April 21 2014

Writing Attempt: Poetry

Today my chest is comprised of the mud that fills the Swamp of Sadness.

 Its weight pulling me down down, fusing my above as one with my below.

Then I am asked to walk.

I absorb my darkest clothes,

(Taking on the Gothic persona that reflects my state)

Imagine my lips painted a shade of mourning,

And flop out into the world around me,

Each movement forward a blobulous smash against the earth.

 

I am slow

I am sad

I am slipping into a space that I fear I may not escape from.

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Hard day. Tomorrow is my big personal work day where I try to get my writing into InDesign. Wishing myself luck and focus. (ha - we'll see)

love

CB

April 19 2014

I have been working so much. I wish my bank account reflected as such. But I hate cooking dinner, and require after work beers, so I am therefore terribly unable to keep myself in an above "just getting by" financial status.

In the writing world: I am considering materials for my required project and will be taking Tuesday to acquire the right pieces of paper.

D.I.Y. is fucking difficult because it is D.I.Y.


here's a bit of something:

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All the other people traveling with you  have the same expression. Sentient mannequins. This increases your anxiety. You check your watch for the third time. The numbers are gone. Replaced by the floating shapes that drive themselves into your eyes.

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Classy Biped

April 18 2014

EDITING STILL

The next two hours were routine for Dahlia. Hector cried and tried and tried and tried to commit suicide but with every circumstance he though out, she found a way to thwart his logic. When he sobbed about his monetary loss and impending trial, she took his hand and slipped it inside her while telling him he was worth the struggle. She talked him into revealing his true self then talked him back out of it so he could feel stable. So he could feel his physical body was his true home.

When she left, Hector was asleep in his bed. Dahlia took her payment off the kitchen island, made sure his apartment was free of plastic of any kind, and dropped a bottle of Xanax and her business card on his dresser in case of a relapse. 

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Only a week or so until all is printed.


Classy Biped

April 17 2014

Today.

Next week.

I have come to the point where I have been working on something for a period of time that has suddenly become something akin to gibberish.

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Not proud of anything

ClassyBiped

When they first began, Dahlia figured using his hair as kindling would suffice. “Hair burns quickly, so we’ll begin there.” Dahlia had said. Jacob was unconvinced. To prove her point, she started small. A tiny match to his wrist. A fireplace match to the forest surrounding his groin. A burning newspaper to his chest hair. Poof. Nothing. Once the two were finished sneezing out the smell of burnt hair and newsprint, Jacob suggested she use something chemical to assure he could be lit up as planned.

7 parts ethyl alcohol

7 parts water

Salt for color

Candle for flame

Now that the flames were fueled and dancing nicely up his arms and torso, Dahlia took her mug to her lips and gulped in her cold anise tea, appreciating the work she had done. Observing the obscene scene in front of her made her feel like a director of an absurdist play; staging strange performance art. She smirked quietly at that thought while the man in front of her screamed a scream not unlike one she made herself while in labor.

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Still hacking through the weeds. Anyone available and willing to do some editing for me this weekend?

Classy Biped

April 15 2014

Writing: Revision for my self published piece

“Don’t worry, Hector, I understand. Understanding is what I do. It’s what this is all about.”

Hector grabbed the end of the garbage bag in Dahlia’s hands and pulled down heavily.  “Sweet Caroline. I want to die.” He said.

“I know. But I want you to live.” Dahlia pried the white plastic from his tightly gripped fingers.

“Prove it.” Said Hector.

“I can’t.” Said Dahlia.

“Then I’m beginning.” Hector opened the cupboard that he had been leaning against and pulled out another trash bag and placed it over his head.

“Go ahead.” Dahlia said softly. “But since you put that over your head, you won’t be able to see what it is I’m doing now.”

“And what is that?” Hector’s response moved the bag deeply in and out.

“I can’t say. I can only do.” Dahlia’s voice was just above a whisper.

“I want to see.”

“Then Take it off.”

“I can’t.”

“Then talk to me.”

“I can’t.” Hector pulled the yellow ribbon ties tight around his neck.

“Then I’m leaving.” Dahlia took two loud steps backwards.

“Wait.”

“Yes?”

“I’ll talk.” Hector breathed in so deeply the bag took on the sad shape of his desperate mouth.

“Why are you doing this? Why are you so sad?”

“Life has just been – life has dealt me a bad hand.” Hector put his hand to his chest.

“That’s a bullshit answer and you know it.”

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There's so much more! I'm getting even more anxious and excited about my project. I really hope it turns out well. I've been so critical of myself my whole life that I worry I'll give up before accomplishing anything, like I have in the past.

ClassyBiped

April 13 2014

HERO (INTERMISSION)

 Hero was not a bad dog, even as Bailey. He never was. His major flaw is that he was a trusting being while also technically being a wild beast.

 

Jillie launched her anti-Hero campaign after the icky feeling that started in her stomach raced up her spine and hit her brain. She was too young to understand that spite coupled with her mother’s lack of answers was the true culprit. By lack of answers, Jillie meant it was unacceptable for her own father to be kept from her like a secret. Jillie knew that he was out there. Jillie knew Dahlia spoke to him and made him silent. Jillie knew it was all a conspiracy and the stupid dog was a distraction. In turn, to Jillie’s rational, the stupid dog, was a replacement, and a poor one at that.

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Still working. Next day off is Tuesday, so that is the next day I will truly be able to work, edit, format and put my Part 1 of this story into In Design.

Worried.

Classy Biped