sometimes we forgot these years existed.

WUTWUTWUT

Fri, 27 Nov 2009 09:33:12 GMT

Well flist. At the ripe old age of twenty today I am going on my first Black Friday adventure. Just To See, you know? firelady113 I are awake (poor fools that we are) and going to head out in the very near future.

We've lost our minds, haven't we. x)

BOO.

Sat, 31 Oct 2009 19:15:36 GMT

Happy Halloween, guys. :)

I need to write in here more. o.o

a list shall suffice.

Thu, 25 Jun 2009 10:54:40 GMT

Good:
- Singing opera as loud as I want in the shower because there is nobody around to bitch
- Rescuing the firefly that has been trapped in my window for three days and setting it free
- ASDFASDFASDFASDF ♥♥♥ /dorkdorkdork omg
- Windchimes :)

Bad:
- Guilt
- Not being able to sleep until I'm literally unable to stay awake a second longer. On a regular basis. Sometimes it's merciful and I can sleep at only about 5% ability to stay awake.
- People
- "Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody." - J.D. Salinger = hxc truth

Now it's time for bed. Maybe. Time for something.

oh metro...

Tue, 23 Jun 2009 06:50:51 GMT

Taken directly from the WMATA website:

Metro's definition of "mechanical difficulties" and mine are two extremely different things.

Last weekend we had two suicides in as many days, and nothing about them either. I was on the red line on Sunday, and they only referred to it as a "report of someone struck by a train," and only in that wording once. From then on they referred to it as "police activity at Bethesda station."

One train on top of another and up to nine deaths I guess they figure they can't really hide from the public that well. Or maybe disaster on a large scale is more savory and immediately accessible than personal tragedy, the driving forces and fine balances behind one person's decision.

But that's a rant for another time.

hey peanut gallery!

Sat, 20 Jun 2009 08:27:59 GMT

So somehow I've accumulated $68 of change in a McCutcheon's jar.

How should I spend it? :)

~~And how is it I've forgotten how to sleep until I physically cannot stay awake anymore? :/~~

the way out of the mind*: a case against sylvia plath in three parts

Tue, 26 May 2009 01:09:38 GMT

This is mainly for my own perverse satisfaction, but it has been a long time coming. A very, very long time coming.

Hello, flist. Allow me to introduce to you the veritable bane of my literary existence.

Sylvia Plath Hughes.

There she is, in the 1960s equivalent of a myspace picture. Look how sad she is about her life. Bawww, Sylvia, bawww.

I can’t remember when I encountered Plath and her work for the first time. However I am fairly certain that my hatred for her came to the forefront of my awareness sometime during the course of my high school career. To be fair that’s about the same time I came to dislike reading in general, but there is certainly no other writer for whom I hold such a deep aversion.

Here is why.

i. the poet herself

During her life the woman made a career (and after her death others have subsequently made for her something like a legacy) in the practice of chaining up, ball-gagging, whipping, and generally raping the art of poetry. Her use of language is appalling, as is her technique. She is one of those writers who uses the medium to confuse and alienate (invariably in the hopes of inflating one's ego) rather than to express and communicate. In reading her poems I have noticed a tendency to throw in ten million dollar words and entirely preposterous metaphors. I'm sure she thought that made her brilliant but all it accomplishes to my perception is to frustrate, if not infuriate, the reader. Why should we waste our time to try to figure out what in the world she's saying, well because that is certainly what she would want. She wants us to be confused by her, to draw the conclusion that she must be so terribly deep and talented and that is surely why we fail to understand her.

One of the more irritating aspects of Plath as a poet and indeed as an individual is this - in layman's terms, the bitch is never happy. She writes this poem of nonsensical rage against her father (the infamous Daddy, oh yes, you know what I mean), comparing the poor German zoologist to a Nazi and a vampire, hating him for dying of diabetes. Of course the loss of a parent is one marked by profound grief and anguish, but who is she to resent him so much for succumbing to a natural disease when at the age of thirty she abandoned her two small children by committing suicide, a conscious act. A bit hypocritical, don’t you think, if only for the fact that she knew what it was like to grow up saddling the heavy absence of a parent.

Also, a note about her suicide relevant to the fact that the bitch is never happy. We all know she stuck her head in an oven. Everyone defends her by saying that she stuck towels under the door to the children’s room and left them something to eat and drink. Clearly that makes her a good mother, right? Yes, so when someone who has no idea that Plath is a crazy bitch comes into the room and flicks on the light switch the whole place can go up in an explosion. Plath clearly never thought of anyone but herself, how put upon she perceived herself to be.

Another tiny little note about Daddy. In that sorry excuse for a “poem” not only does Ms. Plath go after her father, but she also makes it a point to harp on her husband also. Admittedly they had recently separated at the time the poem was written, but honestly? I would have left her too. (Yes, I'm one of those Horrible People who sides with Hughes, and yes, I know everything about Assia you would want to tell me.)

Plath has become a cult figure through no virtue of her own. The bulk of her work reads like a tome of the ramblings of a madwoman, which is precisely was she was. The events of her life speak for themselves - her (miserably failed) suicide attempt at the age of 20, her unjustified rage towards her father especially in juxtaposition to her hypocritical suicide, her claiming to hate her mother despite their close relationship, her pathological need for attention through any means possible, her suicide that is often regarded as a gesture that accidentally worked. If you ask me it was in ways merciful if only because it put an end to the ridiculous spectacle of her life, an end to her preposterous word salad, her poetry vomit.

Then there’s the fact that Plath’s son just committed suicide in March of this year. Nicholas Hughes had his own merit aside from the stigma of being Plath’s son. He was a biologist and a professor, an expert on fish, particularly king salmon. He was deprived of his mother at barely a year old and now the poor man has killed himself as well and it’s still all about her almost half a century later.

ii. plath's work as a reflection of the poet

A large part of what allows me to detest the woman as much as I do is the combined effects of thinking not only is her poetry horrible, but likewise the thoughts behind them are contemptable. I believe that art in its purest and most unadulterated form is the expression of self, and from this philosophy we can draw the assumption that the art is a rather accurate representation of the artist.

While I could write on any number of deep character flaws that are glaringly apparent in her poetry, I will explore her complete failure to understand what it is to be a mother. The woman's treatment of her children, both in interaction and in her work, is reprehensible.

This is another area in which she is never content. We'll begin with her characteristic self-pity, her constant concern with how all things affect her, and from there progress in the severity of her maternal failure.

Metaphors is generally accepted to be about pregnancy. She refers to herself as "a means, a stage," suggesting that she resents the child for putting her on the back burner, so to speak, in terms of importance. This is an idea that is revisited in many poems, perhaps most clearly in Morning Song.

(I swear I’ve written this same explication at least ten times in various English classes, but this is the one that I will keep and reference as long as I shall live.) Morning Song was written after the birth of Plath's first child, her daughter Frieda. In the first stanza her attitude becomes clear as she describe how the child's "bald cry / Took its place among the elements." Her sarcasm here shows her displeasure with the infant, that she is unimpressed with her, and Plath's unnatural detachment only grows more apparent in the lines that follow.

She refers to her daughter as a "new statue," while describing her and her husband's function as merely to "stand round blankly as walls." This depiction suggests that she resents the child for absorbing attention, detracting from the parents, Plath in particular. She is what we call nowadays an attention whore, and an incurable one at that.

The most horrific part of this poem is in the following stanza. It speaks for itself - "I'm no more your mother / Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow / Effacement at the wind's hand." This is the definitive example of her detachment and lack of any feeling for the child aside from resentment. The cloud and mirror metaphor is Plath's way of holding her daughter's youth and potential against her, of lamenting the aging process in comparison to the life the child has ahead of her. There's old Sylvia, always thinking of herself.

In the fifth stanza Plath gives us this line - "One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral." Again her bitterness towards her daughter indelibly shines though. My theory is that she is annoyed that anything could possibly be more important than her, much less her daughter, a younger manifestation of herself that will only grow into loveliness while Plath withers, grows old (a theme she addresses in Gigolo, alongside her incurable narcissism), is forgotten as her daughter grows older.

Apparently no one ever told Plath that this is the natural order of things, but then, knowing her, perhaps she thought that she was far more important than time, reproduction, the natural aging process that surely it held no dominion over her.

After her daughter was born Plath had a miscarriage, the subject for her poem Parliament Hill Fields. She laments that this happened but I almost question what right she has. Her suicide aside, observe her attitude towards her two other children in her poetry. Her concern for herself and abnormal resentment towards her children do not fit with her sadness over this event in her life, but this contradiction certainly makes sense when we remember that Plath is at all times desperate for attention. Here something has happened, an event devestating in any normal person's mind, and Plath uses it as just another means of gathering attention for herself.

At this point to continue in the vein of demonstrating through Plath's own words what a self-centred, pitiful excuse for a mother she was is certainly superfluous, yet allow me to conclude this train of thought by pointing out how she speaks for herself in her poem Fearful - "The thought of a baby--- / Stealer of cells, stealer of beauty---". There is her perception of children in a line. Her attitude towards them is much like the wicked stepmother in Snow White, only instead of poisoning apples Plath chooses to compose verse vilifying her children so that there is a permanent record of her selfish disregard for the importance of being a mother. I defy anyone to defend her to any legitimate extent.

iii. in conclusion

As I stated before, there is no other writer for whom I hold more disdain than the above pictured Sylvia Plath. In fact, I doubt that any other figure, whether literary, historical, or political, will ever be able to elicit from me the reaction that she does. What is this reaction? It is one of mingled disgust, consternation, and offence. Disgust at her self-importance and willful disregard for others, consternation that one possessed of such little talent as herself was able to rise to a place of some significance in the literary world, and offence that her propensity for self-indulgence has been extended beyond her own lifetime.

I notice a lamentable tendency lately in literary society. I suspect it has been going on longer than I have been alive, perhaps since the dawn of literature itself, at least as long as it has been mulled over by critics. Of late I have interpretated the system behind deeming works of literature "good" or not is often based upon said works of literature's capacity to be unfathomable, that is to say, how well the work can hide its secrets, or at least play at having a secret buried somewhere deep within it. In plainer terms, critics seem to prize the ability of literature, poetry in particular, to be arcane, rather than to encapsulate some facet of the human experience and make it accessible. This is the elitist attitude deplorably present among the literary Powers that Be across the different movements present in the history of the written word.

In the movement with which Plath is associated, the Confessional movement in poetry, this is only made worse. Poetry is admittedly a very personal art form, perhaps more so than any other - it provides an arena that begs the deepest and most private thoughts and ideas of the writer, opens up the inherent "ness" of the poet and makes his or her inner workings suddenly very viewable and open to the judgment of others. Most artists are, unquestionably and perhaps due to the dependence of art upon drawing from the self, rather self-absorbed. A degree of this is perhaps permissable, but in Plath it is heinous, a lurid spectacle. She is caught in the same predicament in which most teenage girls find themselves - stuck between inexplicably low self-esteem and the inherent force within everyone that cries out for the realisation of one's own interests and the stroking of one's ego; an overgrown survival instinct. Most adolescent girls find themselves, and once that is done, from there find a way onward to a more balanced state of being. This is often referred to as the process of "growing up." Plath, clearly, never did this.

Sylvia Plath committed suicide, itself likely an inadvertantly effective attempt to draw attention to herself, over 46 years ago. To this day her followers continue to cater to her truly remarkable and pitiful need for attention. They read her work, idealise her, make her into some entirely put upon darling in the process of demonising everyone involved in her life who are surely to blame for the unbelievable agony of her life. We, of course, know better.

Plath through her poems may well have aimed to confess some of her most personal thoughts, and if they were comprehensible maybe we could learn from them. Instead Plath would rather push us away, make us wonder what in the world she is blathering on about, hopes that in our lack of understanding we will regard her as a deity among poets, truly too far ahead of her time for our comprehension. Sadly for her, her attempt at bigotry falls entirely flat. All that remains of Plath is this – her attempted high-brow, often unintelligible drivel we refer to as her poetry, a contemptible life marked by mostly self-inflicted dramas, and the misfortune we have that her name, her words were not lost forever to the passage of time as they deserve.

*taken from Sylvia's own piteous question, "Is there no way out of the mind?" and the obvious answer that clearly there is, because the crazy bitch certainly appears to have found it.

an open letter to all bugs (especially spiders) that come into my house.

Wed, 13 May 2009 06:04:59 GMT

You God-damned little creepy motherfuckers,

If I see you I will spray your ass with Febreze Air Effects (the lavender vanilla and comfort variety, if you want to know) until you don't fucking move. And if you do then I'll squirt berry scented hand sanitizer (a commodity very precious to me so I'll be really pissed) on you until you really don't move.

In summary? Come into my space and you're a dead son of a bitch.

Fuck you very truly,

Emily, destroyer of invertebrate worlds

ETA:

Little baby spider,

NO MERCY. NO REPRIEVE.

No love,

Emily

ETA2:

HUGEASS MOSQUITO,

YOU TOO, ASSHOLE.

FUCKIN' A,

EMILY

ETA3:

Got fr srs bsnss bug spray. ;D

sixty-six is the new two.

Sat, 09 May 2009 04:37:48 GMT

I just thought I'd mention that talking to my father is like talking to a small child, probably one under the age of about two and a half. They babble, make noises they think are words, wholly believe that they are having a serious conversation with you and all you can do is smile, nod, and try not to lose your damn mind.

all hail wikitards!

Tue, 28 Apr 2009 07:11:06 GMT

It kind of disappears into the margin there so you can read it better here. :)

Yeah that definitely made me lol just a little. It's always nice to hear those crazy miserable confessional poets had some fun in their time too. xD

hi. i'm emily, and i'm a 'right-wing extremist.'

Thu, 16 Apr 2009 07:18:05 GMT

i. I wanted to take this opportunity to clear up the fact that no matter what the Department of Homeland Security tells you, yes I am one of those conservatives and no I don't like the Obamessiah but do not call me a terrorist. Okay? Okay. This pisses me off. A lot. This is not goddamn Nazi Germany. This is the United States of America and look at the polarisation that is going on between the left and the right. I am not liking the direction the general political environment in this country is moving in. We're basically going to be the death of each other.

ii. In other news, tomorrow I go down to D.C. to get my vegan birthday cake. Yesss.

iii. Turning 20? Not so yesss. :/

iv. I uh. Apparently really do want to be a poet. Don't laugh... well, okay, maybe just a little. x)

v. I think it's bedtime.

i don't know if my problem is

Sun, 22 Mar 2009 04:39:16 GMT

That I am the same person I was four years ago (and she can't survive here)

or if

I am not that person. And desperately miss her. (Want to be.)

omg.

Fri, 27 Feb 2009 09:15:53 GMT

I'm pretty sure my sleeping patterns are going to be the death of me...

In other news the Phoenix Wright manga so made my evening. OMG THE RAMEN IS BIGGER THAN YO MAMA'S ASS. xD

Oh yeah and I have an unnatural love for boy bands. *bounceee*

P.S. WHEE I'M GOING TO HELL~

The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Seventh Level of Hell!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:

Level	Score
Purgatory (Repenting Believers)	Very Low
Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)	Very Low
Level 2 (Lustful)	Very High
Level 3 (Gluttonous)	High
Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)	Moderate
Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)	High
Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)	Moderate
Level 7 (Violent)	Extreme
Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)	High
Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)	Moderate

Take the Dante's Inferno Hell Test

/hyperactive teenage girl oh my goodness

♥♥♥

Sat, 14 Feb 2009 06:15:41 GMT

Happy Valentine's, everybody. I love you all. :)

fic: mazurka (manfred von karma; pg)

Tue, 20 Jan 2009 07:08:17 GMT

Guys. This meme is so great. Check it out.

Pick a character, pairing, or fandom you like.
2. Turn on your music player and put it on random/shuffle.
3. Write a drabble related to each song that plays.
You only have the time frame of the song to finish the drabble
You start when the song starts, and stop when it's over. No lingering afterwards!
4. Do ten of these, then post them.

1. Numb – Linkin Park

Put under the pressure of walking in your shoes

Manfred cannot say that he is displeased to see so much of himself in his daughter. The girl is eleven and already well on her way to being worthy of her inheritance.

Hold your head up, he advises, and Franziska is obliged to obey, standing tall and resting a hand on his desk. She begins to recite a passage from Machiavelli, and he nods, steeples his fingers, and is pleased.

Still, hours later he watches her in the garden beyond his window, how she cups a rosebud in her hands and how she smiles, and he realises that he cannot keep her from ineffectual thoughts while outside of his tutelage.

2. You’re My Best Friend - Queen

You're making me live

“Not done for the evening yet?” Manfred looks up to see Gregory Edgeworth at the other end of the bench, grinning. Damn the fool…

Manfred sits up straight, setting his pen down into his lap. “A prosecutor’s work is never done. There is a lamentably endless supply of criminals. Even you know that.”

“Yes,” Gregory admits, “but that is why bars have happy hours. Join me?”

Manfred sighs. He is a proper German and believes that of all the astonishing instances of American ignorance, the most unforgivable must be their affinity for that vile substance they ignorantly label ‘beer.’

3. Nemo - Nightwish

The one without a name, without an honest heart as compass

Manfred scarcely remembers now the face of the first man he convicted, the first he helped send to his death, cannot say he recalls with any sort of clarity many of the defendants’ faces over his forty year career. Then again, he doubts they remember him either, his face eroded by the numbing intervening years between imprisonment and eventual death, his name flickering out of consciousness in the moments before execution.

All that matters is the reputation that stands before him, the fear it inspires in the hearts of the guilty. What comes after in their worthless lives matters accordingly little to him.

4. Gone - *NSYNC

So I'll just hang around and find some things to do

When Manfred’s wife had died he’d adjusted to the title of Widower as seamlessly as he had adjusted to that of Husband. The empty house he grew to appreciate – all the better to focus on his work. For the vacant seat at the table, for the undisturbed half of his bed, he was similarly grateful. It was doubtlessly better for his children not to become softened by useless thoughts and sentiments.

Manfred honestly cannot recall now how his wife came to be dead to him, whether through her body’s inability to care for her any longer or through some irreconcilable difference. Either way, it can hardly matter now.
Her absence is a void he likes to believe he has filled exceedingly well.

5. Get Another Boyfriend – Backstreet Boys

I've seen enough, now this must come to an end

There is only one thing worse than knowing, and that is suspecting.

Manfred has raised a daughter before, is familiar with how girls grow into women, the soft and daft process they undergo. Admittedly he has done better the second time around, but even Franziska has her flaws.

Manfred is used to filling in the blanks, helping the obvious become cemented into fact. How Franziska’s hand finds her brother’s, how he can hear their muted laughter from the other end of the house, their playing.

When his hand comes down across Miles’ face, Manfred does not believe he has ever taken more delight in breaking any other individual. He ignores the books the boy knocks from his desk as he pulls his ward to his feet, feels a wicked joy to tighten his hands around his throat. “You will not touch my daughter, do you understand?”

He releases, brusque, and the teenager staggers away, wiping a smear of blood from his mouth onto his sleeve. He takes shelter in the doorway, terrified to stay but not daring to leave.

Manfred decides for him. “Out,” is his cold decree, and Miles retreats, disappears down the hall, out of sight but wrathfully still in mind.

Fingernails sink into the wooden surface of the desk, the pressure building.

After some seething moments Manfred straightens up, clears his throat.

“Franziska. Come.”

6. Piano sonata no. 14 in c# minor – Ludwig von Beethoven

Manfred does not attend Gregory’s funeral. He reads about it in newspapers, finds it a topic too present in the headlines for his liking and so might as well have attended, for all he knows about it.

In the nights following, however, Manfred hears echoes of a voice forever stilled, perceives recollections of a rivalry now laid to rest. He sees the form before him as he ever was, feels the man’s breath warm over his cheek in the moments before sleep. These, however, are mere memories, simple imaginings of a frazzled mind. This is what he chooses to believe, at least, and Manfred is used to ignoring facts that do not suit his interests.

7. It Has No Name – Jerry Springer the Opera

It has no name, it is a whore

“Guten Morgen, Papa, I called Franziska but she didn’t ans –”

Manfred hangs up the phone, a mechanical motion, a reaction so deep-seated and natural that it hardly requires thought.

You are dead to me, he murmurs to his elder daughter, the prodigal failure, to whom the world is but a glittering bauble in her hand, you are dead to me.

8. Bleed – Evanescence

We all live, we all die, that does not begin to justify you

There are times Manfred is sure of it, so convinced that his thoughts of his own insanity flee and are replaced by cold certainty.

There is a residual horror in the boy’s eyes, a recollection of terror that Manfred fears one day will be recognised as himself. When he speaks he wonders if the day will come when Miles picks up some familiar intonation, the note that after years he will recognise is specific to the voice of his father’s killer.

For now Manfred answers with patience his charge’s questions regarding Gregory’s death, careful not to scream.

9. The Real Slim Shady – Eminem

And just might be the next best thing but not quite me

Germany – no, the world – has never seen a thirteen year old prosecutor, but Manfred is hardly surprised at Franziska’s accomplishment. She is, after all, his daughter.

“Papa,” she sighs into the evening, the address lilting over the pages of the law textbook before her, “I sometimes fear that I will never be as successful as you are.” Manfred looks up from his own work, taking in the adolescent girl, her thin shoulders, unsure fingers, soft eyes.

“It is doubtful,” Manfred admits, returning his attention to his case, “but you’d best hope for your sake that you are incorrect.”

10. Perfect Enemy – t.A.T.u.

Why should I welcome your domination, why should I listen to explanations

“I know you don’t like me,” Manfred tells the boy, a lanky nine year old with crossed arms who will not, will not, look at him, “but I am your father now, my house, your house, my daughters, your sisters.” The boy wraps his arms more tightly around himself, glaring intently at the wall. Manfred smiles slowly, kneeling before the child. “And in case you were wondering, you needn’t worry. I have been alive a long time and I cannot recall a single earthquake in Germany.”

So that's that. :) My first completed fanfiction in like a year and a half! Yay!

Thu, 15 Jan 2009 09:48:18 GMT

I'm going back.

new year's resolutions

Thu, 01 Jan 2009 07:32:30 GMT

In no particular order...

1. Figure myself out.

Well, better than I have. It's long and involved but. It's not a bad thing, I don't think, to know one's self better. And it needs doing. There are some things in my life that need to find their place. There has to be a balance.

2. Meet people.

Okay, okay. People make me. So nervous. I have a negative outlook on them in general, but I think it would benefit me to meet more people. We'll see. It'll likely turn out like all other instances in my life but you know, I've got some infamously terrible luck. Maybe that'll change?

And this may change, based on outcomes, but for now here it is.

3. Be more dutiful.

To who? What a question.

4. Lose about forty pounds.

It's just a number I chose. More effective than thirty, more attainable than fifty. Still, I'm sick of being fat. I have a system that's worked pretty well in the past, so we'll see how it works now.

5. Write more poetry.

It's useless but. It's healthy sometimes, so I think I'll do more of it. Last year I ended up with 53 acceptable poems (most of them don't make it to that stage x.x), which is about one a week, so I want to do at least that many this year.

6. Play more piano.

The piano is something I've been seriously neglecting. I used to play a lot of piano and I don't want to become t3h suck at it, so I'd like to get back into that. No specific goals here, but we'll see what happens.

7. Show more love.

This is kind of a long story, but it's very important to me. I'm going to try to do this, even though most of the time I don't think people fully appreciate the love they are shown from other people. Well. Maybe it'll improve my karma, if nothing else.

8. Be less bitter.

Oh I'm going to surely try.

9. Be less judgmental.

I'm told I'm a bit judgmental, so I'll try to work on that.

10. Find balance.

Okay these last two were just to get to ten. x) Balance needs finding though.

let's talk poets!

Sun, 28 Dec 2008 21:57:23 GMT

For those of you who don't know, I love poetry. Love love love it. So long as it doesn't suck, that is. So, that being said.

Who would like to rec me some awesome poets? Because I've got three beautiful poets for you.

I would write about how amazing they are but you know, I think you should read their poems instead and find out for yourself.

Dorianne Laux was my first poet discovery that I ever got really excited about. I have two of her books, What We Carry and Facts About the Moon, and someday when I track them down I'll have the others. Here is some of her stuff, and here's a poem:

Death Comes to Me Again, A Girl

Death comes to me again, a girl
in a cotton slip, barefoot, giggling.
It's not so terrible she tells me,
not like you think, all darkness
and silence. There are windchimes
and the smell of lemons, some days
it rains, but more often the air is dry
and sweet. I sit beneath the staircase
built from hair and bone and listen
to the voices of the living. I like it,
she says, shaking the dust from her hair,
especially when they fight, and when they sing.

Oh, and she's my facebook friend. So totally cool. :D

Judith Pordon runs this website, Casa Poema, and here are the published poems and the new poetry.

Here's one I really like:

Magnitude

She welcomes hello
with eyelashes that blink
in waves
and I am the shore,
the resting place for her smile.

She shrinks
with fragile breath
bolstered by a long silver cord,
as if connected to heaven.
God makes oxygen machines.

She says bye
but my stomach says
wait,
and I wonder when I return
if she'll be here.

Empty space
will wave to me.
A hurricane
with a magnitude of years.
And the richter scale of sobs
will be shooting off the charts.

For some insane reason she isn't published yet... mainly because she doesn't know how amazing she is. But she is. She really is.

This my favourite poem of hers.

Before

It is our last day together
as one body with no family.
We walk this path,
the dog lunges through the tall weeds
as the afternoon heat rises seductively
bearing the earth's herbal musk
(offering the certainty that it all goes on).
Ripe blackberries bob an invitation
from their thicket.
The sun - warm juice stains my
   lips and fingers.
Your blood...
    My loins....
      My soul.

After

Tiny, fertile, significant speck of life
burst in my belly.
For a few weeks I blossomed around you
your life as certain as mine.

A week gone from me
and my body returns
as a balloon to the ground.
How is it
   that in the night I feel you
   pulling at me?
Your mouth at my breast---
Your hands on my face---
a haunting.

Yeah... I've got a thing for sad poems. But I like them a lot mhm.

Now. What do you have for me? :)

cute children ahoyyy omg

Wed, 24 Dec 2008 21:37:17 GMT

These four darlings are my cousin Aimee's kids.

Random fact: Aimee is 40(!), btw. Isn't that insane? Anyway, left to right. Charlotte, 6; Max, 13; Faith, 3; and Gracie, 10.

They're positively adorable, yes, I know. :)

i am a song. :)

Sun, 21 Dec 2008 05:01:53 GMT

Take a sad Emily and make it better.

Which song was this lyric from?

to my not so dear parents.

Fri, 19 Dec 2008 10:45:28 GMT

I am not a bum, nor am I aspiring to become one. Stop talking to me like this is an episode of Intervention. I'm not on drugs (though you'd like to change that, wouldn't you). I'm not an alcoholic. I'm not pregnant. I'm troubled. Don't come in now and try to play mommy and daddy. I parented myself, and have now outgrown any need for a parent.

I never talk to you because a) I am an intensely private person, a condition your prying only serves to aggravate, and b) you don't listen to me.

Father. So I stay up until five in the morning. I can't sleep. So that's not your normal, but this isn't your life. You get up at five in the morning. That's hardly normal to me, but I don't tell you that you need to adopt a "more conventional" lifestyle. Furthermore don't presume to tell me what I want and don't want to do. Believe it or not I really am a very private person. Don't tell me that I am that way because I "tell myself that's what I want to be." You don't know me. You have never known me. So don't throw an I Love You at me as you walk out the door. It's meaningless to me. A breath in a language I can't understand.

Mother. Just. Just step off. Sure maybe I could have used your guidance in my life at some point in the past two decades, but I certainly don't need you two interfering now. I am an adult, influenced by what I am, and at this point in the proceedings you'll only make things worse. As all outside influences tend to do. Don't tell me that just because I hear voices I must be psychotic. They keep me saner than you do. Also, pansexuality? Bisexuality? They exist. It is not a "moral abomination," nor do I think I am "so avant garde." You can hardly blame me for pursuing love as I have learned it, since I didn't learn it from you.

I am either terribly strong or terribly stupid for coming out of all that I have alive, let alone with as much of my sanity as I have. Either way, you had no part in any of my accomplishments, but you reside at least in some part in my failings. Who knows, maybe you'd have preferred that I let it have me. It may still get me. Maybe you'll be happy. I know I would be, so I can't say it matters much to me which way your feelings bend.

Sometimes I wish that I really were schizophrenic like they say I am. At least then I'd have some hope of detaching from reality enough that I would be spared the consternation and the hopelessness and the knowing.

No love, your daughter only by a couple of unfortunate cells,
Emily

Mon, 01 Dec 2008 04:06:01 GMT

Please don't forget him.

love me, hate me, but can't you see what i see...

Mon, 17 Nov 2008 05:48:41 GMT

i. This week stands to be very stressful, but if all goes as it has been going nothing should be different by this time next week.

ii. I'm bored with my clothes, so I think I'm going to go revive my junior-in-high-school self and take up sewing again. Fashionistas are awesome, anyhow. /nerdcore

iii. Public service announcement: I made thesumofwhich friends only. So if you want to read the words, you'll have to join. It's moderated, but otherwise the process is relatively painless, I promise. You can or can't, it's fine either way. I did it mainly because I don't like the idea of just anyone being able to read it. Such as creepy internet stalkers, like, hm, say my parents and/or therapist/psychiatrist. No, I am not too fond of that. Sucks when you can't trust those around you, hm.

iv. When did nineteen become the new ninety?

v. I need to stop getting so damn fat...

i am used to having unpopular opinions.

Wed, 05 Nov 2008 15:24:21 GMT

So when I'm 87 years old I can tell my grandchildren that yes, I was alive for the election of the first president of African American descent.

And that he was a liar. And that he was a master of deception and speaking without saying anything. And that he shamelessly brainwashed a nation. And that he was a general jackass.

When the government raises your taxes and "redistributes" your wealth by giving it to people who sit around all day eating and having six kids. People who the most work they do is getting on the bus to cash their welfare check at Sleven.

When we're paying reparations to African Americans.

When you can't afford anything because the insane taxes on companies make it so prices skyrocket and no one can afford to hire you.

When Obama moves the troops from Iraq to Afghanistan.

When terrorists are blowing themselves up in your local mall.

You will wish President Bush was back because lol, he doesn't take anyone's bullshit.

He's not my president. He is not my president.

Don't say I didn't tell you so.

please do this? :)

Sat, 18 Oct 2008 17:18:37 GMT

If you're on my friends list, I want to know 36 things about you. I don't care if we never talk, or if we already know everything about each other. Short and sweet is fine or babble on, if you'd like... you're on my list, so I want to know you better!

Comment here and repost a blank one on your own journal.

01) Are you currently in a serious relationship?
02) What was your dream growing up?
03) What talent do you wish you had?
04) If I bought you a drink what would it be?
05) Favorite vegetable?
06) What was the last book you read?
07) What zodiac sign are you?
08) Any Tattoos and/or Piercings? Explain where.
09) Worst Habit?
10) If you saw me walking down the street would you offer me a ride?
11) What is your favorite sport?
12) Do you have a Pessimistic or Optimistic attitude?
13) What would you do if you were stuck in an elevator with me?
14) Worst thing to ever happen to you?
15) Tell me one weird fact about you.
16) Do you have any pets?
17) What if I showed up at your house unexpectedly?
18) What was your first impression of me?
19) Do you think clowns are cute or scary?
20) If you could change one thing about how you look, what would it be?
21) Would you be my crime partner or my conscience?
22) What color eyes do you have?
23) Ever been arrested?
24) Bottle or can soda?
25) If you won $10,000 today, what would you do with it?
27) What's your favorite place to hang out at?
28) Do you believe in ghosts?
29) Favorite thing to do in your spare time?
30) Do you swear a lot?
31) Biggest pet peeve?
32) In one word, how would you describe yourself?
33) Do you believe/appreciate romance?
34) Favorite and least favorite food?
35) Do you believe in God?
36) Will you re post this so I can fill it out and do the same for you?

P.s. It's my half birthday. In six months I will be twenty years old. God help us all. o.o

i wanted to clear some things up.

Wed, 01 Oct 2008 16:24:50 GMT

I am nineteen years old.
I am anything but a liberal.

I am a female.
I am not pro-choice.

I could not be classified a feminist.
I have more faith in Sarah Palin than most liberal feminists, who believe that she should just go home and raise her five kids. If she were a man no one would say that to her, and that disgusts me.

I am a member of the LGBT community.
I do not appreciate everyone assuming and talking to me like I support Obama. Because honestly I would love almost nothing more than to see him drop off the face of the earth, and take his stupid wife and Pelosi with him.

I'm sorry I confuse you so much that you want to try to shove me into a box. I've had that effect on people my whole life.

And you? Stop lying to me.

That is all.