Saturday, November 13, 2010
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Out There, not the-n
Created a blog for the consideration of others but I guess it's a good thing because I am just tryna to make it.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Festivities Rushing
5 may 2010
During the fall of six o’clock, Teddy the Tractable observed the many marital potentials throughout the pit. A father tying three kids to his shirt hem and cuff, eyes darting. He seemed portent to snap. His temporal vein was as bright as the bags under his eyes and his daughter vibrated hyperactively with a balloon disturbing the spirit. Not an Elektra Complex, though. Teddy knew it wasn't that. The baby in the carriage, probably just about a year, sucked on its thumb, which was attached to a tiny bottle. The girl dribbled the rubber on his dangling chain of keys and he eyed her, then huffed, then eyed a blank space that provided patience. Teddy rubbed the ringing out his ears. Perhaps his daughter would grow into him. He rose from the energy. Inflation afloat that stressed the serenity was a supplement to her nomination as well. Moments passed and his patience was already as cadaverous as the escalator being penetrated by the carriage. He feared fearing solitude, which would antagonize him with ideas of fear itself. It was a cycle at six o’clock, he knew. He sat in the pit, birthing the settlement of SPD he was home to. His own lethargy; his reassurance. He knew. A woman’s diamonds met the festive lights hanging from the second-storey balcony and he saw her flapper-painted face. Red lipstick, bright mouth, moderate smoke eyes. Her buttons pinned tight to her pea coat; her nails flossed like candy displays on Springdale in 1940. But she resembled strength. Sternness struck and stuck. The genetic strength of original labor workers; the supposed demeanor of that sooty mangabey. And her skin slid roughly under the tending to and creams. Beneath the feminism so present in gripping and grabbing husky crops and hauling them in sweaty bags for more humid work by their breeding mates, or husbands. Perhaps it was the ladylikeness of a civilly moving urban theatre arts performer, muscles cut through the forearm and the thighs, body probably stiff in a summer dress no matter the product radiance. They were all fighting for civility. Her arms were outspread in the relation of the Venn Diagram. But on the side where beating was less through love, the Nightingale rocked their equal distinction and performance. And they developed the same bone structure and they gave the same strength. Teddy shuddered, deciding that she was fading in potential. A fragile woman rushed in maroon pants. He let her go. He scratched his dirty head and carved the residue from his nails. Everything was yellow. The conurbation combusted like the West Side of town in 1994. Everything was far from flaccid. Eyes opened, necks sturdy. When the time arrived, he’d wonder how he succeeded a point so rejected; so low. She hadn’t even heard his voice, which would have drawn her in, let alone. He liked to believe he was well spoken. Monotonous and enunciating. She wouldn’t suspect the appearance but the appeal. But it was never the appeal but the impression. His ticket read ten o’clock when the matinee was over. A date. Loneliness inviting. Lowliness inviting. A big, serene date, balloons disturbing between but eventually setting his amorous masculinity free. Combustion like in 1994; jocularity like in 1940. He rubbed the ringing out his ears and smoothed his hair parted to the left. He saw purple at the corner of his eye. It was seven o’clock already. A whole day’s passed. Chimes rang. He flashed. Trickery understandably afloat. Teenagers planning on retreating to the garage.
During the fall of six o’clock, Teddy the Tractable observed the many marital potentials throughout the pit. A father tying three kids to his shirt hem and cuff, eyes darting. He seemed portent to snap. His temporal vein was as bright as the bags under his eyes and his daughter vibrated hyperactively with a balloon disturbing the spirit. Not an Elektra Complex, though. Teddy knew it wasn't that. The baby in the carriage, probably just about a year, sucked on its thumb, which was attached to a tiny bottle. The girl dribbled the rubber on his dangling chain of keys and he eyed her, then huffed, then eyed a blank space that provided patience. Teddy rubbed the ringing out his ears. Perhaps his daughter would grow into him. He rose from the energy. Inflation afloat that stressed the serenity was a supplement to her nomination as well. Moments passed and his patience was already as cadaverous as the escalator being penetrated by the carriage. He feared fearing solitude, which would antagonize him with ideas of fear itself. It was a cycle at six o’clock, he knew. He sat in the pit, birthing the settlement of SPD he was home to. His own lethargy; his reassurance. He knew. A woman’s diamonds met the festive lights hanging from the second-storey balcony and he saw her flapper-painted face. Red lipstick, bright mouth, moderate smoke eyes. Her buttons pinned tight to her pea coat; her nails flossed like candy displays on Springdale in 1940. But she resembled strength. Sternness struck and stuck. The genetic strength of original labor workers; the supposed demeanor of that sooty mangabey. And her skin slid roughly under the tending to and creams. Beneath the feminism so present in gripping and grabbing husky crops and hauling them in sweaty bags for more humid work by their breeding mates, or husbands. Perhaps it was the ladylikeness of a civilly moving urban theatre arts performer, muscles cut through the forearm and the thighs, body probably stiff in a summer dress no matter the product radiance. They were all fighting for civility. Her arms were outspread in the relation of the Venn Diagram. But on the side where beating was less through love, the Nightingale rocked their equal distinction and performance. And they developed the same bone structure and they gave the same strength. Teddy shuddered, deciding that she was fading in potential. A fragile woman rushed in maroon pants. He let her go. He scratched his dirty head and carved the residue from his nails. Everything was yellow. The conurbation combusted like the West Side of town in 1994. Everything was far from flaccid. Eyes opened, necks sturdy. When the time arrived, he’d wonder how he succeeded a point so rejected; so low. She hadn’t even heard his voice, which would have drawn her in, let alone. He liked to believe he was well spoken. Monotonous and enunciating. She wouldn’t suspect the appearance but the appeal. But it was never the appeal but the impression. His ticket read ten o’clock when the matinee was over. A date. Loneliness inviting. Lowliness inviting. A big, serene date, balloons disturbing between but eventually setting his amorous masculinity free. Combustion like in 1994; jocularity like in 1940. He rubbed the ringing out his ears and smoothed his hair parted to the left. He saw purple at the corner of his eye. It was seven o’clock already. A whole day’s passed. Chimes rang. He flashed. Trickery understandably afloat. Teenagers planning on retreating to the garage.
The Trailer Home
19 may 2010
It was on a Wednesday when he realized he didn’t want to be with me anymore. That Wednesday seven weeks directly after he was exonerated. And my hair hung over my face, dripping into a curl from the happy joke the boys rose from. The bucket sat in the corner, seemingly untouched. The paint was on me. And they laughed and they chuckled. I was red with benzene. He never promised this wouldn’t happen. The seven months he gave to me and the fives months we retreated never promised a cold release of red accusations and fury. The fury that coated; the fury I questioned. I was alone always. I felt stupid, to express it brunt. I felt a relapse. He was better and grown and I told him I’d kiss him because we had intimate history. He asked what I’d do and I reassured we were comfortable still. I reassured because we had a spirit. He lifted to know he’d egress easily. As did the chortles and the snickers. Someone choked on his euphoria. My hair dried stiff at the thought of me lying in the grass, the first day in a long time. Him crawling over and owning a smooch on me and returning to something more worth distraction. I looked into the sky, knowing that was how we belonged. Comfort and ease. Sure, ease but not an egress. He already had me. Or I let him think he was coming and going. He was there all along. No, he was coming and going. He trotted in and trotted out and I was his fallacy of hope; a fallacy of his hope. I love you like in texts. I love you like with levity. But I knew that. I just didn’t think its extremity was so juvenile; so middle school. So rageful. I tried. I was one of two set in mind. I was devoted to a bull imitator and the bull imitator’s friends. But all I want is my notebook back because I’ve realized that I consider it as important as he does his red bucket.
It was on a Wednesday when he realized he didn’t want to be with me anymore. That Wednesday seven weeks directly after he was exonerated. And my hair hung over my face, dripping into a curl from the happy joke the boys rose from. The bucket sat in the corner, seemingly untouched. The paint was on me. And they laughed and they chuckled. I was red with benzene. He never promised this wouldn’t happen. The seven months he gave to me and the fives months we retreated never promised a cold release of red accusations and fury. The fury that coated; the fury I questioned. I was alone always. I felt stupid, to express it brunt. I felt a relapse. He was better and grown and I told him I’d kiss him because we had intimate history. He asked what I’d do and I reassured we were comfortable still. I reassured because we had a spirit. He lifted to know he’d egress easily. As did the chortles and the snickers. Someone choked on his euphoria. My hair dried stiff at the thought of me lying in the grass, the first day in a long time. Him crawling over and owning a smooch on me and returning to something more worth distraction. I looked into the sky, knowing that was how we belonged. Comfort and ease. Sure, ease but not an egress. He already had me. Or I let him think he was coming and going. He was there all along. No, he was coming and going. He trotted in and trotted out and I was his fallacy of hope; a fallacy of his hope. I love you like in texts. I love you like with levity. But I knew that. I just didn’t think its extremity was so juvenile; so middle school. So rageful. I tried. I was one of two set in mind. I was devoted to a bull imitator and the bull imitator’s friends. But all I want is my notebook back because I’ve realized that I consider it as important as he does his red bucket.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Learned
What I’ve realized is that he’s a mouse. He’s like one of those who shoot black beads of sweat when portent to be contained because he’s trapped in a corner. Four walls are a horror. There’s no reason for him to be contained. In all the grade school years he had absorbed, he surely accomplished the dames. He gave interest while the rest paid it until he reached that point perceived as a peak because he was with it. Then he was complete. So he took the predator back and she gave him all she had. You know, he’s more like a shark; a loan shark. Because he was at that peak and he was ready to pay interest and she paid all the era permitted her to and hoped serving interest would compensate still. But he felt insouciant and she lost her house. And his substance began to wane. And his interest was still available but his concentration complained and she multiplied some focus and swimming began to stop and the suffocation began to bead. And she knew she didn’t like him. He fibbed intentions. How great to seem to love her company like going to see Ironman 2 and that art show together. But Alice in Wonderland and that diluted party was a cherished invite. Maybe some days he found her name in passing, automatically insisting that she was okay, which hurt her more to infer. She was his insignificant. Their relations were inconsequential unless his wanker felt insight. She wouldn’t go an event without him. She wondered if he’d still go to afterprom. Probably, if it included other kids from grade school. Yeah, she came from a different coast where you learned not to remember who was in your freshman classes. But he was proactively focused and everything he said was dogmatic and went. And others saw her as aggravated and bent out of shape. And she saw him as inherent. That was it. She loved the whole person he was. She loathed the idea of being the one who extracted his fear and his stubbornness; remained in the free spectrum of interest with payments to complement his competence, paying all that the era permitted her to, hoping it would compensate. From it, it was enough. She saw him as inherent so she was pliant. That was the reason. He was wholly the person she amateurely held fervid feelings for; she thought she was, too. But she realized that he, being repetitive to the foundation that made her stumble into hate, was all she clutched alike. Not a filler but a shirt cuff she had to pursue, suffocating and choking with mere obligation. Yeah, he was like a dog, panting beads of saliva, needing a friend. No she was like a dog. Kicked and cuddled and kicked. They were dogs, not neutered, chumming while being the best of someone else more worth it. And I just want my notebook back.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Friday, April 9, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
Friday, September 18, 2009
Friday, September 4, 2009
Formspring
A private assessment site sometimes used for q&a. People tell or ask, you comment or answer via blog. In this labrinyth of trendy technology, interviewing and posting is but a waft of a sigh. It's cool for recreation but as ridiculous as calling blogging a profession.
mine
responses might not be on the immediate page
mine
responses might not be on the immediate page
Saturday, August 29, 2009
I Just Want My Pants Back
Last year, around this time, summertime dubbed laziness and my sister and my mother purchased a book of everyone’s choice. I got I Just Want My Pans Back by David J. Rosen, which was unanimous in my pros against my cynicism against a triplet of MTV books. I guess the lack of a underlining mainstream and the general reality of the plot captured me. I enjoyed the typical egression of tying the climax into an epiphany because his realistic and well-written scenarios kept me turning. The banter at the bar, the leisure at his job, the opinions of his refrigerator intercourse. I saw myself in a nook and cranny as he glided down Nolita, inebriated by the opaque lights and other elements of intake. His similes were modern as he comically related back to renown figures. I interpreted his relationship with his relic neighbor Patty to be a little Finding Forrester but I appreciated the characterization, nevertheless. I’d have been disappointed if he was rolling blunts with his relatable, same-page neighbor. Not to mention the actual growth one gains when surrounding himself with a more traversed and conversant person. Rosen did his literary work and deemed himself a recipient of excelling in natural creativity. I advise this novel and the movie when I make it.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Harness
For updates on the original populars. Gaga, Lohan, Spears and the sun of the industry that gets revolved around and that sets on their asses.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
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