Wondering out of words, I think the broom takes precedence in the wold of enlightenment. Dust to dust to damnable hatred. Red is scintillating, breathtaking in its violence. Bodies breaking on the wall, falling--catch them! Diamonds on the water, it's winter, the snow is falling, like suffocation on the frozen earth. Why am I making sense? Come the darkness, tunnel vision, I'm blind and not blind, I see only what is before me. Periphery is closed to me, perception limited by my will. Unveil the horizon! Tear the curtain down! I pause unwillingly, if I let my thoughts fly at will they would never stop and I could make no sense of them, gain nothing. And if I pause I lose them all and gain nothing. Every pause is another turn of the mind down another path. I'm lost, lost in thought--always vague, always metaphor, by me only half-understood. Why am I not making sense? What is the most essential thing? Who could answer that question? Is it the most essential question?
I will ask it...
Clarity. Take the broom, sweep the dust, enlighten me. This mind is a room, this room is covered with disuse. Uncultivated. I cough when I enter it. The broom must take precedence, then the activity. Use. Production for use. Use for productivity. Hatred burns against what is not done, comes violently, beating anger and guilt into my heart, breaking me against my fears, my hesitancy. I'm losing time-- slipping through my fingers, precious time flying eternally past-- a swift river, yet not eternal. Winter slows every movement; time seems irrelevant when everything sleeps-- but everything sleeps in a prison, dormant, kept until it breaks again free, and spring seems to rush the world again. Time never stops, but it seems to sleep in winter. It feels like a respite from constant falling behind. Winter is my season. I like the feeling of protection, security, peace, patience, constancy, rest, deep silence. Like a reverent reverie, and walking under the stars at night finds a thrice crystal reflection in the earth, in the eyes, and in the soul. On the other hand, clear days are more painful with nothing to absorb the brilliance but the eyes. Back to my room. There is a locked desk, and a key in the corner, hidden by a cobweb hung with dust. No windows here, only the backs of tapestries showing French windows leading out into gardens or the sun rising behind Roman columns. In the center of the floor is a small door with a rusted hinge. I know behind the door is brown darkness with a ladder that leads down, down into black darkness in another room with two windows that scarcely open without a thick multicolored filter to distort anything that might escape and shape it into a safer misrepresentation, for the protection of the deepest chamber. But other windows exist...what is generated in this room, coming up from the deepest chamber, is sent out through strange, dark passages between the walls, and words fall, squeezed through suffocation, from hesitant lips, and words fly, spurred by desperation, from eager fingers. It is fervor and fever. It is must and would. I am helpless and hungry. I am hollow. I am hopeful. I am Halle.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Time-counting
For some odd reason, I am in eager anticipation of my return to school this fall quarter. I found a website that indulges the spirit of anticipation...counting down the time to the last second, if you wish it. Its obliging calculations are as follows:
"From and including: Thursday, August 11, 2005
To, but not including : Monday, September 19, 2005
It is 39 days from the start date to the end date, but not including the end date
Or 1 month, 8 days excluding the end date
Alternative time units
39 days can be converted to one of these units:
3,369,600 seconds
56,160 minutes
936 hours
5 weeks (rounded down)"
Only 5 weeks? "I feel a scream coming on right now--starting right down in my toes, sort of like a tingling sensation. Now it's creeping up around my knees, up my legs, traveling faster and faster and faster--it's in my stomach right now. I'm afraid it's got me...it's going up and up and up and up--here, it's right in my throat...it's fighting to get out; I don't--I can't hold it any longer--here it goes--" (Tony Kirby (Jimmy Stewart), You Can't Take it With You)
AAAAAAAAHHH!!!
It's near--I'm glad of that; but I don't feel prepared...
"From and including: Thursday, August 11, 2005
To, but not including : Monday, September 19, 2005
It is 39 days from the start date to the end date, but not including the end date
Or 1 month, 8 days excluding the end date
Alternative time units
39 days can be converted to one of these units:
3,369,600 seconds
56,160 minutes
936 hours
5 weeks (rounded down)"
Only 5 weeks? "I feel a scream coming on right now--starting right down in my toes, sort of like a tingling sensation. Now it's creeping up around my knees, up my legs, traveling faster and faster and faster--it's in my stomach right now. I'm afraid it's got me...it's going up and up and up and up--here, it's right in my throat...it's fighting to get out; I don't--I can't hold it any longer--here it goes--" (Tony Kirby (Jimmy Stewart), You Can't Take it With You)
AAAAAAAAHHH!!!
It's near--I'm glad of that; but I don't feel prepared...
(Inter/Intra)personal Communication
Hallo, where is everybody? I know I haven't been saying much, but I'd like to know someone's still there anyway...
If you want to know about my life today, it's here. I'm not opening my heart at present, but I'll give you glimpses of my subconscious from time to time...:)
Dreaming. Pretty boring, really. So how is my life? It's challenging, confusing, a constant warring struggle--not even for survival, but for the very will to survive. I get lazy, careless, numb. And then I am called back to my senses, back to order, by some sweet mercy--until I fail again, fall again, curse myself again. And then I hate it when people ask me how I am and mean it...because I have to tell them the truth. And I wish the truth wouldn't always be bleak. But it never does to wait upon movement; movement is not something that does, but something that is done. Move then, silly girl. Little steps...that's it...don't give up...don't rest now, you haven't earned it...just keep moving--
But I don't know where I'm going...
That's because you're looking around at everything, my dear. Find a focal point.
Anything?
No! The best quality, the most excellent thing. Perfection.
I thought that was unattainable...
Ahem. Should that stop you?
"To reach the unreachable star,
Though you know it’s impossibly high,
To live with your heart striving upward
To a far, unattainable sky!”
“...And the world will be better for this,
That one man, scorned and covered with scars,
Still strove, with his last ounce of courage,
To reach the unreachable stars!”
Ah, well, if you want to find your philosophy on Broadway...
why not
"...Same old story, what's the use of tears?
What's the use of praying if there's nobody who hears?
Turning, turning, turning, turning, turning
Through the years.
Turning, turning, turning through the years
Minutes into hours and the hours into years.
Nothing changes, nothing ever can
Round and round the roundabout and back where you began!
Round and round and back where you began!"
You just can't win, can you? You just don't want to.
Should I?
If you want to know about my life today, it's here. I'm not opening my heart at present, but I'll give you glimpses of my subconscious from time to time...:)
Dreaming. Pretty boring, really. So how is my life? It's challenging, confusing, a constant warring struggle--not even for survival, but for the very will to survive. I get lazy, careless, numb. And then I am called back to my senses, back to order, by some sweet mercy--until I fail again, fall again, curse myself again. And then I hate it when people ask me how I am and mean it...because I have to tell them the truth. And I wish the truth wouldn't always be bleak. But it never does to wait upon movement; movement is not something that does, but something that is done. Move then, silly girl. Little steps...that's it...don't give up...don't rest now, you haven't earned it...just keep moving--
But I don't know where I'm going...
That's because you're looking around at everything, my dear. Find a focal point.
Anything?
No! The best quality, the most excellent thing. Perfection.
I thought that was unattainable...
Ahem. Should that stop you?
"To reach the unreachable star,
Though you know it’s impossibly high,
To live with your heart striving upward
To a far, unattainable sky!”
“...And the world will be better for this,
That one man, scorned and covered with scars,
Still strove, with his last ounce of courage,
To reach the unreachable stars!”
Ah, well, if you want to find your philosophy on Broadway...
why not
"...Same old story, what's the use of tears?
What's the use of praying if there's nobody who hears?
Turning, turning, turning, turning, turning
Through the years.
Turning, turning, turning through the years
Minutes into hours and the hours into years.
Nothing changes, nothing ever can
Round and round the roundabout and back where you began!
Round and round and back where you began!"
You just can't win, can you? You just don't want to.
Should I?
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Of the Wisdom of Bats and Ostriches
Another dream so logically random that I awoke laughing...
I was working, again. I was a courtesy clerk at what seemed like a factory, but I think was meant to be a grocery. The intercom was constantly blaring that assistance was needed in this or that area, and I was apparently the only person expected to give assistance. “We need help in aisle 2,” a voice shouted over the intercom. I hurried toward “aisle 2", which was more or less a conveyor belt on which an assembly line of bakers was kneading, rolling, and shaping dough–and flour abounded, in dust, in piles, in clouds. “No, wait–I’m wrong,” the intercom announced. “Aisle 2 is the bakery aisle. We need help in aisle 9.” I changed course and headed for aisle 9, another conveyor belt, this time loaded with raw red meat–large pieces of what was either beef or horseflesh, and attended by an assembly line of butchers with white aprons stained pinkish in places, wielding large cleavers. None of them appeared to acknowledge my presence, and I was wondering with what they could possibly need my help, until the intercom voice came again. “Hold on, that’s not right either. We need help in aisle 12.” I sighed and turned in another direction. “Aisle 12" appeared to be a classroom, in which a dozen or so scholarly-looking young men and women occupied small desks, on which were thick, navy-blue hardcover textbooks. One of the female students looked up and raised her hand. Dark hair, fashionable glasses, freckles, an attractive, studious look. I felt suddenly uncomfortable, inferior. What was I doing here? She began speaking what may as well have been another language: “Have you ever noticed the intricacies of sea-snails? As is generally known, the spiral of the sea-snail’s shell begins at the interior and widens as it winds outward, its sepia stripes growing larger in proportion with the widening coil.” I nodded sagely, not understanding a word, hoping she wasn’t intending to ask me to add anything to her observations... “Apart from sea-snails, there are other analogies such as staircases, feathers, and starfish, that would lend meaning to our existence if we would only look for it. Our question for you, is however, pertaining to another species. We were wondering–which is wiser–the bat, or the ostrich?”
I was at a loss. This is the biology aisle, I thought. I have never studied biology. But I remembered that I had been warned that I was never to tell a customer that I didn’t know the answer. When I do not know, I must find someone who does. I was just about to tell them that I would ask someone for them, when it occurred to me that I had some general knowledge about bats and ostriches that, if carefully applied, might satisfy their curiosity. So I began:
“Well. Ostriches, as many know, are of the species of birds- that- cannot- fly. Wherefore they must use all the resources at their command in order to exist and survive. They must find sustenance and shelter, and must be able to avoid and protect themselves from predators. Combine this with the knowledge that they must also be able to protect their offspring, when it is yet defenseless and immovable within the egg, and it is quite apparent that the ostrich must be very wise.
“Bats, on the other hand, are blind. They are also, I have heard, deaf. Yet they operate upon a highly-developed form of...” I paused. “...radar detection?” It was a question. Nds was passing behind me, and I turned and asked, “Is that right?” He nodded and disappeared. I turned back to my audience. “Yes, radar detection. They move within the perils of the night, and manage to exist, survive, and reproduce–yet they are totally deaf and blind. Considering this, I put it to you that bats are infinitely wiser than ostriches.”
This is when I awoke, and laughed. “Which is wiser,” I repeated, “The bat–or the ostrich?” I laughed again, wondering how something so perfectly ridiculous could have seemed so sensible while I was asleep.
I was working, again. I was a courtesy clerk at what seemed like a factory, but I think was meant to be a grocery. The intercom was constantly blaring that assistance was needed in this or that area, and I was apparently the only person expected to give assistance. “We need help in aisle 2,” a voice shouted over the intercom. I hurried toward “aisle 2", which was more or less a conveyor belt on which an assembly line of bakers was kneading, rolling, and shaping dough–and flour abounded, in dust, in piles, in clouds. “No, wait–I’m wrong,” the intercom announced. “Aisle 2 is the bakery aisle. We need help in aisle 9.” I changed course and headed for aisle 9, another conveyor belt, this time loaded with raw red meat–large pieces of what was either beef or horseflesh, and attended by an assembly line of butchers with white aprons stained pinkish in places, wielding large cleavers. None of them appeared to acknowledge my presence, and I was wondering with what they could possibly need my help, until the intercom voice came again. “Hold on, that’s not right either. We need help in aisle 12.” I sighed and turned in another direction. “Aisle 12" appeared to be a classroom, in which a dozen or so scholarly-looking young men and women occupied small desks, on which were thick, navy-blue hardcover textbooks. One of the female students looked up and raised her hand. Dark hair, fashionable glasses, freckles, an attractive, studious look. I felt suddenly uncomfortable, inferior. What was I doing here? She began speaking what may as well have been another language: “Have you ever noticed the intricacies of sea-snails? As is generally known, the spiral of the sea-snail’s shell begins at the interior and widens as it winds outward, its sepia stripes growing larger in proportion with the widening coil.” I nodded sagely, not understanding a word, hoping she wasn’t intending to ask me to add anything to her observations... “Apart from sea-snails, there are other analogies such as staircases, feathers, and starfish, that would lend meaning to our existence if we would only look for it. Our question for you, is however, pertaining to another species. We were wondering–which is wiser–the bat, or the ostrich?”
I was at a loss. This is the biology aisle, I thought. I have never studied biology. But I remembered that I had been warned that I was never to tell a customer that I didn’t know the answer. When I do not know, I must find someone who does. I was just about to tell them that I would ask someone for them, when it occurred to me that I had some general knowledge about bats and ostriches that, if carefully applied, might satisfy their curiosity. So I began:
“Well. Ostriches, as many know, are of the species of birds- that- cannot- fly. Wherefore they must use all the resources at their command in order to exist and survive. They must find sustenance and shelter, and must be able to avoid and protect themselves from predators. Combine this with the knowledge that they must also be able to protect their offspring, when it is yet defenseless and immovable within the egg, and it is quite apparent that the ostrich must be very wise.
“Bats, on the other hand, are blind. They are also, I have heard, deaf. Yet they operate upon a highly-developed form of...” I paused. “...radar detection?” It was a question. Nds was passing behind me, and I turned and asked, “Is that right?” He nodded and disappeared. I turned back to my audience. “Yes, radar detection. They move within the perils of the night, and manage to exist, survive, and reproduce–yet they are totally deaf and blind. Considering this, I put it to you that bats are infinitely wiser than ostriches.”
This is when I awoke, and laughed. “Which is wiser,” I repeated, “The bat–or the ostrich?” I laughed again, wondering how something so perfectly ridiculous could have seemed so sensible while I was asleep.
Monday, August 01, 2005
Today I'm not thinking
I'm not thinking about anything, today. I have some few household duties to perform, and lots to weigh upon/prey upon my mind...at the moment, however, I'm not thinking. I'm still tired from midnight vigils, staying up just to let out my craziest thoughts to keep myself semi-sane.
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