#the PROUD ignorance... some of you are unfixable as humans

[funnuraba]

Sequel to my earlier post: (European voice) it's literally so culty and problematic of secular Jews to celebrate Jewish holidays. Here in Europe we are very enlightened, and we don't even care anymore about the religion we spent centuries oppressing and killing you for not following. Why are you Jews so stuck up and obsessed with your "culture"? That we used to kill you over? (after a Jewish person gets mad) YOU CAN'T YELL AT ME FOR BEING CONFUSED JUST BECAUSE THERE ARE NO JEWS IN MY COUNTRY FOR SOME REASON!!!!

[s4dboiarchives]

the people of 2019.

For the struggling heart thrown in the middle of a bustling city with no particular idea on how to survive, July breathes for you. The promise of a land filled with overflowing milk and honey but all that was received were buckets of sand and piles of rocks.

You came to the city with a hopeful heart and a duffel bag full of star studded dreams. You were told that the city is where dreamers come to live; this is where a dreamer’s journey begins. But I guess people didn’t want to tell that the city is also where you come to forget – identity. This city will strip you of your being and you begin to forget what you like – mirrors will not display a reflection, rather, someone you don’t remember or someone who’s oddly familiar, either way, it’s not you. This reflection will feel like flashbacks of the past staring right at you but you can’t seem to grasp the idea of who this person is. The city will wear you down like your favourite denim pants or your most worn Chuck Taylor’s – raw.

The city is where you will experience getting caught in crossfire – you versus you. Mismatching ideals and colliding thoughts. Your toughest critic will always be you and let me just say, nothing will be enough for you. This is a series of gunshot wounds that go right through the heart, and when you look for the shooter, you will realize that the gun was always in your hand.

August is one too many orders of café Americano at a local coffee shop for a burgeoning writer wanting to bleed out more words – wanting to prove something. Your mom phones you to ask how you’re doing and your dad says hello at the same time. You tell them about how this process is turning out to be harder than expected and the pressure feels like worlds upon worlds stacked on your shoulders – they are speechless, but that’s alright you know that they try to care, at least they try.

You prop yourself up once more and grab that pen and paper – write, like your life depended on it. One day, you hope everything will just fall into place, that this will all just make sense.

September is for the girl who breathes out smoke rings and wannabe halos. You still have your heart upon your sleeve – don’t worry, it will be okay. The bitter sting of heartbreak is a reminder that you are alive and the tears are assurance that you are still human despite the inhumanity amongst us.

This is for the lingering moments you cannot leave behind too easily – hands held, foreheads touching, and her lips. The acrid smell of rum attached to her breath but oh how you would love to bask in it again – one more, one more. Another rounds of lips locked, slurred conversations, and hazy looks. You think, “I hope she remembers; I hope she knows my name," but you're sure enough that she won’t, that this will all be faded in the morning, or probably right after. But right now, this is yours – claim it. The burning cigarette in your hand and heat from her body – feel it. The night is younger than you are, so live in this puerile moment – hold it the way your hands would want to grasp her being. Remember it the way you crave for her tongue dancing on your salty skin – flesh on flesh. Little girl, this is yours.

Cheers to the galleries and museums that have chanced upon the soles of your feet, to the busy market street and busy market vendors that has witnessed your scraped knees and wrong directions, and to the mugs of draft beer and one too many cigarettes that have kissed your unholy lips – October.

This is for the young boy with shaggy hair and grandfather glasses that managed to pull you miles away from home to walk down the halls of a musty gallery with old paintings that speak a language more familiar than you think. Listen to the eyes, they’re talking. Don’t whisper to the walls, they might be listening.

Young boy, so handsome yet naïve, I wonder why you chose to ignore the warning signs? I wonder if the blaring alarms were not enough to tell you that destruction was ahead. This was not your average girl fitted for the average boy – chaos. But then again, there is a certain beauty to this unorganized flurry of person. Young boy, I wonder what you see?

This is for the moments spent getting lost in old china town under the gaze of broad daylight – asphalt worn shoes and dusty fingertips. Let me hold your hand as our feet navigate us through this untimely maze; do not let go. Market streets and vendor eyes are watching, they silently tell us: “get out,” that we do not belong here; more reason to not be careful, more reason to wake the sleeping spirits of this old temple.

We will raise a revolution – allow me to usher you into the twenty first century: girls kiss girls and boys do the same with boys. This tongue has danced with many and written words on temporarily owned skin. These hands are soiled with prints from yesterday’s lover and are preparing to be held by a new one tonight. We will shake old china town with magnitudes that will make your knees weak. So, allow me to wear this baseball cap like the tiara you want it to be but will never be. I will smudge the red lipstick you want me to my paint on my lips and instead, streak them on my cheeks like war paint because this is war.

Let me spill your mugs of draft beer and crush your cigarettes because this is our turn. We will raise a revolution that will echo through the ages – you wonder why we do this. You wonder what we see.

November is a rollercoaster ride of emotions; up and down the belly of the beast we call life. This is for the girls who tried more than once, more than twice. This is for the girls who put their hearts on their sleeves and allowed the world to feel each beat – loud and clear. I see the effort marked on your palms and the sweat beading on your forehead – you have tried fixing the unfixable. My dear, let me tell you, not everything that’s broken needs to be fixed – shattered glass shines brighter than its whole. Wash your hands, wipe your tears, you have done well.

This is for the tiger stripes, bruised knuckles, and puddles of blood in pooling beneath your feet – I wonder if you knew that was blood? Or, were you too busy admiring the colour red? Beautiful, isn’t it? The stains on the bathroom floor would like to agree, they’d like to thank you for the splash of colour. Grime and plaster white were getting too old.

The coils of rope in the corner of your room would also like to say thank you; the feel of your skin on the abaca twine was home – you are home. They have never been held like that – fervent want exceeded by need. They thank you for needing them. They would like to say they miss you, that your skin is something they crave for, after all, you did spend a bit of time contemplating when you’d use the pretty necklace you forged them to be.

This is for you. Thank you for the vulnerability, not many are proud to talk about it, not many are proud to show. Thank you for the stories you’ve planted on your arm; I’m sure you don’t see the blooming flowers, so allow me to tell you that they are there – roses, daisies, and pink peonies. I will marvel at the garden you have made from your flesh and revel in the seeds budding in your heart. My dear, not everyone can do what you did. Rest – you have done well.

December is for the boy who slept with his jacket still on, wet hair, and shoes caked with mud – adventure. He will wake up to blurry memories and trying to remember what happened last night. What was her name? Where was I? What did we do? Your face turns a familiar colour of pink when it finally hits you, “Ah, yes.” Another beautiful story has been written. In the same manner, you lay on your bed, jacket, already dried hair, same shoes, and a smile.

It is slow mornings accompanied with a cup of hot coffee, two creams and two sugars, for the province girl who has just who has spent the last six months journeying through the iron clad and concrete city of the north. It is steam fogging up your glasses while you watch the two creams swirl into a small galaxy of milky brown while you sink deeper in your duyan. You insert through the casual conversations and laugh at the thought of some – home. This is what actual rest feels like, chirping birds and the sway of giant trees among you, not four corners of a barely filled smaller than small room and screaming cars outside your window. This is more than just the coffee, you think. This is more than just the conversations. You feel the breeze through your hair and warm sunlight glazes your cheeks with a soft yellow – my dear, the universe agrees.

This is for you – for everyone who has struggled through the year but has somehow managed to carry their burdens and finally lay it down. Rest, you have done well.

This is for you – the ones still carrying their burdens and is wondering when it’s all going to end or if it will ever end. You have been numbed by the circumstances.

This is for you – for the people who didn’t make it through. The world pushed you to your limits but do not worry, despite the pain, we will try to understand. You are made of stardust and galaxies that are bigger than what your body can handle; you were not built for this physicality.

We have been bruised, bloodied, and broken – this is part of us but do not begin to believe that this defines us because this is the world’s doing; this is what happens when world doesn’t understand who it’s dealing with. But do not worry, do not fret, we are meant for this world. We now lay to sleep the yesterday of good and bad which is 2019 and open our eyes to the endless possibilities and chances of the tomorrow we call 2020.

This is the beginning of our year, cheers to you!

[fablemaidens-blog]

Carmine Duplex: The Infamous Tale of Treachery and Betrayal

Ohhhhhhh LIZZ! Lizz lizz lizz lizz lizzzzzzz

She heard her wife’s monotonous hymn ringing in her ears. Every day at 3 PM, she heard it. She heard it right when she was expecting it. Even when it didn’t happen.

It was when her wife—partner, per say, for issues of consent—would come home from her daily biddings. What were they? the traitorous nymph asks. Oh, foolish nymph! How you’ll come to understand the day of the wife… eventually. I will answer you now, anyway. Eventually is the present. Isn’t it always? Since it always can be the present. The eventually will eventually become the present, at some point in time. So why not just call it the present now? If it’s GOING to be the present. It’s like a pre-present. Except maybe it sometimes mistakenly defines itself as the present; sometimes the Eventually gets a little too ambitious. If a knight were to be a young girl and call himself a big woman. It’s like, 13 going on 30, except it’s all in your head and deals with your schematic perceptions.

Anyway, that Eventually became lucky, because it was destined to become the present far sooner than other Eventuallys. So, where does this cheerful reverberation, this repeated greeting, this complicated, habitual hello—where does it all stem from? Why must she say hello? Where on earth is she coming from? THE MISTRESS! THE MAIDEN! WHERE DOES SHE GO DURING THE DAY? WHAT DOES SHE DO? WHO DOES SHE SPEAK TO? WHY MUSN’T SHE STAY HOME WITH HER LOVE?

She works. She works every day. She works in the factory. She makes pills.

Sounds a little backwards to you, right? Doesn’t make too much sense? FALSE! Do not question the validity of my story. Leave if you must continue to disrespect. me

She had to beg for the job. There was nowhere else to put her. Assembly line. She’s the only one on it. She takes the hard clay and intricately melds it into a rounded rectangular prism. Impossible, you say? Incorrect! She was born with this skill; it was her destiny. As a young one, the local warlock, Qoup, prophesized she would be this way, that she would bring it back. And she did. She showed them. It was incredible. She put forth no effort, yet created these rounded prisms with the most pristine accuracy. No one could stop her, except for the test of time. We'll touch on that later.

She visits home at 3 PM for exactly 30 minutes to please she who she is bound to. Her master provides her with the food and services that she cannot receive.

Though, her master lives in ignorance; she does not know that her supposed lover is deceiving her, using her for her amenities, caring nothing for their CHILD, Carmine Duplex. A rambunctious thirteen year old—just the other day, she came home with a flower from the backyard! She handed it straight to mommy before going back to her closet! Without a word! Mommy loves her so.

And in the end, I don’t even live with her. I couldn’t even convince her to. The wife. My love. Void of her comfort, her presence, I had to get something to fill what I had lost. But I had nothing. I am a woman of very little. Not many wish to quarrel with what that is I. But those who do—they do by force.

They are fabricated by the inner workings of my mind. They cannot leave. They are trapped, ensnared in its madness. They are all under my control. Total and complete domination. They Eventually develop from my initial imaginations into conscious, active characters. After that… Act as they may, they can never leave. The partner. Carmine. The factory bosses. The prism receivers. Qoup. They will never know another setting except that which I set for them. The musty streets of New York City, lined with expensive juice shops on every corner. They are the only shops. They cannot afford them. They remain here, sustaining their autonomy in this sick, sick world, because I provide them with sustenance.

Every time I eat something, I transport it through my larynx directly to my eyes and the item is compressed like a juicer. The calories seethe gloriously into my brain vessels, a soggy-cereal mess of nutrients provided to my characters. Neurons attach to their minuscule bodies like leeches to facilitate maximum absorption. When it is completed, the neurons finish shriveled like a waterlogged phage and fall off, limp, motionless on the brain floor. They are eventually absorbed into my now misshaped cerebellum.

I sacrifice brain cells for their survival. I sacrifice myself.

I treat them well. They receive what they deserve. I created them. They created me. I feed them. And they feed me. With experiences, hopes, doubts, events. One could never ask for more. One could never ask for more…

~~~

Everyday the struggle persists. I try to keep my head above water, drowning in the monotony, the slow unnerving hum of the age-old, but seemingly modern, interpretation of the Industrial Revolution from which I was born and unleashed unto this planet. Unleashed from a world beyond this realm, this plane of existence, this plane so plain I yearn for the worlds I knew in lives past which now are frozen, dormant in the sphere of our mortal perception of time. I was unleashed to be The Creator. The Wife need not know more...at this time. Ah, The Wife. How her constant pestering gnaws away at my immortal spirit. She watches on, perched atop the refrigerator, hawk-like and unsettling as I enter her private domicile through the kitchen window--she would have expected entry from the front door but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of knowing my next moves. Her gaze attempts to penetrate my false human exterior, but skin-deep is the most she can muster against my superhuman defenses. My skin morphs, steel-like, as her scanning capabilities are marred, no longer does she regard me as The Appetizer. She swoops down, and embraces me. "Welcome, my leige." Her words of affection do nothing for me. I take no risk in revealing my true sentiments, "Always happy to oblige, my comrade." In this chamber, we are compeers. She kneels, kisses my hand, and moves to prepare sustenance from within the refrigerator she once roosted upon, a lighthouse keeper of her own appointment. I do not see her evil grimace, focused instead on my true mission. A purple light emanates from the room over, The Wife cannot see it, her senses not as keen as mine, and I move to where my true interests lie--Carmine.

Moving through the bedroom, the bed catches my attention...I have not slept in eons and wonder what the sensation would be like. Such thoughts pervert me from my mission, though, and so I march on.

13 and unaffected by the chaos of the age. She slumbers beneath a combination of polyester, wool, cotton, and the occasional fedora that my leaders transport from my home planet via holographic Skype. I do not ask for them, I only receive them. We do not ask for that which is bestowed upon us. A flower rests atop a leather Birkenstock sandal. I confiscate the contagion and pray Carmine does not notice it's absence.

Upon my entry, she stirs. Hungrily, she stares. Three blinks. It is time. I remove two pills from the cigar case kept within my breast pocket, one red, one blue. She whines, low and desperate. I oblige.

"One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small And the ones that mother gives you, don't do anything at all" That which I give her is the milk of the Mother. The true Mother, not the false prophet The Wife claims to be to this girl. Our Carmine. Red for vitality, blue for longevity. Carmine must survive. Carmine must surpass us all. It is her destiny...but we'll touch on that at a later time. The pills I provide the young lass of the closet domain are special--only I know the craft, taught to me by an ancient warlock and mastered upon his death. Rounded rectangular prisms which pump manufactured life throughout the veins, the cartilage, the neurological workings of Carmine. They are my mission and she is my mission and I must ramble on through the monotony of the earthly day until my mission is complete.

My mission is interrupted by the shrieking of the banshee woman within the kitchen--The Wife has burned herself, I assume.  Upon re-entry I watch her eyes perform erratic REM cycle motions, unseeing and unfixed upon any singular object. The devices of The Revolution whir and whizz, despite remaining unplugged to conserve energy in an effort to save this dying rock the humans call home. The Wife begins to float, her Adidas clad feet no longer stable upon the linoleum floor. Her mouth opens wide, stretching past the limits of a normal human's jaw. A beam of light emerges from the back of her throat and penetrates my mind. A distant and detached voice, the voice of The Wife, echoes within my brain, not the expected cochlea. Overlord Wernicke would be proud.

"Dinner is served."

~~~