TaLL PoPPy

inkbitch @ 2006-11-05T15:31:00

2006-11-05T15:31:29Z

I started this journal a long time ago by internet standards. I have grown a lot. I have changed immensely. This journal has witnessed parts of that. Other aspects of myself I hoarded away, as a jealous lover would.

Now when I look upon this collection of words, I cannot help but feel that it does not represent me anymore. It is a construct of a part of myself I no longer hold so tightly, so closely. There is too much pain here. Too much that cannot be forgot.

I am moving, in the interest of creating something more in line with me.

sinamru

I do hope you'll come along.

inkbitch @ 2006-08-25T01:59:00

2006-08-24T16:00:48Z

Jamais Vu

This is all my time. All my thought. All my creative energy. All my love and hate and depression and joy and will to go on, it's all of it.

Jamais vu: From the French, meaning "never seen". The illusion that the familiar does not seem familiar. The opposite of the feeling of "déjà vu."

I will hold it up on the tips of my fingers, and it will be blown away like dust, and only a memory shall remain.

hearts and sores

2004-09-17T16:38:14Z

truth hurts.

haHA.

truth hurts because it's what you were expecting, because it's the first thing you thought of and the LAST thing you wanted. it hurts because the first truth you ever experienced was that your nice cushy pad with all its amniotic fluid was a lie, that your plugged in, mainlined food source was cut and shoved deep in your belly, a perpetual reminder of the ~~truth~~.

welcome to the world (lights ON), it's loud and bright and it's going to hurt your ears, and you're going to spend a lifetime going cold in oily bathwater, trying to get back that nurtured feeling. your parents don't love you. they owe you, and because of that, you owe them. you have debt to society that's going to be repaid with more lies, with more false realities. it's your duty to procreate, to rip your child screaming from the comfort of your cunt and thrust it upon the world.

(they call it Welfare. USE IT WISELY.)

truth hurts, baby, because EVERYthing hurts. because your blood makes your heart beat, but the only way you can see it is to slice the dice open. your soul is in there too. you can make it drip on the floor...

...cleanup on aisle 5...

...you can feel your soul, bury your face in it and swallow hot stinking gulps of it. just hurt. there it is, right next to your fight or flight instinct, roiling in the dark.

truth hurts. it fucking well better.

I have a heart made out of scars, knitted tight and close together, twining together. I have a soul made out of broken dreams, a patchwork quilt of anguish.

I need the whip, because love is not made from cotton candy.

hoo-fucking-ray

2003-04-18T02:27:39Z

it's my birthday today.

Draw the curtains closed, come inside now, and hush, child.

2002-03-19T13:06:19Z

Here's the deal.

This journal is now friends only, for reasons I am not going to state here. As of this enrty, there are roughly twenty entries which I happen to like visible, entries which I feel reveal a little, but not too much, of myself. This is provided, free of charge, for people who come across my journal in whatever form, so they may get to know me a little before deciding if they want access to the rest of my journal. Consider it a try before you buy.

If you have been reading my journal, and are not listed as a friend, please contact me. Do not be afraid of rejection, do not feel you are stepping over some invisible line. Most likely, I will want to get to know you too. It's up to you to make first contact, and I encourage you to do so.

If you have come across this journal, feel free to have a poke around, and tell me if you see something you like. If you wish to read, and I have nothing against you, then let me know and I will add you as a friend - email me or leave a comment here.

And to those of you who are already on my friends list... step into the dark, my child.

inkbitch @ 2002-03-02T01:39:00

2002-03-01T14:37:29Z

Cut out the dead inside, get rid of the riff raff and the hangers-ons. Pass the salt, I'm going to smote this bastard.
Shed.
Renewed, reborn, retriedandfailed.
Fuck you and your dirty newborn anyway.

Sing along. You know the lyrics even if you don't know the words.
Cut
it
off
get
rid
of
the
deadinside.

I don't want your words of wisdom
don't give me your tearful visions
you smell like sex I've never had.

Cut out cut off cut loose
baby please don't go.

don't make me hurt you now. you might like it.

Re-investigate what makes me me.
Don't forget now
I love you to death.
I love you til dead.
inside.

Stop looking over your shoulder, cause I'm not back there sweetheart.
I'm right here, putting the screws on your thumbs
smile now love
say cheese
I'm going to catch your soul
lean in through your open (internet) window(s)
take you by the throat
give ya a big ole smooch
and make you mine.

cause ya know.
LiveJouranls.

They ain't nothing but little people cages.

awake

2002-02-06T15:42:10Z

I am on edge all day.

I am in a high state of excitement.

I am going to see Teaparty LIVE.

Fourteen, I heard the album 'Transmission', temptation being the first track I ever heard. Third track - Psychopomp. First song I ever truly would have cut my throat over. Still, that song remains precious to me. Still, it haunts me. Brings tears to my eyes. Makes my blood thicken and glow.

Teaparty are my inspiration, the black shadow that has cast it's spell on me in the middle of the night. The music I write to. The music I die for. I am a slave. I am proud.

Hang around the Palais for forty-five minutes. The sun is hot. There are other groupies. We can hear someone playing inside. It is not Teaparty.

I see Jeff Martin very quickly. He is quiet, dressed in black, he looks formidable. Black hair, black suit, even though it is hot. He signs an autograph, takes a photo, and is gone.

The man behind the voice is real.

Dinner on St Kilda pier as the sun lowers. Foccacia, coke, a weird duck thing and cigarettes.

I'm still mad. I say, IloveteapartyIloveteapartyIloveteapartyIloveteapartyIloveteaparty

Have you ever waited you whole life for something you didn't even realise you needed?

So we go. Our seats aren't the best, but we can see, and the warm-up band, who are good, are loud, if not indistinct. I sit. I chew my nails. I shift positions. I wait.

I wait.

I wait.

IloveteapartyIloveteapartyIloveteapartyIloveteapartyIloveteapartyIloveteaparty

And then the lights go down. The audience, a full house, start screaming. A veil drops, revealing three hexagons, three shimmering hexagons surrounded by lights. The crowd screams screams screams.

It's time. It's finally time!

Then three figures are on stage, reaching for instruments, beginning to play. Playing the music that has been twisting in my mind for years on end, playing the music, and it's loud, it's clear, and the voice.

My god. His voice.

He looks like a dark god, Jim Morrison but more sinister. And the music, it burns, it scorches the air with it's intensity.

Interzone. Of course. Interzone loud, Interzone real, not made shiny for a record label, Interzone played how it was meant to be. They play on. More songs, new ones, old ones, my every favourite song playing one after the other, loud and hard and fast. Fire in the Head. I almost cry.

Jeff Martin swaps instruments after almost every song - sometimes halfway through. He plays some electronic device, dependant on the movement of his hand in the air, with the flair of a maestro. He talks to the audience. He screams to them. He sings and bleeds and plays. Lullaby. Angels.

I've never seen anyone perform like this before. I've never heard sounds so full.

The crowd is intense, fanatics gathered to glory in their god. They turn their sweaty faces to the light, to the music, with urgency. Some, like me, know every song and every lyric, and roar with approval as the first few bars begin to play.

Psychopomp. Live. Don't you fade away...

They bring out a stool. He plays The Badger. It is sweet, and complex, and the crowd adores it. He plays Walking Wounded, sitting on his stool with an acoustic guitar across his knee.

He takes another instrument. I don't even know what it's called, it looks like a lute. It is thick and bulbous, and he caresses it as he begins to pluck at a tune. I'm going to need your help with this one he murmurs, and taps a beat. It spreads, and everybody claps in time, their hands over their heads as he begins to play, a tune I've never heard before, but it sounds eastern and hypnotic, and makes me think of the desert and snake charmers and the sweet spell of incense, and he sings, he chants, he lifts his voice and cries out to the heavens, he weaves magic in a foreign tongue, and even though I don't know the language, I know he speaks of love, I know what he sings is beautiful, and people clap louder, people scream, caught up and torn away, leaning forward, wanting it, wanting him, wanting the music...

And then, with his snake-charmer voice and his devil eyes, he slides into a familiar tune, a familiar pattern of notes, a song I know, all this, it was the complement, the beginning, the other, unseen half.

Halcyon Days.
Alone
left here in dust
amidst my fears and doubts
life's shattered dreams
I could have done without
now chthonic life
has set it's sights
on making me a slave to it's ways
I wait for return
until then my soul it burns

and it burns
only for you

It is beautiful, it is sensuous, I want to dance, I want to cry. I abandon my place as the song ends, as another begins. I cannot get to the front so I settle for halfway back as they play on, as more songs, more words I know and more pain I have bled fills the air. He talks to the audience, he tells them that Melbourne and he have had a love affair, he murmurs intimately into the microphone.

Another song starts. Temptation.

This is the killer. This is the one where the performance skyrockets and does not come down again. This is the one that has the crowd screaming and laughing and crying and dancing, with their arms in the air

we conceive and believe in a god we can't feel
I can't feel it
I can't feel!

The night goes on, the music must. Cathatik. He asks the audience for love, for support, for prayers for a friend who is dying, and plays Requiem. Tears in my eyes, sweat on my body, I love love love love love love love

Mantra - love is all we have, love is all we need

and you know it's just too good, it's just too much, because it's so hot, so heavy, all of it, all the music

Correspondences

so damn fucking painful and beautiful and clean and rewarding, and it just doesn't stop, just doesn't let up

Save Me, and in the middle, smack bang in the middle, they slide into a different tune, integrating one that is not their own - Last Goodbye, by Jeff Buckley, and damn he sings it well, and it's so DAMN HAUNTING and then back, back to the tune, the melody, to Save Me, to everything and all and my god

he finishes, they finish, they take their bows and walk off stage

but the crowd, the hungry beast wants more, and even as the tech crew clamber over the stage they scream, we scream, clap our hands, and those in the dress circle, I can hear them stomping their feet

a beat ripples through the audience, paced clapping that gets faster and faster and louder and faster

and they come back onstage
I scream until my voice is hoarse

they come back onstage and my lord they are brilliant, they are just brilliant, performers without being showy, because they don't need smoke and mirrors for they are the real deal

A Certain Slant of Light
she don't know
please stop her pain

and it fucking hurts get it? cause I don't think you do, I don't think you fucking understand that this is the music I have cried over, this is the music I would die for, this is the music that has altered my perception of the world and dug it's claws into my soul, this is the music which keeps me up at night and makes me stop breathing and listen again and again, this is the music that makes me think maybe I'm not the only one

they go.

the crowd screams - five minutes?

I scream, I cry and sweat and fucking JUMP when they prowl back onstage - one more, until we meet again - you fucking betcha

He plays the Badger again, but dirty this time, like a fairytale all fucked up, with this nasty harsh beat in the background like a creeping seething heart

I can't cry out enough. I can't dance enough, I can't move enough, I can only raise my hands, can only only only do what I cannot prevent myself from doing

One more song. One more. The perfect one. The only one.

Sister Awake. The story of the muse. All my sisters are out there, he says.

And he sings. He plays and sings, and it's sweet, you know? It's really sweet, but, yeah, fuck yeah. I know what is coming.

The audience claps, the audience, all of it, keeps time, knowing, knowing, what is coming, waiting, waiting as he sings

I am the sun in the flame
cold from the flame turns away
and in these winds came a change

she awakes...

Everybody sighs as he puts down the guitar and those eight bars, those eight perfect bars play, as he goes to the edge of the stage and takes a drum between his knees, as the eight is over and he lifts his hand

one breath

and an EXPLOSION of sound rips forth the nightmare and the dream the wanton destruction and beauty the snake coiling and the strike

but then, not done yet, not nearly, there is a strange thumping beat, one that does not belong to this song, one that is furious and violent one that gives me pause until I realise, oh yes I fucking realise

Paint It Black

you fucking genius, you play us so, manipulate us into feeling just what we want to feel and thump and scream and defy the night with our rage, with your song, with the violence you install with just a beat, with the heft of your voice

I see the girls walk by
dressed in their summer clothes
I have to turn my head
until my darkness goes

another verse, just enough to make us crazy to rise the bloodlust to makes us scream and wail and then back into Sister Awake, and the transition is brutal, beautiful, and listen to you listen to us worshipping our god offering our souls and in return we will take everything you can give and more, we will tear you to shreds and feed on your heart but it is not enough, it will never be enough, even as the lights flare and the song ends and you draw the last vestige of music from deep within your chest I know

it's not over
it's never over.

Who gave this girl caffeine!!!??!

2002-01-25T14:25:50Z

Me: first dream of last night just came back
Me: I was in hospital, I had hepatitis
Me: or something
Nath: ew
Me: and saw this doctor put a baby in a blender
Me: it was gross
Me: but funny
Me: like, woosh just born and bloody, cut the cord and straight into the blender
Me: but it didn't look like a blender
Me: it looked like an incubator
Nath: aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
Me: so boy was I surprised when this blade started whizzing and it got splattered
Nath: don't tell me about your fucked up dreams
Nath: but i think you know what it means
Me: what?
Me: I should eat more dairy?
Me: or
Me: red meat!
Me: you know
Me: cannibalism features in a lot of my dreams
Me: I wonder if I have a subconscious desire to eat people?
Nath: go
Nath: see
Nath: your
Me: or maybe not subconscious
Nath: therapist
Nath: ;-)
Me: speaking of food
Me: are you coming for dinner on Sunday night?

You say potato, I say cheesburger.

2002-01-25T14:09:27Z

Me: do you think it's incestuous to kiss yourself?
Nath: not a bit - it's damn erotic
Me: haha!
Nath: it's actually the best kissing you'll ever experience
Nath: and it's so rare for people to love themselves that way
Nath: an unexplored avenue of self-love
Me: but I mean, if you had a clone, and you kissed it, is that incestuous?
Me: I'm thinking literally here

The land where I died

2002-01-25T06:32:41Z

I find myself dreaming, once more of my own end.

Such melancholy peace I find in the image of my own demise.

--

I stood in a morgue, like the ones you see on a television show. Shiny metal banks of body caves, and the slab in the middle. All was quiet, but my breathing was unnaturally loud. I could see a figure under the sheet.

I stepped forward slowly, filled with great sorrow, and reached my little hand out and caught the corner of the sheet. I peeled it back slowly, revealing myself. I pulled the sheet all the way off, and let it fall to the floor, and looked upon this vision of myself.

Her hair was longer, and lay in clumps around her face. Her eyes were open, her mouth, too, and her skin was a bruised and mottled blue. Her abdomen was swollen, her body puffy and bloated. She had drowned.

I wanted... what? To close her milky eyes. To brush her hair back to health. To make her alive again.

I took a scalpel from a tray, and cut her chest open. She had no ribs, no breastplate, and I found I pushed her skin away to reveal her purpled heart. I took it from her chest, and without hurry, ate it. I ate it like you would a peach, but there was no stone in the centre.

And out of my own chest, I took my glowing red and beating heart. I held it in my hand as it pumped my blood down my arms, then gently placed it in the hollowness of her chest. I folded her skin back over it, and closed the seam with my own blood. I stroked her hair.

I leaned forward, and placed my lips over hers, and blew my breath into her lungs, gave my life all to her. As she became rosy and pink again with life, with my blood and my breath, I became bloated and blue.

She turned her head to look at me as I fell, and smiled as I died in her stead.

-----

I understand it. It comes back to the circle of life, death and rebirth. It is my desire to remake myself, to be all that I need, self-sufficient.

I ate the heart, a cannibal. The ouroboros, the snake eating it's own tale. Giving my living heart in it's place, a continuation of the bloodline.

All that I need within me, the desire to stand alone, to break ties, to return to wonderland.

No. It is too late.

earth's black vein.

2002-01-12T11:50:38Z

In my third hour of driving, I start losing it.

Me, I can't exist for too long in one frame of mind. The consciousness doesn't want to sit quietly, it wants to play.

Lucky we're in the middle of nowhere. Lucky there is nobody on the road but us, or maybe unlucky, because the road is straight and never ending, and not much is required on my behalf besides keeping an eye on the speedo and keeping the tyres pointed in the right direction.

We're sitting on a hundred, and we're in the country... maybe, I've lost track. I have no idea where we are, I have lost all sense of direction. All I know is that the road behind is where we were, and the road ahead is where we are going. It's a beautiful day and there are fields on either side, the radio is on classic rock and nobody is talking, it's like I'm alone in the car, alone in the world. Yeah, just me and the wheel under my hands. There's a long way to go yet.

So things start altering around me, very slowly. It's not a hallucination, just the deception created by a mind blessed/cursed with a very good imagination.

The road stretches for as far as the eye can see, and in the distance becomes inky and liquid, shimmering like a river. I'm on a black melting river, flowing at exactly 100 km per hour.

Well we're fucked now, aren't we?

I'll just have to steer the boat straight and hope we don't crash into the banks, the nasty brush banks - there's things crawling in there, you know. Crows sitting on fences, and they're laughing at me. Quite a problem we've got ourselves here. How the fuck do we get off?

It's kind of horrid, kind of pagan, like a burial at sea, the current carrying us to our own demise. And I can't take my eyes off the horizon for one second, I don't fucking dare, cause we do and the ship will turn, we'll crash.

But the sun, the sun has turned black, and all the sky is dark but light is still falling on green earth and our black river, bright bronze light that can only come from a midnight sun, be careful not to look at it because you won't be able to look away, understand? You won't be able to look away and then we're screwed.

I'm hot now, hot hot hot, and there, look there is something moving just under the surface of the water, some kind of shadow with gleaming blue eyes.

I float on, trying not to show my nervousness and singing softly to the music, Lola, L-O-L-A Lola, inner monologue tripping back and forth between first, second and third person. What's fourth anyway?

And here, merging traffic, merging boats and I/you/she, we're all on a freeway, a free fucking water way, on our slowly broadening black river, maybe kind of like the Nile now. I feel Egyptian, so yeah, we're on the Nile, a whole lot of car/boat people stuck on the inky black waters with the dark midnight sun, white snakes dividing us.

Lola, la la la la Lola!

We drift a little too close to the banks and the snake GRRRRS at me, so I drift away, to the right, towards heavy cement barriers dividing the two halves of the river, all the other people on the other side going the other way.

Suckers. I've been where they're going. There's nothing but crows to laugh at you.

The wind pushes out our little boat, pushing me to the right so I have to grip the steering wheel to keep us on course. But, I think, but, if I just let go, if I just took my hands off the wheel while we're sailing at 100 km per hour, we'd just drift, the wind would catch us and we'd smack into the concrete divider at high speed, and sure, metal and steel might not be hurt all that much by the divider, but we would when we ran into said metal and steel.

And the more I think about it the more I like it. Yeah, my death would be instant baby, just SMACK and I'm a bloodstain, but my folks, one in the back and one in the front, they might live. They might live, but be really badly hurt, and that might be kind of cool, mightn't it? They're both sitting on the left side of the car, and if collision was on the right then I'd be snapped and splattered instantly, but they might receive extensive injuries and live to suffer through it.

I sip my sarsaparilla and daddy dearest wants to know what I'm smiling at, and when I look at him out of the corner of my eye he is bloody, his teeth pushing through his cheek, his eye sliding slickly out of it's socket and there is blood trickling down the side of his face. I look in the rearview mirror and my mother's bones are sticking out of her legs and her head is bent at an unnatural angle, her mouth slack.

I keep smiling, gripping my hands on the wheel, a little pleased by the thought, and the creature under the surface of the slimy black river is smiling back in the metallic light.

Nothing, I say, just thinking about what a nice day it is for a swim.

inkbitch @ 2002-01-09T20:58:00

2002-01-09T09:52:27Z

Would you do it all again?

inkbitch @ 2002-01-06T15:41:00

2002-01-06T04:35:23Z

There are certain truths you find in pain.

On this day, the latest in a series that have blurred together, we break a new barrier. We step, in slow slow motion, through the thick jelly glass barrier, through the agony and the mindless horror and we step through

we fight through

we step through

and find truth.

We are above this. We are above and beyond pain, and there is beauty in that.

On the other side there is white hot sensation, and we can no longer distinguish pleasure from pain, or night from day. We cannot see what has been or even what is to come, we can only see what is now.

Pain.

Purity.

All our sins have been paid for in tears, all our hate redeemed with agony. We are cleansed by the very thing that threatens to destroy us.

We have broken the barrier.

We will rise again.

inkbitch @ 2002-01-04T16:33:00

2002-01-04T05:27:51Z

shimmery dark
we walk lonely through the desert the night at our backs
the maelstrom rages around us
the sandstorm
the illness
and we must focus
please focus

we kneel in soft sand surrounded by bright light intensity
we can do this?
we can do this
and focus narrow hard on the fire within
on the sickness without

we take a needle a fine blackened needle
no remorse
dig it into the tip of our finger
sucking in harsh breath at the pain
good pain though

we mark the third eye
the bloody third eye awakened at our request
and with translucent dreaming
we tremble
we choke

maybe we are dying

inkbitch @ 2001-12-29T10:06:00

2001-12-28T23:01:14Z

DixeeB: it's really weird. One part of my country is unnaturally cold. Another is hot and bush fires are raging. Yet another part has stormy weather and twisters
the WRECKINGBOY: yes.
the WRECKINGBOY: its big
the WRECKINGBOY: thats like us. always extremes.
DixeeB: these are not our sort of extremes. We don't get earthquakes or tornados or hurricanes or snow. We get floods and droughts.
DixeeB: there is something broken inside the earth
the WRECKINGBOY: yes.
the WRECKINGBOY: its heart.
DixeeB: yes
DixeeB: she is dying slowly, and taking us with her.
the WRECKINGBOY: yes
the WRECKINGBOY: and some of us go willingly
DixeeB: yes
the WRECKINGBOY: hahaha
the WRECKINGBOY: two dramatic writers
DixeeB: :-D
DixeeB: haha!
the WRECKINGBOY: getting all melancholy and romantic
the WRECKINGBOY: how fun!

Regarding Christmas gifts...

2001-12-22T08:55:51Z

DixeeB: I'll tell you yours...
festrilmongrit: nooooooooooooooo!
DixeeB: I got you a t-shirt that says "I'm with stupid", and has an arrow pointing up, and some acne cream.
festrilmongrit: i won't look!
DixeeB: Surprise!
festrilmongrit: FUCK YOU!!!!
DixeeB: HAHAHAHAHA

I don't believe in govenment or what it means or what it meant

2001-12-14T05:56:29Z

boy

Io sono in pace.

2001-12-10T05:54:12Z

I'm afraid.

I'm alive.

More alive
and so afraid
balancing on the crumbling brick wall
and I can see him
far away and so close
stretching out his hand for me.
The pied piper singing his world to me.

I need no heartbeat now
no idle breath or saving grace
Just words carried on the wind

I am forever evolving
always controlling
losing the plot and
finding the way
see me die a thousand deaths
and wake anew each day
take this dreamy life
gained and almost wasted
playing on the sharp edge of the knife

I've been afraid
hidden too long
climbing down from heaven
to dream in this perfect hell

I am blood
I am fire
I am night
trembling and obedient
the emperor and the slave
the black midnight sun

I am alive.
tickled laughing dancing
fire lost and fire gained
free from shackles
beauty stained

I am afraid
I am alive

See my heart?
I am in peace.

I am reborn.

To the general public:

2001-12-06T13:55:47Z

Here is a helpful and informative guide to correct etiquette the next time you and a group of people, be it friends or family, go out to dinner.

Please remember that the aisles are not a standing zone, but rather there for the convenience of the waiting staff and other customers.

You glass is for your drink, not for your food/fingers/nasal hair/rubbish.

Please place your food/drink order all at once, not in dribs or drabs or whenever the hell you happen to feel like it.

No, you can't split the bill.

If your party is having a set menu, please don't order an item that isn't on the set menu.

Your food will come when it is ready; glaring at the waitress as she passes will not cook the food.

No, I'm sorry, you really can't split the bill.

The waitress is there to serve your food and drinks and clear the table. She will not dance on the tabletop at your request.

Please keep in mind at all times - the drunker you get, the less attractive you become.

No, we can't just leave the bottle.

Half a piece of garlic bread that went cold because YOU didn't eat it in time is not worth reheating.

Sending food or drinks back is not a way of showing how capable you are, it is a way of showing what an asshole you are.

If you are the last table after midnight, do not order more coffee!

The waitress does not enjoy flirting with you.

A restaurant is not a pub, please do not stand around drinking.

If you swap chairs, it is most likely the waitress will not remember what meal you ordered.

If you touch the waitress, you WILL be hit.

Another glass of port is not a substitute for good looks.

If the staff look like they want you to leave, it's probably because they do.

Your jokes aren't funny.

Listen, you fucker, you can't split the mother fucking bill!

And one final piece of advice - remember, no matter how much she chats with you, no matter how much she smiles, your waitress despises you the minute you walk in the door. Treat her with a little consideration.

Thankyou.

Remembering all of what she said... with this fire in the head

2001-11-23T04:12:45Z

I dreamt of blood last night. A child, torn from a bloody womb. The wild cry in an empty night.

I dream in colour, brilliant colour. My dreams are always so vibrant and so vivid they border on being painful. The child cried, luminous black eyes filled with rage, and a chill ran through me. Not a natural chill, but rather a chasing, pacing thrill, wracking my body with shudders. And the child cried.

Blood slid across the floor towards me, a dark slippery pool, licking up over my toes, my feet, warm and thick. The child was drowning now, drowning under the weight of impossibly thick blood, crying no more. I stood, and watched with ugly fascination, watched this squalling, struggling child, so new to the world, choking on blood.

Blood is life and death, blood is both beginning and end. When I awoke from this strange dream I went to my cards, and drew one at random. I got the death card - change.

A new life dies with the blood it was birthed with. A short, painful representation of the circle of life, life begets death begets life... death is change, life is a new beginning. It's culling season, and a change is coming. I surround myself with images of cycle and change, life and death - the phoenix, the ouroboros. The picture which I named genesis, the beginning . On my eighteenth I will mark time; the ouroboros will be tattooed on my lower back, at the base of my spine. As a society we define ourselves with ritual, and I will mark myself as a recognition of my emergence into womanhood.

The girl, the woman, the crone. Cycle and change.

inkbitch @ 2001-11-09T02:09:00

2001-11-08T15:07:52Z

There's something about blood that gives me the tiniest, racing little thrill.

I'm covered in it. It's on my fingers, my palms, my face. Getting slowly sticky, flaking as it dries, tightening the skin. So much blood. I was soaking it up until a few minutes ago, but my handkerchief is soaked and there's still so much. Hot, thin, red and pretty. I'm a bleeder, did you know that? My blood doesn't clot all that well.

I'm leaving blood on the keys as I write this. I should stop, get a tissue, but I want this moment, want to savour it. So morbid, so fascinating, covered in my own blood. It's sliding down my chin now, cold across my neck. Slowing down, but I can still feel it, the steady throb of it through my veins. I'd take a photograph if I could be bothered getting the camera, but I always get a bit faint when I lose blood. It's almost stopped now, running thick and cold.

When I first got sick, I used to bleed three, maybe four, times a day. So thin, so sick, I couldn't really afford to lose all that blood. I was so weak. Bed ridden sometimes. You can't know, nobody can, not until you've been there. Felt the weakness in your limbs. This last winter was hard for me, so hard. I was so tired. I feel better now, but I was so tired, and in such pain. Cold does it to me, swells my joints, makes me ache. Makes me sick.

I was sick in America, too. Maybe thirty degrees and I had a fever, and then I got the chills. I was so cold, shivering away in a sound stage while people wandered past, hot, flustered. Have you ever been sick in another country? It's scary - terrifying. I put a wet washcloth on my forehead and lay alone in the bed, alone in the hotel room. In the dark, listening to the sirens, wondering where in hell I was. Got a bit delusional too, lay and watched X-Files repeats, and a biography on Wayne Newton, getting the two shows confused, waiting for Mulder and Scully to jump out onstage with Wayne.

The blood has stopped now. It's dried up on my face and hands, I must look like hell. Now I just feel dirty and disgusting, I need to wash it off.

I can feel this life slipping by....

2001-11-07T06:46:31Z

desire is a state
a state of ill repair
it's ill prepared to cope
it's ill prepared to care

The Teaparty

My sentiments exactly.

Time passes like Chinese water torture, like sand slipping down a dune. Driving me slowly, slowly insane. Sometimes I wish everyday was a cold day, so my breath made foggy clouds in the air. To see my own breath, a reassurance.

I take my pulse when I can. I have thin veins, thin blood, so finding it isn't always easy. Watch the wind whistle through the trees. There are so many ways we measure our lives. Time being the obvious answer, weeks, months, days, years. We measure our lives in music, fashion, birthdays, holidays, seasons, little reminders of our passing lives.

Watch out, I'm about to get philosophical...

If we didn't measure our lives with time, would we stand still? Would we be forever young? I don't know if I'd want to be. There's something to be said for the way your body changes - of course, still being quite young, I've only just emerged from some of the greatest changes my body will ever make. But what about my mind? Sometimes I forget my age, and I know that internally, instinctively, I consider myself to be much older than I actually am. Somebody once called me an 'old soul', and that's what I feel like. I feel like I've been around much longer than my short life allows.

The fact that my beliefs support reincarnation only helps that feeling along. Maybe this soul is older than time itself, trapped in the body of an adolescent girl. Sometimes, in my dreams and writings and day to day thoughts, I forget that I am a woman. I forget that I have a gender at all.

Isn't it strange, the way people think about themselves? In my own mind I'm just an entity, with no gender or appearance. I find it terribly difficult to match my reflection with my thoughts and feelings.

That girl? That one in the mirror, she's me? She's only a little girl...

Perhaps it's healthy. Perhaps I should be glad that my sense of self and my self-esteem aren't pinned on my appearance. Ask me to describe my physical self to two different people, and you'd probably get two different answers. To one, oh, I'm small and thin, sickly looking, pretty maybe, in a translucent sort of way. And yet, to another, kind of tall, curvaceous and dark, more interesting than attractive.

I know myself intimately. My body, that is, my mind and soul, yet appearance isn't quite the same thing as your body, is it? I know the dull ache in my abdomen in the middle of the month is an egg descending. I know the occasional pain in my chest is the cartilage of my lower ribs being strained. I can predict an oncoming bout of tonsillitis through just a slight tingling in my throat. I don't even need to look at my back to tell you if I've dislocated my ribs again, and can say if my knees are swollen without a glance. I can pinpoint and name each pain and ache with perfect accuracy, yet I have a beauty mark above my mouth and couldn't tell you what side it is on.

In my own mind, I am a vaguely female form, absolutely timeless. Many people mistake me for being much older than I am, and rarely does anyone suspect my real age. Old soul, old body to match? If I didn't measure my time with birthdays, if I didn't measure my life with minutes and hours, would I simply lose all connection with age? Grow old and decrepit and never suspect a thing?

My hands, these hand that type, they've always been my hands. My body, it's always been my body. The little changes, imperfections of age and wear, they're immaterial as long as everything still works, aren't they? To take a cliche, it's what's inside that counts, right?

Time keeps passing, and yet I feel... I feel the same. Maybe I just can't remember a time when I felt different. My mind and my body are two separate entities, joined together by a thin gold thread. My beliefs tell me that when the body dies, the spirit goes on, but how much of the mind goes with it? Wicca says there are the seven layers of existence, divided into three categories, the physical, the personality and the individuality. The individuality is the spirit, which moves through life after life, and that the personality and the physicality are limited each life... this sense of disconnection, perhaps it is the individuality shining through.

Old soul...

Can you feel that?

2001-11-03T06:30:15Z

Can you? It's in the air, waiting.

The beginning. A new life, maybe a new world. Everytime I take a breath, it's there, filling my lungs, making me ache. Burning behind my eyes.

Yes, I'm being vague. I can't explain it any better. Can you feel it? It's everywhere, pressing in on us. Just waiting, waiting... for something. For a bomb to drop, a child to die, an iceberg to melt. Something's going to happen, something monumental. Maybe just in my life, maybe in yours and mine, maybe in everybody's lives. Something wicked this way comes...

inkbitch @ 2001-10-30T19:21:00

2001-10-30T08:18:51Z

I'm currently spacing out with the beautiful, sensuous sounds of the InterZone Mantras; yes, you got it kiddies, I am the proud owner of the new Teaparty album. It's even more amazing than I had expected. I can feel it climbing inside me - you haven't loved or lived until you've let this music change your life.

And how did I first get onto it, you ask? Two years ago, when my life was turning to shit, dearest daddy brought home a CD for me, "Hello dear, I was burning this for a co-worker, had a listen and thought you might like it." It was Transmission, Teaparty's fourth album. I put it one, strangely transfixed by the poignant strumming of a guitar, the only sound for thirty full seconds... and then, to my surprise, it launched into this twisted, haunting riff.

But that's not what got me hooked, oh no. In fact, before that day I had never listened to anything heavier than Placebo, and was still a little dubious. What hooked me was the third track, Psychopomp, and the anguished cry of Jeff Martin...

And you want it all...

The passion in his voice, the longing, my god...

I'll give you something more...
And you'll fade away

And I was hooked, forever.

Not long after, I found out about a new album, entitled TripTYCH. Not as heavy as Transmission, made up of love ballads, such gentle longing and love. So real, so wanton. And I can't even choose a favourite song from that album!

And then there are the other albums, Splendor Solis, the first, tentative recording. The River, a song of dreams, Raiven's Sky, a promise, and of course the Majestic Song, building slowly, so full. Their second album, Alhambra, the brash sound as they became more adventurous. The third album, Edges of Twilight, the album that really established them, dark and heavy, carrying the weight of experience, the innocence of Shadows on the Mountainside, the erotic beat of Turn the Lamp Down Low, the slow painful burn of Drawing Down the Moon, and of course, the black violence of Fire in the Head. Then there's Tangents, where the best songs are remixed and reinvented, with the great majesty of Walking Wounded, the harsh edge found in the cover of Paint It Black.

This music is such an integral part of my life, driving me, inspiring. I've never loved music the way I've loved Teaparty's, needed it. Life altering. They not only defined their genre, they created it! Just three men, and yet between them, they play over forty instruments, entwining poetry and music and love and hate and joy and despair so tightly, you wonder why they were ever separated in the first place.