on the door. Swinging the door open emits cracking sounds from the inner suspensions, I’ve never worried about fixing them until now; they’ve never sounded like this before. I hit my head on the doorframe and crash back into the driver’s seat.
The steering wheel has a little shake to it, as the engine is set into ignition. I look at the side of the funeral home, through my dirty windshield. My eye catches the ‘97 man staring at me from a window on the second story. I want to know him, so I wave. I don’t get any kind of response, but his gaze is fixed on me.
The alarm sounds muffled. I turn the radio; I haven’t turned the dial since she set it. As the music forms over the airwaves, words drift through the air,
“Just a smile would lighten everything. Sexy Sadie, she's the latest and the greatest of them all. She made a fool of everyone, Sexy Sadie. However big you think you are”
I pull out of the parking lot and drift onto other roads.
As I merge onto the state highway, I turn my head to look at the passenger seat. He smiles at me and asks to change the station. I don’t answer him, but he does it anyway.
The lines on the road seem endless, and I’m considering the odds of my death. The clouds have removed themselves from view and I am left alone, under the sun.

Yummy.

Fiction is by far one of the most freeing styles to write in. My opinion of course. Writing fiction is one of my passions. No shame.
Everything about it is captivating. Detail, form, style, characterization, etc. (The list goes on). As the author of a piece takes readers through an alternate twist of their world. The familiarization of readers with characters builds as the story continues, then by the time the conflict occurs, one is able to sympathize. An actual love has been established for the imaginary.
This thought alone gives me chills! It is absolutely amazing.

Conflict must occur in fiction (if you want people to take interest). People can relate to conflict, we breath conflict and resolution. These are lessons we've been taught since kindergarten.

FOR EXAMPLE: Way back when...
Jimmy knocked over my lego tower. CONFLICT
In return, I revealed to the class that Jimmy wet his pants a few days ago. RESOLUTION.

okay. well i guess that's not the best example. but you see why i was going there. Right?

Reviving the forgotten

The word prompt is defined as: "to move to action, to assist by suggesting or saying the next words of something forgotten or imperfectly learned." I find this Merriam Webster definition to be extremely relevant to the context within the poetry prompts. These are in fact exercises used to revive images stored in the memory, in order to complete a work. I have three prompts I found listed below:

Poetry Prompt - List ten items that you would buy at an auction, or tag sale. Write a poem including those items. You may choose to title your poem, "Things Found At An Auction". Variation, have someone else create a list for you.
-By tossing in the list of objects, one is able to draw upon past relations to the items. I really enjoy the idea of having another individual come up with the objects, it makes the exercise become organic and less biased.

Poetry Prompt - Write three shaped-verse poems. Shaped-verse poems are a form of "pattern poetry", where the letters, words, and lines of the poem are arranged to form a picture/outline of the subject of the poem. An example is a poem in the shape of a Christmas tree discussing your thoughts about Christmas itself, family traditions, and so on.
-I remember writing one of these in the third grade, I'm pretty sure my image formed a pidgeon of some sort. I like the idea though, linking words through visuals...

Prose Prompt - Writing the known and the unknown. Close your eyes, let a landscape appear. Allow yourself to view the landscape, taking note of texture and mood. Next, pretend that you have a rose petal in your hand. Feel it between your fingers and give it color and scent. Allow yourself time to make it a realistic experience. Now go back to creating your landscape, again focusing on details and texture. Continue writing about your landscape.
-This really draws upon the unconscious, I like! This is where the good stuff lies. I'm definetely going to try this one out. I also enjoy the shift from the landscape to a small unit of weight (rose petal), and back to the larger mass we know as earth.

By tuning into our emotions, words will spew out of the mind. Our images will translate so well, and these promps will make them even better. It surprises me that most humans have blocked off this ability. Prompts can help get us there. Amen to that.