Kitty

Me and kitty sitting pretty sleeping all day dreaming always scratchy scratch-scratch did you catch that? Bad cat love tap getcher paws down or I'll slap that cat ass I said down now low now no you can't frown you're a kitty bitty ten pounds heavy are you privvy to the order I'm the boss get off my shoulder they'll be back soon get you high soon float to the moon head so light you take to flight and catch some birdees set them on the porch that's lovely presents for your deary mommy can we take off liftoff donne some nice smocks locks of love and love some rocks that isn't right just rest your eyes in sleep take flight I'll wake you up when day turns night.

Wrote this in class...

I regard this class as being equivelant to drooling -- pointless, mindless, and producing nothing but a pool of uckiness that is both unflattering and embarrassing. For those who already know how to write and think, in taking this class they risk losing both their sanity and all previous writing sensibilities they possessed. Would I take this class seriously, I would effectively unlearn everything I know about writing. Introductory courses are not only always insufficient, but their cognizance of this fact turns them into factories which produce alike-thinking robots capable of good (or at least decent) grades while at the same time rendering them incapable of any unique or creative thought.

Dream

One of my fears is that if I ever become some sort of a known author society will start dictating what my novels should be. I plan on doing everything I can to make sure I never give into the pressure to write things just so other people will read them/buy my books. Ideally I would have some sort of philanthropist or whatnot giving me money to live comfortably while I do nothing but write furiously. Then, because I have money to live already, I would circulate my writings for free online and have my writing be digitally converted so as to be able to be downloaded to electronic readers free of charge. Anyone wanting my books in hardcopy could download them and print them off at their own charge, but no money would ever go to me. The person or group giving me money would have to have absolutely no say in the creative process of my work whatsoever. That way I could be a truly free artist and my followers would never, hard as they try, dictate what I write because I would not need their money. Yes, I think that is my dream. However unattainable, I'm still allowed to have such dreams.

Non-Fiction

The blank pages stares at me, the small line at the top of the page blinks in anticipation. But I can think of nothing. I know the story inside and out, yet I can't seem to find the words. Never before have I started out on such an endeavor. Always have I known what to say, and let the stories come as they pleased. Now things are in reverse. I must fit the words to the story or all will fall apart. Perhaps this is the struggle in writing non-fiction. Fiction seems so much easier comparatively. People think non-fiction must be so much easier, the story is already there. But not for a writer who works with words first and lets storylines develop on the waves of the words. I must teach myself to write in this new way, else I surely will fail at doing the story justice.

The Unknown

I don't know how I've gotten here, to this place of sureity. My life has been one of uncertainty and trepidation in everything, that to be sitting on this moon rock, surveying the world with clarity and understanding, seems hard to fathom. I wonder, will I be tumbling back to smack the ground and open my eyes dissoriented and confused once again? Or can I live here safely, strong in mind and body with a new, fresh consciousness to guide me further into the cosmos? And am I really to live among the stars, possibly at the outermost expansion of the universe where I too can feel true growth? Or will I inevitably be pulled back into the human world of masks and sufferance. I like where I am at, and I can feel the divide growing between where I was and where I am. There is something powerful and great stirring inside me, in my chest and my organs and even out to the very ends of my fingertips, urging me onward. Am I scared? Yes, I am quite scared. We humans are apt to believe our knowledge is vast, when the truth is that we know next to nothing at all. I am moving into the unknown.

Free

There is no other way to transform, to metamorphosize, than by creating your own coccoon and shutting out the world for a little while. No way to completely dissolve every cell you've ever known and reassemble every appendage, every hair, than by receding into yourself. To make that leap from tiny grub inching along to a drifting, fluttering beauty that lands with grace upon the most vibrant and cherished of the earth's plants -- flowers! To be that entity of such loveliness you must first turn inward! You must know every fiber of your being and then allow it to melt and morph and when you can finally feel yourself anew, your fresh wings aching to be set free of the capsule you've enclosed yourself in for so long, you can, at last, break out. But it must be you who makes the coccoon, and you, too, who sets yourself free.

English 302

I've taken this class before. Same room, same professor. I failed out of this class last semester within the first unit. So now I am back, suffering it again. Because it is a requirement. The core class, the introductory course to my major. The very one I've been able to sidestep.
Until now.
And now it feels like there is a slack noose around my neck, a mere wooden peg beneath my feet, holding me just out of death's reach.
But.
We know how it goes. One false move...

You go to class
excited
and leave
bored
feeling lifeless.
Where are the good
professors?
The kind that have you
scooting
to the edge
of your seat?
Straining to catch
every word
every inflection
idea?
Where are
those professors
who light
FIRE!
to your mind
your soul?
They've gone with the
money
I suppose,
with the budget cuts
and layoffs.
When did education get so
crappy?
Monotone instructors
and one who dropped and smashed a student's
phone.
It seems all professors have reached
psychosis
while living in fear of joining
their colleagues.
"you absolutely cannot
cram
you MUST study regularly"
They say this bcs they think their class is
special
and bcs they think that's what the university
wants.
But they're all the same.

You
are the one
who set me up
with this
blog.
You maybe read a few
posts
but then
you ignored it,
like you ignored
me.
You
could have learned
much
from this blog
about me.
Maybe enough.
Enough
to have changed things.
Enough
to have kept us
together.
But here we are
worlds apart.
Love
extinguished.
Connection
lost.
Only a dial tone
where there was once
something
real.

I question
that you ever really
loved
me at all.
There is
overwhelming evidence
to the contrary.
Lists
of crimes
and buckets
of tear drops filling
to the rim.
How did things
last
as long as they did?
And lasting
so long,
how is there
nothing
salvageable?

We were but
two kids
thinking
we had figured something out.

Oh, apparently so... Very nice. Phone blogging rules!

How does this work? Do I just text bloggr everytime I want to make a post?

I blame
perpetual motion
for this catastrophe
and my poor
luck

I don't think looks
are to blame

Or intelligence

Definitely not commonality

And love surely
isn't
to blame --
she will never
love you
the way that
I do.

Fear
is a possibility.
We are all afraid
of someone
seeing
what we hide.

Distance is maybe
a culprit
too.

Perseveration, though
seems to me
the likely
criminal
behind it all.

I can't pretend to know what's
Best
for anyone
ever
not even myself.
The only thing people can ever
know
is just their feelings
which are to each
her own.