Misconstrued Thoughts : Yesterday's Misconstrued Thoughts Today

Nice! It's like being at a broadway play...

In Brooklyn there are these nests of Quaker Parrots all over... on telephone poles, by transformers, baseball field lights, etc.There is a couple nests right by my house and I hear them squacking all day long. I have no idea how they got here, but they're really cool. It's like two aspects of seperate jungles now reside together...anyway that's what this is about

Feeble conclusions I have reached from only a passing observation. But the warm afternoons spent regarding your flight, I have come to know you well, a Quaker bird in an unlikely home. As far as the Americas reach across the earth you have come and chosen here to build your nest.

I hear you in the branches that tap on my window early in the morning rise, and rustle the shadows upon my walls at twighlight. You do not sing me songs, as the others have. But all the joy I can bear is when I've spied you ,one astonishing and brilliant, perched silent on a tor. Perhaps you were caught in a cage within your own mind but you soon grew restless, and with an urgent swipe of your wing, you were gone from me. And though I've been expecting you all along, you return again to somehow catch me off-guard.

You were meant for the full scope of North and South, of the Eastern ways and Western routes. But your wings are bound to a crowded sky. Is it the great open that closes in on you? Or could it be me you are reluctant to leave behind?

While it would delight me to know you are always near, bars can not satisfy your ambition. How I wish capturing you could've settled my love. Still I love you for every obnoxious scream and every fallen feather. I love you for your watchful eye and your playful flight. But mostly I love you for the glory your reflect and the praise you incite(insight?).

There was sort of a crashing sound. It wasn’t too loud, but it was loud enough to awaken him, or so he thought. The sound – as well as the sounds he heard afterward – seemed to create a mysterious ambience about where he was – which he was readily trying to figure out – but the more he tried to sort of delve into the arcana the sounds produced the more incongruities he found with his current environment, whatever his current environment even was. All he could see was a black backdrop with a pulsing white star overhead, pulsing to the tune of screaming and the crying out of incredibly strange words. A message was sent to his brain – he knew because he sent it himself – but his brain just sort of refused to carry out his request. Was his brain turned on? He tried the same request again and got the same result. Were his eyes closed? He thought he watched the star.

"This really can’t be good," he thought. "I mean seriously, could seeing nothing but black and having my brain ignore me mean anything good at all? I think not. Ugh... I feel horrible... I feel... squishy."

He felt like chyme. He was sort of flowing or maybe tumbling through this dark place – like jelly, perhaps. Yeah, that sounds about right. He was tumbling – like jelly, mind – through this dark place. He began to here more crying. Not the same crying out of words like, "Intubate", "Formication", and "Cyanosis", but actual crying. Like as in a girl crying.

"I know that cry," he whispered in his head.

His identified the voice as his beloved girlfriend. As he watched the star above him pulse, he suddenly realized that there wasn’t only one star, but that he was moving under a long line of stars at a relatively fast pace. This realization marked the time when things started to get a little darker. The star stopped and stayed there on the backdrop and it glowed, it dimmed, it went out. His state of chyme-esque-mindedness sort of began to dissolve even further – as did he. He pictured himself on some grating. He was laying there, melting right through, and all his drips just sort of fell into a giant expanse of Stygian darkness, eventually flowed into a stria, and was taken via the stria to what seemed to his hazy mind to be an astonishingly large red wall.

nice work nina... like when someone pours words into the thoughts that go beyond normal writings. Esp creation.

Hey Jerm, I think that's the coolest bit of creative writing I've seen from you yet. Funny stuff indeed. Totally rock.

Everyone did awesome stuff.

I sit with my head to the sky,
Wondering if I could see the reason why,
It feels like when I look into your eyes,
I feel like you're looking through me.
The pain that I used to feel inside,
it melts away into the night,
The more I look at you I wonder if I'm right,
Because I feel that you've always knew me.

And as I look into you too,
you seem so happy to be blue,
and I know that I'm cracking into two,
my mind is slowlying going insane.
The more I realize its not true,
the more I know that its not you,
but its me that's seeing blue,
and I'm slowly going insane

Sorry for the general quality of that, it was in my head pretty well last night, and now its starting to fade. Ah well. I'm sure I'll remember it later.

well it was my normal writing format... i wrote it on the way to work... thats the creative writing i produce after 4 hours of sleep, hitting cold air on a summer day... and driving to work without paying attention to the driving

... somehow i get here everyday though ... i find it very strange.

oh and for some reason it made me think of the oh so many people that link the last days without knowing one season from another...

least in the south so many think this

Altruist Alone

Somewhere there is a woman, adult, yet still so young; she sits on a bed with two small children –a barely adolescent boy, and a girl of maybe ten years. The only sounds she hears are the muffled sobs coming from the young girl as she buries her face into the salty wet shirt of the one protecting her, and the muffled shouts of the father figure in the next room. In a calm gentle voice, she reassures her siblings with somber whispers of hollow words that she’s had to repeat on far too many occasions: “Shhhh, it’s alright. Everything will be ok. Be strong. Shhhhh.” On another bed in the other corner of the room, is her younger sister, too old to cry on the shoulder of her older sister, but too young to understand why these things happen. She deals with it in her own way. She lies down with her face to the wall, eyes closed, perhaps trying to pretend that she’s used to it, and that it no longer bothers her. Her eyelashes are wet with tears that nearly escaped. On the other side of the room her sister repeats the clichéd mantra to her siblings “Shhhh, it’s alright. Everything will be ok. Be strong, shhhhh…” She can hear her mother crying outside. Perhaps she pities her mom, or perhaps she hates her; perhaps the woman herself isn’t sure which. Her brother, with his arms wrapped around hers, squeezes tight reminding her of the bruise on her arm -another hand-shaped tattoo that won’t let her forget the figure outside that disappoints her, that confuses her, that hurts her- until it heals. Then at least she won’t have to think of it every time she sees the dark purple fingers still gripping and squeezing so hard that it mars her. The bruises always heal, they take a week, maybe two depending on severity, but they always heal. The bruises on her mind don’t heal so quickly. The masculine voice outside spikes suddenly causing her to flinch. “Shhhh, it’s alright. Everything will be ok. Be strong, shhhhh…” she repeats kissing the head of the crying little girl. She refuses her own tears, returning them to the accruing sea that can’t be shed. She has to be strong for those that can’t yet protect themselves; she has to be guide to those lost in a turmoil they shouldn’t have to experience. She sits on the bed, surrounded by her family, but she’s all alone. Though she supports them, she has no one to support her; though she protects them, she has no one to protect her. Somewhere she repeats “Shhhh. Everything will be ok. Be strong. Shhhhh….”

Good writing Jon. Made me want to post this:

He used to spend life angry and hateful,
and now his life's spent.
Its left his mind bent,
scarred deeper than the Marianas Trench.
Now he rides the bench,
pine wood seasons divert his reasons,
lame excuses is the path he chooses.
So many refuse to lose so they abuse,
afraid the love lost will be true.
She cries for help but no one hears her screams,
he always said that she was the girl of his dreams,
but now it seems,
she's trapped inside a nightmare.
When she sees him right there,
beer in one hand remote in the other,
she wishes she'd married his brother.
Chills go down her spine,
as she searches her mind,
escaping to the past within herself.
He awakes and knocks on her shell,
but she's already gone.
"Just because he's strong,
he feels he's done no wrong.
Someday his come-uppance will be had,
and on that day. . .I'll be sad."
Love trapped her in a situation,
her mental extermination,
began after they wed.
Everything he said,
whatever he did,
kept her mind unlit.
When they begun she had lots of friends,
but in the end,
he said she didn't need them.
He made sure they were all taken.
She was visibly shaken,
the first time he laid hands to her,
soon whole hours became a blur.
Her body blacked out but her mind remained awake,
she vowed vengence as she felt her rib break.
Now she's no longer willing to fight back,
it seemed to her that he liked that.
He laughed at her punches,
dodged from her lunges,
and gave her a blow that belied his strength.
She felt the impact over her entire length.
A light flashed for what seemed like forever,
as her knees buckled together,
her last vision was a rushing floor.
And suddenly she didn't want to fight anymore.
She had called the police several times,
but when they came he fed them charm,
and a few lines,
a few glasses of scotch,
and when they left he still gave her what she got.
So she tried to do "his" right,
she cleaned in the day and cooked at night.
Still the beatings never stopped.
Night after night, after her body dropped,
she'd pick herself up and go to sleep.
And when she'd sleep she'd dream,
about how one day, eventually,
she'd destroy everything he stood for.
"What are you good for?"
he yelled,
and before she knew it, the knife she'd held,
was buried in his chest to the hilt.
She slowly picked up the phone and waited,
heart fluttering, breath baited,
and her final testament?
I'm free.