Splice

She sees his face change as she stares at him -- not a real change, but a flash, spliced film. His real face is benevolent, calm, terrifying; he says "You're forgetting me" sweetly, like the accusation before a murder.

Then it flashes; she sees him angry, eyes dark and rimmed in crisp fury, mouth tight together, the clenched muscle in his cheek like a slap. Then he's laughing, soundless, teeth alight with pearled certainty -- he's tipping his head back and to the side -- he mocks her with half-shut eyelids.

And it's over, no time elapsed, just the serenity of him weighing her, pausing for an answer. Her body reacts late, a kind of lurch and loss of breath, weakness behind her eyes.

He smiles. "Is it working?"

If she looks away his face won't flash again, or she won't have to see it -- if she looks away -- maybe it could be safe or she could see it safe in the sides of her vision --

Gently, so smugly, "No?"

"No," she whispers, tamed, docile.

"You can keep trying, honey, but it won't do you any good. I can't let you hurt yourself like that."

Space

I fall asleep by not thinking of it -- by thinking of the hour, of the chemicals chasing the frenzy from my muscles, the bed, the man beside me in the bed, all kinds of logical thoughts that cut any associations.

It's how I get up, too -- school, the children and their eyes, or the day, or the bus coming on time and how I have to be there. Nothing to comprehend, nothing to overcome -- no recover -- no association -- nothing.

Simple

She was almost grateful for him, for the way he can't get into the space where all her friends can hurt her. It is agony but it is not betrayal, and so it is bearable. It is easier than being awake, in that way. It is simple.

But when she wakes up she thinks it must not be; the dance has an odd man out, splitting up the pairs, twisting the steps. They are all stumbling.

Her pain is not her pain. She shares it with invincible people, people who never knew the feeling, never feared, and they begin to shiver.

One -- two -- trip -- four.

She Wakes

It starts with the littlest fear -- the possibility that poisons my mind like a drop of dye in the water, and when I smell it I am unable to sense anything else.

Never mind his "hush hush," never mind the sweet hands in my hair, never mind that there's nothing to be afraid of any more; the sharks smell blood and they're coming from miles away. All else can still, but not the jittering in my chest, my leg.

When I start to call it silly, when I start to fight -- finally, then, He speaks to me in a voice like a bucket of dye. I still have stains where his voice has washed down my body, like rain that poured through my hair, making rivers across my collarbones, in skittering lines down my arms, then over the open space and the paths divide to follow the outside and inside lines of my breasts -- thick trails across the hills of my stomach and then gathering, pooling in the hair between my legs.

The stains are from yesterday and two years ago, raw but not faded from my scrubbing.

Religion

I'm pretty sure that if you take Wicca and Sioux/Lakota spirituality and mash them together into a single thing, I'm somewhere in the mix. I believe in a divine entity, but not so much a separate one as a consciousness of the life force that flows throughout the entire universe. I believe that the closer we get to nature, the more pure things are. I also believe that technology can be a divinely ordained tool for good, but also a tool for evil against the world. The difference has to do with intent and with use and with respect.

I think that a morally good person is a person who accepts her own role in the systems of life, who operates in the context of the entire universe with respect and with purpose. She treats the world as her family, has empathy and compassion.

I value the number four because there are four seasons, four phases of the moon, four stages of life, four directions, four times of day.

I want to learn about natural herbal healing, to acquire a stock of herbs and regularly use them instead of chemicals to cope with ailments. I want to get rid of the toiletries and other chemicals that I use all the time, and replace them with natural substances -- not 'all natural' brands, but straight natural substances that I can know and understand. I want to have all of my clothing either sustainably sourced or secondhand.

I believe in magicks -- that there are powers beyond the physical in this world, and that they can be manipulated for good or for evil. I believe that my intent is a powerful thing, as well as my will. I believe that some things are holy, but that ultimately, ritual is between myself and the universe. Operating within a ritualistic tradition adds the power, the faith of heritage, but it isn't the only way to practice. I believe that magick should be used only for the good of the universe.

I swear by the Wiccan Rede: If it harm none, do what you will.

I think, ultimately, it's all about respect.

It's about respecting my fellow beings, respecting the resources which give me life. Respecting the planet where I live, the universe where it spins, the communities where I belong and the ones where other people belong. It means respecting the beliefs and the feelings of others, which is a step toward tolerance and open-mindedness. It means always remembering that I am not always right, that I do not know everything, that my experience and my abilities are limited.

Ben Folds

He couldn't sleep at night for fear that she
in a stupor from the drugs that didn't
ease the pain
would set the house ablaze


I don't know what to write, now that this isn't private. Heh.
And I'm already paying the price for the way I didn't properly conceal my Xanga, and now . . .
What do I do, establish twenty new blogs trying to keep secret?
I don't know. I don't know. It seems silly to want to put something secretly on the internet, but at the same time it makes perfect sense to me. The people in my life, in my real out-here life, they're . . . they're in a position to make trouble and then they do. But I don't want to be anonymous, I don't want to be secretive. I wish I could have friends and not be afraid of what they'd do.
Maybe in a couple months, when I'm all graduated, beholden to no one, as't were, then it won't matter what I write and where I write it. Maybe.

11:11

For my senior art show -- a comprehensive list of the ways I know that people wish.

Suggestions welcome.

11:11
100+ cars in a train
make 1000 paper cranes
shooting star
first star of the evening
catching a piece of fluff from the air and blowing it away
birthday candles