painting in the rain

There’s thunder. It’s loud and deafening, and I can hear the rain pelting down through the open window. I want more than anything to run out into the night. I’ve moved all my painting supplies to a shed on the property, since it has better lighting that anything indoors. 

It’s nearly 1am and I’m going to go paint in the rain. Freedom is beautiful and makes me happy. And the rain makes my heart sing. What I wouldn’t give to hear it every day. 

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Ignite Again

I spent all day in the woods again. We wandered into an abandoned cabin with the rats, and walked over moss covered ground that concealed a spring beneath its fleshy surface. The buildings were all broken down and forgotten, but the woods grew over it, lavishing everything in its rich, green finery and sparkling streams. I’ve never seen a place so lovely, not ever. I may not have seen a great many things in my life, but this place was completely special; you could feel it in the air, in every breath you took. It is a place that’s seemingly touched by something otherworldly.

I wish I could find something in my life that made me feel that way, so calm and forgiving and carefree. It’s so difficult to believe in such things when it’s always shrouded in darkness. I’m getting worse, farther and farther away from whatever I was building. I don’t even know where I’m going anymore, I just am. I’m frightened by my lack of fear about having no rhyme or reason. There’s a dark faith somewhere that I still don’t quite understand. It’s like I know, that no matter what, there are other options out there. Misery is never forever, nor is happiness or love or anything else. Nothing is stagnant, and we are all slowly disintegrating, nothing more than pieces ripped from something struggling to stay whole. I feel like no matter where I go and who I meet, they take away parts of me with them. When I leave a footprint behind, it’s there to stay. My memories may stay with me, but my time is fading away, and I can’t bring myself to fight for it. What point would there be to fight for something like that? Someone is carrying the bullet for me, or maybe I am carrying it for myself. Either way, an end is waiting, and I can’t help but seeing it also as a beginning.

People scoff and hand pills to people like me, and now, now I just laugh. There is no way anyone can truly understand what it is like to be emotionless about everything in your life, to feel like you’re nothing more than an object with no feelings about what you’re used for. Maybe it’s how a gun feels. Have you felt one? Felt the power? The bang is so loud it makes your ears ring and your heart pound, and your hands clench to stop the inevitable recoil, the payback for wielding such destruction. I feel like I am trapped in the hands of fate, getting passed around without purpose. I realize I don’t even need purpose anymore; I just need feelings. Anything to break up this monotony, this complete lack of concern for anything and everything. I just need to fucking feel…something. Anything. I’m not human anymore. I’m beginning to wonder if this is nothing but my transformation. I wanted to be a monster, an animal, something that lived on nothing but pleasure and pain, such simple, yet meaningful things. Is that what this is?

Like the sun we will live to rise

Like the sun we will live and die

And then,

Ignite again

I can’t stop listening to that song. I feel like it has become etched on the top of my brain. It makes so much sense. It makes a crazy kind of sense. Everything is coming together, and strangely, it’s making me even more resentful and reclusive than ever. I’ve been considering leaving again, but this time for a very long time. As long as I can get away with. I want to go somewhere where I can’t be judged, where I don’t have to worry about anyone else deciding my fate without my permission. I won’t let that happen again. I will be free of these people, even if it takes death to reach such an end. I want them to know that no one but me can make the choice, whether it be what I’m going to do to continue my life, or what I am going to do to end it. I keep thinking they took it away, but the one amazing truth, the one great thing, is that my life is something they can’t have. I don’t have to live up to anyone standards but my own. That is the one beautiful thing.

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Not so different

Yesterday was something of a weird day. I woke up in the afternoon only to realize that the friend I actually like to be around, had stopped by and given my father a dead thing to give to me. My dad had left for the lake, but there were some odd texts, and a picture of something fuzzy. After a search of the garage, I found it hidden in a corner in a Wal-Mart bag, with little buck teeth and cute, wolverine-like claws.

Somehow we ended up at the river with our  significant others, collecting sticks and stealing them from one another. I went walking in the stream and looked for rocks. We played with the dog, and visited some of the campsites. Then we went over to their house, where I fed everyone (surprise, surprise, I’m a fucking feeder), and we watched a horror movie.

I woke up this morning and made plans to go to the rock quarry with her (what’s with me and rocks?), only to discover after the long drive up the mountain and the ten dollars in premium gas, that there was a toll booth at the top. We turned around and went back toward home, then finally toward the caves, where we stayed for awhile, climbing down into the cold, rocky tunnels. We found a bird’s nest and a couple of squawking parents who guarded over it belligerently. My friend, of course, had to take a photo of the nest and piss them off some more.

Then I’m driving, going between 75-80 mph, down a road that looks like it belongs in a horror movie. There’s potholes that are circled with spray paint, and they’re so deep that someone lost a tire to one, which is splayed all over a section of road in black, curled husks. We’re talking about brothers and sisters fucking, when a small bird comes flying at us, and hits my side of the windshield so hard that he literally impacts and disappears. We stop a moment later, curiously looking behind us for a telltale sign of the dearly departed. I turn the car around, and we go searching, looking for the dreadful thing. I think I see a crack on my windshield, which she finds out, with a swipe of her fingers, is nothing more than the insides of a crunched bug. We part at a spot where she thinks she sees a bird hopping. We comb the bushes and find nothing, much to our disappointment. I’m almost out of gas and we’re in the middle of nowhere, my old Audi parked halfway on the road with the sunroof open, and the sides filthy from the crappy roads. We decide we’re going to switch cars and go to the butte.

She doesn’t have money yet, so we go a few houses over from her own to borrow some for a day. We check out the cold cellar, which is full of jars and all manner of wrappers. Their yard has chunks of obsidian in it, which I am fascinated by. The ground is covered in a lush, beautiful ivy, and there’s a cluster of trees back behind the house, arranged together, and non-native, which makes the small spot seem to be something of an oasis. It’s shaded and darker, and we stand under the trees, talking about nothing like we always do. Somehow it never seems to get old.

Eventually, after some exploring, we get into talks with her mom about how my friend was supposed to be the medicine woman of the tribe, but never went through with it. They might as well be talking another language when they get into salves and herbs and whatever the word is they keep calling this medicine woman career. They’re talking about shoving weeds up someone’s foot when her mother mutters something about zombies, which peaks my interest even more. Then we’re talking about the story of the robed people who live deep in the forests.

We went on a two hour search for the albino people and their albino Satan dog (long story) and the backwards river, wherein we took her rinky-dink little car onto quad trails that no car should fit on. I don’t know if they’re joking with me or not, but oddly enough, they seem entirely serious, and they both say they have seen such a place. An adventure is an adventure, and I decide I’ll believe in a village of albinos so long as I get an adventure out of it. We squeeze her tiny car between two trees, and somehow made it passed, the dusty trails sending plumes of dust in our faces. I rolled up my window only to discover that the dust was somehow still coming in.

“Car has holes in the bottom,” she says with a grin, and then apologizes. I laugh and we keep driving, following these strange lettered/numbered signs deeper and deeper into the forest until we both look at one another and admit that we’re probably lost. We laugh at that too, even though it’s getting late. We found a butte and a cluster of well-to-do homes and log cabins, but no albino people.

We find a meadow behind a barbed wire fence. Strangely enough, she walks up to it and starts yanking on a post, which I suddenly realize is only attached by looped wire. I help her push on it, and with some effort, the post comes loose of its confines and we’re able to lay the section of fence down on the ground. Like a dog marking its territory, I immediately take a piss (being attacked by ten mosquitoes in the process), and wander over to where she’s standing, staring off at the acres of field in the middle of the spindly-treed forest.

More trails, and another hour, we finally make an attempt to find the way home. She mutters something about all the paths leading to home, and I point her in the general direction. It only takes ten minutes to find the main road, which is surprising after how many trails we followed.

We drive to her home talking about penises and how marriage never gets you any, while I sing along terribly to the radio. She says there’s a map to the albino people, so we’ve planned to make a day of it next week to search again.

The truth and the fall of man

I hate that people always come attached. You can never have your people just to yourself. It’s not that I don’t understand it, but more that having a circle of your very own entails a lot more trouble than anyone ever lets on. If you like one person, you eventually have to deal with their people on some level. If you express a dislike for your friend’s attachments, it quickly becomes a problem. Getting a friend on their own is never easy; human beings have this insane web of interconnected people, a network if you will. You take a liking to one, and consequently have to deal with the others at some point or other.

Friends rarely make it easy for honesty. People are backstabbing assholes, which means that sharing confidences with them is generally entirely out of the question. I’ve been blackmailed so many times that it’s become an ongoing joke to me. My Satanism is a dark secret I don’t tell anyone. People have a way of blocking your path when they get wind of something like that. It’s not that I don’t believe my ‘friends’ are capable of being accepting, quite the contrary; I picked them for their openmindedness. In fact, I know one in particular that might take it very well, to the extent that she would likely want to participate, however, I am wary of letting go of any of my guarded secrets. It can be used as a weapon against me, and that is one thing I will not tolerate or allow.

A little mystery is good for people. I prize honesty, but there is a difference between honesty and stupidity. Letting a possible enemy know anything important about you is never a wise decision. Inevitably friendships either burn out with a fight and result in less than favorable results, or fade out and cease to matter. But in either circumstance, resentment is easily found. All those secrets are suddenly no longer restrained and forcibly kept by the bonds of friendship. Put that in the hands of someone with a penchant for manipulation, and suddenly you have the beautiful workings of blackmail. In other words, you’re fucked. Rumors spread, and no matter what means you use to quash them, the suggestion alone is damaging, proof or not. 

But let us cut to the chase:

I can’t stand your son. God, he’s a fucking idiot. In fact, he is so irritating, predictable, and infantile, that I had to go into a long-winded speech when I got home about the degradation of humanity and how our male counterparts who aren’t gifted with the ever-fleeting intelligence of something smarter than a dung beetle, like to prance around pretending to be mechanics. And his taste in women is, well, borderline grotesque. Good god man, roaches crawl out from between those legs they are so infested! I expected slightly better from you. Not much, but better than that. Better than some weak-bodied know-it-all with the habit of ridiculous posturing. Bah. It wasn’t so much that I was disturbed by him, but by the fact that you spawned this god-awful creature. Ick. I would not tap it. Not even with a pole while it was tied down and screaming. 

Anyway, the fact remains that I will not speak ill of him…in front of you. I never made any promises about trash talking in general, which, let’s face it, I’ve had a lot of practice in. I don’t give a shit about anyone, in case you couldn’t tell, and our relationship is entirely temporary, as all relationships are. I know what you did all that time ago. I know it was you. Yes, that’s right. I know ALL about it. I always get revenge. In fact, you got to taste a great deal of it awhile back. The magic of it all is that you didn’t know it was me. I hit hard, and I do it quietly, so next time you decide to fuck with someone higher in the food chain than you are, I suggest you cover your ass intelligently so as not to give me reason to slash your reputation to tatters.

Also, bear in mind you can’t have what’s mine. I’ll steal everything that’s yours, so don’t push me. I’ll make them hate you. So you can stand there and sneer down at me, and I’ll play my role, but in the end, no matter what your move, I’ve already won.

In the meantime, lets be friends or whatever. I love it when you’re my bitch and you make me dinner.

:)