ok, confession time... it's really not the perversions or the shock value or naked sensuality that turns me on most and while ego would like thousands the flock to my comments and throngs of thong-clad cuties hanging on my every world, my heart (Maria, but my heart) wants so much more that I get stupid (forgetful... scatter-brained... disassociative... ennui, even... yeah, go ahead, put the truth in my face and watch me rub my nose in it... I stick my tongue out whole-heartedly in your general direction and love you all the more for your insight, sensitivity, beautiful mind, and prodding, ok?) and go for the cheap thrill, the easy mark, the fast buck, the only living boy in New York playing the boxer who's story's seldom told but who did squander his resistance on a pocket full of promises all lies in jest still, a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest and, at least in my mind, there are times when I took some comfort there lie dee die, lie dee die die die die die...

huh?...

shhhh, most everybody missed most of that, probably...

so hey ho howdy how the hell are ya all out there in cyberspace?... confession, ok, well, here's some... returning to the first line of this entry for what the second line suggested and using the previous entry as the example, my true interest does not lie with those searching for kiddie porn or even pictures of libido fantasies... my heart wishes I could meet the people searching for my father says world people sleeping only a few are really awake (or the father who said it) or those who believe that there is time enough for love or those pondering Jackson's lyrics (especially The Late Show and other older stuff) or who understands that the answer is not blowing in the wind, the answer is that we must find our place in this world...

but as much as I love to soak up energy from everyone and beam it back out when on center stage, the facts of life sing out loud and clear that strength doesn't lie in numbers, strength doesn't lie in wealth, strength lies in nights of peaceful slumbers when you wake up - wake up - it's healthy... and when not performing (or even when performing) I wish I could find people who remember camp (and not just titillations about band camp, fun as they are) and Bennett Serf and Dr. Seuss and even someone looking for fun...

and yes, a part of me longs for the catharsis of music from Gavin or Pink or John, Paul, George, and Ringo or those searching for memory of self... but all the more I want to joy that comes after that catharsis... cuz you must realize that the hills are alive... and the child wants to come out and play...

but don't waste your breath moaning at the crowd... I feel the passion of the promise of the love that last forever and the wonder of the hope and prayer that sings the twelfth of never and I live my life as best I can to be an honest man, but I do not think you and I have the same plan... while you shine the baubles on your shelf, what I want to understand is what you do with your hands and what ends up in your garbage cans...

it's not as if I want to bring you down and I don't really want to see you crash and burn, it's just that what you do inspires my frown and I don't know what to do to help you learn how cruel your every day life is to me and how much of your worth you do not see as you place value in the stuff you own and hide the truth that every child has known until they learn to fear being alone... it makes no difference what we say, the world will go on anyway, and nothing I can do to you, will bring you to the things you do... in your heart, what's true?... it doesn't matter if you care for me, or if you blame me for your misery, what I want is nothing more for you than to be the best at what you do... and may your heart be true...

and sometimes I can feel the weight of doubts and the child inside cries and the wizard shouts look out look out

look out

LOOK OUT!

but that is when I find somebody peaking in my mind to ask me what is true...

like you...

and raging to the call of my heart that cares too much to see the way this world is dying at it's own hands, humanity dying for it's own plans and I just want to say that if there is a way... don't let me stop your great self-destruction, die if you want to you misguided martyrs, I wash my hands of your demolition, die if you want to you innocent puppets... tired and lonely, feeling not so sure... wondering what lies beyond the door... can I just be real and rest and want for nothing more... for I don't want to drink the poison anymore...

what's that?... confession?... what was it that was said?... rhymes and lyrical prose that rattles like sabers in his head?... who hears the soft voices of the lost and mostly dead?... when the piper must be paid and the monster fed...

well that was refreshing (or painful, depending upon your perspective, so perhaps refreshingly painful as any good catharsis ought to be)... so far we've had musical interludes brought to you by (at least) The Sound of Music, Jesus Christ Superstar, Evita, Phantom of the Opera, Shakespeare, and Mars Volta (with a touch of some old favorites thrown in too), in case you skimmed by too lightly to pick up on any of the not so subtle references... and perhaps a bit of Fallout Boys tossed in subliminally by Precious, who sometimes, when tickling, uses a dual edge sword instead of a feather...

and I do want to jump for joy at the revelations Anna and Findlay have revealed in their alter-egos this week... and wish more than a few Happy Birthdays (to more than those two)... but I am buried in the moods of my own making, the festering gobutits of waaa-waaa-land where the lonelies grab hold of the poor-me(s) to through a stanky pity-party and the deepest cut of all is not even the waiting, it's that I'm not even invited so I skim right by as if it's nothing and motion to the peanut gallery to piss on the cake and pretend it's rain as I sing Macarthur Park silently to myself while letting the clothes pile up all over the floor as if I might fall over at any moment and am preparing a burial cushion of my own sweet stench...

what?... that's no celebration, what sort of calm, quiet interlude is this?... did the show begin again without the obligatory dimming of the lights and ring tones?... I didn't hear any applause?... ah, bittersweet madness, how thou has forsaken me as I play act life all by myself, no longer using the mirror in order to sustain the illusion of youth and vigor and prime cuts for one more performance... one more itch to scratch... one more toke...

and in walks Rasputin so this unobstructed lyrical free-associative deeper referential writing pauses because it requires solitary concentration and any social interactions influence the content and nature of the flow so we can forever wonder what it might have been had it continued in whatever vein is was cutting... and remember, before we pause the pause of the interlude and leave for life offline (hoping to return in time for act two), if you are not laughing, then you are not getting it... and if you do not see rainbows through your tears, then you might be projecting more than seeing because they are out there (here, there, and everywhere) just waiting for your eyes...

and the next morning I wake to start again (or continue, if we're lucky) and find Precious home alone as Raspy went to work and she's got stuff to discuss (she apparently lost her $300+ iPod at school and her glasses fell off in the mosh pit at the Panic at the Disco! concert at the house of Blues last night, so panic at the disco is turning into panic at the home as she's trying to find ways to fix it...

after some online research, she says Visa reimburses for items lost or stolen up to $500 and hopes Raspy used his Visa card for the iPod and she has a warranty for the glasses (that probably doesn't cover mosh pits, but that bit of info can be left out), so it might not be as costly as it could be... though since this is the second toy she's lost at school (the first was a CD/MP3 player a while back), whether the replacement iPod (if it's replaced) should travel to school each day is questionable...

of course that's one reason to have an iPod (in spite of school rules) and she hasn't lost her cell phones (though she's broken at least one)... apparently she's got a long history of losing and breaking things as she used to lose her keys a lot when she was younger, though she's not lost them to my knowledge since living here...

so we mourn the losses and expenses and hopefully learn to be more careful with our stuff at school and this entry (oh, was I writing an entry?) may never return to wherever is was it was going, but the effort is about to be made to find some of the threads and see what sort of cloth can be woven...

last year around this time I sent out many random Valentines notes and received many replies... optimism was shining brighter for the romantic in me, I suppose... these days reading sweet sentimental love stories just crumbles my cookies and all I want to do is curl up and indulge the mostly dead, but hope does spring eternal in me and even as I languish in distraction and lazy folly, I find amusement in the wind and pleasure in the rain and I know I only have to open my eyes to see the rainbows behind the clouds...

author's note: the depths and girths of the lyrics and emotions and history and fantasy and such and such is not back to where it was in part one, in case you did not notice, but then, that may best represent the folly and babbler that part two always was dedicated to in my ancient writings... everything was at least a three part concept and had several purposes or categories or some sort of name in my head and all that's in boxes in storage so if you want to know the real secrets of who I am and how I became me, you'll just have to find a way to share the stuff when it's finally unpacked... someday... somewhere... somehow... yeah...

traditionally, this is where I ramble off for hours and hours until there is nothing left in my mind and all I can do is drop into the depths of my heart (which would be part three in the old ways), often after sleep so everything is refreshed because I am reborn and see everything through my newborn eyes and still have much of the education and faculty of my literary brain (but none of the clutter of second or third or umpteen other thoughts) so it works well for self-expression of the heart...

there is no direction, no plan, no rules, no paths, just babble... and the difference for the moment is two other people in the space and the TV on and no music and the body at low ebb and daylight (this process usually works best at night) and the acceptance of all these excuses (what bullshit I am handing myself and daring myself to swallow and it's not turning my stomach as much as it used to which is a horrible sign that I am giving in to the conformity of blah nothingness that extends as far as most eyes can see and becomes the world as we know it as humans at this point in time...

part one was so much more fun (and me derisive laughter at myself is probably because I did not indulge in any chocolate this week {maybe I can find some stashed away somewhere?... yes, I still have some Halloween chocolate around here somewhere... and yes, a Reese's, a Three Musketeers, and some cheap stuff} or caffeine for that matter {don't think I have any in the house... wait, green tea... does green tea have caffeine?... look at me, the junkie looking for drugs to change the mood... how pathetic... and with the Olympics on too... I could say that at least I am not jonesing for the more debilitating drugs, but then, who's to say sugar, chocolate, and caffeine are any better than any others... I am way too serious for this sort of party... oh, I thought the party was over?... nope, not as long as human influences remain and I remain too stupid to bubble myself off from them... so where's my petard, anyway?)...

maybe I should just go hunting vaginas...

. o O ( NOTES ARE THE NEW HAPPY PILL ) O o .
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