The Lifestyle

Anxiety is building up and clogging any rational thoughts that may or may not be residing in my brain. I would like to believe that I am a rational person but my actions in how I express my emotions say otherwise. I am just so incredibly anxious.

anxious, anxious, anxious.

Future References

So ... I sort of want to enter the industry of comics and animated entertainment. I recently discovered from a friend that I would be able to enter ACAD but not become fully enrolled as an ACAD student and could quite possibly take some sketching courses. The possible chance of improving my current techniques and add into that my current English degree, which is currently expanding my writing skills .... then.... dun duuuun duun da! COMIC BOOK ARTIST/WRITER

Live in my parents basment forevaaaa. :3

O man, how I honestly wish for this. I'm not looking to become a teacher, perhaps a novelist but having a BA of English on my resume isn't going to get me published ... but neither will any of the above. Why is it so difficult in North America to be financially successfull with an arts degree? I recall hearing from travelling friends that Europe has an amazing appreciation for the arts. So why are we lagging behind? I suppose the question of morals and financial situations plays a large part. I don't understand.

All this anime watching/ manga reading doesn't help either. O the life of an Otaku...

I Cant Wait

I can't wait for next semester when I can finally start writing and learning to improve my writing. I can't wait to learn about world religions and go in depth into the human pysche. I can't wait to explore mammal osteology and use highlighters in a 'productive' manner. I can't wait to learn French and be able to use swear words in more then two languages.

I can't wait for next semester and the frustration of unreasonable proffesors. I can't wait for the stress of 20 page essays and the all nighters that come with them. I can't wait for the caffeine crashes and the irritability of not having enough cigarettes and the extreme lack of nutrition, or sustenance of any kind really.

I cant wait.

The Dichotomy

A certain depth of solitude rains a casual existence in your presence.
The hope of a battered niche no longer cranes it neck and yet,
I still take careful steps.

When the last breath tornadoes through
and asks me of the yellow tail,
I reply with a shallow stagnation.

Do not question my ability to love, do not point bones and assume the knowledge
is there.

Still,

Weathered yearnings continue to seep through drains.
Single droplets of lively blood; iron, pungent
falter onto your shoulders.

And all I can produce is a stare.

Ghosting

Since the days of my young childhood I've always had a simple fasicnation with the concept of ghosts, but it was not until around my second year of high school that the acute curiosity became a full throttle obsession. My complete understanding of why they sparked such an interest has yet to be fully explored, I cannot give a concrete statement as to what makes them so honestly appealing. Once I had attempted to resolve the curiosity but unfortunately distractions came lurking my way (SCHOOL and high school pressures, hah.) But now, being four years older from that time, no longer obsessing, and having (hopefully) matured, perhaps that question can finally be solved.

When I had first attempted to put thought onto paper, I can recall being slightly frustrated. My initial intent in writing the piece involved explaining what a ghost was and then to elaborate on my perceptions of it. 16 years old, feeling like the whole world believes you are invisible and the only sentence you're able to write is, I am a ghost. Well, you and I both know that that simply stems from being 16. But at that time it was simply an honest statement reflecting my thoughts on how I believed the universe percieved me. Like much of the world population, high school wasn't the best experience of my twenty years of life. Much of it involved a heavy dependancy on others, a pathetic way to just simply not appear alone and avoid gawking eyes. Around that age I was slowly drifting from people whom I thought would be my best friends for life and no matter how long I talked with them or sat in their presence, the isolation continued to grow. In my own head, I honestly was just a ... ghost.

I can remember writing down the word malleable. A ghost is malleable. But malleability and figure change are two different things. I realize that now. In my own terms, ghosts are shape shifters, they are whatever the believer percieves them to be. There is no concrete image of a ghost, that is left to the imaginer. I like that idea, that a ghost can be whatever the believer believes it to be. No right or worng answer, just look between the black and white.

So what is the gray that limbers to and from the spaces of my cerebrum? I'm still unsure. But I know now that it is the one concept that allowed me to explore my 16 year old limitations and to further expand my treading distance in terms of human comfort. I had no idea how to appreciate the time spent alone, never fully acknowledged how freeing the comfort of silence could be. The thought of ghoshting challenged me to break apart from the constraints of my insecurities of being seen on my own. Yes, the comfort of humans was always nice but what use was it when that comfort disappeared? This is where ghosting came into place.

I was ghosting then, I am ghosting now.

Criminal

A video of myself singing Criminal by Fiona Apple using the built-in web camera on my laptop. The quality is terrible and thanks to my own life choices, breathing while singing isn't the easiest task anymore. Thank you cigarettes, thank you Helen for starting in the first place (sad face).

This isn't my first attempt at posting such videos, usually they are deleted after a day or two. BUT I'm not doing that any longer. Everyone must start somewhere right? I'm not looking to make it big, I'm looking to freely express myself in anyway I feel without feeling shame and constant insecurity. It's a slow start with a blog that only has one reader but perhaps someday health,life,&fire can reach a couple more and can quite possibly encourage other people to do the same. :)

Bleeding Bells

Delta Spirit live

There's no place to lay my death
When I can't stand alone
The growth I need is fettered with fear
My heels dug in my place

Caged Bird.

When the last ounce of metal slid beneath her skin, the yellow tail
asked, "What sin have I commited?"

Glass.

An empty bottled man,
his tongue sampling spoonfuls
of her plastic.
Their heavy chests
exploring sheets of yesterday's lust.
A snake down her throat
he twists and squirms to invade
every secret,
learning details of the smoke and bones.
A single ventricle
leaks a trickle of passion.

The man is no longer empty.

April Wine

"It's been almost a year now and you are still unaware of who took your hands.

What have you been doing all this time?"

Sitting in a Starbucks Safeway Drinking Timmies.

His words and his voice are similar but something else emitting itself from his limbs. It's a stench that floats aimlessly like a corpse afloat the River Styx. I sit still, pateint and silent as he continues to ramble of his days passing. But secretly I gag. A garbage stink is filling my nostrils, my olfactories are begging for mercy. Not today. Not today.

His breath becomes slow, his sentence nearing it's final word.
"I suppose you should get back to work now," I quickly interject before any more disscussion can be furthered.
"Don't worry, I still have ten minutes."

A pressure in my abodomen tightens while a quiant smile stretches across his thin lips.
"I'm so glad you're here."

This is not the man I love.

Hormones

Swallowing another individual’s lust for the unknown
and finding the consequences to be more than a psychedelic trip
through a blanket of legs
is,
well, just that.

Junko Mizuno

Ravenous Cinderealla

A print from Mizuno's graphic novel version of Cinderella

Offcial Junko Mizuno: http://www.mizuno-junko.com/

The Needle & The Damage Done

Laura Marling covering Neil Young.

Dec 12, 1997

An excerpt from the graphic novel V for Vendetta, written by Alan Moore and illustrated by David Lloyd.

"My name is Adam Susan. I am the leader. Leader of the bst, ruler of the ruins. I am a man, like anyother man. I lead the country that I love out of the wilderness of the twentieth century. I believe in survival, in the destiny of the nordic race. I believe in fascism. Oh yes, I am a fascist. What of it? Fascism ... a word. A word whose meaning has been lost in the bleaths of the weak and the treacherous. The Romans invented fascism. A bundle of twigs was it's symbol. One twig could be broken. A bundle would prevail. Fascism... strength in unity.

I believe in strength. I believe in unity. And if that strength, that unity of purpose demands a uniformity of thought, word and deed then so be it. I will not hear talk of freedom. I will not hear talk of individual liberty. They are luxuries. I do not believe in luxuiries. The war put paid to luxury. The war put paid to freedom.
The only freedom left to my people is the freedom to starve, the freedom to die, the freedom to live in a world of chaos. Should I allow them that freedom?

I think not.
I think not.

Do I reserve for myself the freedom I deny others? I do not. I sit here within my cage and I am but a servant. I, who am master of all that I see. I see desolation. I see ashes. I have so very much. I have so very little.

I am not loved, I know that. Not in soul or body. I have never known the soft whisper of the endearment. Never known the peace that lies between the thighs of a woman. But I am respected, I am feared. And that will suffice. Because I love. I, who am not loved in return I have a love that is far deeper than the empty gaps and convulsions of british coupling.
Shall I speak of her?
Shall I speak of my bride?

She has no eyes to flirt or promise. But she sees all. Sees and understands with a wisdom that is God-like in its scale. I stand at the gates of her intellect and I am blinded by the light within. How stupid I must seem to hear. How chidlike and uncomprehending. Her soul is clean, untainted by the snares and ambiguities of emotin. She does not hate. She does not yearn. She is untouched by joy or sorrow, I worship her though I am not worthy. I cherish the purity of her disdain. She does not respect me nor does she fear me.

She does not love me.

They think she is hard and cold, those who do not know her. They think she is lifeless and without passion. They do not know her. She has not touched them. My love, I woukd stay with you forever, would spend my life within you. I could wait upon your every utterance and never ask the merest splinter of affection.

Fate...
Fate...

I love you."

The Morning After

The bare back is nothing but a
     platform for unyeilding words
     to scrape mental deteriorations into.
It resembles that one moment
     when the light cast it’s wake,
     harbouring hands that were
     meant to be yours.
It is the glass that crawls along
     your spouses’ spine,
     invigorating and weary where the
     nape folds in.
It is the steps lost within wine
     drenched lips,
     the only exit when a
     lamb tears with teeth.
How can it be expected that
     ribs crawl over time
     and torso’s move frequently?
And so, it is exactly what you think it is.

That one moment when you should have said no.

Oversize Paperbacks

Her apathy scared him. As it should. She became far too comfortable, far too diligent residing in the box she created for herself last summer. The assumption that returning to that slumber would no longer occur after meeting him was a thought silently spoken. Or perhaps it was never even fully acknowledged, but she knew it was there, residual fragments sifting through her so-called human particles. She had made the poor decision of assuming that after the August sun and Septemeber morning, the intense emotions created during those holidays would cease the stagnation.

Damn my luck, she thought.