Six Eight

I'm doing something a little different tonight.  I posted an old poem earlier, trying to get into a write-y mood with some success.  My friend Cary and I decided to start a short-story/one shot blog and we had our first posts last week.  This is the second story I wrote for the blog.  It'll be posted on the official website tomorrow afternoon, but I wanted a little traffic from different viewers.
This story is called "Six Eight."  It's about a young, impoverished woman in an unnamed city.  If I really think about it, it's a story about determination, confidence, and struggle to live.  It has a happy ending (as a lot of my stories do), and I like a lot of the symbols I tossed in there. However, I'm not entirely happy with this story.  I feel like it needs to be in two or three parts.  Funny thing is, I'm not happy with it, but I like it.  I wanted to throw this out here because I wonder if any of my sporadic or casual readers will find it interesting.  I love writing, I love sharing my writing, and this is my primary blog (and it's all about increasing traffic and producing material for the masses.  That's why they invented Tumblr, right?).  So if you're interested in seeing what this story is about, please click below :)
BE WARNED: It's fuckin' LONG.

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Unlove Story

I wonder why

It’s so wonderful,

It’s so beautiful,

Why this thing called

Love
attracts so many
guilty

Openmouthed stares and lovers’ sighs
over someone who doesn’t exist?

Pages open like a partner’s arms

And we feel safe in a cold
paper cut.

Does the divorce rate prove our high expectations
of unexpected consequences?

To young lovers swooning
over faces they imagine
why does it

Attract

So much attention

When our lives depend on other things?

We cheat on ourselves
with books and magazines
who preach self love

But endorse self loathing

And why?

Because as young, unloved women and men

We like to pretend that we’re not.

See what's inside?

Click here if you have Second Life

So I felt like showing you something from my adventures on Second Life today.  This was taken at sunrise on the Alirium Gardens sim.  At least, I think that's where it's from.
People have asked me what the appeal in Second Life is, and I say it's the possibilities.  In a digital medium, there are endless combinations of infinite resources.  I use it for the photography.  I also use it because it makes me feel like I'm in a dream world.  I can fly (Which is one of my dreams) in almost any area (even if flight is disabled!) and some places are just so breathtaking that all I want to do is disappear for awhile into my own little world.
I've written a number of poems about some of the places in there, because it's not just for business or roleplaying, it's art. Some places are pure art, and deserve to be treated as such...Like A.M. Radio's builds, or basically anything created by Bryn Oh.  I urge you to take a look if you haven't.  Second Life takes some getting used to, but they've made it easier than ever to get started.  I'm not advertising or anything, I'm just an addict of the imagination, and something like this makes it easier for me to let it run.

Doodle Day

Drew this on an especially bad night of insomnia.

Entitled "Refusing to Work"

=
And yes, it's edited.  The original is black and white on paper.

Wanting

I want to be original.  No, not that whole "make something up and call it new" thing, nuh-uh.  Not me.  I want to find something completely unexplored and undiscovered and make something of it.

I want to generate movement to uncommon rhythms that no one has ever seen before.

I want to turn reality upside down.  

I want to pretend to be original to be original.  

I want innovation and invention.  

I want art and intention, I want to look at a plastic Coke bottle and see something different every time. 

I want to paint the sky red.

I want to write a song that changes someone's life.

I want to be looked up to for the things I have done.

I want to inspire someone to change.

Most of all, I want to be wanted.  I want to wake up with my eyes closed and know there's someone there who won't say a word.  To feel his cold toes pressed into the sheets, to turn to his shoulder and bury my face in his neck, that would be something.  I want to be tangled legs and arms, seeing eye to eye and not needing to break the silence.

I want to step off of the stage in my costume and makeup and to have complete strangers say "I want you in my company."

I want to stand beneath the stars, under the arch of the Milky Way and feel as though those stars are arms reaching towards me.

I want my friends to call me and say "Let's do something," and for me to say "Yes!"

I want to want someone, I want them to want me.

I want to hug my sister.

I want to be more than just a dancer.

I want to be an artist.

I want to make artists.

I want to want to be a work of art.

I don't want to look at "want" anymore.  Because  now it looks like a dying ant.  the W sticks its legs up in the air and the ANT follows its lead.

Looking at a word until it becomes meaningless makes you want to mean something, doesn't it?

I know I want to mean something.

Someday.

To someone.

Tis a sleepy language...

Hiya folks.  Ever have those moments before falling asleep where things just pop into your head and you NEED to write them down? I haven't had those for awhile, but since keeping a little notebook by my bedside, I produced a few things I find beautiful, and I'll share them with my audience of basically nobody.

"All that matters is who you are; 

everything else is consequence 

or circumstance."

I imagine it starts at the toes.  The footprints of the soldier march their way from the top of her foot to the ankle, leaving burning tracks behind him.  He stops to survey the mosquito bite at the joint and decides to keep going.  He squares his shoulders taking cautious steps up the side of the calf, stomping across the firm muscle with a dangerous chasm to either side two legs below him.  Her skin is smooth and smells like wildflowers.  The finger soldier marches on, continuing up to the knees that crack and bend.  The soldier becomes a hand for a moment and explores the back of the chasm, holding on with the thumb and drumming fingers in the curve of anatomy.  Then he's a soldier again strolling up the quadriceps and noting the indent created by a long piece of tissue under the skin.  The soldier's heart rate quickens.  He explores the strong muscle with gentle touch.  As he nears the hip, he slows to a crawl, hesitating at the crease where leg meets torso, testing her pulse briefly before moving on to the bony protrusion of her hip.  The soldier has gone too far.  He waits for his master to shift up her body to continue.  

She rolls onto her stomach and he settles on a dimple in her back.  The soldier becomes an ice skater and a mountain climber.  The blades of his skates send her into giggles and earthquakes and he laughs too, weaving through the mountain range of her spine.  Her shoulder blades like wings folded across her back. The shoulder dances between them a moment, kneading the ground soft.  The mountains shift again as the soldier arrives at a freckled shoulder.  She stares at the persistent soldier with wide green eyes.  His master smiles and follows the soldier's trail with his mouth.  When he arrives at the shoulder with the weary soldier, he continues on, marching up the chin, over the ear, buried in a forest of brown hair for a moment before traversing across her own Mount Rushmore brow.

Down the tip of her nose.

A lake in her eyes and a cave of her lips, gently sealed with the soldier's honorable breath.  A touch of warmth, an ignition of emotion.  Eyes fluter closed.  More soldiers dancing.  Frantically, Rushmores and soldiers rushing from shoulders.

At least that's how I imagine it.