tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61866974368876911592024-03-19T05:59:53.821-07:00ink and paper mindsbellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13983546955861913455noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6186697436887691159.post-22525829124267284622012-11-04T21:37:00.002-08:002012-11-04T21:37:56.893-08:00surreal situations of my sleepeverytime i blink i get forty lashes and momentarily black out. sometimes it helps focus my eyes or clear my head. Most often i am having a stream of memories that i don't remember. I think they are called dreams. Except that people always say that dreams are really goals. I don't think my accomplishments are synonymous with the surreal situations of my sleep. translated into conscious sound, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cCEUR8PQDOg" target="_blank">this </a>is what bad dreams are made of. bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13983546955861913455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6186697436887691159.post-48354194403763605812012-10-04T21:01:00.000-07:002012-10-04T21:01:33.336-07:00note. measure. tone. (paper trail.)secretly, i write a lot of letters. whole addresses to people with no address. even with no replies, its still nice to think of them receiving the letters and possibly penning a return line of words. if i fold them into cranes, these unsent soliloquies, its sort of as though that was the intended idea in the first. it also gives speculation to a plethora of horrible metaphors about thoughts soaring, having my head in the clouds, and other such nonsense. <br />
i'm a bit distracted. bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13983546955861913455noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6186697436887691159.post-20453341832942390312012-10-03T14:30:00.003-07:002012-10-03T14:31:59.751-07:00our lives are shoots and ladders?<br />
mob mentalities and superficialities<br />
moving along to societies musicalities<br />
main conductor, streamlined,<br />
leads us with a certain kind of grandeur<br />
like ants in a farm,<br />
birds on a wire.<br />
paper doll silhouettes<br />
on ivory tusk dusk: daisy chain frames<br />
lace<br />
trace erased.<br />
pen inked blinks, weary<br />
lurking leary<br />
photograph shots: blirred<br />
botched.<br />
memory box, hostage thoughts.<br />
sunset.<br />
lost.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NFwog5TVGl0" target="_blank">oh look, a song.</a><br />
<br />bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13983546955861913455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6186697436887691159.post-41051854824866879132012-09-26T13:55:00.000-07:002012-09-26T13:55:10.597-07:00digression (Salinger and Sylvia Plath)<div class="uiHeader uiHeaderBottomBorder mbm">
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<div>
slightly edited. a sort of mash-up of Holden Caulfield and Esther Greenwood. strange? probably, if you haven't read The Catcher in the Rye or The Bell Jar. what i guess i'm saying is you should read them. my writing is mostly just average, but those books are stellar. <br />
<br />
~digression~ <br />
thoughts formed in my mind<br />
like a weight on my back bending and bowing<br />
my spine rolling my shoulder blades,<br />
roller skates, vision black.<br />
moving away, clearing my mind<br />
racing, erasing,<br />
empty, i see the bottom of my glass<br />
not full, not even half.<br />
i tilt it up, how many circular windows had i seen?<br />
distorted faces. records broken, it was important<br />
to feel pure, fill up on clear cold liquid<br />
lucid. lurid. coughing up ash,<br />
everything begins to sink away<br />
fade, into a dull gray frame<br />
though with none of the memory,<br />
the novelty, of a photograph silver lining.<br />
you follow me?<br />
its like everything is flat<br />
and falls away, blows away with a slight breeze<br />
like ripped up pages of a magazine.<br />
<br />
and anyway all i know is that I am<br />
i mean, maybe its like swimming until you're too tired,<br />
just repeat and repeat like the slap<br />
of ocean waves. <br />
then i suppose you breathe a breath, you drown.<br />
i think life is like that.<br />
except when i try and stop, to sink<br />
i can never disappear<br />
because each time i slip under<br />
my sigh of sleep is a sear of salt.<br />
the problem is, I float.<br />
<br />
i suppose my life is more like a frozen winter fish pond<br />
no one really gives a thought on me,<br />
suspended above the sea floor,<br />
and those who do have no answers as to how i'm still<br />
alive.<br />
and i hate them in that moment,<br />
i really do.<br />
all fake, shams, pretty to look at<br />
with no brains.<br />
every thought like smoke, insubstantial,<br />
exhaled.<br />
<br />
i once heard that some people fall<br />
and never even know they've hit the bottom.<br />
<br />
Does it ever seem the only thing thats golden is whatever,<br />
whoever you're holding<br />
and if you could just reach that something better<br />
that coloured light from a prism<br />
you'd be perfectly free?<br />
only trouble is its night and you can't see<br />
because all it really is<br />
is reflection.<br />
and nothings tangible, except maybe<br />
in that moment, when it is.<br />
when its caught in a jar, or your eye<br />
maybe.</div>
</div>
bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13983546955861913455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6186697436887691159.post-55713673296348004142012-09-19T14:54:00.005-07:002012-09-19T14:54:59.444-07:00photo(graphic) content<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<span style="font-family: "Cordia New","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">people,
places, things: nouns</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cordia New","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">sound.
click of shutter.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cordia New","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cordia New","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">wound
around like a stop watch.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cordia New","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cordia New","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">one
second life stop</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cordia New","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">memory
drop on a paper page</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cordia New","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">colours
stain, sepia tone change</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cordia New","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">tinted
notes of extracted days</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cordia New","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">collected
sights,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cordia New","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">
flashes of light</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cordia New","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">expressions
inked on,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cordia New","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">
sincerely staged</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cordia New","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">framed.
displayed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cordia New","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">lifelessly
peering from close up glass panes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cordia New","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">listlessly fading</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cordia New","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">from dust
or sun rays.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Cordia New","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">
This, my camera captured picture gaze.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAKECuL8pOFkz8aXhMruurwYgeGqHhqPBmDuMY51WOgVIwNFAveKIFiZ4z9hNntGaZh247UakfuxPmcEjmDnVjey5PLD85ij7UaEoxJkt1RGbuCKiJZiO-OqphqTu3DR3i11J6NdNBew/s1600/0329121047.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAKECuL8pOFkz8aXhMruurwYgeGqHhqPBmDuMY51WOgVIwNFAveKIFiZ4z9hNntGaZh247UakfuxPmcEjmDnVjey5PLD85ij7UaEoxJkt1RGbuCKiJZiO-OqphqTu3DR3i11J6NdNBew/s1600/0329121047.jpg" /></a></div>
looking down on luck. head in the clouds. my mind wanders. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2c_XiUmGWn8" target="_blank">here, have an eclectic post.</a><br /><br />
bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13983546955861913455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6186697436887691159.post-57905833934293865322012-09-17T16:44:00.000-07:002012-09-17T16:44:52.373-07:00being a little (more or less)<div class="mbl notesBlogText clearfix">
<span><div>
memories of being a little kid are my favorite things to recall. everything is blurred, i'm no longer sure of reality. its mixed with the quality of my six year old mind. tinted with the thought process of third grade.<br />
<br />
black and white reel of film<br />
pencil sketch grey<br />
it was a dream: better than any memory<br />
stray colours blur,<br />
sunset clouds on the horizon of the sky.<br />
we followed music that sounded like chimes<br />
or wind<br />
that song we used to hum when we were five.<br />
<br />
treble notes flew like blackbirds,<br />
feathers in the glint of noon: they were golden.<br />
sung slow, floated breezy<br />
tasted like honey on my tongue.<br />
you held my hand across the grass<br />
eyes the colour of shadow.<br />
nighttime, a breath of ash<br />
light fades to the raindrop bright of stars<br />
one falls.<br />
i catch it in my mouth,<br />
swallow my water wish<br />
everything i know, mere reflection<br />
transparent.<br />
thoughts upon the sea.<br />
ageless days of other worlds inside me,<br />
full of the taste of cold fire, naive as ever<br />
i'll always be. <br />
<br />
<br /></div>
</span></div>
bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13983546955861913455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6186697436887691159.post-35845473748304266092012-09-12T14:02:00.000-07:002012-09-12T14:02:21.544-07:00jaybird. (my sister)<div class="mbl notesBlogText clearfix">
<span><div>
i like to write things to my sister. Sometimes i pen them on paper and give them to her. sometimes when i think about her i write other things for her. this one is old. <br />
~jaybird~<br />
floating on feathers as leaves that flutter by<br />
in reds and oranges,<br />
delicate as a butterfly, living in a thing glass jar,<br />
or a bird in an eggshell room<br />
looking through a keyhole door<br />
in a bed of sticks and stones,<br />
falls from such heights break fragile bones<br />
then<br />
grounded and smudged<br />
head out of the clouds<br />
forward she trudged<br />
with caution. poise<br />
never leaps and bounds.<br />
the joys that surround<br />
turn to white noise sound<br />
<br />
<span> </span>a small broken bird<br />
<span> </span>on the shores of brine<br />
<span> </span>drinks in the silence<br />
<span> </span>solitude and time.<br />
<br />
sun rays shine down<br />
warming fallen hatchling on the ground<br />
feathers she preens<br />
spreads forth her wings<br />
then<br />
opens her beak and sings.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lLAAFWQqKSs" target="_blank">here's a song to listen to, </a> i think its fitting. </div>
</span></div>
bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13983546955861913455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6186697436887691159.post-89498901862762190562012-09-11T23:34:00.000-07:002012-09-11T23:34:06.324-07:00i'm sorry, what were you saying?<div class="mbl notesBlogText clearfix">
<span><div>
trying to articulate difficult things is the top reason people become mimes. it takes so long to think of just the right phraseology to speak your mind as it sounds and not have the words come out distorted through the filter of vocal tones. the inflection tinted by the interruption of secondary thoughts. hesitation at whether to speak or not. <br />
~statement~ <br />
like a breath of cloud:<br />
frozen.<br />
a wire, curly cord.<br />
line segment<br />
splice. dial tone.<br />
words hung between<br />
unreturned.<br />
<br />
black licorice rope tied<br />
a game over hangman's<br />
noose.<br />
<br />
i remember why i like broken cuckoo clocks<br />
the silence,<br />
absence of time.<br />
<br />
we were two mimes in an invisible box<br />
<br />
muted. speechless. unanswered. <br />
<br />
<br /></div>
</span></div>
bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13983546955861913455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6186697436887691159.post-54188108907783978532012-09-10T10:07:00.000-07:002012-09-10T10:07:33.682-07:00occasionally, i am frustrated.~eat your words, they're good for you~<br />
<div class="mbl notesBlogText clearfix">
<span><div>
pathetic attempts to take a road less traveled<br />
remind me of things not easily walked on,<br />
like a shattered piggy bank.<br />
so, reaching boiling point, yet speaking<br />
with the whisper of steam over a simmer, scattered sense<br />
ringing in copper tones,<br />
like electric wires of quarterless pay phones,<br />
you speak, like a profit<br />
would be reaped,<br />
<br />
searing your tongue on words too late<br />
in a bowl of Alphabet I'm Omega Soup<br />
and with that odd spoon effect, where everything is reflected<br />
upside down<br />
you sip the retrospective landslide<br />
with that bitter, yet new taste<br />
of never having better.<br />
stop<br />
one second (helping is enough)</div>
</span></div>
<br />
<br />bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13983546955861913455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6186697436887691159.post-54942965772019466732012-09-07T16:20:00.001-07:002012-09-07T16:20:45.345-07:00tell me a story? <div class="mbl notesBlogText clearfix">
<span><div>
faded, folded. torn up pages<br />
covers drawn,<br />
close.<br />
thoughts thrice spelled aloud,<br />
b r e a t h<br />
<span> </span>lamp put out.<br />
<br />
shelved beneath the bed,<br />
there are no monsters here,<br />
unless its me,<br />
through my illustrated blindness,<br />
<span> </span>i can not tell<br />
picturing words i'll never read.<br />
<br />
speaking thoughts inside me<br />
you sight see fabled memories<br />
in the cadence of childish naptime melodies.<br />
<br />
only sunlit moth dots, dust moats, distract.<br />
illuminated,<br />
drifiting near<br />
magnetic to my paper skin, reams<br />
thin printed lullaby dreams<br />
whispered words on drowsy ears,<br />
through silent dusk,<br />
<br />
the rustled hush of inked on wings.</div>
</span></div>
bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13983546955861913455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6186697436887691159.post-73712172490113344422012-09-05T13:59:00.002-07:002012-09-09T16:27:56.614-07:00mercury mingle ( my thoughts)i want to start writing again. i'm not sure how. i'm not sure there is a set method aside from just putting pen to paper. (i never use pencil.) criticism is always nice. <br />
attempt one:<br />
<div class="mbl notesBlogText clearfix">
<br />
<div>
Everything is a cirlce so, there is no point<br />
to anything.<br />
<br />
in retrospect we are so fast,<br />
the future slips us by.<br />
<br />
lets slow, stop, sleep<br />
one sheep, two sheep,<br />
be a lullaby of the past.<br />
eyelids, shades, blinds:<br />
dark. a sort of underpass of light.<br />
<br />
remember birthday wish candles, torches,<br />
burning trees.<br />
age counted in the number of rings, symbols of forever<br />
sawed down<br />
put into paper machine, guns; lead bullet points used<br />
to help ideas sink<br />
in anchored ideals.<br />
<br />
harvesting perception,<br />
packed up, shipped away, burried.<br />
silver stitched lines in wafting<br />
clouds of thoughts<br />
sown. reaped. <br />
life cycle complete<br />
steel scythe, chop.<br />
mundane little naught.</div>
</div>
bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13983546955861913455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6186697436887691159.post-51351395117661407922012-09-05T13:52:00.000-07:002012-09-05T13:52:01.952-07:00train of thought.themes and symbols. seams and thimbles. weave the story. i'm filled with wonder when i ponder how well, how intricately everything works together, like a puzzle. Life is a puzzle. except for every piece fits with every other piece... sort of like a Sliding puzzle [where you move all the tiles around to create a bigger picture] its fascinating to see how many different ways things can work out. <br />
and when things happen that we can't explain we call them coincidences, except i don't think those things are crazy random happenstances. somehow, the shifting of the puzzle pieces lead us into a way for the 'coincidence' to happen. its all for some reason, caused by something.bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13983546955861913455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6186697436887691159.post-51312141168785487282012-09-03T20:54:00.003-07:002012-09-03T20:55:07.368-07:00stop and smell the roses<br />
i write. i hope you read. i hope you read this post. i was given a bouquet on valentines day and apparently i'm more cynical than i thought because this is what the flowers inspired.<br />
~Stop and Smell the Roses~ <br />
distorted, jeering faces,<br />
masks, fog over familiar apathy.<br />
ice claws, biting wind,<br />
breaking the window prison of my sanity.<br />
<br />
quiet horrors,<br />
that is what they are,<br />
floating up to mimic joy<br />
outline perfection, then<br />
deflate<br />
leave popped, disfigured versions<br />
of brightly shining dreams.<br />
pin prick punctures in balloons,<br />
scarlet spirals on pale noon,<br />
scattering the bare shreads of truth.<br />
i catch them all<br />
like fallen petals,<br />
tears from flower eyes, a rose coloured black out.<br />
eventually even daisies die<br />
<br />
everything is fine.<br />
<br />
we're a bouquet<br />
severed, soaked in water to our throats<br />
delicate stems of flutes<br />
held gently, securely<br />
as tulips,<br />
words on tips of tongues<br />
swallowed, mute.<br />
spindly necks droop,<br />
broken.<br />
life: never free or fair or golden.<br />
gone with early frost<br />
trampled<br />
under children's feet<br />
wistful wilt of time worn faces.<br />
soon as i'm down toss me out.<br />
uprooted, shallow seated,<br />
a daffodil parade. lily charade.<br />
our last breaths on display,<br />
<br />
watch me fade.bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13983546955861913455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6186697436887691159.post-82714040121571383082012-02-16T18:02:00.000-08:002012-02-16T18:02:51.531-08:00hellohowareyou? goodandyou? good.we mean what we say, we say what we mean. sure. that's easy, the hard part is knowing if people mean what we hear them say, and do we hear what they mean? <br />
misunderstandings. comprehension asunder. <br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0oGrwGCRImY&feature=endscreen&NR=1">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0oGrwGCRImY&feature=endscreen&NR=1</a> <br />
<br />
every conversation is a game of telephone. we're pretty good at it by now, but sometimes we stumble upon a mumbler. speak your mind with words like windows. (clearly) windows are like eyes and eyes lead to the soul [something like that.] sincerity is imperative.bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13983546955861913455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6186697436887691159.post-38627779651804582572012-01-13T18:32:00.000-08:002012-01-13T18:32:04.263-08:00who are you(?) to know anything about me? (or anyone)is there any difference between a person who pretends to be someone they're not by adding (+) to them self [qualities, style, interest] and someone who hides and becomes less of who they are [is more reserved, doesn't really say what sorts of things they like] to fit in with those they admire?<br />
to me it seems they are different, yet both change for other people. <br />
and maybe that's really just how people find out who they really are and want to be. <br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B18lG9mETIs&feature=related">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B18lG9mETIs&feature=related</a>bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13983546955861913455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6186697436887691159.post-41225659949208862082011-11-29T11:02:00.000-08:002011-11-29T11:02:14.758-08:00brainglish [brain glitch]i've so many writer's blocks that i could build a wall. I've also got so many drafts i could start an army. yet with all this i still can't seem to be able to find enough words for even one complete idea, one decent post. so, you get this indecent post. the words are all on the tip of my tongue, taking turns coming from the back to the front of my mind, but somehow their meaning is lost. they never reach the tip of my pen [fingers, in this case] intact. maybe, thats a fault of mine, or maybe its just that the translation from brainglish to english isn't very good?bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13983546955861913455noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6186697436887691159.post-56401211108656445462011-11-23T11:40:00.000-08:002011-11-23T11:40:27.227-08:00Life: you look like a participant.warning: this post contains content that might be an insight to some viewers.<br />
~ignorant viewer discretion is advised.~<br />
<br />
i'm not picky, i probably even like you. so long as you tell the truth. i like people,<br />
As they Are and Were. (thoughts on truth and people)<br />
My words are cut off, like a fixed<br />
drip. drip. drop.<br />
like the dry blue sky, my conscience is clear.<br />
you know me? like the back of my hand, washed clean<br />
with soap made of lye?<br />
<br />
truth is like liquid. hard to see. hard to hold.<br />
hard to speak until swallowed. truth is hard and it is cold.<br />
<br />
we could go on....<br />
about how truth floods, fuels those who run, but<br />
what would be the point?<br />
it'd read as Just<br />
a pencil thin line, that once touched becomes<br />
sssmmuudgged.<br />
so, this paper stays blank,<br />
as the back of my mind.<br />
inspiration gone, without even the linger<br />
of the last note of a song.<br />
<br />
and all of This, started,<br />
ended.<br />
right here.<br />
with choices and actions<br />
that like falling lifeless<br />
leaves lie heaped on the ground, for its<br />
the autumn of the seasonal year.<br />
we think we're done when everything is dead,<br />
but it comes down to one thing,<br />
not zero or none.<br />
Truth is the matter.<br />
That, makes who we are.<br />
not at once, but quite slowly<br />
in a small drip. drip. drop.<br />
so, with this matter only,<br />
my words, are cut off.<br />
<br />
<br />
~we all know that 'Someone', who we'll never figure out, but still, we befriend them. the mystery is half [or whole] of the intrigue. and being their friend, its kind of like listening to AM and FM radio at the same time: mixed signals, bad reception, the same four lines in the same four songs, and a mess of political opinions.<br />
yet, we like music, we like to hear familiar things, and to think through the opinions of others, and so, we like this person.<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rT-5NY83OYI&ob=av2e">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rT-5NY83OYI&ob=av2e</a><br />
<br />
i'm not picky, i probably even like you. so long as you tell the truth.bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13983546955861913455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6186697436887691159.post-58551159650054281662011-11-11T21:28:00.000-08:002011-11-11T21:29:34.166-08:00hourglass. lookingglass. timepassed.oh time, how you are always and now. how you set stereotypes and control my appearance. an appropriate time for new hobbies would be after retirement(so time would have us believe)....so when i recently took up drawing [portraits, abstract, and random such sketches] i felt like i must be retired. however. it still stands that i am not retired. i have a job. i would like two jobs. so, i suppose i've broken the stereotype of age. shrug. mostly i just feel re-tired. i age a little everyday and every night on my way to sleep, i suddenly have ambition and motivation. i am an artist, a writer, i take up water aerobics (okay..maybe not that) ...twenty minutes later, i feel re-tired. so i sleep. next morning. i arise, go to work and feel at-tired.<br />
<div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jNv46fB93IE">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jNv46fB93IE</a> </div><div>this song reminds me of the passing of time. it fits the mood of this post, and the tune of a music box. </div>bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13983546955861913455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6186697436887691159.post-43413080790524603572011-10-17T10:40:00.000-07:002011-10-17T10:40:22.547-07:00a book at face value.i've sort of been toying with this idea in my head: a book of peoples faces. its sort of like the ultimate scrap book. pictures of all your friends and little captions. you can have your copy of book of faces updated by simply sending your book into the company. we'll have it updated and returned to you in five business days with little or no cost to you. shrug. we hope to come out with a digital/online version. not entirely sure if it will catch on though. We've already got a demo/test group going. it seems they've changed the focus of the site from scrapbooking to 'chattin'. they have added more than one hundred people to their friends list...does anyone really know 100 people well enough to have full access to their scrapbook and captions?<br />
its a different world out there....this new generation. they value themselves in the number of 'friends' they have. they are taken at face value and nothing else.bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13983546955861913455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6186697436887691159.post-48532317025690850632011-09-26T11:58:00.000-07:002011-09-26T12:04:05.764-07:00to you (you too) even though when you're with someone, doing the same thing, at the same time, in one place, its never really the same, is it? <br />
<div>~Today (two days)~</div><div>The water, it was green</div><div> (no jade) </div><div>the reeds swayed and sighed</div><div> in the wind</div><div>and the sky was clear</div><div> (or was it clouded?)</div><div>the karp played in the shallows</div><div>their mouths blowing bubbles</div><div>to the frogs.</div><div>mosquitoe's legs kissed</div><div> (no skimmed) </div><div>the surface</div><div>waves slapped and lapped</div><div>the wooden skiff,</div><div> (it was a canoe)</div><div>this scene (seen) together</div><div>was different for me </div><div> than you. </div><div><br />
</div><div>same water, same sky. seen through different eyes with different colours and hues, but converge at points. </div><div><br />
</div>bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13983546955861913455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6186697436887691159.post-34629970691344153362011-08-22T15:15:00.000-07:002011-08-22T15:15:19.804-07:00a tribute to pretty boyi had this goldfish and i wrote a poem about him. here it is:<br />
~ode to fish~<br />
oh what a life at sea<br />
in this clear glass world<br />
there's no one else<br />
but,<br />
reflection me<br />
no, not a soul<br />
just tiny fish wishes<br />
and bubbles blue and bold<br />
each time i peek<br />
it's my face i seek<br />
with shimmering scales of gold<br />
each view is new<br />
a refreshing hue<br />
-memories, short term are few-<br />
i flitt around, tail like a tassel<br />
flying all about my underwater castle<br />
translucent lemon finns<br />
help me swim and glide<br />
when fingers tap and faces spy<br />
i swish through quick and hide<br />
i look up at clear blue sky<br />
i bolt and jump<br />
landing high and dry<br />
gulp in air<br />
eyes give blank stares<br />
i breath, sides heave<br />
life, it leaves<br />
clouds drift by...<br />
i,<br />
goldfish,<br />
die.<br />
<br />
so. i am now realising that this poem was really an awful prediction. only, my fish didn't jump out of the bowl. he was tortured by my cat the assassin. sigh. its really ok since every fish is really just a dictator reincarnate. my cat was just doing his job, bringing us one step closer to world peace. my fish was named Pretty Boy, he loved to stare at himself all day in a mirror. we're probably better off with one less narcissist. next time you buy a goldfish, don't write the tribute prematurely. thus ends todays account of the short life of a household fish. adieubellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13983546955861913455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6186697436887691159.post-36379767751448550922011-08-13T19:15:00.000-07:002011-08-13T19:15:10.718-07:00i trust my sixth sense so much more than your oriental, paper filled, baked goods.people say they fear the future. why? its just a word. just a collection of hours separated into groups of 24 then regrouped into days. its only a vague clump of time and uncertainty. looking at the future in little bits is enjoyable. i can't wait for tomorrow, in an hour i'll have this post completed :] haha.<br />
i once stared at the clock for 60 seconds...to find that only one minute had passed. one minute wasted.<br />
time is passing, passing, passing. gone.<br />
i'll remember some of it. only little liquid memory water drops. they'll fill my brain bucket and the ones that overflow will be gone and go in the dirt and help the seeds of new memories grow.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/sn4b51Yk2-E?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>one of my memories is this blog. it swam to the top of my memory bucket like a hungry fish. i had forgotten it. and now its a memory made new.bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13983546955861913455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6186697436887691159.post-74274958858810556842011-07-16T15:18:00.000-07:002011-07-16T15:18:18.804-07:00yard sailing, boats of the land.for some reason getting up at an unspeakably early hour on a saturday is fine, so long as you're having a yard sale. who knew? ...i knew and tried desperately to will the yard sale out of existence. no such luck. though as i rummaged through our yard sale merchandise, i happened upon a few old world vintro treasures. i am now the proud owner of a polaroid camera, which has always been a wish of mine. good things might even happen to you sometime. shrug. <br />
i try and take picturesque pictures. its a fifty fifty chance. catching people off guard and snapping their photo is the only true way of capturing the moment. the downside is they are often not picturesque do to my own shortcomings.<br />
for future reference, the word vintro is a combination of the words retro and vintage, this only concerns you if you are in fact reading this blog. even if you are, i can't guarantee i'll use the word again. <br />
to make up for the blandness of this post and the non-existant contrast between this and the one before, i think i'll leave you with a song, maybe you'll even listen to it. then maybe you'll like it and have to have it for your own. but, this is all theoretically speaking. sometimes, i get carried away.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/G4CddZuq8z8?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13983546955861913455noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6186697436887691159.post-34137738309917533402011-07-15T20:17:00.000-07:002011-07-15T20:17:24.235-07:00blog=braincloning people is an odd concept. sometimes i think about it. and to me, books are clones of people. authors are the cadavers of brain studies and their works are the clones. libraries have copies and copies of people. people who are dead and people who are living. this thought process is what lead me to create a blog. so i could post little bits of me and one day there could be an entire copy of me, or infinite copies of me for others to see. maybe you'd like to read this:<div>peer into ink and paper minds</div><div>disect the brains of the poet cadavers.</div><div>copies of books</div><div>right from the press</div><div>clones of human nature</div><div>distributed to the masses</div><div>added to the shelves</div><div>these copies in time</div><div>paper thin, full of lines</div><div>faces, fonts, duplicated spines.</div><div>steal from the storehouse</div><div>peruse the clones</div><div>stuck ageless in a forever mine.</div><div>read their thoughts</div><div>words of a people</div><div>a person between the covers.</div><div>i'm an author. i am a clone.</div><div><br />
</div><div>shrug. day one of blog. completed.</div>bellehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13983546955861913455noreply@blogger.com1