Tuesday, October 27, 2015

i share a few "drafts"- for lack of better word- from my last diary, that i may or may not have done anything with- but i really admire them in their "draft" forms. i chose to cut-up.

hi; my name is famous. people got mad at me when princess diana died because the song i dedicated in memoriam to her life was a song i had already made years ago for marilyn monroe.
hi; this book report will be about the consequences (results) of being a rockstar. my name is nature (exhibit). one day, i wandered outside the woods. i discovered an apple and ate it and went into the big city.
the big city itself, and maps of the big city itself, were sold there. people were sold there. everything was sold there- either that, or they were waiting to be sold.
i began to be sold there...
one day, i went back to the woods and learned the big city took parts of me, nature, that it wasn't willing to give back- and, it didn't have it in itself to give back to me, or anyone else. the city was biologically predisposed to ulterior motives.
it's okay, i said, without believing it. "it's okay" became the only thing i was to ever say.
"it's okay" was useful because i worked hard at taking care of animals and plants (life) and making things seem okay.

as i had mentioned, one day i was lured by an apple- half red and half green- by an ugly old lady from my house where i was told by my housemates, or, employers (seven, all little all men- who could've actually been divided parts of my own fragmented identity, come to think of it) not to talk to old ugly ladies.
"or else," said they, "or else...."
"or else" means i don't know yet, but just you wait.
on a carriage, a merry dream, i was swept into, headed toward the heart of the big city...and i saw several more little men...multitudinous little men...all of them...in bands, banded up together.

you do not have to clean

do you have
to be

we- (me, the charismatic and stylish frontwoman and a band of small men- far smaller- than me) were sneaked into a hot-spot-shithole called CBGBs- then- arenas. together, with gladness, we were merry....i lost inhibition which was destiny.

i got jaded because i was naive when i started and totally forgot. i was sucked quick into the big leagues and didn't know any of my nervous ticks. it seems, in hindsight, everything i did was a nervous tick.

i went back to the woods.

the original little men were all now twice the age i once was, and twice the size i was, since i had seen them last, since i abandoned them- when i was but a kid. and even though i was but a kid when that happened, they wouldn't take me back. mob. mob mentality.
i never saw the seven fragments of my shattered self again; just pictured them kinda.

i went on to sit in a television- that for it- i served as a screen. the commercials went on without me needing to be there, between me (lullabies). where is my purpose?

i went on a life-diet and slept for twenty years
i was awoken by little men. all of them ever had hunted me down. "emily, you rotting cunt-thief!" said grumpy (all of them). i was a fugitive of theirs, you see...one that ran from promises which i failed to fulfill my end of. "take out the trash!"
"but but"
"kick growl, kick! fuck fuck our trash, white trash!"
"fuck fuck"
"fuck fuck fuck so disappointed in you. fuck so disappointed. fuck disappointed feelings fuck you, fuck disappointment, fuck your responsibility. fuck need to apologize for this, fuck."
"fuck fuck"
"fuck fuck fuck lie fuck fuck small men fuck fuck fuck you said sorry-fuck you caved into an apology."

everything fucked until i really did cave into an apology. then i went back to sleep: "zzzzzzzz."

my nipples are pink. my nipples are proportionate to my breasts- i'd prefer to call them tits. my tits are plump.
i am unhappy concerning my relationship with my genitals. they hurt.
i want to have sex one day. i want to have sex one day if sex equates liberation, of the over-and-over-again kind.

daddy unties the knot
of his tie.
a distant cousin says, "we shouldn't be doing this. we don't have to do this," as i seduce him. he loses his backbone. somebody has got to serve as the backbone. i become the backbone. this is the method of seduction.
a flower pollinates and attracts honey-bees, mantises. the amount of the honey-bees and mantises grows until it becomes so many more of them that the flower is covered- adorned.
an orchid does not care about her beauty. she cares about attracting others. there are so many kinds of orchids out there. they are all beautiful. they attract everyone.

"others" have madonna-whore complexes.
madonna must protect the whores from being violated. madonna
is always trying to be a nice guy.

daddies drug buddies are delighted, even grateful, even blessed, to have an opportunity to bone madonna. madonna takes on the role of being a whore one day every century, to know what it is she empathizes with.
"yes, we are doing this." i've got it, we have to do it. "daddy is videotaping it."

(the "i am a dying slut" story...): the ancient spirit in the forest lures the little fawn-body into his life by calling to her in her dreams.
"i will save you." he assures her, voice of the winds. his face is all of the clouds in the sky. she sleepwalks to him. she doesn't know she's "in" love, or that you can delve into love in the first place. she's pretty sure she's doing what he says because she is wildly curious about the voice of the winds, face of the clouds.
when the not-apparent sex-fiends of her dream is about to achieve orgasm, she wills herself to, as well. she slows down to make his orgasm mean nothing next to the rest of the sex happening. she wants the motion to pulsate. she feels like a carnivorous plant: she feels her body close up as her muscles tense up into a stupid ache around the sex-fiend's sex. he still appears to her as a voice of the winds, face of the clouds. the moment her muscles give out and relax, they spasm- because, she can now see the sex-fiend for only his ugliness. she does not enjoy her experience- it is not an orgasm. it hurts, and she is frustrated, and realizes she has been tricked by all she has been warned against.
she now understands why rebellion is bad. she never orgasms, except a little bit.
she has yet to orgasm past a little bit sometimes. only the sex-fiend can touch her now that he has seen her: voice of the winds, face of the clouds.

hunting for the secrets of the forest, with closed eyes, the wild (untameable) youth- a nymph without a chunk of nature to be claimed by- really wants to seduce the adler man who does not speak, or kiss. he does not have a mouth. what she wants is a chunk of nature to claim and be claimed by.
he is sundry and wise. he grows antlers. his antlers grow into trees. the trees grow into the clouds. the clouds grow and grow and grow. the adler man is stiff on his hooves.
the nymph discovers the fountain that she is, and lives forever.

i died while living forever. papa shot himself in the heart and lived. that's how we learned- me and my family- we were going to live forever. the bullet wedged itself and grew into new cells. now papa has bullet-cells and bullet-arteries that come from his bullet-heart.
i live without reason because i'm not attracted to it- but that does not mean i live for anything else other than for the sake of living- being of the process- although i do like things...i like strong and potent things.
i do live with a deathwish sometimes. it is hard to accept because i am nature. being nature is my job.
i do not find anything "in" nature. i find nature.

truth-serm weakens resolve; compliance to pressure; lies are complex and truth-telling.
it's cancer. it's spreading. "well, of course it's spreading- it is cancer, after all."

look at them antlers! the forest is coming to stab me! will you just look at them antlers? life is a game of peek-a-boo! it's just so all-embracing.
look at them antlers (pricks)!

look, my comatose state. look at my dream bank. it doesn't go away. it's too all-embracing. i'm rich with enchantment. i can't enjoy it. there's too much, and i live in a city where giving has never been heard of before.
let's be serious. deep down, my sensibilities resist, and resistance alone is why my sensibilities are sad.