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XxCellarxxDoorxX
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Name: Liz
Country: United States
State: Ohio
Gender: Female
Interests: Insanity. constant and undefinable divings into one's deepest and innermost self. Reading, when not forced to. Writing, again, when not forced to. Music, of almost any sort. My Loves. My Friends. My Enemies. My Hatreds. Secret wanderings into the forbidden lust that is Techno music. My closeted tree-hugger. <--::True Love::--> <--::Good Sex::--> *The ultimate experience of the aforementioned goals.*
Expertise: Slow Dancing in the Rain. Walking in a forest, for hours, never feeling the panic of being lost. Kissing with all of my heart. Living with all my body. Thinking with all my mind. Crying with all my tears. Singing with all my voice. Screaming with all my breath. Loving with all my soul. and Hugging with all the intentions, of never letting go.
Occupation: Life
Industry: Reality
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
AIM:  Lizzzylar2
Yahoo:  Lizard_of_oz69_8
Member Since:
5/14/2005
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| On loneliness, I ponder. It's fitting that the "lone" remains in the nominative. So as not to deny the significant solitude of the word. It has been quite the hiatus from loneliness as I feel now. Grown-up mothers and soul-searching fathers to adolescent brothers makes the busy family homes quite empty most times. What is this lone liness that feeds on my soul these hours? From the constant micro-blogging-media-tools one would have thought that loneliness was banished! Banished? I am glad it is not. As unnerving as it can be for a twittering face fool that I am on book in my own space, I find that the xanging influence of every set of eyes trained carelessly for a moment upon what ever trite, un-profound dirt I have uncovered in the formation of encrypted syllables to be far more isolating and well, lonely than my day of well... solitude. And yet here I am, turning to another glowing rectangle and formatted fonts and electrified emotions to try and convey with the most familiar medium I know my own humanity! In a form that is anything but human.
But I did not come here to tirade on the unstoppable "march of progress" (perhaps I might later)
I came here to find words for the moving mantle of my blood pushing the continental plates of my flesh to mountain ranges, tsunamis, and earthquakes. I came here to tell the tale of a day, with myself.
In an economy such as this, a working student must indeed work to attempt to earn the semblance of a life while working toward the future. It feels vain but for the promise that the low wages and ignorant management will change once you get that degree and that career. (The certainty of that dream I am sure rests on poorly planned foundations but it is all you have to get you by). So when a day such as a Sunday is by simple fate free for a working college student in the hospitality business... it seems as if with the dawn unfurls a Scarlett carpet upon which all the plans you've put on hold for the entirety of your young working life you may tread toward. And then, one glowing rectangle window after another announces that all of those with whom you've betrayed plans, have their own. Family functions, jobs to work, etc. etc. You yourself have a moment of weakness, feeling betrayed and forgotten! Until you remember that this was what it's like to be your friend, 99% of the time. Moving on in your heart you are certain that someone will share the sloth of the summer. ... a few more glowing rectangles later you're certain your mother of all people will be free. A Sunday afternoon with her often gone daughter? What mother would turn it down? She has a date (she so delightfully informs you face to face, admittedly a pleasant change). Well, your father (and you) have been putting off your birthday day with him! What a perfect time to celebrate (3 weeks later)?? So after a few phone calls... he calls you back. Success at last! A well-salvaged day off work. He wasn't quite able to put together something for you this week either. Not a problem! Money is tight for everyone, just some nice father-daughter time should do the trick. Well, Jessica Alba is in a very nice dress on, you guessed it, another glowing rectangle. Then a loud and obnoxious, albeit small glowing rectangle informs your father that your 14-year old confused and angry brother is starving at the rate of a Feed the Children Child at your not-so-local theme park. Perfect. He does his best, as he always had, and leaves soon after. If you can make it through 3 or 4 more parts of the "Wild China" documentary on China's wildlife and national parks, it's still considered a salvaged Sunday, right?
A few quacks and glowing rectangle informs you that the person you'd rather see out of anybody (who had a day chock full of events you are barred from) is feeling quite down. Good thing you're well-versed in compensating for actually being there for someone, by means of a glowing rectangle.
This is all quite trite and horrifically un-profound.
This is really about how I selfishly, ignorantly, and unfairly feel exiled from the things that matter most in my loved one's life. Anyone off the street regardless of character, is welcome into her home, her life, her events, and to mingle with her family. There is no barring of all gay people. or all short people. all blonde people, or all jews. No discriminating factor, but the idea, that I might be the one to make their daughter happy.
I used to always believe that if only people got to know me, and then found out about whatever it is that makes me different, that I could change their minds, slowly change the world. I always thought that, while not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, I, if anyone, could educate and inform, and love. The fact is, they have met me, welcomed me into their home, fed me, sheltered me for a short time and not been hateful. And this matter of fact, however inconvenient or insignificant, tears me up, from the inside out.
The ridiculous part of it all is that I am so close, to it not being a real, day-to-day issue anymore. Ten days. 10. Most of these days will be spent working, packing, or cleaning. Or on my lucky days, hanging out with my loved ones.
Today wasn't one of those days. I had nothing to do, but sit, alone, and consider what it is I feel slipping through my fingers. Like sand in a sieve I am trying to keep enough in there, so I can put it all back together when I have a solid foundation again.
I wasn't there, for her first car. Or her first pet (however long she had it). I wasn't there when she needed me. I wasn't there. I can't be there.
For the first time, since January, I feel alone. And there's no one to make it stop.
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| Lithe and limber, alighting the air with poetry etched in her smile and paintings in her eyes. Thickening layers of existence disguised by falling lashes that float upon wishes and dreams whispered in a heavenly breath. Curves and corners mark the paths less taken. An unmapped, unknown place, is she. An undiscovered wonder, a heavenly body emanating life beyond our humble imaginings. Geology and biology enticed by her flesh, poetry and music lust for her breath. Humanity in need of her smile, and the Universe at the beckoning of her eyes, relinquishes its infinity to her mind. The Gods smile upon her soul, seeing that it is good. Of all the forms and molds for creation, hers is unique in all ways.
Feet for treading the earth in all her facets, toes to know as much as hands, for she mustn't miss a beat of the earth's heart. Legs to carry her many times over, long enough to run, smart enough to play the sphere naturally traveling between her strides. Hips disproportionate for anyone but her, as they show her tenderness and latent maternity. Alloy for muscle, for she must be stronger than the others, they must have said. She will know great comforts and great strife. She must bend and resist, in their own right times. Flesh of silk, sinew and linen. Woven from all creatures to shield her precious insides and lend her flesh its eagerness to touch. Make her bones of stone, they surely had decided. For nothing but the oldest rocks could carry her heart and soul through this life she leads. They have survived hell fire and so must she. Her blood, oh her blood, it must be rich. Rubies and phoenix tears, do make her heart beat strong. What other than scarlet truth could breathe life into her flesh and bones? She spills much in her years, as needs be its potency. For wherever it is let, she shall heal with prayer and truth. Riches will sprout upon her forgiveness and carry on will she. Her hands, tools by which her soul may operate must be strong and exquisite, powerful and tender. Make them of clay and root, mailable so that she does not break with her strength, alive so that she may too give life through her fingertips, Able to do all things as her soul intends. What of her eyes? The terrible dilemma. They must be unlike any other, most certainly. Make them of stained glass of course! A window to the soul befitting hers must be like that of a holy sanctuary. Even the gods could not gain the desired shade of heaven in her eyes. Her soul would not be tainted even by their good intentions. And so to better serve her purpose on this humble Earth, her eyes are brown. A common and normal color to the untrained eye. Look closely enough, they'll say, for you can see each layer of intention and divinity. Piecing together the heavens in her eyes, so that we could know she can see right through our lies. Swirling and unfurling like a curtain meant to hide, so that we wouldn't grow suspicious of her divination. the final touch, to disarm our fears and testify that God still hears, he gave her a smile so bright and wild that it could wound the wicked with tenderness and soothe the troubled with peace. As the Gods were about to attach her wings, her soul flew down, needed urgently, without her wings to mark her as an angel among men. So concerned were the Gods, that she has not all the tools they prepared, they broke her mold. Aware then that she was too good for earth, and too human for heaven, the Gods took her wings, and plucked a feather to float down to her, whenever she needed a simple reminder, (thank goodness the gods saw fit to give her ears to hear them, because she never need doubt) that God is still listening, yelling down. "I Love You!"; And as the feather's fly, they turn into miracles, to help her along, on her journey to help us all.
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| Raining absolution
solitary impasse
parting touches seeking writhing forms
God's will
infinite subjectivity
baptismal arch of the back
propagated love
surging fortitude
grounded spark
lighting fire, whispering winds
alighting mine ear they speak with evanescent truths, Soothing the wounds of a solitary impasse. Whilst the grounded spark of a parting touch, seeking the writhing forms and the holy baptismal arch of the back as the sacred waters rain absolution on my unworthy form. Propagated love searching for a meaning to the infinite subjectivity of a racing mind, finds everything it might need in the endless confines of a beating heart. God's will is never finished. Always searching, finding, loosing, creating, using, destroying. The heavens wash the earth with its own evaporations. The tears wet the eyes with their own sorrows. The heart beats its own rhythm, fighting, in perfect harmony, the urge to stop. Welling up, draining out, flying off into the clouds...
I am alive and well. Surging each moment, is blood rich in oxygen through my veins, causing my ambulatory musings on a dark, rainy night. Firing each moment do infinite synapses cause my mind to imagine. I see all things. I see all non-things. I am all things, and all non-things. As are you, dear. Sweet, darling, dear. We are not a we at all, but a one in the whole. One, as we are, must remember that above all things, sumus, ergo non sumus soli.
Digging in the earth, to lay a body to rest... is that not the most alive moment of many a person. Their moment of death as the fleeting breath escapes the transcendent lips? No, no. Their funeral most certainly, for when else are so many so focused in their minds, upon you? so many thoughts all trained exclusively on your life, your deeds, your love, your needs? Are we not most alive when we have passed? Is it then that our life may be examined and thought of, remembered and dreamed of? Perhaps I am wrong. To be alive, is that to be aware? To affect? To be known? To be needed? to be loved?
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| breathing insufficiently
I escape with long faces
in forgotten places
this world that knows such sorrow
that breeds such ignorance
that cries tears of hatred
and lonlyness in the night
stars fall black upon my face and hands
I am not moved by the pain of man
who are we to demand
action or cause
do we pause for our death when we change the channel
on the soon-forgotten chattle begging for food
for a helping hand?
do we mourn the loss of ourselves as we ought to mourn this fellow man?
Who's to say you deserve as much as I?
And what if what you want
would take away mine?
Do you have the right to demand survival?
Do you have the right to demand community?
Do you have the right to demand that which you need?
Do I have the right to give it to you?
Do I have the right to take it from you?
Do I have the right to give you what I want to give
what I think you need?
Is it mine to give
Do I truly have the audacity to presume that I know more than you?
That my race or my color or my education or my home make me better than you?
Does my love and my passion for life make me any more than you?
It's time I start remembering that I'm human just like you.
That I would want some one to feed me if I were hungry
to clothe me if I were cold
to hold me if I were alone
to miss me when I'm gone
to love me even when I'm human.
I'd say I'd do the same in return
but experience shows
that the current state of apathy is at an all time high
and the flowing rate of empathy might as well be dry
the responsibility for this universe
I hold I carry on my back
hoping one day I'll just grow old
and die before it can haunt me with the nightmares of what I should have done
for my brother and my sister
for my mother and my father
for my friends and my lovers
for my man and woman and child
for the life that I have on my back.
I am atlas, trying to ignore the world I carry on my shoulders
because I am overwhelmed
I am cynical and judgmental
I am hopeless and jealous
I am angry with out cause
drowning in disillusionment
ignoring the world I carry on my shoulders...
I am disgusting.
What refuge is there for a soul whose eyes opened so wide so that they might see the glory of God... and saw instead the insurmountable tasks placed before her.
Without idea or direction hope or inspiration,
I quell the fire of urgency in my belly
for fear of failure. For fear of ....
everything.
I am afraid.
I wake up and I am afraid
I sleep and I am afraid
I love and I am afraid
I am angry and I am afraid
I am afraid of myself, of who I am becoming of who I was, of the world I am growing into.
I am afraid of this world on my shoulders, getting heavier as I open my eyes.
So I shut them with tears streaming down. Hoping that it's all a terrible dream. That I'm not responsible for this world, that I have no place in this scheme. I am afraid of that as well. That in this bigger world, there is no place for me. For my dreams, for my word-less songs, for my visions of sun and water, for my love of life. For my drive for a better world on my shoulders. I am afraid.
I am human.
and I am afraid.
I am human.
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| I feel... alone?
adrift?
awash?
a fright?
absconded of absolution
blinded by business
curtailed in confusion
derailed and deluded
empathetic and empty-hearted
fucked and forgotten
grim and gross
hopeful and happenstance
indignant and ignorant
jealous and juxtaposed
kicked and kissed
loved and lonesome
merchant of materials
nowhere a niche
over and out
polite and pugnacious
quizzical and quiet
righteous and raw
silent and strong
tired and tested
undertow and undulated
violent and vivacious
weary and wishful
a Xanthippe and xenagogue
yearning and yet...
the zenith approaches zion
and soon I will be free at last.
God almighty we will be free at last.
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