In The Abstract

Life........

2010-10-14T13:28:00.000-04:00

Well, things between Joshua and I are rough right now, we're separated at the moment, sleeping in separate rooms... starting over... I managed to talk my landlady into not kicking us out while I get back up on my feet, got my job back at GCS, and I plan on busting my ASS and getting as much overtime as I can, I'm ready to turn my life around and start doing things for me and not to make other people happy. It's gonna be a hard walk but it will so be worth it in the end. Maybe I'll go back to school.

Been working on tshirt recons to sell online, when I get enough made I'll open up an etsy shop, to make some small $ on the side. Peace.

It's been a while....

2010-09-14T03:02:00.003-04:00

No longer in college...Living the "crap apartment/crap job/broke a lot" kinda life.
I guess this isn't an ENG10# blog anymore, but I do come to look at what I wrote on occasion...

Been spending a lot of time taking an outsider's persective on my own life, and found a lot of things awry, internally and externally.

For the most part, happiness is a constant struggle, and a lot of it has to do with my own personal choices... I've discovered I've given nearly every artistic element of myself away to nothing and sacrificed it to please someone I love... and in discovering that I've also created a great big chasm and a whole new basket of resentment...

I miss school, and I would like to go back and perhaps find an actual major... something simple and portable. Like phlebotomy. Easy to take anywhere... just enough gore and science to remain exciting.

I don't know if Goldfine still gets updates on old blogs, but I think it will be amusing to see.

Josh has morphed into an entirely different kind of animal... the selfish, *ignorance is bliss* kind. You know, that breed that seems to do (whilst unaware) horrible things constantly without any discretion or consideration? I find myself looking for reasons to be alone frequently now. Communication is futile, whereas it used to be extremely open ended. My feelings seem to be of no matter until he hasn't seen me for a couple of days. It seems as though his concern for my happiness only appears when I dissappear. Peculiar, and extremely redundant. I'm very tired.

My days feel numbered.. yet completely numberless....... all blurred into one sorry existance, just waiting to be obliterated.

I'm very angry and lonely and just plain bored. Things never seem to work out the way they ought to. Josh is... at times... caring, innocent, and fun....but is also... in many ways... his father's son... abusive, opinionated, lazy, and just a *few* years late for apologies.

I Love the dog. Beginning to really dislike the dog. But he's .... he's constantly being... well... a dog. Joshua's dog, to be precise. Licking the furniture and everything else he can lick, Eating poop out of the catbox, begging...2 inches from my food, and my FACE....jumping/lying on the bed.... pulling the leash.... blocking EVERYWHERE I want to walk... ripping my velvet bed set... snoring... barking for 10 minute intervals... gouging holes in my toes with his claws... Eating the dirty socks... Peeing on the carpet, stealing the cat food/garbage/dinner/gum in my purse.....It's like having 2 Josh's.
I'm definately a cat person.

I want to run away, but I have no place to take the cats. Simon and Bernard won't road trip well.

Freestyle # 14

2005-12-07T11:43:00.002-05:00

hmm... Christmas is around the corner... and I bought Joshua a guitar for christmas. I gave it to him already because I was too excited. I was tired of seeing him play that stupid old kids guitar that sounded like somebody covered the strings with crisco and decided that it needed a few dents before it would be properly played. it's horrible. Josh wants to be a rock star. He cannot sing very well, and I'm trying to help him develop his vocal chords. what I'm worried about is that it's all he wants. I hope in the future that things will go as we want them to, but I also don't want to forget family and home.

Freestyle # 13

2005-12-07T11:43:00.001-05:00

Looking into the cool, silver surface of her reflection she can see nothing but hatred in her hazel green eyes. She hates her skin, never smooth and soft as she wants it to be, open pores which never seem to get clean and create that seamless complexion she sees on everyone she wants to be. Her hair is broken, damaged. She takes as best care of it as she can yet can never get it to be sleek and shiny, smooth and straight. It seems too thick to manage and unruly in its ways. It hasn’t been its natural colour since she was maybe 13 years old. The dull, grey-brown it was could never satisfy her taste. It wasn’t bright enough, not the vibrant red she always wanted. Her lips she thought, were not full like she wished they were, and her chin has a dimple, one which she could do well without. She didn't like how her face was so round, and how her hairline was not quite a widow's peak, or the mole she has on her chin. She didn't like anything about herself... and yet, with all these flaws, she still has a boyfriend, no, a fiance, that likes her reflection, and helps teach her to like it as well.

Freestyle # 12

2005-12-07T11:43:00.000-05:00

It's snowing outside. The white flurries pass across my vision and it's a warm snow, a silent snow. I feel like standing underneath these white clouds and claiming my redemption, my salvation. I feel like I've dissapointed someone, God? Sometimes I don't know what the hell I'll ever believe in. I can't say I believe in anything, because I believe in the possibility of everything. It torments Joshua, and it's something he hates. I don't know what to do this year at christmas time... I hate being split in two. I don't even feel like celebrating anything now, I just feel like dying. I betrayed myself. What is it? Why does religion have to be so important? I grew up in somewhat of a pagan background, and I believe in a lot of those things, but I don't close my mind to other things. I am open to believing anything, because I'll never know what is real. I haven't met any religion where I find it in my heart, that faith. There is nothing there. I'm scared sometimes that this my hurt my relationship with Joshua because he believes so strongly in his religion, and often times he judges me for what I can't feel. I don't exactly know where I stand. I wish organized religion didn't exist.

Freestyle # 11

2005-12-07T11:42:00.000-05:00

I feel like a murderer. I killed something yesterday. A love, a smile, a hope. I murdered it brutally with a cold piece of stainless steel. It was the hardest thing I ever had to do. I feel this insufferable loss that I don't think I can ever explain, and it's overtaking me at this moment. I don't want to eat, I don't want to sleep, I don't want to live. Guilt for someone I've ruined. My mind said no and my heart said yes, but now everything feels regret and self-loathing. I'll have to wait, I said to myself, and I destroyed him. I;m running behind on love and it's getting hard to keep up sometimes, but I think this has made me want to try harder.

Freestyle # 10

2005-12-07T11:35:00.000-05:00

I've come to notice a few things about my job. I like it. Not because I really like what I do, but because I like the interesting people I meet every day. There are cashiers who just complain and complain all the time, but I can't see why it's so stressful. I'm naturally a nice, caring person, and I'm interested in people's lives and how they are feeling and what their wishes are. I talk to my customers, and a lot of cashiers don't do that. They just bag the groceries, smile, and say"have a nice day", and off they are on to the next transaction. I interact with my customers, I bag their things properly, ask their opinions, make commentson how they look or what they are buying, and relate to them in some way or another. This strikes up conversation, which then leads to appreciation. I think it makes their day better to know that someone is interested in what they are doing. Someone can be in the worst mood ever, and If I can relate to that person and talk to them just a little, they leave with a smile. I've gotten a lot of compliments on my performance as person, not as a cashier.

Freestyle # 9

2005-12-06T11:24:00.000-05:00

Customers hustle and bustle about, it's another boring day at work. Wal-mart isn't all that fun a place sometimes, but I meet a few interesting people at the registers, and some really nasty ones. Some smell very bad, like rotten old onions and moldy bread. Ther are people who blab on their cellphone while I'm scanning and bagging their groceries, which is rather annoying when I try to ask them a question about what they are buying, what bag I can put it in, whether or not they want to keep something out so they can eat it or use it or keep it in their purse. There's the occasion punk kid who tries to make wise-ass comments, and the flirty older gentlemen, who makes friendly gestures and comments about how nice I look. People make comments about my engagement ring, and ask about my college career, what I plan for my future. I hate it when mothers come in late at night with their children who should be sleeping, and buy craploads of food that isn't even nutritional. There are the young parents with WIC checks, buying eggs and milk and frozen juice concentrates, and there are those with the foodstamp card who separate their groceries on the belt, oh so very nicely for me. I am the observer, and working up front at the register is entertaining, although tiresome; but even though I get tired and sometimes a little stressed, It's always great to meet all sorts of people and help them in some way or another.

Graf # 18

2005-12-06T11:22:00.001-05:00

My writing throughout this semester has fluctuated. I'm like a hazel eye decidsing wheter or not to be green or blue. I really liked my writing, and there were times I hated it, but overall I'm proud of what I've done this semester, good or bad. I appreciate the things that were thrown back at me because they needed to be.

Graf # 17

2005-12-06T11:22:00.000-05:00

I really enjoyed this course. I love to write and I think that writing in a strict non-fiction manner has helped me more to put myself into literal terms. I am a person who uses metaphor after metaphor, and I'ver learned to really express myself without hiding behing things. As goldfine puts it, I write with naked hands. I've really felt strongly about what I write, and I've gotten the greatest compliments of all, and those were the ones where he couldn't say anything at all. I'm going on to that creative nonfiction class next year, because this semester can't hold it, but I really look forward to another class held by Goldfine.

Graf # 16

2005-12-06T11:21:00.001-05:00

I also enjoyed writing this essay. What I didn't like is how many times it was handed back to me and rewritten. I'm stubborn and I do not like to be told to rewrite things that I feel are completed. Well, actually, I just wanted to get the damn thing out of my hair, because I had a shitload of things to finish and I didn't want to have to look at it again, as with all of the work I accomplish on the last minute. I work a lot and so it's hard for me sometimes to balance between school, work, and my high maintenance relationship with my fiance.

Graf # 15

2005-12-06T11:21:00.000-05:00

I liked writing the classification essay. The fanbase is something I know a lot about, because I had been a part of the Hanson fanbase... which.. is... inSANE... I've been right there in the middle of all of those fan-stages. Hanson is one of those bands that you either love, or you hate, and I am a hanson lover.

Prompt Reaction # 14

2005-12-06T11:00:00.000-05:00

Sex, drugs, rock and roll!

The hall is empty. There is not a single person in sight as I carry my sticks up the stairs and with me behind the set. There is no tune, no melody, only me and my rhythm, and the echoes on the walls. I twirl the smooth wood between my fingers, like I twirled his flaxen curls, and adjust the cymbals and snare to my tastes. Looking around for any sign of humanity, I get ready to create the scene. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, relax my muscles, and crack my knuckles. My rings come off, and my shoes tied tight. With few counted measures, I let my body do the work, creating a jungle-like rhythm that verberates across the empty space of the auditorium. I close my eyes and see myself at a piano, playing a melody guided by the beat of my drums, and an acoustic guitar weaving it's way into the song. A harmonica hums at the bridge and there, in the midst of it all, comes the waves of the bass guitar, syncronized with both the drums and guitar. In my mind I see a crowd appear. First a few, than many, young and old, short and tall, skinny and fat, and of all races and colours. I think "This is my unity", as I create the sounds for everyone to hear. As they wave there hands in the air, A voice coos into the microphone silken like his whispers, and then another like his cries, and another like his laughter, and a three part harmony escapes into the soundwaves, wrapping its way in and around the tune. The harmonica fades into a whisper and dies down, as the bass and guitar way their final plucks and strums. The piano keys make thier last blinding impression and they sit quietly, as the last words in the voice are out. All that's left is the standing beat of the drums, and the colours racing behind my eyelids. I make one final tap-tap-tap on the snare drum and open my eyes. The hall is empty. There is not a single person in sight. There is no tune, no melody, only me and my rhythm, and the echoes on the walls. This is my unity. This is you.

Prompt Reaction # 13

2005-12-05T11:25:00.000-05:00

"We are gathered here today to remember....."

One day of loss has surmounted to levels of pain unimaginable to the young and to the old. We are gathered here today to remember a smile. Not just any ordinary smile, but one framed in kindness and love; Memories of laughter and joy, of innocence and purity, of appreciation and respect. We’re here to remember a loving embrace, and a comforting pat on the back. A memory of sprinklers and finger paints and play-doh mashed to bits. Pig tails and butterflies, and dandelions blowing in the wind; Walks through the mossy trees, looking for sparkles of fairy light, and water balloons falling on your head. We’re here to remember the starry nights on the trampoline, and green dolls made of yarn at a Girl Scout meeting. Here to remember the rat-tat-tat on a snare drum and the tinkle on piano keys, heart and soul dancing to and fro. We are here to remember The Neverending Story and Chuckie the mouse, smashing lipstick in the rat’s wire screen cage cover, Osirus buried in the vegetable Garden. To remember days in the backyard- tag football, Aaron and Omar, with the purple marker, a ring, and jealousy between sisters. We are here to remember Jessica and her sugar free candies, and a phone call to the police over pixie stix. Big bean bag chairs, and an Interview with a Vampire, ghostbusters at 2am and the last goodbye on a Saturday morning. Here, the memories of Gary the giant, and A little mermaid and a genie. Mickey and Minnie, Dolls and puppy dogs, Patch and Lyla and Sparky the fish, and Baloo, the big orange bear cat. There’s one more thing we can’t forget, and that’s Fleetwood Mac, and Stevie Nicks for Gene, the flaming homosexual who lived in our livingroom. We are here today to remember the very first day it all dissappeared, the day I grew up.

Division Essay

2005-12-03T20:04:00.000-05:00

Perfect Music

I’ve often spent hours laying in bed listening to music, letting my body absorb the powerful waves of bass, the tangy, sweet chords of an acoustic guitar, and the gentle tinkering of a grand piano. I’ve been taken over by the jungle-like drums and swept high and low with the hum of a violin. I’ve been blasted away by distorted notes and pulled to pieces by harmonized voices, and I’ve almost never come close to hearing perfect music. Some say perfection doesn’t exist, but exist it does, and in very real places. It’s in the heart, in the mind’s eye, in that very deep secret you never wanted to keep. Perfect music makes my soul come alive. It makes me cry, makes me laugh, and enrages me all at the same time. Perfect music invokes my deepest emotions. You can’t have perfect music, without good lyrics. When music is perfect, the lyrics flow as smoothly as the notes themselves, and they always come from within. Perfect music isn’t in any particular genre; no specific group, like rap, or rock, or country, or pop. Perfect music is unique in classification. Perfection is created through the imperfect, and those are the ground rules.

I’ve listened to all sorts of songs, upbeat, and downers, and all sorts of in-betweens. Some of the best music I’ve heard combines all three. At my grandfather’s funeral, they played music that brought forth memories and love. Now every time I hear those songs, I get emotional and I have to turn them off. That isn’t perfect music, but it does invoke emotion. Perfect music has the ups and the downs that can send your heart rate up through the roof, and down through the cold caverns of pain. When I listen to Silverchair’s “Emotion Sickness”, the deep echoes of the acoustic piano throw my heart into a whirlwind, and the dangerous cries of Daniel Johns bring me to tears. When I hear “Blank Page” by Smashing Pumpkins, I think about the man I love and things that we have gone through together. The simplicity of the music is ironic because it crates such a beautiful sound, with only three instruments behind it. The delicate chords on piano keys overlap one another, and ride through tidal waves of bass guitar. Gentle, calming words from Billy Corgan dance atop these mountains of sound and bring me smiles and tears. Perfect music can be complex or simple, but it always helps me to remember what it is like to feel.

The easiest way to ruin a perfect song is to have terrible lyrics. When music is to be perfect, it must have perfect lyrics or no lyrics at all. If you have a perfect, powerful melody, with the right amount of harmony, and that music withdraws innumerable emotions, you cannot have lyrics about screwing hoes and smoking dope, or pumping iron and poppin’ caps in people’s asses. The lyrics need to go with the melody, but they also need to go with the energy of the song. I hate it when I’m listening to the radio, and a song starts to come on where the music is incredible, but then the vocalists start to sing and I hear something completely unexpected and violating to the sounds underlying. A song with perfect lyrics is “I Alone” by Live. The music alternates from soft to hard and takes the lyrics with it, and brings memories back to the surface of my mind. It’s about love and fear. My favourite part of the whole song are these lyrics: “I'll read to you here, save your eyes, you'll need them, your boat is at sea, your anchor is up, you've been swept away, and the greatest of teachers won't hesitate to leave you there by yourself chained to fate”.
Perfect music is not discriminative and does not hold any cultural boundaries. It has elements of different cultures, and incorporates all sorts of things into one. Two of my favourite bands that do this are Tool and A Perfect Circle. Almost all of their songs have a tribal feel to them. A Perfect Circle is slower, and a lot less edgy than Tool, but both bands have the same singer and songwriter. They are similar in that they both use the drums as key instruments, throwing in rhythmic, animal like beats in the background of the rest of the music, and also use a lot of western cultural instruments like sitars and pan flutes. When I listen to them, I am once again overcome with emotion, and almost feel as though I’m being taken into the jungle with the drums, and throwing my distorted thoughts out at the American government.

In my eyes, or ears, a song cannot be perfect without these three key elements. I don’t even like anything that doesn’t evoke emotion, and when I hear terrible lyrics, I’m revolted and I have to shut off the radio. I don’t listen to any real genre of music that doesn’t involve some cultural aspect to it, be it the American culture, the government in particular, or historical. I love listening to music, and I like it even better if it’s perfect.

Prompt Reaction # 11

2005-11-29T18:32:00.000-05:00

If you don’t believe I’m leaving, you can count the days that I’m gone.

To Whom It May Concern:

This is a letter; my farewell, my goodbye, my apologies. In the final words of Kurt Cobain, “What else should I be? All apologies… What else should I say?” I don’t know where I should be right now, in the beginning, or in the end. There is nothing here or there, or anywhere, for me to hook my fingers under and pull. My keys are out of tune, my frets are worn down, and my voice is cracked and dry. For a long time now there has been a leakage in the pipes, frayed ends, and loose knots. I guess you could say my knots have been untied. Maybe you don’t see where I’m coming from, but that doesn’t matter anymore, does it? It’s my ending, my future, or lack, should I say. Don’t make it about you again, because this is the last memory you’ll have with me. Let’s try and make it a good one.
There were times I’ve hated you, times I wanted nothing more than to see ahead, and never look at you or that house again, but there’s love underneath those broken stitches, a love very strong, and very loyal. You are mine, and you always will be, and I’ve always been yours, but there comes a time when you have to let your loves ones go. I’m not yours to hold and hover over anymore, I’m free, and freedom isn’t as easy as I wanted it to be. There were times I wanted nothing more than a comfort from you, a hug, and smile, a conversation. I guess you could say a greeting card makes up for the affection you don’t know how to give.
I never wrote this to make you feel any guilt or shame, you are the most I ever wanted, I’m lucky I have what I do. So here is my “thank-you”, for all that you have done to make my life easier than yours has ever been. Thank you for tucking me in when I was little, and for the anise in my tea. Thanks for Lyla, and for Patch. I know they were a pain in the ass. Thank you for the giant apples at school, and for girl scouts. Thanks for water-fights in the rain, and thanks for the fairy walks in the woods. Thank you for mocking me when I sang Christmas songs in the shower, and thank you for shielding me in the second grade. Thanks for prom, and for the cabinet full of spaghetti. Thank you for the strength, and for all of the weird, cherished memories.
For all the thanks I could ever give, there would never be enough to let you know I appreciate all that you have done, no matter how selfish I appear to be. I love you very much, but how could you have not known that something was wrong?

If you don’t believe I’m leaving, Mother, than you can count the days that I’m gone.

Always and Eternal,
Kasey

P.S. I’ve memorized the dimples and cracks in my ceiling, and the holes in the wall have become my monument, all apologies. I’ve grown to know that view, the maple and the telephone lines, sitting in the window, held up with a stick, The cobwebs in the corner were always destroyed, all apologies. I’ve seen the fibers of my pillowcase drenched in saline, memorized the blue and gold, and still managed to come down for supper. I never washed the dish I used; I just threw it in the sink, all apologies. I’ve yelled and screamed to an infant’s smile, and ruined her fun, all apologies. I’ve stepped over clutter, and let the trash pile on, and discovered the dog had shit on the floor. I didn’t clean up the mess and you cried… all apologies.

I came home from school on time, and you always knew where I was. I took care of the animals and the kids, and made sure dinner was cooked. I made sure she got her bath, and went to bed on time, and the corner was my attempt to keep her in line, all apologies. I struggled with school, but picked up the slack, and I made sure that the house was decent when you came back. I didn’t fuss when he was here, but when he was, I took a break, all apologies. I followed the rules, day in and day out, threw away my summertime, so she could go out.

I gave you all I had to give, and still you were not satisfied… All apologies.

Prompt Reaction # 10

2005-11-29T18:31:00.000-05:00

The key is in the lock, but I can’t turn it.

I step out the front door- The wind is blowing its icy gusts in my face, but still I hold tight my coat and, sinking my ears into the scarf wrapped around my neck, close the door behind me and walk out to my car. The wind is fierce and gives all it’s might to topple me over and sweep me away, but I fight it. Pushing my way through its strength, I manage to get to the car door. My hair is whipping to and fro, lashing at my eyes so as to prevent me from finding anything. The wind is using my own hair as a weapon to throw me off course. I find my keys, and they are much too heavy for the wind to blow away, but the ice makes them cold and they rustle a little in my hands. I find the key to open the doors and slide it through the lock, it won’t turn. The ice has made it through to the locking mechanisms. He’s smart, but not too smart for me. I pull out my lock de-icer and slide it into the lock. I can feel it warm up beautifully in my hands, a weapon I never thought would come of use, now has a special place on my keychain. Once the lock has warmed to the touch, I slide the key in once again and turn, and smile as the lock gives way. I lower myself into the front seat, and throw my belongings in the passenger side, ready to take the journey of a lifetime. The wind once again tries to prevent me from shutting the door, but with two hands I manage to pull it shut. I can hear the wind howl and cry outside of the glass and metal that is my car, and as if it has given up, dies down to a whisper, a breeze. With a smile I reach for my keys again, and look outside, and observe the ice on the windows. I slide the key into the lock once again, and think “I’ve beaten you, I’m going to leave and there’s nothing you can do to stop me!” I go to turn the key, but to my utter dismay, it won’t budge. I look at the lock to see if that, too, has frozen, but it has not. Something wasn’t right; this can’t happen. I thought I had won! I try to turn the key once more, but to no avail. I was stuck, stuck in a vehicle that won’t even move. The cold is starting to take its hold on the car, framing the glass of all the windows and star-like shapes. That’s how it tricks you; it uses beauty as a mask, when it’s really a monster; a cruel, harsh, brutal killer. It kills everything, the cold. It kills the earth and the sun and the heart. I’ve slid my key into the lock, but I can’t get my mind to turn.

Process Essay

2005-11-21T10:54:00.000-05:00

Sometimes humans are defined as tool-using animals. Tools can say a lot…

I lift my brush and smear its strings across a blank canvas and feel a rush of emotion escape me. I look at bold magenta line, shining and wet, glittering across the white surface and see… anger.

Another brush is lifted and I dip it into blue acrylics, and slash a bold line of cornflower blue under the previous angry line, and this is thinner, more delicate. I look at its wet, glittering presence and see… sorrow.

I lift a palette knife and dip it into a bright, sunshine yellow, and strike points and shards of glass onto the canvas. Bright rays of a mustard sun overlap and blend into the lines and I see… hope.

I find a sponge, just an ordinary kitchen sponge, and cut it to pieces, jagged and raw with no defined shape, and I dip them into red, orange, and green. One by one I blot them in crazed clouds and blotches, all layered atop one another intermixed and dark, and I see… confusion.

Now there’s another brush, but it’s large, and almost overwhelming, and dripping with a dark, menacing green, like a treacherous forest. I do not touch the canvas with this one, but I make motions to slash the canvas to pieces with the brush, and on the canvas the dark paint splatters, across all of the colours I’ve placed so carefully before. Over the canvas are pools and spikes of something, and I see… hate.

Something small is between my fingers, a finer brush, dipped in black. In cursive I scrawl “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” over and over, across everything, across it all. The words blend in, they are barely visible, but still, I see… regret.

Now one final brush, but it’s not a brush, it’s my hand. Each finger is dipped in every colour, and ready to spread a spectrum across my heart. Gently I trace my fingertips on all the remaining space, all the places that were never filled, and color brightens up all that lonely white, and I see… love.

One final tool, and it’s vital, and simple. A water bottle, tainted with turpentine. I twist the nozzle to “ON”, and spray, starting at the top. The chemicals drip down, and the droplets carry the paint to the floor, all the colours taken down and blended into one. One puddle, one problem, one ending, in a bucket, mopped up and dirty. I look up at the grey, tinted canvas and I see… A Clean Slate.

All of these tools are in my own space, the brushes, the canvas, and even the turpentine. I have all of these art supplies in a very large box, which takes up half my closet space. All of these tools were used, all these colours, and all of these emotions. But there comes a time when I need to put that box away, and use the few tools that can never be locked up, and those are… my fear, my judgment, my mind, and my heart.

Prompt Reaction # 9

2005-11-21T10:35:00.000-05:00

see this link... >>painting<<

Prompt Reaction # 8

2005-11-19T11:34:00.000-05:00

Loosely holding hands, not even aware of doing so, but, still, skin touching skin...

The night air is crisp, cold... I can see my breath coming out in white clouds before my face. It's hard to take deep breaths, it's that kind of cold. When I breathe through my nose it tickles, freezing the hairs to little icicles, causing me to automatically rub it; perhaps some element of friction will create enough heat to stop the itch. I can't quite feel my fingers on the inside, though I'm wearing gloves, and my ears are starting to turn the color of a wild strawberry crayola, that sick, false pink, which, by the way, looks nothing like a wild strawberry. Wild strawberries are a dark, almost blood-red; claret. The wind is blowing fiercely, giving way to icy crystals, laying their blanket across the quiet ground. It blisters my cheeks, causes my eyes to tear, and freezes those stinging droplets to my temples and eyelashes. I was a fool to come out here and wait, my hair was wet, and is now frozen solid, like an icy wig atop my head, and these jeans were not made for winter weather. I'm wearing socks and boots, but I can still feel the cold in the bones of my toes. What am I waiting for? I thought if I came out here into the cold, I'd remember and appreciate the warmth I have much better. A memory sits behind my eyes of a warmth so soft and gentle, a warmth so simple and pure that it's almost painful to remember.

As our feet crunched over dead leaves and moss, our voices bounced across the cedar trees even though they were shy and quiet sounds. It was the first time we had ever been alone together. We ran into the woods and ended up in places I'd never seen before. I was wearing my favourite pair of Doc Martens, about 5 or 6 years old and they were still as good as new. They were worn and cracked, as leather can get, but the soles were still there, and not a single hole was in sight, not a single stitch out of place. I followed him through the mud and dirt and all other elements of earth and we sat under a pine, and the sun sparkled through the needles onto the dark soil crunched up by our heels. I remember saying something silly, and throwing my watch, approxiamately 8 feet down the hill, and declaring that I didn't want to know what time it was. It was a strange but incredibly important thing to do, because in a way, it defined everything that we are. When we were done sitting under this tree, we walked farther and deeper into parts of these woods I'd never been, though I'd lived here for a few years, and reached a large stone in the middle of a small clearing. We sat down on it, and I pulled the elastic out of his long, dark hair. It was one of the very first times I'd gotten to see it that way, and I had never really felt it. I remember that sharp intake through my nostrils as the fragrance of those dark waves made there way towards me, and for a moment I thought I had gotten hit in the face. For the first time, I gently pulled my fingertips through those curls, and it was like combing them through silk. The ends were cool, but I could feel the heat of his head warming my hands. I remember the quiet sighs that escaped my lips when I pushed that hair aside, as my hands gently caressed the nape of his neck, and his collarbones. It wasn't something ordinary, it was a dance, and the floor was alive and created a rhythm unknown to time and space. He had told me of the pain he endures everyday, torture amongst those he loves and not a thing done to change the circumstances. At those moments I felt admiration for his loyalties, despite the woe they brought to him. His muscles were knots, day in and day out, and not a thing could be done but sleep the pain away. They weren't just knots and aches, but were mountains, needles in haystacks, and had never once been touched. Now, as we all know, if a knot is left alone, it can almost never be untangled, and these knots won't ever be the soft and pliable muscles they are supposed to be. however, I made my first attempt to let them loose, and lifted his shirt over his head, revealing plains of gold and crimson, and a territory I'd never passed on in all my life. I let my palms rest on the skin between his shoulder blades, and listened to his silent tears. For a moment I was afraid to touch him, afraid to knead the pain away, but I did it nonetheless. I pushed and pulled and untangled those knots as much as I ever could do, until it was nearly dark, and time to go. We stood up from that place and brushed the dirt and leaves from our clothes, and walked away from the one spot, that we haven't been able to find, to this day. As we walked, I felt warm and secure, and almost like I had accomplished something, within myself, and made a place somewhere in his broken heart. The road became cold and the sky, dark and sprinkled with stars as we made our way back home, and we were loosely holding hands, unaware of doing so, but still, skin touching skin, so familiar though I had never done it before.

Contrast Essay

2005-11-07T11:09:00.000-05:00

In many families, they say that the apple never falls far from the tree. "Like mother, like daughter", they say. My mother and I are both women, and by that, we have a lot in common, but boy are we different. I can't think of one person who differs from me the most, aside from my sister, but that's beside the point.

My mother got good grades, and graduated high school. She has a stable job, and a stable household. She has a happy family and the full train of pets to go with it. She's a happy person. I didn't get very good grades in school because I refused to do my homework (until my senior year). I was bored stiff. I knew all this stuff. Why did I need to do my homework? I have a job at Wal-mart, and a pet fish, a betta, named Llewellyn. But... I'm not a happy person. My mother and I are so different. We look different, act different, and even love different. We’re two big knots in a tangled ball of yarn.

See, there are a few things that my mother and I really don't have in common, and one of those things, is our ability to nurture. Don't get me wrong, my mom did a great job in ensuring that I had food, and clothing, and a roof over my head, but she's not so good at the loving; the hugs and kisses part. She's a great provider, and I know she loves me with all her heart, but I definitely didn't get my heart from her. I love to take care of the people I love, making sure they have Band-Aids, and warm sweaters and blankets, and I always worry my socks off into oblivion. During a great deal of my childhood, I walked to school in a snowstorm, and had to scramble all around the house to find a Band-Aid. Sometimes my mom overlooked those things, but she always made sure we had medicine for when we got sick- plenty of Luden's cough drops those are the best, and anise (licorice plant extract), to put in our hot tea.

Another difference my mother and I have is our interests. My mother likes to go out with friends, and sit at a bar. She's also a smoker and drinks a glass of wine every night, for a healthy heart. She works most of the time, so I never really see her much. We both like to read, I know that for sure, but I'm into music, and she... isn't. I like to play music and write music, and just be the music, but my mom is so passive about it all. I also like art, but I haven't once seen her pick up a paint brush or a camera. She used to draw when I was little, but I haven't seen any of that lately. I don't like to drink, and I definitely don't like my job, and I hate cigarettes. She told me once, that if she could do anything in the whole world, if she didn't have kids, she would take pictures of animals in the Outback. When she said that, she reminded me a lot of myself. I love animals, and I love photography, but I also love having family, and it seems to me that sometimes she resents that.

The biggest difference, that my mother and I really have, is our looks. I don't think I look anything like my mom, at all. Sometimes people say we are alike, but I don't see it. I have dark, straight, ash brown hair, and she has dirty blonde curly hair. I'm short, about 5'4", and she's tall, at 5'9". I have smaller breasts, and straighter, squarer teeth, and my skin is very pale, while hers is pinkish, and tans very easily. Our faces! Our faces are completely different! She has very thin lips, while mine are fuller, and her nose is long and pointed, while mine is rounder, and buttoned; but we both have terrible pores.

Through all of these differences, there is so much in common. We are more different than we are similar, but sometimes it's hard for me to think that way. Though we are on the same train, we're on opposite sides of the track.

Freestyle # 8

2005-11-04T11:22:00.000-05:00

There is something... something brewing among the darkness and it feels like, nothing. I'm a little confused and unaware, but I'm really starting to enjoy it. Is this what they call blissfully ignorant? But I am completely aware of everything around me, I just choose not to react to a good portion of it. So, I guess that mean I am passive. I'm feeling a lot less tired now and a lot more optimistic, I feel as though I have the situation under control, or rather, like I can deal with everything that happens. I don't feel the need for pain, nor substance, but I am still insecure. Another ladder, another step.

Prompt Reaction # 7

2005-11-02T11:11:00.000-05:00

Dump the trash bin on the floor, pull on your rubber gloves, and start hunting for the truth that only your throwaways know.

Down in the dark caverns of polystyrene and plastic, there are many little secrets, all tucked conveniently between wastepaper and remnants of stale potato chips. There's a lie or two, thrown in the hands of an innocent child, to play checkers or cards, no scissors, no glue. There's an insult, a threat, to a girl I once knew, whose mother is mine, and whose father is not, a half-family, half-harmless, half-hearted dislike. In the far, far corner are a few crumbs of resentment, thrown in the cradle of the innocent child, and to the mother who gave her affection I never had. A drop of blood, pooling from past sorrows and blades, lies between a few pieces of molded popcorn, and threatens to contaminate the untold. Here lies a sticky mass of confusion, tangled in mats of hair and chewing gum, laced with strange thoughts and the occasional false smile, often tainted with a salty tear behind the curtains. Stuck to the very bottom is my self-esteem. Fragments of a pretty reflection taped together pathetically with a bit of a kiss, and maybe a compliment or two from someone who really didn't care. And last but not least, there is my sanity, a toxic chemical placed in a plastic bag, along with rubber gloves, a q-tip, and evaporated bits of rubbing alcohol. All of these dangerous bits of garbage, thrown into a compacter and smushed to bits, leaving me with nothing but... guilt.

Graf # 14

2005-10-28T11:23:00.000-04:00

Isearch Status -

I am having increasing difficulties. I'm mostly struggling between schoolwork and work work, and I'm afraid if I tell them I can't work certain hours, I'll get fired. I need the money.

I have the first three parts of my essay done- but I don't really like the way the last two sections are written. I've done a lot of research that I haven't even looked at, the illeged stack of printoffs that Goldfine hates so much. He says it's a security blanket, which isn't true for me. I have it because I like to go through the hard copy and highlight everything I'm using and not using in different colors and not be worried whether or not I will lose it to some file or server crash. I have all of my sources in one solid spot where I can keep my eye on them and keep them organized. What I like is that when you print something off from the internet, it has a nice little footer that has the internet address where you found the info, all ready to be smacked down into a bibliography. It also helps to have the hard copy when I can't get to a computer.

On a more personal note, I'm finding out some more information on my health insurance and ways I can get counseling and some advice. If I do have bi-polar, it's best to find out and get treated before I become insane.

Graf # 12

2005-10-26T10:26:00.000-04:00

Research History

What have I done in the past to get answers to my own personal questions? Well, I've meditated, for one. I figure that if it's a question you need to really ask yourself and need the answer to, you can find that answer within yourself. On more superficial questions, like information about guys I've liked, I've asked friends about them, watched them sometimes, basically went right up and blurted whatever I needed to say out. I've gone on the internet and done research on homemade remedies and how to properly dye one's hair with koolaid powder. I've read books on occults and vampires, I've watched and read erotica to help and influence me to write my own, and to help me draw the naked human form with increasing accuracy, and for other, personal reasons. (haha). I've read self-help books, called my doctor for odd questions, gone to city hall to find out information on state laws, been to national monuments... I've done tons of silly, crazy things to find answers to questions. It's almost a hobby. I amuse myself because I'm a curious person.

Classification Essay

2005-10-21T11:17:00.000-04:00

Every band has what is called a fan base, the group of wild crazy people who worship them as if they are gods and their music is the elixir of eternal youth. A lot of people say they are all the same; just one screaming mob of strange, obsessive people, but I think different. In my opinion, there are three types of music fans. There are the "crazies", the ones who are so infested with obsession that they can't see the band without screaming, and the "listeners", who casually like the band's music at their own convenience. Then there are the in-betweens, the "Band-Aids", who go to the concerts, respect the musicians... they basically do their best to support the band without going to the extreme. They're all fans, but each adds their own personal touch to the crowd. I've been through all three of these stages, and it's a long and mostly enjoyable journey to take through, if you love music as much as I do.

The "crazies" are the wildest of the bunch. They are also known as "Teenies", "teenyboppers", or just plain "obsessed". These fans do such nonsense things like name their pets and stuffed animals after each member, and then proceed to use #2's, #3's, etc when they run out of names to use. They also like to write "I love {insert band name here}" all over their notebooks, and cover every inch of their walls with pictures. At concerts, they scream and chant the band's name over and over, making it very difficult for others to hear the music. They tattoo themselves with the band's logo, they write all over their faces and arms and clothes, they do everything they can possibly think of to let the whole world known that they love that band. They're insane. At one point of my life, I was part of the "crazy" fan base. I did name my pets and stuffed animals after the members of the band, and when I ran out of names, I would resort to the #2's and #3's, etc. I bought all of those girly teen magazines and had every inch of my wall and ceiling covered in posters and pictures, and I even celebrated the members' birthdays with fellow "crazies". It was fun, but tiresome. It's a lot of work to be a crazy.

On the other side of the fan base spectrum, is the group that I like to call the "listeners". The listeners are just the fans of the music, period. They don't worship the band, they don't celebrate their birthdays, and they don't attend the concerts very often. The "listeners" are, in most cases, a product of being a "crazy" for far too long. A "crazy" becomes a "listener" when he or she gets a life. They forget everything they were obsessed about, and may even forget why they even like the band. Most of the time, a "listener" is the older fan, the more mature. As of right now, I'm leaning more towards the "listener" side. I'm much too busy to take all of this time to be obsessed. I've grown up; I don't feel the need to be that supportive. I listen to this band's music once in a while, when I can get the time. I still have that fondness towards them, but no longer feel the compulsive need to know everything about them down to the color of their toothbrush.

In between the "crazies" and the "listeners", is the group known as the "Band-Aids". A "Band-Aid" is exactly that. They aid, or help the band, in whatever sane way they can. They are often members of what is called the "street team" where they help to promote the band's music by posting flyers and giving out music samples whenever they can. The "Band-Aids" attend the concerts, maybe have a website devoted to the band, and still have a poster or two up on their walls. When I was a Band-Aid, I had a website for my favorite band; In fact, I had several. I was part of the street team, and I actually got to meet them. I felt official. Being a "Band-Aid" is the stage where a fan is a little confused, and is in the process of converting to either side of the fan base spectrum. It's a comfortable position, but still, it takes a considerable amount of time, which I ran out of.

Now, I’m stuck somewhere in that spectrum, and, like I said, leaning more towards the “listener” side. I still have a strong admiration for the band, and I will, once in a while, wear their t-shirts. I still listen to their music obnoxiously loud, and yes, my stuffed animals are still named after them, (after all, once it’s got a name, I can’t change it), but I have changed. I’ve realized through all of these stages of fandom, that I’ve matured. My musical tastes have matured, and also my sense of self. Being a crazy was a lot of fun, and I’d go through it again if I had the choice, because it was a great part of my life; I was blissfully obsessive. Being a Band-Aid was a bit more stressful because I couldn’t devote all of my time to that band anymore, only some of it. I still felt quite important; I had a purpose. Today I am a listener! Now, I can fondly look back at all of these memories, and say… I’ve seen it all.

ISearch - What I Know

2005-10-19T11:34:00.000-04:00

What I know is this: I'm driven to find a solution. I know that I can give it my all, and I'm willing to do anything to make this better, in order to help my life, and the others around me, who love me the most. I know someone who does have bi-polar disorder and anxiety, someone I am close to, and who could probably help me out quite a bit. I know that Bi-polar disorder involves extreme mood swings, and is very difficult to cure. I know that there are drugs available, one of them being lithium, and I know that I can talk to a teen counseling hotline if I just need to talk.

I am an angry person, but I can be just as cheerful and happy-go-lucky as anyone else. I'm a constantly breaking tidal wave. My feelings are small and then they build and escalate until they crash over everything. I know that my feelings are slowly dissentegrating my relationships with my family, and most of all, my fiance. I know that these people just don't understand why I am the way I am, they don't understand that I have a problem.

I know that I overreact to simple things, I know that every day I think suicidal thoughts and have an overwhelming desire to make myself bleed, and the only reason I don't is because I made a promise not to. I can be elated at one moment and the be ready to jump over a bridge the next. Is this just how I am, or can I be fixed?

Classification Intro # 1

2005-10-18T10:02:00.000-04:00

Graf # 13

2005-10-17T11:58:00.000-04:00

Classification Essay Reaction

I think these essays are mostly interesting. Finding a topic might be hard, but I think I'll manage. I think the essay about the three types of men (snakes, snails and puppy dog tails), was the most interesting, and I've been there, and the one that goldfine read in class about the flea quishing. That one was funny because i do that sometimes, but I don't sit for hours and pop fleas. I think that person has a little TOO much free time.

Freestyle # 6

2005-10-17T11:57:00.000-04:00

Smiles and tears have rained down on me this week. I've felt sick and well, joyous and morose, and all I want to do now is sleep... Sleep, sleep, sleep; Drift into that wonderful world of subconsciousness where anything can happen and I can bend everything and everyone to my will. I'm exhausted from working so much and I'm gaining weight. It makes me hate myself more. Someone decided they wanted to push my buttons at work and they definately got the consequences of hitting the switch. I'm hoping that I can reinstate my workstudy into one semester, so I don't have to keep commuting back and forth to work everyday. I can't afford the gas, or the energy. I'm bored as hell, and there are random thoughts coming in and ou of my brain, like I wish that the people in the lobby of acadia hall would stop blabbing about stupid things, and that the computers in here need to be fixed, and I wish I was making more money, and that I'm glad I got to see Sallon last night because I missed his ridiculous disobedience. It's funny, because he behaves perfectly when he's with me, but refuses to listen to Joshua. Yesterday was his mother's birthday and we gave her our gifts, and pampered her silly. Josh's card that I helped him pick out made her cry and blubber like a baby, and it was truly a hallmark moment. for once I felt included in that family, and I'm hoping it will stay that way, instead of the incessant name-calling and ridicule I receive on every visit.

Prompt Reaction # 6

2005-10-17T11:56:00.000-04:00

The safest place in the world....

The safest place in the world is dark. It's warm, and it smells sweet, almost like springtime, but not quite. I can retreat there whenever there's an element of strife threatening my inner calm, even when it feels like it's that darkness that's causing the problem. This place has strong, solid walls, but they are flexible and gentle as they contain me in their security. In this safe place, there is no light for the eye to see, but for the heart to feel. It's bright and golden, almost celestial. The light reminds me of the warmth of the sun, and my soul basks in it while my eyes remain closed. My skin is buried inside of this sparkling, brilliant darkness, and its heat radiates throughout my being. In this safe place I can mellow and fall asleep to the steady rhythm in the walls; I can dance on a thousand sighs, and still feel as though I'd enjoy being blind. My safe place helps me to feel alive when I feel as though I shouldnt exist, and gives me a reason to be. The safest place in the world, to me, is in my lover's arms.

ISearch - Why I'm Writing

2005-10-17T11:35:00.000-04:00

Like I said, I gave up. I’ll give it to you straight out- the reason I’m writing is to find out if there’s any hope of going back. I'm the kind of person who is insecure. Not the kind of insecure where I don't know who I am and where I stand, but the kind of insecure that is harder to define. I don't know exactly what my real emotions are and which ones are just elements of paranoia. I have institutionalized myself to pain, and I have tried to break that barrier down. I've convinced myself, on the inside, that there is something wrong with me and there's something wrong with the world. I've refused to trust either person. When it seems like things are going fine, I always make sure something goes wrong because it makes me feel like I'm in control, and I don't even realize when it is I do this. I push the very person who I can trust the most, farther away than any other person could do the damage, when I want nothing more to have him by my side. I'm destroying the one thing I hold sacred, and I don't even know why.

I’m writing because I’m tired of being miserable, I’m tired of feeling angry and not knowing why, and most of all I’m looking for an answer, and a sense of hope that I can’t seem to find within myself. I don’t have any other drive. I cannot find any ounce of faith in myself, and barely any in others. I don’t accept anyone or anything no matter who the person is, and I’m not comfortable with that. I don’t want to be insecure for the rest of my life. I don’t want to push anyone away. I want to find solid ground and get help, I suppose. I've taken every approach I'm willing to take in order to help myself and it seems as though I've just dug myself in deeper, so I'm looking elsewhere. Just the other day, My fiance and I were walking through the woods having a discussion about reading, and why I read so fast, and he made a simple statement, and I just dropped like a hammer. I stopped talking and I stopped thinking, I was just overcome with an anger and resentment and I couldn't figure out the source. It started a fight, if you could imagine, and ruined the whole outing. I sank into myself, and felt nothing but loneliness and despair. Why can't I have a conversation without hating myself?

I'm writing because I need a solice of some sort. I need an answer, whether it's the answer I want or not. I want to find a solution to this problem, an ending to my current downward spiral. I need answers to some of these questions.

- What is it that causes these sudden outbursts?
- Is what I feel a "real" emotion, or is it just a chemical in my brain making me overreact?
- How can I find a way to love myself?
- Will routine help?
- Is it stress?
- What is bi-polar disorder exactly?
- If I do have it, how can it be treated?
- Can I treat it on my own, without drugs or psychotherapy?
- If I do take drugs, what are the safest and most trusted? Which ones have the higest success rate?
- How could I find counseling, or a psychiatrist, for no cost?

I-Search Background - EDIT

2005-10-14T09:43:00.000-04:00

I don't really know where I could start on a background for this topic. The only place I can think of is the beginning- not where my questions began, and not where I started to change, but really where my life began, and how it led to the person I am today. I did not have a stable childhood. Not having a sufficient income most of the time drove my mother to do some desperate things in order to provide for my sisters and I. There were times where the only thing we had in our food cabinet were boxes of generic mac n' cheese and a couple cans of tuna. My mother worked constantly, three or four jobs at a time, and so most of my 'growing-up' involved babysitters and kind relatives. With the low income came the lack of stability as a whole. We never stayed in one place for too long. We were always moving, state to state, school to school, from one town to the next. People ask me where I grew up, and I can't answer them. I can only say one depressing word, and that is "nowhere".

I've never had a father. I've never met him, and I never will; He is no longer alive. I know his name, Patrick, but I don't know anything else other than that he was the love of my mother's life... when she was 15. He died when I was seven years old of a heroin overdose, never knowing of my existance. I was not raised by any fatherly figure. I've never known what it's like to have a dad.

Since before I can remember, my mother jumped from boyfriend to boyfriend, never finding anyone who fit her lifestyle. I barely knew any of them, I was too young. When I was eleven years old, she met the one man that would change my life forever, and not for the good, either. His name was John. That's all I knew. He moved in at some point, I don't even remember, but I remember what it was like after my little brother, his son, died. The real John came out then, and shoved his brutal self into my world in a way that he could never be pushed out. He was an alcoholic, verbally abusive, and a violently angry man. I don't know how many telephones he broke. I just remember countless trips to the store to buy a new one the day after he had ripped it from the wall... again. I think his behavior had a big influence on how I grew up... or rather, how I progressed.

In school I was never the popular kid, I was poor and did not sport any stylish clothing whatsoever. I had the goodwill grabbag in my closet, and thoughtful donations from family friends and relatives. Occasionally the wal-mart special grabbed a spot or two, but even that wasn't good enough. I ate lunch for free, and I was the kid who didn't have anything to munch on during snack time. We couldn't afford it. I sat by myself most of the time, but made a few friends, who in the end turned out to be not worth the energy. Then, the time came when we finally stayed somewhere, for more than 2 years. We had claimed our residence in the town of Walpole, Massachusetts, and there I was in the same school for 5 years. I made some friends after about 3 years, and felt quite comfortable with my life. I had 3 years of high school left, normal clothes to wear, and friends. I had a social life. I'd never felt so happy.

As you can expect, that did not last very long. When I was 16, that life was wrenched from my fingertips once again, and I moved here, to Maine. For several reasons, I became very hermit-like. I arrogantly secluded myself from everyone and everything, never feeling any hope or optimism that anything could be good again. I did not go out on weekends or after school, I baby-sat most of the time. All summer, save for one, I watched my little sister, so my mother could work. All I remember is the animosity building and building until one day, I gave up. I woke up one morning and my life crashed before my feet, and so I slept. I crawled into the only safety net I had, my dreams. I only got up to go to the bathroom. I slept for 3 days straight, and then decided not to move for 7 more days. A few threats of suicide drifted into thought, and interrupted my existance, and on several occasions I was left in my own drunken stupor, throwing up all my hopeful chances of alcohol poisoning. I gave up on everything, on everything I loved, including my family, on all of the things I enjoyed. I gave up everything I wanted, and got lost in what I thought would be my only fate. This, dear reader, is where my quest begins. Why did I give up my sense of self? Was is because of all of these circumstances and more left unmentioned, or is it just purely psychological? I'm better now than I was then, because of the wonderful support that was given to me by my boyfriend, who is now my fiance and the love of my life, But I'm still in that emotional tornado.

Today, I am not an emotionally stable person. There are days that are up and days that are down, but the ups are too high, and the downs are way too low. I've read on depression, I've read on all the different types of emotional disorders, but there's only one that seems to fit the profile, and that is what is known today as Bi-polar Disorder, or Manic Depression. I'm searching for an answer to one question that nobody else has been able to answer for me. Do I have it?

Graf # 11

2005-10-12T11:20:00.000-04:00

Writing an essay about animals would have been difficult for me. So, instead of writing about why I love animals, I wrote about why I love my animals. I have a strong connection with my pets, particularly my cats for a lot of reasons, and I figured that this is my tribute. This is for them, and for me. If I had chosen to write about my love for animals and wanting to work with them, it would have been impersonal. The essay would have been deemed "not ready" and thrown back at me with suggested improvements. My pets were my only solice for a very long time, and it's my respect and appreciation for their affections that drove me to write this essay. When I had nobody at my side, they always were there to provide comfort and nurturing that I was denied from those I needed it from the most.

Cause Essay

2005-10-06T16:00:00.000-04:00

You’re stepping through the door, it’s unusually quiet. You sneak in slowly, shutting the door quietly behind you. You listen; you watch closely all areas of the hall, alert, prepared for attack. You hear a little noise, a pitter patter, a clickety click: little claws on the hardwood floors, tap tap tapping, coming closer and closer. Then you hear the low growls, and then a full bark, those deep-throated, protective howls. You stand completely still, waiting for him. He’s closer, in the hall, and he sees you! You turn to run, but there’s nowhere to go! He’s bounding towards you, tail wagging viciously as he leaps at your chest, and attacks you with his razor-sharp tongue! I know what you’re thinking… ‘Razor-sharp tongue?? What?!’ Yes, his tongue. You are being smothered and loved by none other than man’s best friend. There are a lot of people in this world who have a pet. I love animals, and I’m sure you do too. A pet is a comfort, a companion, a friend. A pet is a relief; a calm from the storm. Your pet could even be your favourite person! I happen to like animals more than people for an abundance of reasons.

I remember countless nights after a long day, curling up in bed, and hearing my old, antique doorknobs jingle. My cats, Fret and Merlin, would let themselves in my room. Both of them were polydexterous, or double-pawed, and could open doors and hold things with their front paws. They'd open the door, and push it open with their paws or their noses, and hop right onto the bed. While Fret would curl up at his guarding post on the bottom left corner, keeping a watchful eye on the window (he's very protective), Merlin would come right up to me and snuggle. He'd crawl right under the blankets and spoon himself right up to my chest, if I was laying on my side. If on my back, he'd lay his big fluffy self right on my chest and bury his little fuzzy face in my ear. Now, he had a bit of Norwegian Forest cat in him, which is very similar to a Maine Coon. Needless to say... He was a big, soft cat, with a big, soft heart. I lost him some time ago, because someone decided to use him as a speedbump. Fret is still around, and still as wonderfully arrogant as ever. He loves me very much, and turns his rump to anyone else except for my fiance, for some strange reason. What I'm trying to get at, is that having them as pets helped me through a lot of my daily woes and strife. They were my companions, and I could always turn to them for comfort.

I have a dog, two actually- Malcolm and Dakota. They're crazy. They jump, paw at you, whine and bark and whimper when you get in the door, but they, like Fret, are very protective also... Well, against other animals anyway. Dakota especially. She's short and small, but she's a tough girl. We have a farm across the street from our house, and she tends to bark at any animal that trespasses onto our territory. Both of the dogs go insane if there's another dog outside. You'd think there was a war going on, the way they howl. Dakota likes to keep them in their place. My dogs are my guardians, they make me feel safe. The don't discriminate, they don't judge, they love unconditionally. I can always rely on my dogs when I need to feel safe, and at home.

My pets are my favourite type of people. They're playful and loving, and they make me feel like I play an important role. I take care of them, and they take care of me, no questions asked. They don't tell me if I look fat. They don't care if I have pimples on my face or if my clothes don't match. They don't care if my feet smell, or if I eat a lot of junk food. They care about who I am, and that I make them happy. I feed them and cuddle them and keep them warm and safe at night. I think that every person should act like an animal and maybe everyone would be a lot happier. Now, I'm not saying to eat by sticking your face in a bowl, or to lick your privates, or sniff someone's butt, no, I'm saying, "Don't judge, just be happy with who people are". Respect everyone who respects you. I love animals more than people because they know how to get the best out of life, and live it to its fullest.

After my two years here at Eastern Maine Community College, I plan to go on to some Veterinary program at UMO or elsewhere. I'll create a career based around love and care and kindness to animals, whether they are my pets or someone else's. I've had so many pets in my 18 years that I probably won't be able to remember them all. I've had 17 cats, 5 dogs, 5 ferrets, an iguana, countless fish, a water dragon, 4 lovebirds, 2 snakes, a rat, a sugar baby (a little flying squirrel), a crow, a raccoon, and 2 little sisters (they count as animals). That's a lot of time, energy, love, and vet bills. You could say I'm committed.

Prompt Reaction # 5

2005-10-06T15:14:00.000-04:00

You’ve lost It! Where is It?

Uh Oh...
Don't tell me I lost it... OH NO!
Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!
What am I going to do?! HE'S GONNA KILL ME!
Ok! Ok Kasey, think rationally! Retrace your steps. Where were you when you first had it?
The kitchen.
OK! To the kitchen, then!
I am in the kitchen. I was standing by the stove when he handed it to me.
"Don't lose it!" He said.
"I won't" I said.
I'm a liar! I lost it!
Well, from the stove, I had it on my finger... I went to wash the dishes while he was outside.. I took it off there, but I put it back on when I was done...
From the sink, I went to the fridge and grabbed an apple, and I ate it. I don't think I ate the ring... it was still on my finger.
I went into the living room and sat down... turned on the tube... and... still there.
I'm in the living room. I'm sitting on the couch!
After I watched my show, I got up. What did I do next?
I went outside to see what he was doing.
I'm outside. He's working on his car, changing the oil I presume.
Sat in the hammock. I'm sitting on the hammock, ring is still there.
Then I went inside, into my room.
Up the stairs I go, through the hall to the door, and... in my room!
I sat on my bed, took it off to put on some lotion... and then?
That's it! That's when I lost it! I set it down on my nightstand, yes!
I'm looking, looking, looking, not here! Not here?! OH GOD!
Maybe it fell... I'm looking, looking, looking, under the bed? Not under the bedskirt, not in the dust bunnies, not under the bed at all!
On the floor? Under the nighttable... looking, looking, looking... ruffling my hands under, all over, and OH! Could it be? I'm pulling my hand out, blowing off the fluff, and, YES! It is! The ring! I must have knocked it behind when I went to shut the light or something!
I'm sliding it back onto my finger, going out the door, through the hall, down the stairs, through the living room, back through the kitchen and waiting...
A moment later, here he comes, back in the house. "Got my ring?" he asks after washing the motor oil off his hands.
"Yup." Right where you left it, dear.

Cause Outro

2005-10-05T09:24:00.000-04:00

After my two years here at Eastern Maine Community College, I plan to go on to some Veterinary program at UMO or elsewhere. I'll create a career based around love and care and kindness to animals, whether they are my pets or someone else's. I've had so many pets in my 18 years that I probably won't be able to remember them all. I've had 17 cats, 5 dogs, 5 ferrets, an iguana, countless fish, a water dragon, 4 lovebirds, 2 snakes, a rat, a sugar baby (a little flying squirrel), a crow, a raccoon, and 2 little sisters (they count as animals). That's a lot of time, energy, love, and vet bills. You could say I'm committed.

Graf # 10

2005-10-05T09:14:00.000-04:00

These I-searches look.. a wee bit... extensive. I'm scared. No, not really actually. Some of these papers were pretty boring, like the very first one. Not interesting. I think that goldfine is pulling our strings, saying to write things the way we are now, not even talking about structure and grammar and spelling and all that nitty gritty stuff. I think he's prowling, lurking with that information, ready to spring the bad news up on us when we think everything is fine and dandy. I can't wait. In the meantime, I'm researching The subject I chose for my i-search.

Prompt Reaction # 4

2005-10-04T16:23:00.000-04:00

Who's the first person you remember?

The first person I remember is Joshua, my boyfriend, now my fiance. I remember the first time I saw him smile, and the first time I ever heard his voice, the mellow, caramel sounds formed into words. He's the first person I can remember because I think about him all of the time. There isn't one moment that I don't. I remember the way he likes to mix his food all together before he eats it, and I remember the very first time I touched his rough, callused hands. I remember our first kiss, his soft, dark hair, the curls tangled in my fingers. I remember how he loves Nirvana, how he plays the guitar. I remember how impatient he is, how frustrated he gets when things don't go at his pace. I remember his hazel-blue eyes, how they change with the clouds and when he cries. I remember nights lying in bed, hoping he's alright. I fondly remember hearing his voice, whispering melodies in my ear, sometimes tone deaf and wonderfully relaxing. I remember dancing when there was no sound but the beating of our own hearts, and the night air engulfing us. I remember running away from him, laughter from the chase, that he's ticklish and has the heart of a child, innocent, honest, and playful. I remember how he loves cars and hates heights, how he laughs, amusing and extremely contagious. I remember how badly he wanted a puppy, and the joy on his face when he came and brought Sallon to see me for the first time. I remember how he always wears his class ring, and his refusal to admit that he likes my cat. I remember how he hates to shave because sometimes it hurts his face, and because it takes too much of his precious 'sitting on his butt watching t.v while the water heats up for his bath' time. I remember how he likes to try new things, no matter how gross it is. I remember his faith in God, and I remember watching him sleep in my arms. I remember the first time he confessed his love for me, and the first time I'd ever seen him cry. I remember the strength with which he's gotten through his life. I remember sitting on the couch, watching a movie, I remember the first time he'd spent the night, it was the first full night's rest I'd gotten in three years. I remember the comfort he gives me with every moment we are together. I remember everything, and there are countless amounts of memories, so many that I can't mention them all, it would take hours, days, weeks. I remember him because we are making new memories with every second we spend together. I remember him because I love him, and because he saved me from myself.

Freestyle # 5

2005-10-04T16:03:00.000-04:00

Up and down and up and down, the wall comes up, all around and you tear it down, down to the floor in bricks and cement and crumbs of fear. A single word builds it up again and then... you take your hammer of a heart and smash it to bits, you destroy that boundary with a single... kiss. Why does is go up in the first place if you can tear it down so well? Once I was like Humpty Dumpty, and OOOH! I fell. I fell down, down, down into a tunnel, a funnel, a tornado of sorts, where bits and pieces of my debris were scattered and bent and broken to pieces. Eventually the wounds heal, but it takes time, and you glue them together so very well. Why do I keep ripping them apart, I wonder? I don't want these open wounds, yet everytime they heal I find a new type of damage, not easily concealed anymore. Perhaps I am beginning to institutionalize myself to... pain? No. Well, the wall is down, tumbled to the ground. What will be the magic word to keep it that way?

Freestyle # 4

2005-10-03T09:36:00.000-04:00

Dear Diary,
I went to the movies the other day and made an observation. Nobody goes to the movies on a saturday night anymore. There were people at the movies all the time on a saturday night before the whole clubbing thing came around. I sat in the stadium seats with my boyfriend and stared at the empty seats. Maybe nobody wanted to see the movie we wanted to see, but it's a Tim Burton film! WHO DOESN'T LIKE TIM BURTON? Well, if you don't, I feel sorry for you. I love Tim Burton films. They're so delightfully decadent. Double D. Speaking of Double D's, Tiffany has dyed her hair a disgusting bleach blonde. She looks like an easter egg. My grandmother came to the dorms to bring me meatballs and to harass my fish because of its awesome name (llewellyn). She thinks it sounds gross. She's the one who went and names her car after her dog, Brandy (who is a sick cow of a rottweiler with a terrible temperment). I had some phenominal sex last night, which I'm sure half the dorm residents are aware of (ahem). and I'm in a wonderful mood. I'm perhaps a bit open but I don't care, I'm feeling quite good. I have to go now, and get back to bed. I didn't get to sleep til 3. (ahem.)

Freestyle # 3

2005-10-03T09:18:00.000-04:00

I'm... tumbling, falling, cascading, where did my sanity go? It's down, down, in his mouth, in his eyes, he has it, all of it, and I'm laying here, helpless, writhing, shaking, shivering... not cold but hot, so very heated, a red flame flickering and growing hotter and spreading across the sheets. His hands are dancing, devil's fingers, callused fingers, rough against my skin, wrapped around, in and around. He's traveling upwards, leaving me helpless, moving over, pushing, bending me, breaking me, throwing me around, under a canopy, under a canopy of satin and lace.

I've... tumbled, fallen, cascaded, my sanity has returned, weak and powerless. It's up, up, out of his mouth, but still in his eyes, and he still has a hold some of it. I'm laying here, weak, not writhing, not shaking, still shivering and hot, but the flame has died down to embers, smoldering in the sheets. His hands have rested, nested in my hair, angel's fingers, soft hands, soft against my skin, touching lightly, tickling lightly. He's blanketing down, cradling me, lulling me, under a canopy, under a canopy of satin and lace.

Cause Intro # 2

2005-09-30T09:33:00.000-04:00

Cause Intro # 1

2005-09-30T09:07:00.000-04:00

Cause Essay Introduction

It's been a long, gruesome day at work. You spilt your coffee on your lap, got cut off on the interstate, you got a parking ticket, and it seems that everything that could have gone wrong, definately went wrong. Your whole day has been down in the dirt, and all you can think about is when you can get back into your car and head home. Why? Your life isn't that exciting, there's no one there to greet you when you get home, no lover, no children... No one you can call your direct kin. I know what you're looking forward to: A wagging tail and floppy ears, yips of excitement of your arrival? A soft purr of affection, the figure-8 round the feet? You have a pet. Maybe it's a cat, maybe a dog, maybe a ferret or parrot, or fish, but nonethe less, he or she is your family. I know that's what I look forward to when I step through that front door. Having a pet is a calm; a relief from the storm. They are companionship, comfort, and a friend. I love animals more than I love people, and I know there are a lot of people out there who are just like me.

Prompt Reaction # 4 - photo

2005-09-28T09:40:00.000-04:00

Take a look at a photo of a person. What do you see?

Looking at this photograph I hold in my hands, I see my fiance and I, together. Here, I see a beginning; Two empty souls found eachother, were shy and quiet and secretive. Soon they joined together and became complete. I see faith, hope, and fear. I see curiousity, playfulness, and lust. I see two hands clasped, walking together in the park. Eyes peeking from behind a tree, and the golden flicker of candlelight at dinner. I see the evening stars and the warmth in my lover's arms as we gazed. I see two smiles, joy and laughter. I see late nights on the telephone, sharing secrets and one's deepest thoughts. I see two broken hearts, slowly healing. I see a haven, a safe place for one to turn to. In this photograph, I see my love and my honor, I see pride. I see compromise and security, trust and patience, and walls slowly breaking down. I see a family, a home, a happy marriage. In this photograph, I see my future.

Graf # 9

2005-09-28T09:27:00.000-04:00

Cause Essay Reactions

I really enjoyed the essay about love, because I can really relate to it. The first time I really fell in love, or rather, out of love (actually, I didn't fall out of it, I was pushed of the plane with no parachute and landed smack on the pavement, face first) I was destroyed by it. My whole life was turned upside down and it did end in mega-doses of pain. I was put into a serious depression for 3 years, and I've almost come out of it, but I don't agree that love always ends that way. I'm in love again, and I've learned from my past mistakes and relationships to know how to keep this one alive. The relationship I am in now is like a match made in heaven. We are more in love with one another than happily ever after. The key to every relationship is communication. Honesty is always the best policy, and when both people are willing to accept that and nurture it, than the relationship is bound for the positive.

I also enjoyed the essay about the little girl who wanted to be a ballerina, but she was a chicken. It reminds me of a lot of childhood memories of being picked last.

I-Search Brainstorm

2005-09-26T09:24:00.000-04:00

Bi-polar disorder, do I have it, is it causing all of the stress that's strangely piling up? I find I'm feeling things without a reason to feel them, spontaneous anger, sadness, then a sudden outburst of energy, joy, can't contain myself. Problems with love, confused emotions, causing arguments going nowhere, blacking out, anxiety, chest pains, among other things. I went to psychiatrist, he got arrested for child molestation and is now out of practice, leaving me out in the dust with no answers. Went to doctors, they told me I was fine when I was having chest pains and hyperventilating, I don't believe I am fine, I have panic attacks. There's something wrong when I'm in emotional confusion all of the time, so I'm investigating this on my own. What is bi-polar disorder/manic depression? is it treatable? what can I do to treat it? How can I find out if I have it or not? Doctor's appointment, drugs? Is it purely psychological? Is there really something wrong with me or is it all in my head, and I'm just leading myself into a hole? I-Search to go in depth on the disorder and then apply it to my own personal experiences, symptoms, explanations, possible encounter with a doctor, and then ...?

Freestyle # 2

2005-09-23T09:07:00.000-04:00

I wake up, the alarm goes off - 7:10. I hit the snooze button, 7 more minutes of slumber. In seven minutes time, I am sliding out of my bed, onto the floor, into a puddling mass of subconsciousness. I can't hear, I can't feel anything, but I can see all of these half-greyscale and half-technicolor visions, photographs of memories overlapping one another, in a slideshow in the back of my head. I feel weightless yet extremely tied down, almost as if I've sunken into the floor, yes! I've sunken through the cold tiles in the floor, through the cement, through the plaster, through the paint, through the steel onto a carpet. I'm staring at the threads of this carpet, facedown, every microscopic fiber harasses my corneas, upside down and flipped back up to present themselves in kaleidoscopic spirals in my view pane. All of a sudden There's something slithering across my fingertips, something warm and soft, not slithering, no, but cradling, yes cradling my fingers, my hands. This solid warmth engulfs my whole body, and I'm encased in this heat, this feeling of love. I'm rocking back and forth and back and forth and I sway under a canopy of colour, I look up into this sky and there are eyes, blue and hazel and green and all other shades, watching me, watching me breath and sleep and they watch me with this warmth, this heat. Their eyes are prying, staring too far past a boundary, my boundaries, judging, picking, poking, at this warmth. This warmth placed it's cool metal band on my left hand and they stare and they stare, is it real? Does she know what that means? They ask these questions with their unfaltering gazes and judge, and so I hide. I hide my warmth and my silver band in my pocket, and they stop staring. Slowly it feels as though I'm lifted up, up, up, into a darkened cavern, there's a light at the end of this tunnel and I'm floating towards it, and the warmth engulfs me again as the light comes closer, brighter, and then overtakes all of my senses. I smell vanilla and salt, apple blossoms and sweat, and I feel soft, tendrils on my face. All of a sudden there's a blaring, pulsating sound, a raging, booming sound in my ears, in my body, in my mind. It throbs in my brain, it chases me out of my own subconscious and my eyes fly open... and I hit the alarm clock: off. I look up and feel the warmth again, only this time he's there, my warmth, my sunshine, and slowly I slide, slide back down, and take the journey again.

Graf # 8

2005-09-21T09:37:00.000-04:00

Describe A Person.

"One love, One heart, Let's get together and feel alright" - Bob Marley, One Love

Most people spend their entire lives looking for that one person, the key that fits their locks. I believe that a soul is put on to this earth into two people, and both are incomplete until they come together. I am lucky enough to say that I have found that person, that I am complete.

When he smiles, his eyes crinkle. Some call that "crow's feet", and that smile is the most contagious smile you'll ever see. You could be out in the streets with a shopping cart begging for change and if you saw that smile, a grin would inch its merry way across your face. His eyes light up everytime, and that's what gets you. His hair is soft, dark, and curling. It's long and snakes it's way down his back, in a beautiful yet primitive way. It's always fragrant of flowers or fruit, because he likes to use scented shampoos. His skin is a pale gold, darkened from the warm summer sun, and smells sweet, like salt and vanilla. His physical being is every ounce of perfection that I could ever want, and his mind and heart are more. He is passionate and kind, curious and playful. He is intuitive and quite amusing. He is honest and he is secretive, outspoken, yet shy. He takes the time to smell the flowers, and to sit under an apple tree, but he is also beautifully impatient. He lives his life without limitation... whenever possible. I love him because of these things and many, uncountable more. He loves me and treats me with respect, but he knows the right way to piss me off at the perfect moment, and I love him all the more for it. He knows every knook and cranny of my being, and I, his. Once a day in the summertime, he will pick me wildflowers, and in the winter, pinecones and clusters of evergreen needles. Each little keepsake I hold in a box, all dried or pressed, with the countless letters he's written to me. Words put down on paper, definate, infinate, truthful, and all in fluid cursive across the pages.

I remember times where we sat by the water at a pond near my home, memory after memory laid down in the soil. Our first kiss, terribly embarrassing as it was, because we happened to smack our teeth together, almost chipping my front tooth, was wonderful. I remember the very first day we had spent alone together, we had run off for hours and hours down the dirt roads, away from people and through the woods, sitting under pine trees, and throwing our watches out of sight because we wanted to erase the concept of time, so the day would never end.

One moment strikes in my mind, a peculiar memory which still amazes me to this day, is when we walked under a maple tree on a crisp, autumn afternoon, and as our hands clasped and we walked together, a shower of leaves came tumbling to the ground in a great, flood of gold and red and brown. There was no breeze, no wind blowing, they just littered the ground, bunches of them. I still believe it meant something.

There were dark, clear nights under the stars, where the moon illuminated his face, and one night it caught a glint in his eye I'd never seen. A cold, winter night, and we were home alone, sitting on the side porch, a small balcony of sorts, and he was quiet. It was January 15th, and he had been acting strangely all day, because he knew something I did not, and right there, in those quiet hours, he got down on one knee and asked me to be his wife.

We are still as madly in love as we were when it all began, if not more. He is my sanctuary, my love, my trust, and my faith. I don't know where I would be, or who I would be today if he was not in my life. He is my angel and my deviant, my sun and my moon. I love him more than life itself. He is innocent and he is mine. He is "the key to fit my locks and the locks to fit my keys" (Richard Bach).

Graf # 7

2005-09-20T19:17:00.000-04:00

Personal Object Description - My favorite pair of jeans.

Hmm... Ripped at the ends?
Check.
Hole in the crotch?
Check.
Faded knees?
Check.
Patches?
Nope.
Why?
No patches to fix 'em with.

I have two pairs of jeans, both identical, both worn to the threads. They are the softest, most nicely broken in, fitted, faded, squishiest, most flexible, and utterly the most rediculous pairs of jeans I own. They are Gap "long and lean" flares, size 13, in the classic pale indigo. No hole in the butt, no holes at the knees, but holes everywhere else you look. They're shredded to bits at the ends, stained with droplets of blood, bleach spots, grass stains, paint and permanent marker, and god only knows what else. They've been to the movies, to work, to school, home, and everywhere in between. Whenever I go away, they come with me. They've been a resting place for kittens, and a rest for Puppy's snout. A seat for Baby's bum, and a pillow for Lover's head. They've been a table and a chair, and storage too. Pockets are great... until they get holes in them. They're being held together with safety pins, and flimsy hand-sewn red stitches. The threads don't hold up very well and the safety pins get all caught up when I walk, because they are on the inside of the legs. These jeans I will never part with, no matter how bad they get. I can always look forward to the soft denim on my fingers. They are a welcoming embrace, a haven from stiff, thick, boot-cut devils.

Prompt Reaction # 3

2005-09-19T09:35:00.000-04:00

Writers have to listen to themselves; writers ought to always be talking to themselves. Try a conversation between you and yourself. Sometimes arguments are fun.

"When you woke up this morning, why did you hit the snooze button 7 times? You know very well that's what made you rush around!"

"I was tired, damnit. I couldn't help it, I was just too damn tired!"

"Too tired? Too tired?! You are a college student. You need to focus on going to class on time and getting your work done, and stop grabbing for some extra shut eye. You have too many things that need to get done! Lazt ass..."

"I am NOT lazy. I get up early in the morning, and I go to bed late at night, I can't help but be that tired! I have to go to work at 5 and come back to my dorm at 11:00, and then get up at 7:00 AM to get breakfast and shower before class!"

"That's 8 hours! You only need 8 hours of sleep."

"Hello! It takes the average human being 15-45 minutes to fall asleep, and I, the compulsive thinker that I am, don't get to sleep until 2 hours after I'm laying in bed. Plus, when I get back at 11, I get in the shower and clean up, brush my teeth, and it takes me a while to get settled in. That leaves me about 5 hours of proper rest."

"Ok... well, then, drink some Red Bull. Red Bull gives you wings!"

"Yeah? Those wings fall off after about an hour or so, and I feel even worse after the effect wears off."

"I've run out of complaints. You, dear, have every right to be pressing the snooze button 7 times."

Prompt Reaction #2

2005-09-19T09:05:00.000-04:00

If my piano could talk

These keys of mine were once shining and new, polished ebony and ivory coating solid oak. I'm a little rusted in my bolts and strings now, but once I was tuned to perfection, every pedal performed beautifully. I remember the times my girl used to sit down and let her fingers dance through my sound. She never learned how to really play well, but with what she taught herself, she was brilliant. She was no Mozart, but she still tickled my fancy. With her I was old and I sounded as I do now, like a sunken battleship. I'm so old and tired now.

I remember times before my girl, when I was young. I was born in 1912, a fresh new music box for the farmer's wife to play on. Her melodies were simple, religious tunes as most songs of her time were. She played frequently for her children, who danced upon the wooden floors in their stockings.

Over the years I've had many fingerprints placed on my black and whites, and many times the farmer would replace my parts. For a while I thought I could live forever, because these keys of mine never failed. Now they're brown and stained and cracked. Some of them don't even make a sound. I'm covered with dust and a little mouse lives in me now. He may not be able to make music, but he knows that he is safe with me.

Prompt Reaction # 1

2005-09-18T22:05:00.000-04:00

Alone in a quiet room. What do you see?

As I open my eyes, I see these walls are white; bleakly tainted with light and shadow. Where am I? On the cold, tiled floor, there is a stain-something dark and old, faded with time, a water stain, perhaps. To the right of me lies a window with a view. Outside, the sky is blue as a robin's egg, spotted with pillows and blankets, white and glowing. The sun breaks through and shades them with brilliant silver and gold. The ground is wet, grass littered with droplets of fresh morning dew. Metal towers shred the sky, and automobiles litter their noise over the sounds of nature, calm, and peace. Metropolis killing the green. The view doesn't get any better.

To the left of me lies a bed. It's bleak, white sheets carry no comfort. Clean and unwrinkled, they seem cold beneath a plastic pillow. A white linen blanket is no more inviting. How can one rest in a bed like that?

The ceiling is high, high with rafters and beams and cobwebs. Cheaply painted steel beams bolted to a frame, peeling and chipping their way to age, hold no appeal. The spiders are no better to look upon, but at least they are moving colours. Rust peeks through the window frame, adding a touch of industry to this blank pen.

In this quiet room, I see light reflected everywhere, yet so much darkness under the bleach.

Graf # 6

2005-09-16T09:16:00.000-04:00

Unique : Like No Other

Unique... How am I unique? How am I different from everyone else? Am I unique because I like to eat ice cream with Ruffles potato chips? Am I unique because I can play the drums? Maybe.
I'm unique because I am a human being. All people feel, and all people think, but not everyone thinks the same way.

My biggest fear, aside from my strangely acquired phobia of the "little green men", aliens, is that I'll destroy every possible love I share. I am unique because I am afraid of myself. I am unique because I think aloud, and because I have a fetish for men with long hair. I'm melancholy and I am joyous; I am angry on purpose. Happy, sad, angry, and mad. My feelings are unique.

I used to have a rattail, on the side, not the back of my head. I had a mohawk at one point also, and I've had short, spiked, pink hair, and plain, long, layered, brown hair. I have a piercing in my nose, and a tattoo of a stone mermaid on my back, When the tattoo artist asked if I wanted any alterations on the design, I told him that I preferred that the mermaid look like a real woman, and have nipples, which the mermaid originally did not have. I have a smaller tattoo on my inner right ankle, of a 5-point star, representing my religion. I tattooed this myself. It's a bit jagged; Free-form and mechanical. My style is unique.

I am unique because I have scars. I have a scar 11 inches long. I have a birthmark on my belly and one on my shoulder. I have a mole on my chin, and a scar on my left foot. Scars to the left of me, scars to the right. My body is unique.

I am unique because I have an open mind. I accept almost any taboo. I'll tell you my opinion, I don't care if it's true. I'll lie to get a reaction, and I'll also brutally tell you the truth. Both for the same reason. I'll dance to no music, and I'll paint on no medium. I'll wear my heart on my sleeve. I say what I think and I feel what I hear. I taste what I see, and I drink colours with my eyes. I am here when I am gone, and I'm somewhere else when I'm here. I am unique because I am everything and nothing at all.

Graf # 5

2005-09-15T09:32:00.000-04:00

Hmm... Judging from all of the things on the top of her desk, I believe this person may be pretty busy. Usually when there isn't much on a person's desk, they're either really organized, or they are too busy to really make it their own space. I see she made an effort to personalize her desk, with her picture and her things here and there, but either than that, It seems like an ordinary, blase computer desk. Perhaps the space is too small to fit multitudes of things, with such a large computer taking up most of it. I notice that she likes music, because she has a stereo, and a Bull Moose mouse pad, which means she probably goes there frequently. She works at wal-mart, and of course, is a college student, which brings me back to the busy factor. She works after school, and doesn't leave much time for personal things. I feel sorry for her.

Graf # 4

2005-09-14T09:23:00.000-04:00

Personal Inventory – Atop My Computer Desk

1 Picture Frame, Containing Picture of My fiancé and I
1 Durabrand CD/Cassette player, orange and silver
1 Simply Basic massaging hair brush, flat, black and magenta
1 pair of socks, inside out and somewhat dirty, only worn for an hour or so
1 TradeMark Computer Monitor
1 TradeMark Computer Keyboard
1 Bull Moose Music 15th Anniversary Mouse pad
1 Microsoft Basic Mouse
1 Notice for Maine vs. University of Richmond Game
1 Remote Control for Symphnic DVD player
1 Black Tin Case for a Timex Watch, purchased for fiance
Set of Spare Car Keys, Hanging on Stereo Antenna
1 Owner’s Manual for Symphonic DVD Player
1 Middlesex Community College Pencil
1 Post-it Note, Containing Cell Phone Numbers for College Roommate and Friend
Pocket Change – One quarter, one dime, two pennies
1 stick of EMCC chapstick, seal broken, used.
1 purchase receipt for soda and a pack of gum, wal-mart
1 Wal-mart Sales Associate name tag

Graf # 3

2005-09-11T12:16:00.000-04:00

Some interesting Blogs I came across...

http://duault.blogspot.com/

This is a french-speaking person. I took about 4.5 years of french, and I forget it all. This person has some pretty amusing pictures, though. There is one picture of three guys wearing some crazy sparkling costumes, and sunglasses, sitting atop one another in a chair, holding eachother's butts. It's rather amusing. There's another picture I found interesting, which was of a guy wearing a fur coat and sunglasses, in a disco pose. There are a bunch more of them, I think they are from some sort of themed party. Those kind of pictures make me laugh. They remind me of times I had wioth my friends before I moved here to maine. Good times.

http://kchrpm.blogspot.com/

This person I found particularly interesting. He is from Flint, michigan, where Michael Moore grew up. Michael moore is one of my idols I guess. He makes film documentaries, like Bowling for Columbine and Farenheit 9/11. This person is majoring in automotive engineering, he is a college student. It reminds me of someone else I know and love, who loves cars and anything with a motor in it.

http://hypnocrites.blogspot.com/

This one was really interesting. I think this blog is used for this person to post their artwork on, particularly comics, or for them to post comics or drawings he found amusing. The comics look mostly political, and the very first one I saw on the page was one about looters, probably involving the whole Katrina looting crisis, where there is a picture of a white man looting and a black mad looting, and the black one is inside a set of crosshairs, or shooting range, and the white is completely safe. It's interesting. There are about 7 or 8 more cartoons like this, which are really some eye-openers.

Graf # 2

2005-09-11T11:21:00.000-04:00

My Worst Teacher

I always liked English, but there was this one year... this one year... The year I had Mrs. Murphy. Mrs. Murphy. That big, black, curly hair to her knees. She was a thin, gaunt woman in her 30s, and pregnant... She was clearly the most arrogant person I think I'd ever met. It was the 8th grade. I remember it quite vividly:

Tick...Tick...Tick... 2 minutes, and 37 seconds left! Tick... 36... Tick... 35... Eugh... This is going to take forever. I cannot believe I am sitting here because of a stupid unsigned test. It's not like I didn't want my mother to see it, I just lost track of where I threw the paper away... I mean, I told her what my grade was. I, am not ashamed. Tick...Tick...Tick... What kind of a teacher makes you sit and stare at a clock for an hour and a half, anyway? I thought punishment was supposed to be a little more productive. I'm supposed to be writing the same sentence over and over on the chalkboard, or maybe banging erasers, or, or organizing the bookshelves! Yeah! Something useful; but no, I'm stuck here... sitting with my hands folded neatly on the desk, head up, staring. I realized that if I stare at the numbers long enough, that they start to look like nothing. They look like nonsense blurbs! I must look away. It's driving me crazy. I'll stare at something else, something with more definition, something slightly more colourful or interesting... I know! I'll stare at the globe! It's colourful, and I can see the names of cities and countries I've never known to exist. There's Nicaragua. Where in the hell is Nicaragua?

"KASEY!" she yells. I jolt from my trance, heart racing, palms sweating. What did I do now?

"Yes, Mrs. Murphy?" I try not to sound overly innocent, they hate that, teachers. It makes them suspicious.

"I didn't tell you to stare at the globe, I told you to watch the clock. So peel your eyes away from the globe, and watch the time, or you'll be in here again tomorrow!" Sheesh. Pull that pole out of your ass, will you? Or maybe get a better clock. Get one of those "black cat" clocks with the swinging tails and needle-like eyes. Those are pretty neat... GOD! I have 10 seconds left to go, and she's still yelling at me. Stare at the clock! Stare at the clock! Neh neh neh, blah blah blah! Stupid.

Tick...Tick... Tick... finally!

"Mrs. Murphy, It's 4:00." This time, I try not to sound too eager to leave. She'll make me stay even later. She cocks her eyebrow at me, and sets down her pen. Glancing up at the clock, she sighs, as if she was regretting not making me stay until 4:30.

"OK, you may leave. Next time I want you to get a test signed, you better get it signed." Yes, your highness.

I hold my breath to keep from muttering obscenities, throw my bag over my shoulders, sigh, and proceed to walk out of the room. It's going to be a long, long year.

Graf # 1

2005-09-09T08:22:00.000-04:00

My Hands

My hands are small and underdeveloped, yet they are great. These hands can paint, draw and play drums, piano, and guitar. My hands can create almost anything. My fingers are short-- I was born pre-maturely, and my fingertips are pointy, also not completely developed. My hands are scarred- covered with tiny battlewounds (I have had many encounters with the razor-like edges of paper and cardboard). They are marred from kittens' dagger-like claws, the kitten being playfully rough and completely forgiven. Many falls on my palms, calluses from monkey bars and rakes... All have made their own contribution. On the palm of my right hand, there is a small scar, between my ring finger and pinky knuckles, which was obtained after being attacked by a black and white canine who goes by the name of "Peanut". He was no peanut, but every scar does have its own memory.

My fingers each contain their own moments. For example: my left pinky finger. This finger has a faintly-coloured freckle, which is hard to see. At one point it was darker, perhaps when I had been in the sun for 3 hours and fried it. The finger to its right wears a ring. This ring is not of real diamonds or precious metal, but it is of real feeling. I love this ring because it was bestowed upon this finger with love and devotion.

My right hand is bigger than my left, and each fingernail has small white speckles on it. My hands frequently run into paint and warm, soft places on my lover's skin. They dance in his hair and catch his tears, tickle his ribs and tangle in his fingertips. My hands, on occasion, have a mind of their own, and at times, refuse to move they way I would like them to. They hide and become slightly paralyzed. That is where I start to dislike them, but no matter what they do, they are mine; my artists, my dancers, my keys. My hands are the empresses of my soul, and through creation, they are me.

Freestyle # 1

2005-09-07T21:28:00.000-04:00

It's simple. I look at you, you look at me, our eyes meet and, voila! Everything is magic. Yeah, I wish it could all be like that fairytale, but it’s not, and you’re getting blood on my shirt. I'm a bitch? No, I'm not a bitch, I just see life for what it really is: Fake. Everything in this world is a fantasy of some fucked up adolescent or middle-aged spectacle. “Cut yourself! Make believe!” They say it like a movie director tells us to memorize lines. It’s all about entertainment. Whatever you'd like to see, I’ll do it for you. "Hey honey! Get some popcorn, Something's happening! I think she's feeling violent!" Yeah, I'm feeling violent. My delirium is waning like the full moon in July. "Where are my pills? I need my pills!" Happy Happy. It's funny how chemicals make it all feel better. Chemicals! Chemicals! The dependence feels so sweet. Mmm, white tablets under my tongue. They melt like ice on my back. Ice you placed so carefully and deliberately on my spine. It's tightening, yes, pulling. It makes my brain swell, this ice. It takes away from the burns, though. The sun loves the taste of white flesh. Pink and brown, Pink and decaying. A great life force brings death to the smallest things.

I went under waves and the salt faltered on my lips. It tasted like you; flavor of sweet masculinity, sweat. Your essence danced upon my tongue and made me kiss the sea.

I'm falling into a hole, you say? I think perhaps you are correct in your assumptions. It does seem to be getting darker.

Line, Line, Line.
White and stealing they sway behind me along the black dunes.
I see a faint red glow.
I think it's my sanity, but I'm not sure.
I lost it some time ago so
I don't quite know how to recognize it anymore.

It seems as though it may be just a light. Yes, it's a light. Two of them blinking simultaneously, Rhythmic invasions in my pupils, out, in, open, closed, big, small. They dilate and disappear like your hands upon me. I can feel them now, your fingers. They are long and spider-like, crawling over my breasts and throughout my hair. I'm sure they are warm and slithering over me. There is a heated breeze in my ear that smells sweet and I think it's the air you are breathing beside me. My skin rises with every pass of your fingertips and my eyes flutter open with the sensations placed below my waist. It's awakening yet it drowns me in oblivion, you. Your lips are flower petals falling gracefully to my mouth, to my teeth and tongue. I can feel them falling and caressing me with warmth and wetness. These petals upon me feel like razorblades when comes the remembrance of your betrayal. Razorblades on my heart and my body, my wrists. They're bleeding; I cut them for you, only for you, my love. I cut out my damage; I cut out my faults for you.

"It's all in your head" they say to me, like I'm deranged, insane. My pain is all unreal; it's a figment of my twisted imagination. I don't know how to feel correctly. It's as if my heart reads a miswritten mechanical code, unrecognized by any humane figure. I’m unknown, I’m unknown to me.

Red and glittering. your words are pear-shaped and send me a cylindrical sensation under my eyes. It’s rolling and turns inward towards my brain, withered and wilting underneath the weight of your gaze upon this left tree iris. Your looks are desirable yet they penetrate through this silver chord blocking entrance to my deepening caverns of wakefulness.

Under this blanket of crystalline and indigo it seems as though there is only one warmth, one tide overtaking. Your back to mine is warm and comforting, though this silence is carrying the chills to the base of my spine. Your golden flesh against my pale cream is a contrast yet there is no difference. I can feel your life beating, your blood heating even though the tears flow with indifference. The cold slowly disappears as I am cradled suddenly in your welcoming embrace, and warm oblivion surrounds my fetal form. Deliciously licking at my soul, your warmth extends into my fingertips, touching your bare shoulders, encased with a skin melting slowly underneath me. Wake up and face me, wake up and be warm inside my eyes. Those lashes surrounding dance when you cry; they dance with a cloak of salted tears under my lips. Your pain arouses me, my inner core will cover you, love, protect you from me.