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Shiz, Baroness of the Barometer
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[17 May 2007|11:21pm] |
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uh, "virgin" as in records, airlines, and wool....
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| this is the journal where i go to scream. |
[25 Nov 2006|07:03am] |
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aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaaeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiy. yauauauauaaauauaauauauauaaiaiaiaiaiaaiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
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[27 Jan 2006|10:07am] |
With his hair down, naked, glasses off, his face is soft and open and the understanding is better than words. maybe its just the happy misunderstanding quiet moments allow, or maybe it's a radiance, his self pressed up against me close enough to feel it like the heat from his skin; it's good.
in bed he wants to be close to me, and what close means is easy and obvious to both of us.
I don't remember if I told him about this journal. If I were sure he were reading I'd be too embarassed. that's a shame.
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[30 Jul 2005|05:38pm] |
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someone saw the cat in my window and tapped. it's her cat, apparently. so i handed him over. aw.
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[03 Jun 2005|05:30am] |
Gawd I hate these things.
1. Doormice
2. forbade
3. meathook-like
4.woe (with-out elbow)!!!! lol
5.Bangor, ME
6. STFU
7. creedence clearwater, muddy waters, and crystal gale
8. cribbage
9. walnuts
10. Big Hearts for Tarts auction, 2003 ("Velvet Deputy Dawg", Stephen Hawking)
Bonus: Trees Lounge
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[02 Jun 2005|11:21pm] |
For various boring reasons, most entries from now on will be friends only.
While I like strangers and will add you if you say "hullo", please note that I have a separate journal for those who aren't malevolently crazy.
Your pal,
the virgin of guadalupe
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| Pt 2 |
[13 May 2004|02:28pm] |
In case you're wondering who these people are...
Every kid wants to know the names of the people in the story. In this case, who was at the party?
Its set in the future, yknow, so there are like futuristic names, and titles indicating a new post internet social structure. In this poem, though they dont have speaking roles, if you slow down as you walk through you might notice "Baron Von Wvzbkktw@yahoo.com", so tiresome with his continual Promotion Alerts of stocks.
Right next to him, the fellow who seems to be wearing a bugs bunny mask? She's a bit older so quite quite dull. She grew up in that time before we realized as a society that a child, no matter how precious, no matter how wobbly and cunning from mother's last divorce, she should not be able to make plastic surgery decisions at least until the age of thirteen. Never mind her name. If you even look at her she'll hop over.
It seems actually that "Sir CoolkidS415@netscape.net", the maroon, has succumbed to her charms. See him there by the lightning bowl holding two glasses? Yes, the one with the funny neon elbow length gloves. I know, so last season. Don't go near him either.---
"Long time no talk, my old name was ____" he'll say, sidling up ingratiatingly, as you probably say to yourself "who is this man but let him get closer still, close enough to press naked pictures of women printed on ricepaper into your grasp. Theyll melt within a moment of entering the damp-palmed oasis, leaving only an ink imprint of a 900# and .com calling card.
And that guy over there? He goes by Lkmghhlqlor@twgs.qld.edu.au. I have no idea what he does, but you'll get the virus just talking to him.
As for the rest of them, well. Actually I'm just guessing. If you want to tell me who you think these people are, i should find it quite entertaining.
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[14 Nov 2003|02:27pm] |
I've got you under my skin.
I've got you deep in the heart of me
So deep in my heart you're really a part of me (baby, baby, baby)
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[16 Jun 2003|03:54am] |
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[25 Feb 2003|06:24pm] |
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Hi Irene!
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[01 Oct 2002|09:29am] |
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last entry. bye.
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| The AP version of the story |
[30 Sep 2002|08:12pm] |
The execution will be a musical,
the chorus, all Mormon.
An electric rhyme shoots down the line.
i have gone to fly a kite. I don't do it for me or for you,
but possibly out of spite.
the mouse in the eye in the pyramid plans to save the day
second-guess is a rightclick cosmic disco sidekick still sequinsing your genes, in the hopes of making up your mind.
there is a pile of fait accompli in the destiny bin. we think to find the key, we make port in mouse village (from raison d'etre on the vine)
an array of sunshine, they keep calling you
to taste an airtight box you cannot get your shine through,
the sea tides ill, the sea foams an expired blue latte
that guarantees to out that damned spot
we come calling on a typical joke in our flying fire engine--
a dragoon and a platoon are on an airplane and there's only enough parachutes
for three, which is just as well because the rest are bound by a constellation of five pointed
arguments, their devotion captured by incantation, those three little words* that form the big dipper.
I am the huntress!
I am the pilot!
We're out of airline peanuts!
we are all made of stars.
but what now? what you want to do, my meesey moosey maosie advice seeking friend, is to stop scaring the menagerie-little elephants have big ears and carry tails--they think this cat, when let out of the bag, will spend the night verbing dromedary nouns.
Someone don't tell us something right. (one story has itwe learned our english from blurbs on the back of porn tapes).
A yogurt-drenched message found on the tide advises us that the words are coming to an end, (it turns out the mean of the meanness of meaning does not justify the means.)
they ride on four horses named
-misplaced apostrophe
-parts of speech lacking consensus ('ol joe for short)
-word inflation
-buster keaton (the intrusive narrator's current favorite)
But they have demands advertised by their hooves
(i know you saw them when looking out to sea. why did you not tell me?)
you believe in action,
but what is there to do?
can you fight a code inside us that was put there before hammurabi drew his first breath? chomsky might say...bugger what chomsky might say.**
as an executable you understand that nothing
is really shocking, and only tupper wares can truly save.
*those words have not been recorded, but top scholars suggest the text supports the following. (which do you think it is?
1.stop, drop, roll
2. shuffle it all
3. three bloody stars
4. copyright 2000 o'reilly
5. A printed bar mitzvah invitation was found nearby printed with the words "orion plus two". unfortunately, top scholars do not remember any astronomy and do not wish to research this or the possible implications of such, any further.
**experts say. some journal, some date, some page, as per some popular standard of citation.
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| I beg your pardon? |
[30 Sep 2002|03:09am] |
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Call the governor and tell him we're not going to do it.
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[26 Sep 2002|12:35pm] |
1
Kitty is taller than me. She stands on her hind legs and sometimes wears high heels.
She is the ringleader of the valance conspiracy. She sheds all over the place.
2
Penguin walking down the street, your feet don't fit your shoes. Your brain is on a different speed from your body. Your eyes are fixed, you stare out. pavement scratching against plastic and something rattles inside.
3
Someone is spying on you
4
Those extra ten or twenty pounds are back, but they don't earn interest.you are out of synch with the rest of the movie, jerk like a puppet, and no one wants to look at you. Their eyes inform you whether you are an aimless derelict ship drifting beyond the universe, with the smell of quarantine, or pavlov's belle, stimulus of drool. as you your eyes fix on something off camera.
as a casting director, you seek out people who will approve or disapprove of your every turn. in life, silence is too maddening, time lapse photography slowed down, half the speed of living. to face the music, to keep the score,
you put pictures before your eyes and turn on the music. turning the camera crank, out pops jack. surrounded by props, you're a prop yourself. the dust settles for less, is a fine grey coating on more.
they tell you everything is ok. you are lighter than water, this is atlantis and you will ascend like mary any day now. wet behind the ears, dry, behind the eyes you dont care. you sit smoking styrofoam between takes.
(scratch the frosting and theres no taste. one day the eggs will return from the cakes, will roost themselves atop the groom's tophat until a chicken is made.) the lines grow. rant, speech, memory persists. but your story doesnt appeal. you are in a paragraph bubble, you are lighter than plot development fluid.
the only significant time units are "this hour" and "tomorrow." this is good enough for the hour, along with a dust filled pinata, ashes of styrofoam and a president made of packing peanut.
these activities have nothing to do with tomorrow. if you were acting for tomorrow, you would just sit. it is too heavy. mannn.
an hour, this undemanding hour. and popcorn! and butter. and another half hour. The hero dies in the first five minutes, a coward, afraid of the camera, the ticket-taker hides in a plexiglass booth with a sack full of refunds, dollar sign printed on the side.
benevolent white man, blond hair in a middle part, the gracious richie rich will keep it all, we will worship him all the while.
oh, jesus i will not complain:
her parents tells stories of things she did when she was three.sometimes theyre charmingly embarrassing, sometimes theyre meant to inform upon her current character. underneath i hear menace.
you are that girl.
there is no escaping.
we are keeping track. we own your history.
you will never leave. you can never leave us behind.
you are our girl forever.
you can't be ashamed of us,
because you are us.
we know you. we own your history. you will never truly leave."
I hear her telling the stories now.
she said they would beat her when she had trouble learning to read, but her brother was saved from that by a television special on dyslexia.
they live in the rubble of their stuff. an empire of torn newspaper, canned overflow of pantry, laundry in various states of doing. cat litter. their folks in turn live downstairs. no one pays rent, and no one has money. dad's paycheck is for his electronics habit, and that is all. he makes jokes and looks to see if i laugh. they live with him with an unflashy anger.
he and she are in their early fifties, know the same jokes, and were dressed in matching plaid shirts at the ren faire, not by design. maybe they are surgically inseparable.
what's it mean to want better than your parents?
when a redneck laughs with the sound of a little boy, and you think you hear all the innocence in the world in it, there is a pang of something. there are too many stories for anyone to really care. you care, don't you?
you think back to seven years ago, you dont remember properly but he wanted to do something,he had some sort of plan, it was probably something stupid, he was an arse back then but far too beautiful to look at, the sort who causes a revolution in your underbelly. i dont remember the details but i remember him. and now the phrase "darky jokes" comes from his mouth, and "there are enough caramel children in the world", and so help me what should i say to a drunk asshole that would do anything besides make reinforce a sense of my own righteousness?
she says "maybe you should burn incense", he passes her the joint, he points out the vicious curving intestine of the road where their(the buddies, the ol boys) lifeblood pumped out after being shaken, they were three giant martinis and the other guy thought he was paralysed but they will still go to that bar tonight, and they will not be walking.
(she should not smoke pot, not because its bad for her but because shes my friend, mine mine mine), (and i equate it with giving up on something important, or not believing in something.) flypaper lives, roach motel jobs, but i dont have the energy for my easy life either.
i would save. i dont like him but i think for a moment. to save him i would have to be the girlfriend with the rod of steel down her spine, a lightning rod diverter of evil electrical spirits from his poor crystalline clear channel coked up head. They dont know what to do about him, she says. I watch the world be ugly. I dont know what to do. Thinking about it is a hobby.
What does it mean to want better than your parents? conjuring by repetition, or perhaps you are to do something different each time you read the question. M's mother looked just like her. They both were china dolls with sharp voices, maria had a big dueling scar down the side of her cheek. M's mother, naked, raving, running out. M took care. Dad hid in his office. they had a dog; a big, dark, paternal dog, a labrador retriever. M could not stay.
they were more like sisters than anything else, laughing at the same jokes, same outlook. the same disorders. she had to leave. there were reasons. M's mom is a little woman in her early forties, with big glasses, very lost in the end of my memory of her.
so shut up about her.
the blameless sadness. i dont believe in enduring. i believe in transcending, looking and seeing and knowing and floating away. it was good enough for them and its not good enough for me.
but there is no problem really. the sizzle of hair against incense. a smell that will linger longer than any facial expression. call it decay. call it sensation seeking. it is a hunger, this consuming love forevermore unsatisfied.
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[24 Sep 2002|01:34pm] |
It is all bad and there is nothing to be said about it.
Radio silence.
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[19 Sep 2002|10:07pm] |
Nails without rust and your blood without lemon juice.
Or would you like to see the menu?
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| Kohl Esther Olll is a high cholo |
[17 Sep 2002|11:55pm] |
With smoke rimmed eyes, noxious fumes from her nostrils.
Her innards are drip dry. Call the rabbi, there's meat to be supervised!
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srrfitness's journal
