...

I stood in the shower, my scalp drinking warmth. I drew dismembered  figures on the steam of the glass door; and signed my name beneath a tattered limb. The loops in my signature were curvy and smooth, like a long bend on country roads. I remember Mam telling us not to do this, because it apparently left drawin marks after being cleaned. Shampoo suds slid heavily down the crease of my back.
For a brief second, I imagined myself as an unfortunate Jew; trapped in the tight and crowded enclosure of a gas chamber. Instead of bubbly suds, hot oil rolled slowly down my skin and I heard the chorus of protesting presences around me. Some wailed in agony, others in synchronized shouts of aggression. There was no one in the shower with me, but I heard them well; or perhaps I had pressed the palms of my hands against my ears and the shouts were really the echo of water pressure against my scalp. It sounds exactly like it does when you're inside a warm and safe house, while rain thunders from outside, at all angles of the house and manipulated by a harsh wind. I put my hands over my ears too much; I even sleep on my side with the left side of my face pressed into my palm. The shower cools suddenly, but to a firm warmth. It's not as hot as it was a few minutes ago, and I sink against the cool wall. It takes me a few seconds, however, to register my reality. The glass around me is a gallery of smudged and overlapped-with-steam signatures and jagged draws. The space constricting me really is a bit tight... I miss our old bathtub. From its place draped over the door, the thirsty towel sits and waits. 

???

Is it the simplicity and obviousness of a solution to an out-of-hand problem that makes it so far-fetched, or the complexity and unnecessary drama over something that makes a simple suggestion to fix it ridiculous?

Life is neither good or bad.

I can't help wondering whether or not we are living our lives in the way they were destined to be lived. The earth was not born brandishing buildings, social corruption and negativity. Just as a baby was not born carrying the political, social, stressful and hateful characteristics that were and are still being practiced and developed in the world today; in which many people believe they are in their rightful place, despite the contradictory claim of wanting to change the world for the better and causing more trouble and death in the process. Let it be said that if there were no legal system or law, absolutely no one would be afraid to kill. All it would take is a nudge from a foe. But who are you to define this as 'bad'? There is no labeling the pleasure of another due to your own distaste. I like psychedelic trance, but many do not. That does not make it a bad genre in general, it's simply not another's boat to board. Pleasuring my curiosity and interest with the misfortunes of lives lost in the hands of masterminds is not a degree in which one can judge the severity of its fashion; it's an interest you'll have to accept, and upon learning change is impossible, move on from.
I like to think of each word in the English dictionary as an abstract painting. It's obscured from its natural purpose, but it is up to the viewer to decide how this should be defined. Through personal practice of course, not raising Hell and asking someone if they have a few minutes to discuss Jesus Christ and all the "good" things he wants for us. Good is good when you know it is, not when someone else says it is. There is no ultimate definition anymore, because we've been lodged into different categories. Cliques never stop in high school; they elevate to higher and more powerful colonies. With these groups come different opinions, but it's your own choice as to whether or not you choose to crowd peddle. Do you define death as "bad"? You curse your own species with such ideas; death is nature, whether it was deliberate or natural in arrival. 
Some will die sooner than others, as a baby will melt a red river between its mother's thighs before birth, and an old man will die aged ninety six in his rocking chair, nursing an untouched bottle of whiskey.
With nature comes intuition; and unclouded choice of actions. That means not being influenced by a narrow-minded prick near you and actually choosing what makes you happy; what you believe you were destined for. So dare I say it once more...

LEAVE MYRA HINDLEY ALONE.


__________________



(some other shite inspired this blog, not the unfortunate judgment on my innocent and sweet wife. but even so... leave her be. kTHNX)

         - love Alpris x

Bad Girlz Club

PROJECT COMPLETE, MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.

This is me and Barb after presenting.
WELL DONE, BARB!

Last class with Rob today, last class for the year!

This is so goddamn trippy.
2012 went by so quickly, my mind has sort of numbed over the idea of finishing the first year; which to me -in terms of experience with high school- has always been the one, it seems, to drag on the longest. Maybe it's the third year that'll tiptoe. But I don't wanna think about that right now. It hasn't even kicked in that we're through with the year for MIT. My mind is still in that set that I plan to return to class on Monday. I can't even remember most of the fucking day!

Today, in groups, we presented our work. Aly's group first, me and Barb, then Amber, Sonia and Tom's group. Everyone did quite well! I noticed also, that there was a generally happy aura about the classroom and it was a very relaxed session. I enjoyed seeing what the other two groups had come up with for their presentations, and how they went about it.Sonia made cupcakes as part of herself and her group's assignment! It was AWESOME.

After presentations, Witi's class joined ours, and we had some food. After that, we went out for a smoke and we took literally 200+ photos together; I kid you not. We need memories, you know?!
Then we took some fun videos together; some of which I intend to upload on YouTube purely for the benefit of the Bad Girlz Club, and being able to look back on the video later in life to reminisce.
I'm surprised at how laid-back, loud and giggly people were; must be the fact that we're on a real holiday now and everyone's just relaxed and relieved. It was like people were naturally happy this time, and not just smiling for the fact that we're around each other. A healthy glow; can't wait to meet up in the holidays! BRIT NIGHT: #Sonia Aurelio #Amber Esau. We're not even going to drink when we catch up. We're going to sit in a circle and pass around some rosary beads for a few hours, and then hit the sack at 6:30p.m. so we can be up at 7am for the morning mass; so that we can cure our hangovers with a word to God. ;)
Shit, honestly, I can't remember much from today. I'm in a haze.
I love all my gorgeous friends :D Gutted that Sonia and Alesha aren't returning next year :( but at least they'll be free of school work and have better chances to catch up whenever!

...I hated ruining the cupcake :( It was so professionally structured and perfect looking!

Last class with Sue yesterday... *sniff* :(

Sometimes optimism is a euphemism for false hope, and no I am not being negative; I'm merely observing the common and unfortunate cliche situations of life. Everything turned out fine this day, as I am feeling fine about it. Nothing went wrong...except for the fucking printers! argh!
I was ripped off two dollars to start with, because one printer said it would print my work and it turns out the damn thing was hungry for paper. Le sigh.
I had no time to refill it so I re-printed my assignment, printed it from the reception area and handed it in. I told Sue the printer had re-proportioned my title page -OH NOE- and she said not to worry about it and that she wasn't marking it. Thank fuck.
But then it turned into a real relaxed and clownish afternoon with both classes merged for a shared lunch and the Year Twos giving us a projected tour of their online blogs; at least I think that's what they were. I really do hope what I handed into Sue was good enough. Because my internet was cut off the day before we were to hand in to Sue -how convenient, huh- I couldn't get onto the UK Mirror, Dailymail, or any site annotating my wife Myra Hindley's crimes and the dates and authors of articles etc, to retrieve the information I needed as a reference basis for my work. I enjoyed writing it though, amazingly enough I can see Myra's crimes as if I were there with her, and not that shite Ian Brady; it really was a fun write indeed. The only thing I regret is not having enough time to go into as much detail as I was intending. Darn it.
I still can't believe how much food there was between us. Large portions of food,: fruit, biscuits, cake, drinks, chips... oh dear. I had some of that nice chicken chowmein, some crackers, some rock melon, strawberries, fanta... and then I was full. I couldn't even finish my cheesecake, it was so rich in sugar I thought I was going to faint if I tried to haul it down my throat.
It was generally a very nice and laid back day; but I could still feel the anticipation within some people for the presentations in Robert's class for the following day. I was rather surprised, though, when Corrina gave me a gift. That was real nice of her; especially since she likes to criticize Myra Hindley in front of me to rattle my cage. I pretend it doesn't, but it really does; I love my lil Ashton Market fox. ;)

...sigh. I'm going to miss Sue; and I sure as hell hope she's coming back next year. What a real strength, inspiration and figure of support she's been for us. The fact that she is so open, honest, critically helpful and amazingly patient makes her fucking awesome; and I can't believe she let me do my assignment on Myra Hindley! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK! I love also the fact that she likes to read crime. She said she would buy my book if I signed it; but I'll give it to her for free. She's a great gal for sure and I'm going to miss her.

hey you; STOP JUDGING.

A few people pissed me off today. And whether you like it or not, I am going to treat this blog entry the way I would a personal journal -but not too personal- as I have been from the very moment I created my Blogger account, and in hopes of helping people to understand that you simply cannot judge one on whom they love or choose to glorify, the way they choose to deal with a situation and the way their mind functions in general; and in that it's very important that, before concluding an opinion based on a simple glance, you explore the situation outside of the box. It helps to read more than a mere article, people. Would the term 'individuality' exist, if we were all the same person? What beauty is there to hold and cherish if we are all clones, programmed to feel and see things exactly the same, and with that, what use would the word 'love' be?
There are some errors in this world that are permanently at loss of being fixed; but there is always the notion of improvement or bettering a situation to make it easier to understand. And today, while I was conversing the people who pissed me off, I noticed they lacked this ability; and the ability also to conceal a personal attack with a poor attempt at a joke.
Here's an example:  You will not judge Myra Hindley. Many of whom I know had no idea who she even was, before they met me. And then they read one single article or even a crummy headline, and they go bonkers. I'm sure in your world, that a serial killer with "pathetic justifications for their crime" is a piece of shit and doesn't count as a person but a monster; and an unemotional freak of society. But you forget; with judgment comes the separation of one from society. And you are part of society, with attitude like that. Stereotyping, labeling, quick leaps to fictional and baseless conclusions. There is no need for it. If you're going to judge, however, at least have the decency to make sure I'm not present. Otherwise you just look like a mentally-underdeveloped and defensive fool; especially when you haven't done any research and are far from the context of perfect. Perfect doesn't exist, so don't act a replica of it. As much as I disagree with the concept of labeling one with a mental illness and deciding that that's all their soul goes by, with most there are psychological reasons and annotations that affect one's life choices and the way their mind functions in general to all sorts of situations. That is why we are all different, douche bags. 
You can't judge Myra for killing, and then say you would shoot her. Justice or not, it's still the same action. I don't care if you think she's a bad person and that's why you would kill her; it's a form of justification and the reason why most serial killers do what they do. There is always a motive behind killing, some sort of momentum that drives their careers. Would you still think the same if she were like you, and killing someone for a good reason? I'll bet you wouldn't be so quick to judge if you went into proper research and actually opened your minds for once - God forbid.
Let's look at this scenario:
What the media says: "Myra Hindley killed only for love, and because she obtained an obsession for Ian Brady and was under his murderous spell."
Well, like Barbie, this is a shitty caption and sends the wrong message altogether. On what basis do you have to support this claim, with the absence of research and skim-reading abilities? How does this idea even indicate accurately that Myra did not feel passion for what she did prior to meeting Brady? She was not under a spell at all, she chased the fire that made her heart beat faster which is more than I can say for most. In the transcript of the Lesley Ann Downey audio tape, Myra is heard abusing and taunting the child on her own terms. According to Brady, she insisted on killing Lesley herself, and often carried the string she used to strangle her to death around her wrist, while cruising Ashton Markets. She did this obviously for pleasurable and memorable purposes; yet another indication that she did what she did because she wanted to, not because Brady pursued her. I need not mention the fact that Myra's interest in him began because she noticed his love for Nazism, sexual torture, philosophy, and the literature surrounding these. It occurred to me that most journalists are too lazy for background checks, and might very well make shitty forensic examiners. That, and the fact that people forget that 'fact' and 'opinion' are two very different organizations in this world and can be deciphered accordingly and quite easily if one puts their personal touchiness aside for even just a minute. So no, you will not shoot Myra Hindley. You will open your damn eyes and try to preserve whatever dignity and sense of individuality you still have.

That's all I can say at the moment. Now I need a smoke.

???

How does one distinguish the difference between getting over something, being used to something and learning how to deal with something?     Because as far as experience has told, there are vast differences between all three of those concepts, despite how similar they sound; and you can't disagree with me because they all fall under different senses and situations, and can't be accurately determined.
Let me explain. Getting over something indicates leaving that particular thing in the past, and moving on, does it not? Becoming used to something means you still endure it, but you're used to its impact and influence and deal with it calmly. Learning how to deal with it, however, means to approach or come to a solution as to fix it completely, or find an agreeable point to it.

We shouldn't be judged as to whichever option we choose. It's merely a suggestion to someone's personality function, not an excuse to criticize the way someone decides to live and treat their life. If half the world was less judgmental in this sense, I think most political issues wouldn't even exist.

OH INDUSTRY, WHATEVER WILL BECOME OF ME

Sometimes it feels good to tuck my fringe behind my ear, because at last I can see the whole picture. But I can't, really, because it's scattered in a thousand pieces before me. I keep missing one side of the story, so I have to re-scramble my construction but there is no way in Hell I'm starting over completely. And then my fringe slips. Now I see half the problem.
Myra watches me. She smiles gently. It's okay, you'll get it soon, she says. Come to bed, and I'll make us a cuppa. She has the hardened stare of a gorgeous queen, whose colony is not worthy of sustained life before her superiority. But I'll go anyway, because I miss her and she keeps disappearing for hours on end, then reappearing when I least expect it.
Before I do, I push through the waves of picture pieces but I don't find the border; and without the border there is no picture. And without the picture, there is no sight. I blink, and again, and again; only this time I leave my eyes closed. Myra's tongue is shaping its own picture for me. I don't need eyes for this.
If I only had a hearttttttttttttt.
Don't dally now, she says. Look, put it in your mouth. Keep, and you'll be right. She smiles again. Even though my eyes are closed, I can still hear the wet slide of her lips against teeth. It's very quick though. I like the taste of her views in my mouth.

The picture I attempted, though, will die unfinished; but not I. I'd rather share a cup of tea with Myra and rest on quilt. By now, the violins are raping my eardrums but they're so fierce I can't resist. Oh, shame. Look at us, we both love classical music. I remember today me and my Mam walked into The Warehouse and I found an odd long metal stick of some kind, in the garden section.
Look Ma, I said, this would make for some good sodomizing.
I start giggling and Ma laughs, says God. She thinks I'm joking.
Myra laughs with me. We laugh at the man at the end of the aisle.

Then when we get to the car, there is a woman pulling a huge Rose West on her kid. Wait for it... she's white, too! She literally grabs her seven year old son roughly by the arm, kneels down to his level and shakes him. She's yelling right in his face; so loud her voice penetrates the closed windows of the car. Saying something like, No you can't have it, and you will bloody listen when I say no. Use your fucking ears, I said NO. Now go to the car; HURRY UP.
That woman is so mad, and the funny thing is myself and my rage can relate. Myra shakes next to me. She says she can't hear properly, and asks me to dictate the words to her.
The father is trudging in front of them, uselessly. He looks embarrassed; and I would be too, if my fat ugly wife was abusing our kid in public, with total disregard of the attention she's attracting. Whoa, it's a white woman yelling at her kid. Me Mam is shocked. Look at her, she says, has she no shame at all? I could have responded in a similar fashion but I'm too interested in the situation. Go to your father, the woman says, and she ducks behind the car to shake him- and probably to hit him. The kid, he looks familiar, the way he walks like a timid dog to his father's side of the car. The father faces the concrete as his wife slides into the passenger seat; all three of her chins high with pride. There is a look on her face that says what I can't recite, otherwise I'll be arrested after I've submitted this blog entry.

Going West in Henderson; a different country.

Arriving in Henderson; in a van with Robert and classmates.
When we get out, I want to smoke but I can't because the library is so close, and besides my mouth is occupied with gossiping with Siagaw. As we travel further into civilization, it becomes quite obvious we didn't belong there; in terms of the social capacity and withering glances from townsfolk who looked at us strangely. The way a flea would at flawless skin. Ripe for silent interrogation.
It was as though we attracted a chunk of South Auckland cloud that hung over us. But I don't care. Most were arrogant sneers, people that said "who the fuck are you? Go home."
We get inside the library. It smells of ink and distant perfume.
The lady... whose name for the life of me I can't remember, looked like a dark and short-haired Mary Swanson. I nearly laughed, had it not been for her hard and intimidating glance. Contrast of ice age against sizzling sun.
We went into a room together. And in that room we sat around a table; a table that had little pencils in silver transparent containers and portfolios filled with pictures of well known writers and a list of their works. They were fun to flip through while Mary Swanson introduced the librarian and the recipients on the CDs we would be hearing and extracting notes from. I took down quite a few. Lord knows I was not in a good space; I could only absorb so much and then I started to annotate Myra Hindley quotes in my head.
"She should have gotten rid of that baby, and she should get rid of this one."
"We love it anywhere, don't we, Neddy?"
"Oh God, this takes me back..."
"Did you see the look in his eyes when that first blow registered?"
"I already told you, I've got nothing to say. My version of events of that evening, are exactly the same as Ian's version of events."
NO I HAVE NEVAH BEEN TA ASHTON MARKETS. NEVAH! NEVAH BEEN TO ASHTON MARKETS.
"I ask you to judge me as I am now, and not as I was back then."
I start giggling then; to myself. Mary Swanson watches me, and I smile at her. Her smile is sort of tipped, like its resting on an unstable surface. We listen to more poets, and I write some notes. Sometimes in between pausing, we'd discuss a particular writer's processes and idea of life; along with their general genre and the impact it had, etc.
I picture a cigarette butt kissing my lower lip; I fondle my Myra Hindley pen. I write more notes, because it comes to my pinch. And it comes to Robert's attention that we have to leave, to beat traffic. Business cards are dispersed amongst us. I tuck them into my bag, right beside my serial killer book that aids my research.
And on the way to the van, I smoke half a cigarette. I suck that white bitch, like a desperate vampire would a body drained of blood. And on the way back, I try to write but its hopeless. At that time, I'd rather just comment on the stupidity of children running out into the traffic, unaware of the risk of death or any sense of caution. Most children are stupid, because their parents are. Tsktsktsk.

Today's Performance

This is funny.
I performed today, no biggie; with the rest of my class and while various singers and rappers broke awkward silences and attempted to iron away wrinkles of tension within the room. One thing's for sure: I hate mic stands, and standing in one spot. I work better when my feet are molesting the floor completely, and I'm not enclosed in an invisible cage. It intensifies the pressure of attention that way, and now I feel like shit because I don't believe I performed properly. Despite the kind comment from an elderly man when we were dismissed to food and disappointment of alcohol bans. He said my poem was one of the best he'd heard today, which made me feel better. But he said his hearing was terrible, and that I tripped over a few phrases. It's out of my hands; just as I cannot cup grains of sand through shaky fingers. I wish Mehcov had been there, she would know for sure where I stand; which is over her as she lies motionless.
The poets did well, needless to say.
My mother stood on the sidelines. She smiled and presented applause.
Yes, twas a great day and the sun beaming. But I could not wait to get outside so I could light me a fag and drink what reminds me of a Black Russian but sadly wasn't.

stupid girl; can't believe you fake it.

Wow, Mehcov.

I think it's safe to say now, that I hate you more than I ever have. What are you, some kind of intellectually fraudulent sociopath of society? A manipulator and summoner of another's emotions for your pitiful short-lived pleasure? Leave it buried beneath hardened cement where it belongs. I don't feel it anymore; it's shame enough that I did to begin with. You are such a fucking joke.
And every time I see you, you grow duller and duller and lose the spark that boiled my blood. You are dull with melancholy's shine, guts dragging out behind you in tails of spaghetti. Before, you actually smiled. Now you're like a tired donkey dragging its hooves through stretching desert. And somehow... I don't know what it is but there is a blinding curtain drawn across your face, so that it takes me ten seconds or more to stare at you, trying to fathom who you are and why you look familiar for some reason. There are some days I see you and you look beautiful; others, more frequently now... I want to cut your throat because without its function, you have no voice. And your voice is the worst of all. It, and the tired strings that hold your contrived smile, have been pulled so much they grow weary with grip and you droop like saggy cow udders. You and that piece of shit... what's his name? Dipa. Mehcov and Dipa.  Fucking joke, I take a drag of my fag and he comes outside and sneers at me. For about ten seconds; as long as it takes me to look you right in the eye and wonder if you're the same bitch I used to believe had a perfect heart.Both of you...you sit separated by a meter as if you both have herpes. Even Siagaw noticed it. We laughed at you both; like night owls under a full moon. 
But that's besides the point. I really do hate you now.
I wonder who you hired? There are plenty of potential cunts with drilling sneers. Sneers bursting at the seams of fabricated grins. I smell its stench; reminds me of the morgue where I pissed in the mouths of people who were "important" to you. That was after I figured you were employing people to fuel your psychotic career, though. You even took Gib from me. I thought he was cool with me... but not anymore. Even Aiafs is reluctant to share herself. She decorates her blurred words with half-assed half smiles and hugs me with tired muscle.
Damn, bitch... where did you get your strychnine from? Even so, that's not your modus-operandi. You are a manipulator, after all. A sociopath who spikes coffee and vodka with liquid bullshit, who looks people in the eye and says, "Alpris is messed up." And they will believe you, because you apparently have a certificate with your name on it that says you are an authorized and fully qualified person-scanner.  That must be the trend nowadays; I wouldn't know. All I know is that Ted Bundy would have a field day with you. He liked his whores dead while he screwed them.

PLERGH.

Listening to Tchaikovsky's: Piano Concerto Movement #1 in B-flat Minor.
It's making me drowsy as fuck. And I wish I wasn't drowsy because I need to work on my assignment... gulp.. my journal, too.
My head and heart hurt. :( Perhaps Myra will sing me a lullaby before I doze.
Over the moor.... take me to the moor....
dig a shallow grave... and I'll lay me down.
Over the moor.... take me to the moor....
dig a shallow grave... and I'll lay me down.

ALEXA JOHNSTON: this is well overdue, I know.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.
I should have submitted this long ago and since the day she visited our class -which I can recall from my research pad was on the ...shit, I'll obtain the proper date soon enough- I have been telling myself once or twice everyday to submit this damn entry already. But like my shadow, my memory is gone with the darkness of new topic and arises again only the next day. And so on, and so forth.
At least I'm actually doing it now, right? Don't have your period everywhere.

___


At least I wrote some notes during Alexa's visit. I would have written my blog with her there, in the room, but the WIFI was AWOL and more unstable than an unsheltered horse. Here are the notes in question:

- Alexa is a biographer, and the proud author of several cookbooks including "What's For Pudding", "Ladies A Plate", and various other retro-styled books with delicious looking snacks and treats that made me feel like drinking, for some off reason. We flipped through some of them while she spoke, and the designs -which she organized and decided for- were uniquely attractive and almost antique in a way. I liked it, it was pretty; a lot more different to my own and my mother's cookbooks. But then again we are Filipinos and Lebs, who would rather store handwritten recipes in ordinary stationary bind books and cook from those. We're old fashioned like that, but so is Alexa. She put a lot of character into those recipe books; in a clever and authentic way. Beautiful! Seems like a lady's best friend almost.

- Alexa studied... *gulp* art history? Oh man, I have to hand it to her; that woman must have an extensively long attention span.

- During the conduction of her Sir Edmund Hillary biography, Alexa went through dozens of books, other biographies, articles and such that were based on him to gain a fair idea on how she would make her own book different to theirs, and with the ability to stand out individually. While researching alongside this, she interviewed family members and friends of Sir Edmund Hillary's, to extend her knowledge on his background and to obtain an idea of his general profile.

- Alexa apparently really loves Penguin publishers. I have to agree with her though, the logo is cool. More cute than cool... maybe cool with simplicity but cute in the subject matter preference. It has a cute round head and little pointy tablets for arms...anyway.

- To get a sense of his adventures and exhilarating experiences, Alexa went through -or so she claims!- 10,000 photo slides illustrating evidence of his travels and mountain-climbing. They were apparently those old fashioned photo slides that you have to hold up against the sun's body to see. We have some of those still, from the early 80s.

- There's a rude end note here, cursing myself for forgetting the question I was meant to ask Alexa. Mostly because it slipped - oh! I remember now. I was going to ask her if she had ever met Bette Midler but I doubt that highly now. It seemed possible at the time because she was so high-strung on all the people she'd met -well-known ones, too- but she would have never left out the Divine Miss M if she had the pleasure of acquainting her. NO ONE COULD FORGET HER IF THEY MET HER. NO ONE, YOU HEAR? BETTE MIDLER IS A REMARKABLE MULTI-TALENTED WOMAN WHO LIVES A LIFE MANY AUTOTUNED CELEBRITIES CAN ONLY THINK OF, AFTER THEIR FIVE MINUTES OF FAME ARE OVER AND THEY ARE LEFT WALLOWING IN SELF PITY.
Ahem.
Yeah... these are all the notes..
Awkward. Ciao!

Too long, no more

Dear Mehcov,


Too long have my herded cries been swallowed by winds in moors so bare to an ear. It is his throne you are taking, and not mine; and I do not wish to wallow once more in what should have been but is now crumbled castle of ash. I suppose it is one's passion that determines the value of a relationship, should it be or not to be mutual, and not the length of time it had allowed. You turned feeble rose into nagging thorns in my side, and kept my eyes thirsty of skin for too long. I wonder how many companions in optimism you have deceived and discarded to waves gone with the ocean; I begin to wonder exactly what it is I saw in your quicksand pools. The trick, they say, is not to struggle in sands so compelling with harsh pull. There has not been a time now, when I have wished that fallen angels would take you down with them, to lower dirt than worm's wriggle. What was an optimistic cemetery is now groped by hungry sun; I watched lime turn to ill bearing gold, then brown with tilted disbelief...gone.
You are gone to me, a simple breath from my mouth. That breath will be tasted by another, until we all die. You are, my dear Mehcov, the product of shredded coal turned to dust. I watched you burn, did I; and I choked on my pride as your stench rose to vain skies of vermilion.  Brambles against my forearms pulled me to praise; and I snapped away from their vines. Moon later peaked through protective fingers of blossom tree. I see how the petals are prettier at night; the sun I believed you brought in me, has painted the world to deceptive hues. But I am no longer blinded by your dancing ribbons of cashmere. They are sought after by the holy Devil who is to wrap them round on existent hairs and tattoos I never saw. You are bound to your own hardened stare as an asp is wary of her distinctive twist; as I am bound to my teeth, licking truth to ink. Such circumstances have proved many times to be temporary, have they not? Your sun will set soon, you will see. Before birds of carousels trample your horizontal orange, pink and red farewell.

Yours truly no more,




Hessie

Too much reading, my mind won't sleep.

It only just occurred to me that the purpose of a criminal wanting to obtain and/or maintain an accomplice through their crime spree is not necessarily defined only by the desire of one wanting to share their glory and pleasure with another, but the possibility of a psychological dependency of someone of which they wish to form an attachment with another or keep to a current relationship in fear of being alone in general. One might decide that killing/burglary/vandalism or anything crime related is a mechanism of self-exposure and projection of trust; a personal gateway to their mind and soul, as well as expecting the other to reciprocate with an understanding mind to form an unbreakable bond together. I believe now that many of those who turned to crime that suffered great bullying or issues regarding neglection in life, either decide that their fate will be to forever remain solo (turning them subconsciously bitter) or in the presence of someone who would participate in such activities alongside them. Maybe one of the two, or both, are afraid of being alone because of the nature and subjects of their hobbies and following arousal is frowned upon and can often fog one's mind of the possibility that there may truly be a like-minded person out there.
Because one is aware of the risks of being caught when assuming a criminal career, another person added to the equation would secure safety, protection and an inclination of partnership; and sorry to say, but the unfortunate perk of possible blackmail if one of them pisses the other off.

That is all; I'm exhausted as fuck.
Goodnight, Buggerlugs!

Who's up for a coffee and poetry marathon???

I AM!

Anna Taylor - an inspiration in more ways than one

Anna is reading 'The Beekeeper' for us.

She recites her words with such intense pain and emotion that it entrances me into the world of the situation and pulls me to a satisfying calm; and that's also because she has a clear and gentle reading voice to top it off.
The story itself is very graphic: in terms of description, memory, word usage as well as a striking simplicity which makes it flow wonderfully; words painting a perfect picture to my ears.  I was captured already by the first few words about her mother saving her own life because it opened the story with the intriguing scent of a catastrophe and is sure to snatch the curiosity of the reader/listener. The best part about it is the fact that the events told are of true factors (Anna admitted that she may have gotten carried away with the profile of the atmosphere but there's nothing wrong with that as rules are made to be broken!) and I laughed as Anna told us her lecturer had said it was very well written but quite the unbelievable situation.

Another aspect of the story that makes it refreshing, is the fact that her mother is described as a negotiable, calm, tender and simple woman; despite being withheld in a life-threatening circumstance by a man who claims she knows him, and who had obviously had no experience whatsoever as a murderer. He holds that knife the way an artist holds a lit match up to a canvas; dripping in sweat and with the overpowering stench of hesitation and doubt. Everything is described so vividly yet simple, it's impossible to not love this piece of hers.

Anna discussed with us also her writing processes, and revealed that 'The Beekeeper' is the only story in which she does not use dialogue punctuation - so as to preserve the idea of a spoken true story from a narrative point of view. I asked Anna whether or not her mother actually had -at the time of being in the house with this delusional stranger- had actually experienced flashbacks from her past relating to her family, early life, traits, and the treasured tradition of the hallway cupboard filled with fruit jams, liqueurs, chutneys and the history behind it all as it is told in the story she had. Anna responded, saying that because she remembered many details of the house so well, the telling of her mother's surroundings and the history behind them merged naturally into the story.

She really is quite clever. One of her greatest strengths, I believe personally, is her use of the 'zoom in, zoom out' technique which she used frequently in 'The Beekeeper' to prolong the story's intensity as well as preventing the reader from becoming burdened by the weight of events and emotion; it's a good way to keep the reader hooked, also. Like the cliff-hanger of a program, or a commercial break. I swear this woman inspires the hell out of me without realizing.


I asked Anna another question: did your mother actually know the man in the house, as he had claimed over the phone and when he invaded the house?
She said he might have lived a few houses down, known her vaguely from somewhere, met her briefly and even talked with her, but not enough to secure a memory, let alone a fondness for him.
I was tempted to ask also whether or not he had any distinct tones/octaves/grooves in his voice that could rule him out from the number of people her mother knew, if he left any evidence behind, and if her mother remembered whether the shoes he was wearing were old or new.
It's pretty much a given though, that he would have left something behind. Anyone can, and  without intention; dripping sweat as profusely as he had been in the story would make tracking his arse a piece of cake. Even a simple conversation between two people in the vicinity of a crime scene can prove to be a fatal move on the criminal's part, as DNA and bodily fluids are extracted in microscopic particles from the mouth; not to mention the silent shedding of human skin cells too. This is why forensic examiners, medical examiners, detectives and crime scene investigators are required to wear special clothing that protects them from disturbing evidence and to preserve the original nature of the scene. Metal stepping plates which are sterilized everyday and readily available for examiners are used also for this purpose.
As for the evidence of shoes... obviously the impression of the soles would narrow the search down significantly. All it would take is a visible impression (after tests being run), a comparison through a pattern-block of shoes database, then eventually a rundown of where the shoe was purchased and analysis of security footage at such place. Any shoe -old or new- can have its impression lifted with the use of adhesive tape or gel-lifter. Footwear prints in dust are usually preserved using an electrostatic lifter. An electrical discharge is generated across the surface of metallised foil, causing a dusty impression to adhere to the surface. It won't do a criminal any more justice to use a pair of new shoes, either. Brand new shoes have remaining oils from manufacture in their soles and through the skin of their exteriors; these oils can be just as incriminating as a bloody shoe print left behind and attempted to be cleaned away which a reagent called luminol (this reagent reacts with iron found in hemoglobin) can determine whose body the blood came from and the shape of an impression; results are most effective in the absence of light.
....Holy shit I'm geeking out and straying from the original objective of this blog. BACK TO ANNA TAYLOR! (luckily I didn't spurt this to her; its enough for her to know I am a crime writer). Geeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeez.


Well, whether you like it or not, I'm going to end the blog on a similar note: a psychological review of the man in question, who visited Anna's mother's house and threatened to take her life.
Now! In the story, the man's role is firstly introduced to us when he calls the house. He claims that he knows Anna's mother yet he refuses to distribute his name and requests that she meet him at the movie cinema up the road. Upon realizing that this isn't going to happen, he decides to take a vicious leap by surprising her with a visit; only now he has the intention to "kill her if she doesn't do exactly as he says" - which proves later to be a bluffing statement and merely a mask to preserve his manliness and egotism in fear of exposing his vulnerability and true feelings which he feels would make him an easy target to manipulation and sensitivity.


My initial response to this section is that he grew overly-paranoid for several reasons which led him to travel to the house to investigate his speculations. Generally with some, the more one knows/likes another, the more paranoid they grow in fear of a series of things.
One being -and obviously correct- that she wouldn't meet him at the theater as asked (which possibly led to feelings of self-consciousness, confusion and anger at himself).
Another is the fact that subconsciously, he knew that she doesn't know him which contributed to the angst of my first theory and developed into a delusional state where he genuinely starts to believe that they know each other but also believes she is plotting against him so he must take charge of the situation - violence and intimidation style.
Another is the prospect that he was somewhat psychologically/mentally damaged prior to the encounter in the house, and was therefore vulnerable to romantic or any notion of emotive attachment which led him to believe that if he asked her on a date, she would willingly agree and from then on, things would progress positively. This may have been a subconscious reaction of a past event that affected him altogether in the relationship department, therefore abusing his trust and heightening his paranoia. If things did not go according to his perfect plan, he would resort to other matters including threatening her life, use of a dangerous weapon, and poor control of the situation that later proves he was in definite hesitation/doubt as to whether or not he was doing the right thing. He cannot be labeled as insane, however, since his lack of control and overpowering reaction to the events indicates he was aware of his actions. Because of the eruption of empathy and consideration towards Anna's mother's safety and health near the end of the story -as well as negotiating with her over a period of time along with the risk of her escape- I believe he really was fond of her and originally took to such circumstances only to gain a higher position over her and to get her to satisfy his lustful cravings and fantasies; maybe he thought that if he listened to her and trusted her, he would obtain her own trust and something could spurt from that.
He never really wanted to hurt her, otherwise he would have been unaffected by her convincing him to let her go out and collect her laundry from the clothesline and to fetch some vinegar for her bee sting. He sweat, shook and hesitated too much and allowed her to escape but that doesn't rule out the general possibility of a true murderer lurking. Sometimes all a murderer in his shoes needs is some practice and experience to control someone and an accompanying agenda, which strengthens their motive and numbs all consideration/empathy for the victim. Some don't need even that, are just born/raised with intimidating tendencies and with the ability to appear "normal" in the eyes of society.
However I don't believe the man in the story was of a homicidal complexion. He was just a delicate man, really, starved of affection and who went to extreme measures to obtain it with force. But as we all know, some good things come to those who wait; and it certainly won't be handed to you if you don't deserve it.