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.