Below are the 12 most recent journal entries recorded in s1nn1starr69's LiveJournal:

Monday, March 27th, 2006
3:42 pm	The Tyger and the Lamb William Blake’s The Lamb and The Tyger are two separate poems with differing tones, yet seem to speak of one uniting balance, that of good and evil. Like yin and yang, Blake’s The Lamb and The Tyger go hand in hand. It is safe to speculate on the symbolism of the titles alone. The two titles really help give a good direction of where the story is heading at a glance. A lamb is a calm, soft creature. Often depicted as young and tender, withholding innocence. Usually, when people think of a lamb, it is usually white, the color associated with purity. The lamb grazes the Earth for its food peacefully. In Christianity, Christ is known as the Lamb of God, who brings peace to the Earth. On the other hand, the tiger cannot be a peaceful creature. It is a fellow animal like the lamb, but this one must kill to survive. It must fend off its opposition in the jungle, or it will perish itself. The tiger is driven by instinct and that is partially why it can instill so much fear into animals and humans alike. Gazelles run at the sound of a blade creaking in half in a thicket, for fear a tiger may have spotted them as prey. Even people fear the tiger because of its unpredictability due to its natural instincts and short temper, per se. The tiger stalks its prey when in the hunt, and walks proudly when not aroused, as if the tiger himself owns the whole safari it treads upon. It seems Blake is using The Lamb and The Tyger to make reference to a Creator or a higher power. Not necessarily a Christian one, but it does seem Christian-like at the very least. Christ was born a child, calm and forgiving, ever peaceful, and most importantly a son of God. This sounds almost exactly what is explained in The Lamb. “He is called by thy name, For he calls himself a Lamb He is meek & he is mild, He became a little child.” (11-16, The Lamb) Blake makes reference to God, to “bless the lamb”, and gives praise to the lamb (Christ perhaps, or God) by stating,“We are call’ed by his name.” (18, The Lamb) The lamb is very gentle and tender, leaving calm thoughts to the reader. The tone of The Lamb was passive while still fully exalting to the “Lamb” himself. The Tyger is more upbeat, and portrays a dark yet vivid image of something sinister, perhaps the likes of Christianity’s Lucifer. Blake paints the eeriness of the tiger with his haunting imagery of a vast darkness where the beast was still powerful, and “....burning bright”.Blake notes the fear the beast instills, and questions, “What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?” (Since Blake says “immortal”, man is powerless in creating something of such magnificence, even though it is morbid. Something much more powerful than a man created the tyger. ) Also questioned is what depth of, perhaps hell, the tyger has come from. The imagery of fiery eyes is very demonic. In many cultures red glowing eyes denote something from the netherworld according to anyone that is even remotely religious. This makes the creature equally fearful to not just a Christian audience, but of a wide range of readers. The creature does not slink about hiding itself all of the time, or even feel the need for deception. Now its eyes are glowing like a furnace, with flames that are ready to consume. It is now the creatures abandonment of fear that strikes an even greater note of terror. “In what distant depths or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes?” ( 5-6, The Tyger) Blake questions further, who created this monster in lines 9-12. What could actually, “...twist the sinews of thy heart?” The description itself sounds painful and makes the reader feel a tug inside their own chest. In lines 13-15, Blake used objects that are physically hard and cold to describe the depravity and the nature of the beast. The weight, in addition the pain and bondage associated with each object is thought about when it is brought to mind as one reads on through the passage. “What the hammer? What the chain? In what furnace was thy brain?” In line 14, the narrator seems to be asking the tyger what it was thinking to have turned out so corrupt. “When the stars threw down their spears, And water’d heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the lamb make thee?” William speaks of what sounds like could be the dissension of Lucifer from heaven, his final expulsion from paradise (17-18). William ponders either if God smiled for his work to see, (which may be sarcasm), or William could have been pondering if the tyger (Lucifer) smiled when he descended from heaven, in utter defiance of the purity of his creator. It is unclear because it does not specifically state who is smiling, for thoughts were moving freely as William wrote, quickly jumping to his final question. It is in line 20 Blake comes to a conclusion that perhaps, despite how wretched the tyger had become, that lamb had still created him. Blake sounds like he cannot easily come to terms with it. To Blake, it seems, the tyger is like an ungrateful child who rebels not because of poor parenting, but for his or her own lust for defiance over authority. Since, the tyger, like the Biblical Lucifer had free will, he used his free will to tear away from his fatherly lamb to become a beast. Also noted, the spelling of the tyger is different than a regular tiger, perhaps it was to make sure the reader understood the tyger was a beast, but on a very different level. In The Tyger, the last stanza is the same as the first, merely reflecting how the beast could ever even come to be, lurking about the darkness of the night. The Tyger and The Lamb simply tell the two major sides of good and evil. Seemingly enough, it could very well be Christian based considering how Blake mentioned God in The Lamb, and even used the symbolic name for Christ, the “lamb” of God for his title. Blake told the story of Satan’s dissension and rebellion, the dark nature of the beast, as well as the purity of the Creator who was the beast’s polar opposite. The poems could be used to re-tell the Biblical story, or could be taken as a metaphor to explain that even people who come from great places can fall and turn against you. Just because someone is taught to trod the righteous path may still stumble and choose a wicked way to be independent, or at least feel so. Even people as close as family members, or even greater-so, heavenly fathers and sons. Donna-Lee Knuerr March 19, 2005 ENC 1102- Susan Dauer (Comment on this)
3:40 pm	Everyday Use Essay One In Alice Walkers, Everyday Use, Mama, as Maggie and Dee called her, was always a hard worker. Mama was a self proclaimed “big boned woman with rough, man working hands”. Mama spoke of the days when she had slain hogs for meals just as ruthless as any other man, and even of how she got bull calf meat hung up before nightfall after she had whacked it straight between the eyes. Yet, Mama wasn’t the ideal image for a specific member of he family, who was always, as her own sister had viewed her, had her life in the palms of her hands. Dee was described as a young woman with out hesitation. She was the pretty, endowed sister. Mama’s “brighter” child. Dee always wanted the finer things in life, and usually, she managed to get them somehow. Unlike Mama or her sister Maggie, Dee had nice clothes, a unique style and grace, and even had the opportunity to gain and education. Dee, aside from her positive qualities that ensued success, was prideful. Mama spoke of how when their first home burnt to the ground, Dee just stood outside, cool and calm, under her gum tree. Mama even wondered why Dee didn’t do a victory dance, because as Mama noted, Dee had always hated that house. Dee was the only one in the immediate family to be educated formally. Although Maggie was not put through school, she would read to Mama even though her readings skills were not all that adept. Maggie is described as shy and reserved. She seems to have more than low self esteem, embarrassed from the physical scars left behind from the fire that burnt down the house. When flames engulfed Mama’s house, Maggie got singed along with it. Dee sat under the tree, watching, as tatters of Maggie’s dress fell off of her in blackened shreds. Maggie is not the brightest child, but still close to Mama. Maggie’s ignorance gave her a touch of a humanistic embrace- enjoying what she had been given, and dealing with what she hadn’t been justly given. Maggie appears to be very patient, and knowing she isn’t always the priority, that Dee had that spot reserved from the beginning. When Dee returns to visit, Mama knew Maggie would cower off into the corner until her sister left. Mama said she had been, “chin on chest, eyes on ground, feet in a shuffle...”ever since the fire. Dee, with her radiance, did not help matters. When Dee returned with a man, Mama was a bit surprised. Dee always wanted finer things, and could easily abandon things she did not see fit- in a sense, her old house, and, even Maggie. Yet, upon arrival of Asalamalakim, Dee is even ready to discard her own name. Dee wants to be known as Wangero Leewanika Kemanjo. Wanger explained she didn’t want to be named after the people who oppressed her. Yet, after Mama tried to debate the history of Dee’s name, of all the value and tradition in her name, Wangero still refused. All of the sudden, during dinner that Hakim-a-barber could barely touch since he was Islamic, Wangero decided that the old material things she left behind suddenly attained value. Not things like a blazing yellow and orange dress or bangles, but heirlooms passed down the family line. Wangero, either trying to make an impression on Hakim or truly holding on to tradition, as usual- wanted everything. Dee wanted the churn top. She wanted the benches with the seat grooves fit for sitting. She even wanted the quilts. For so long, Dee had got what she wanted. This was nothing different to her, so she insisted she take them home with her. Finally, Mama set her foot down, and told Dee after much pestering and debating that she could not have the quilts. Dee protested continually, trying to convince Mama how she deserved them, how she would appreciate them and honor them with pride displayed on her walls. Mama sternly refused. Mama said she wanted Maggie to have the quilts for when she married. Wangero got angry, and explained that Maggie would tear them to shreds, and even put them out for everyday use. Mama remembered that she had in fact offered Dee the quilts when she went away to college, at that time Dee said they were old fashioned and out of style. Mam said, in retort to Dee’s comment of daily use of the quilts, “I reckon she would, God knows, I been saving ‘em for long enough with nobody using ‘em. I hope she will.” Wangero continued to quarrel, until Maggie, at the doorway, told Mama that Dee could keep the blankets. Maggie said she didn’t need the blankets to remember her Grandma. Just then, Mama hugged Maggie close and snatched the quilts out of Dee’s hands and into Maggie’ lap. Wangero proceeded to leave the house, upset, explaining to Mama that she just didn’t understand. Mama was confused, and Wangero explained she didn’t understand her heritage. Then, Wangero kissed Maggie, said a few departing words and left. Maggie, for the first time in the story, smiled. Not fear in the face Mama said, but a real smile. Throughout the story Maggie remained a flat character, shy and reserved. Maggie accepted whatever was given to her and would be willing to part with the little she did have. Maggie was not materialistic, for she held all of her most important belongings, her memories and her heritage, in her heart.Dee was also a flat character. Dee remained proud and self confident to the end. Dee is manipulative to get what she wants. Just when a reader assumes there is a change of character in Dee (when she takes interest in the heirlooms), we realize it is merely an act. She has forsaken her family name, and, once Mama protested with her about owning the quilts, Dee showed her true selfish colors with her attitude. Dee knew, inside, she didn’t deserve the quilts. Perhaps she needed a physical representation of the feelings that should have been manifested deep within herself, and was trying to cover up a void she felt, with the quilts. Mama was the round character in the story. At first, Mama knows of Dee’s selfishness, and of Dee’s pride and success. Dee was a fighter, even uncaring and ruthless at times. Mama also always knew that Maggie was the hurt one, suffering from more than just physical afflictions. Mama knew that Maggie was even aware of her own shortcomings and limitations. Yet, Mama let the two sisters live their different lives. Mama did not interfere much even though she could have lent Maggie a little boost so she could feel slightly up to par with Dee. It took Mama getting fed up with Dee before she truly stood up for Maggie. Dee’s visit with her new man helped ease the transition of character. As Mama said, “cows are soothing and slow and don’t bother you, unless you milk them the wrong way.” Apparently, Dee didn’t ever learn anything about cows. Or how to deal with somebody telling her no. Mama’s refusal to give in to Dee and openly give the quilts to Maggie showed she really cared about Maggie, and she knew she deserved it. Maggie cared about family and tradition, and Mama knew that. That is why in the end when Wangero said, “You just don’t understand,” speaking of “heritage”, Maggie smiled. Then, Mama and Maggie enjoyed their company together and later went to bed. Mama finally came around for Maggie, who really seemed to need a hero to stick up for her. Donna-Lee Knuerr February 2006 Essay 1 (Comment on this)
Saturday, December 31st, 2005
10:28 pm	in his car he speeds down the road and as I look out the window the asphault looks like liquid, a gel of blacks, blues and whites, with a smear of yellow ribbon sailing down the center. I hear the whir of the cars in the opposite no-passing lane. I feel the rush of the colliding air defy gravity and slide upward against the nape of my neck, tickling the hairs of my freshly shaven head. I can't understand why you feel the need to pull through turns so sharp- that every passenger slips from left to right on your silky leather interior. So tight and so smooth like all the things you long to touch... I sigh knowing your thoughts are twisted- another poor confused and abused soul. I hate you, but more so, I hate myself. I want to tell you so bad how you repulse me, yet, I cannot- because you bore to me your sad wilted heart and sought care to bring it back to life. I see what you need, but I cannot give it to you. I would rather be with the person I see in the rearview mirror- thosed damned letters speak truth- "objects in the mirror are closer than they appear"- yet you feel so far. You are right fucking behind me in this death cab, but I can't stand the look in his eyes. I am hypnotized and want to subcome to his will...but in your eyes I see a light I will only snuff out. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Sunday, August 28th, 2005
2:56 pm	business is a hobby gone mad Incredibly hungover and stupefied from sleep deprivation, I jokingly spewed out, "A business is merely a hobby gone mad". I'm a fucking genius. I guess I will sleep when I am dead, and continue to create epiphanies to delight my own lagging mind...anyway---if you find a meaning to my rambling...let me know. Consider yourself as the amateur film maker, catching brawls on a handheld digital recorder for entertainment. It's about three in the morning and a party is getting heated. The evening had been going fine, until an unknown passerby wanted to join in on the festivities, and whence denied, decided to harass a woman. The woman made a scene, and the men were feeling drunk and chivalristic. Alcohol is fuel to the fire, and tempers start to flare. Words are exchanged with the said harasser. A mob enshrouds the lone man. Momentarily I believed he would be consumed in the amazing mass of people like The Blob, just sucked up and attached as a pseudopod. The lone man backs up, stumbles,stammers, and tries to weave his way out from the mass. Yet, there is no escape. Finally, the fight breaks out in the street, and there are sixty men against one. You film the beginning of a fist fight, and it is really nothing worth jumping into to try and break up. The ratio isn't exactly even, to say the least. But everyone can take a punch or two, right? Besides, it's good footage to add to the collection. Then, the mob leans in closer to the one that once was believed to be the antagonistic attacker, who is now metamorphosing, with every blow, to a victim with shredded butterfly wings. There is a loud thud and then a crack, and glass shatters on the pavement. A quart of alcohol was just cracked over the butterfly's head. The scenario is getting worse, and the possibility of cops shutting down the whole party is growing. The man drops to the ground, gasping, choking on tears and chipped teeth, mingled with the draining blood and the crowds spit. No....wait...that was just a twisted fantasy. You scream to the crowd to stop, the bottle was just too much...but no one listens. You are no match for the mass of people, either. You say stop, but cannot put the camera down. You cannot move a muscle, you cannot stop recording the horrorshow that is unfolding. This is real time, a dark lucid dream with entrancing psychedelic colors. And, you can make a living this way. Taping misery and catastrophes. Through actually witnessing an experience such as this, at first I was slightly shocked at the perverse cruelty of humanity. Gaining entertainment from another's tragedy? That's just twisted. As a matter of fact, after the fight had dissipated, a girl brought up a similar point to the film maker. She explained that if one is truly "against" an event that is going on, such as a street brawl, one would not stand around and tape the whole thing. Digital pixels animate the way to glorifying immorality and inhumane behavior. However, I think the girls point was only risen because she actually witnessed what was going on, I believe it was merely the initial shock value. People can be quick to judge. Especially considering hobbies and occupations. I caught myself before I passed judgment on what happened. I am just as guilty of enjoying violence than any American who likes to watch Real TV's Backyard Brawling videos. It only seemed surreal because it happened in person. When you watch something on t.v., you can lie to yourself and say that is is all pretend. Nobody gets hurt. The people in the glowing box were merely well dressed mannequins with pull strings. I reflect that in the past there were Americans who were over eager to view copies of recordings of bodies plummeting to obliteration from the Twin Towers. And I know www.ogrish.com exists only because they have enough ratings and enough support to keep their online archives. People do make a living off of recording violence and death. I know for a fact American culture loves violence and sex, and, occassionally, the aforementioned intertwined. I don't think there will be a shortage of television news reporters catching the next mudslide that will kill two hundred people on a Brazilian mountainside. Nor do I think the amateur filmmaker will stop recording. And, they probably shouldn't. It is entertainment. It is a sick hobby. And you can turn it into your business if you market it just right. I love you land of opportunity. And all of your depravity. *****Blood lusty? Go clicky!!!***** http://club16acres.onlinestoragesolution.com/Fights/ChicagoJumping.mov Current Mood: sleepy (Comment on this)
Friday, May 13th, 2005
9:17 pm	Forget Tommorow Chords echoing Reminding me of songs I cannot remember the endings to I have forgotten my past Has part of me gone unconscious? Or, has that part of me died? Is remembering fragments of mental images a way of reminding me, hauntingly, that everything is someday forgotten? Will I have the hours and the ambition on this Earth to create a lasting image in someone else’s mind? I will never know. And, if I do, I will probably forget. Current Mood: blah (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, May 4th, 2005
3:13 am	``The bottom line is it makes me happy,'' said Reiger, 51, a postal worker and part-time magician in Bethlehem, Pa. who has been married six times. ``Wives come and go, kids come and go, but Disney is always going to be there for me.'' Some people truly never cease to amaze and disgust me at the same time...but perhaps his statement was tried and true so I don't have that much room for criticism. All I can say is, WTF?!! Current Mood: busy Current Music: dimmu borgir (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Monday, May 2nd, 2005
2:27 am	MSI in Orlando I hate Jimmy Page, but I love Jimmy Urine... The MSI show I had been looking forward to for nearly a month was no dissappointment. On the long awaited day on April 24th, my bestfriend Amy and I showed up at the venue. It was held at a small club called Screamers located in downtown Orlando, and the bands were scheduled to begin at 7:00 pm. So, when Amy and I showed up late as usual at about 8:00 pm and there was STILL a line halfway down the street leading to the club, we were wondering what was going on. I waited impatiently in line, chattering my teeth. Damnit, I thought to myself, I knew I should have worn something warmer...the strange chill in the air made me reminiscent of the days I used to wait outside in a similarly long line for one of the many concerts I attended at The Metro in Chicago.(I miss you Chicago, but not necessarily the below zero chill factor) Anyway...Amy and I finally got in. I was amazed that my skills of persuasion still worked their magic- for it was not easy to convince Amy to go to the show. She is a fan of MSI, since Tight, however,she is currently seven monthes pregnant! I don't think I would really want to go to any kind of a rock/punk/industrial/atari/jungle whatever the hell genre of music concert because of the violence- the kids get hyped up sometimes, and one slam could be fatal movement tp a fetus in the womb! So, Amy decided she would ask the club owner of a place where she could stand- out of the way and out of the potential risk. The club owner ushered us back outside and to the back entrance of the club, which just so happened to be the entrance to the stage! There was a girl in a wheel chair, a few other girls, and the stage crew. We were right next to the stage- one foot away perhaps,and I was sitting on MSI's gig boxes. We entered just as SMB was finishing up, and it wasn't long before I saw Lynn Z, Jimmy and Kitty show up in the back. Jimmy hung out on the couch outside- and I imagined he must have been a little chilly. He was wearing a pink shirt with a black jacket "WE ARE GODS" and had a homeade Dickies? "skirt" on- complete with grey boxer/briefs which I got to see later thanks to one of the many panty shots the audience got. MSI came onto stage and didn't waste anytime. If you have seen MSI, you know that they perform better than that of their cds or videos. Their stage aura alone is worth the price of the ticket. Jimmy constantly cracks jokes at one of the many fans' expense. He makes out with the mirror in the club in a sick yet amusing narcissistic fashion. He jabs jokes at your Mom in the crowd who happens to crowd surf and begs for a kiss- yet she ends up being drenched in the face with bottled water-right on cue to the last note of one of the songs in the set ("Please curb your mom, she's embarassing me!"). Jimmy crowd surfed over a sea of people to perform on the club bar, pulled a microphone out of his fly, and didn't miss a beat while dancing/thrashing/POW-ing on stage. It was a shame that Steve, Righ? couldn't be there, but the show was great nonetheless. I would have liked to have been in the crowd for the show, I like to participate in the festivities. It seems there is something that overwhealms you when you are surrounded by so many devoted and excited fans- it is almost like you can feel their energy surging throughout the building. Alas, I did not get dogpiled, or drenched in a fat mans sweat, nor did I get to molest little Jimmy like many of the hormonal middle school girls (and boys!) were. (Which does make me a little sad. I figured he gets molested enough...wait, what am i saying- too much is never enough! :P ) But, I did get an awesome view of the show, and they exceeded all of my expectations. The show was worth waaay more than the measly $15.00 + the surcharge, I feel like I owe the band more. They really put on a great set, and the acappella "Bring The Pain" was fantastic. It was nice to learn that if you have a handicap you can possibly get a nice front row or backstage spot- so I will be bringing more pregnant friends to future venues. If I can't convince anyone else to make babies, I'll just show up to the next show with a limp :P ... If you haven't seen them, what are you waiting for? better buy tickets quick, they always sell out! I love mail. And, two days ago I finally got some, (yay)from Metroplis Mailorder. I got the new MSI cd and also the album, and although I can't say it is currently my fave album of theirs, I am growing fond of it. I still have yet to listen to la-di-da-di on the album (which by the way, the cover art work is spiffy).I am perplexed...Some of the lyrics on the new cd are almost starting to make sense...is this lyrical evolution? Is Jimmy getting wiser in his age? What happened to: white the wall plaster you never catch on...? The synthesizing and harmonizing in MSI's sound are getting more complex as well. The only thing I dislike is the length of the new cd, far too short- it's like loading up a junkie with her fix and dangling a bag that she cant afford in front of her face. Gimme more, now!!! *twitch* "byebyek1tty" @ www.mindlesselfindulgence.com Current Mood: geeky Current Music: cars on the highway and crickets outside the window (Comment on this)
Monday, April 18th, 2005
1:41 am	Skin Deep I have been studying the art, history, and sociological evolution of body modification for about two years now. I have been intrigued and fascinated by the cultures who practice the art of body adoration, and I am further intrigued by the subcultures that are generated. So-called social deviance, dissaffection with the mainstream,community, and unity have been deeply entertwined and perpetuated through the practices of body modification,like yin and yang.I am priveleged to have experienced all the pleasure mingled with pain, and all the lasting art I choose to scribe onto my body.I am, so far in my life, always awaiting new endeavors to push my body to it's limits for art's sake, and until last week, my skin was virginal to ink. I finally made up my mind on what design would be indelibly pricked into my skin. I didn’t want to design anything too complex since I was a first-timer. So, with the aid of my artistically inclined friend “Rando the Great”, we designed a star. My star doesn’t have a great symbolic meaning; it was purely conceived for aesthetic purposes. Through out studying current trends of tattoo styles, I am fully aware that the *star* isn’t exactly the most original symbol to choose to have tattooed, but it was something I knew I would not easily tire of, nor be ashamed of when I am old and wrinkly and the grandkids ask what the hell that blue blob is on my skin! We distorted the star from the traditional five point, precisely geometrical line scheme, and gave the edges more of a curve. The star we created was similar to a nautical star with the two-toned stripes running through it. However, mine were curved slightly, like a candy stripe on a lollipop. I chose black and blue stripes, after a late night of deliberation with paper and a box of prismacolors, and I decided that placement on my inner, upper forearm would do quite well. I went to a local shop here in Orlando, called Purgatory. I know a lot of the crew there, and an old high school friend, Tony/beginning tattoo artist would be working on me. I was very comfortable in my surroundings, but once Tony told me to sit in the chair and placed the stencil on me, I started to tremble a little bit. I was nervous, I anticipated an immense amount of pain. I have been through regular self inflicted pain, my personal rites of passage, if you will… I have gone through piercing, gauging and scarification, but still, I was worried about the pain to come. I had heard horror accounts of some people crying from a tattoo-which, seemed a little extreme to me (I’ve watched my best friend get a tattoo- who I consider a pussy when it comes to pain tolerance, not even fidget when she got her ink!), but stepping into a physically unknown void, I was ready to expect anything-including the possibility of humiliation, ha. Tony prepared everything, and set up his machine. Finally, Tony asked me if I was ready, and I told him I was unsure, but he might as well do it because I would probably never be ready if he didn’t do something soon! I heard the droning hum of the machine, and the sound temporarily bothered me. Partially because I knew he was almost ready, and partially because it sounded just like a dentist’s drill, which I always dread! I turned away as Tony got closer to my skin with the needle. I did not want to see exactly when he touched down onto my skin with the machine because I was afraid that I would jerk away-which would DEFINTELY make matters much, much worse for me. My friend, Randy, was in the room with me, my “comforting friend”…Ha! Yeah, right! He had a big, fat grin on his face. He assured me of how happy he was to see that I was fearful, and that he couldn’t wait to see me cry. (What a nice guy.) Randy is bit of a sarcastic, sadistic fucker if I may say, but I’ll detail that account some other day. It felt like a missionary lift off countdown in my mind- threeeeee….twooo…..oneeee…. BUUUUUUUZZZZZZZZZZ!!!!! “Um….is that it?” I asked. “What?” Tony replied. “Well,” I said, “did you really start the tattoo or are you just messing with me?” I raised my eyebrow… “Uh, yeah. Why? Are you okay?” Tony asked, in a concerned voice. I laughed and told him, “Yeah. If that’s it, I don’t know what I was so worried about!” As usual in my endeavors of my personal body modification, the pain I amp myself up for, and the fears that multiply like ravenous succubi spawn, are 100% irrational. Okay, wait, I take that back. Probably only 99% irrational, because it did hurt a teensy bit. The feeling was more of an irritating sensation, it felt like someone had a vibrating pen up to my arm (which I suppose is essentially what you could call it). My arm actually went numb from the vibration, and later I received “pins and needles” because my arm actually fell asleep the way it was positioned on the arm rest. Seriously, people have drawn designs on me in grade school with their markers that hurt more than my tattoo did. I dreamed of tattooing my whole back just for the sensation it brought upon me, but I don’t think I am ready for that permanence just yet. Enkephalins and endorphins, I thank you. It’s nice to know that if I am ever in real pain that there are those chemicals to help me out, but self induced euphoria is always a perk. :) Sometimes it feels like my body is rewarding me for mild pain I put myself through…I guess those sadomasochists aren’t as crazy as we all thought, now are they? All in all, I am unsure of how long the whole tattooing process took, but I wish it could have lasted longer. When Tony was finished he advised me on aftercare, and I went home and proceeded to sleep. Oh, I forgot to add I was sick as f*ck when I was actually getting that tattoo (probably not a great choice on my part considering my defense system was down, but I wanted to feel anything besides irritation in my lungs and throat) so it was not quite easy to get comfy to sleep, but the tinglyness in my arm helped distract me from my illness and a dose of Nyquil took me to la-la land in no time. The first few days I babied my star with A&D, and it seemed like some of the ink was still bleeding out from time to time. I also noticed a very disgusting raised set of blue scabbing on my blue stripes! I freaked out a little bit, to be honest. I have read about allergic reaction to certain chemicals in ink and thought I could possibly be developing the symptoms. The black ink seemed to be doing fine though, so I further believed that I was having adverse affects to only the blue ink. I continued to bath it gently in antibacterial soap and moisturize it as often as necessary. I thought I ought to see a physician if the symptoms continued or worsened, but I usually ride things out until they reach their worst- one of my defunct qualities. The area surrounding the tattoo was red and inflamed looking, very irritated to say the least. It felt like sunburn, and it itched as well. I have seen a few people with healing tattoos, and I remembered they did not look like mine! Mine was a horror show, to me at least. I visited my Mom, who also bears a few tattoos, on day six of healing, and I had previously phoned her about the condition of my tattoo. Apparently she assumed I was going gangrene- I suppose I exaggerated the details of my healing tattoo on the phone a bit... She was prepared to see an oozing, festering wound complete with maggots, so when she saw what I believed was horrific, she laughed and told me that it looked normal. Some people peel when their tattoo is healing, like a sunburn-which is normally the reaction I see on my tattooed peers. However, some people actually scab, which is what I did. She told me to keep putting lotion on it, and I would be fine in about another week. Today in the shower, (it’s currently day eight) some of the water gently cascaded down my arm, and some of the dead skin/lotion came flaking off with old scabs, and the skin revealed underneath looked beautiful.  I was VERY relieved. The sunburn-like stinging has since resided, and I can work comfortably with my arm relaxed. The first few days, the pain of movement was slightly bothersome, and I resisted certain movements. My roommate actually dubbed me “Mannequin Arm”. I’m over that now, thank goodness, and I am awaiting the full healing of my candy striped star. Things are looking bright, and when this heals I will be pursuing a talented artist to add to my future ¾ sleeve already in progress.  I’m thinking about a Mobius strip, similar to Escher’s or perhaps Biomechanoid creatures by H.R. Giger. Now I know what to expect, and the buzzing of the machine is merely music to my ears. Current Mood: insomnia (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, April 6th, 2005
8:02 am	Hurry up and grab your combat boots and a spork, Mindless Self Indulgence is officially on tour, and on April 24th they will be in Orlando at Screamer's! Thank god...speaking of... "In the twilight of my life I don’t need no grammy’s Rock my gay acceptance speech Most of all I’d like to … Thank god For programming my beats I’d like to thank god For making me hard like I’m from the streets God wrote all my dopest rhymes Especially those ones about shootin’ niggaz and Getting fuckin’ high Jesus H Muthafuckin’ Boom Boom Christ I been doin’ this fo money and fo’ sex all night It’s the song that be getting’ me erect, ai-ight?! The scenario is scary yo it’s fuckin’ up your stero In the twilight of my life I don’t need no grammy’s Rock my gay acceptance speech Most of all I’d like to … Thank god For programming my beats I’d like to thank god For making me hard like I’m from the streets God wrote all my dopest rhymes Especially those ones about dealing drugs and Rollin’ with my thugs Jesus H Muthafuckin’ Boom Boom Christ I been doin’ this fo money and fo’ sex all night It’s the song that be getting’ me erect, ai-ight?! The scenario is scary yo it’s fuckin’ up your stero In the twilight of my life I don’t need no grammy’s Rock my gay acceptance speech Most of all I’d like to … Thank god For programming my beats I’d like to thank god For making me hard like I’m from the streets God wrote all my dopest rhymes Especially those ones about shootin’ niggaz and Getting fuckin’ stupid" *Mindless Self Indulgence, "Thank God" from their previously released, Alienating Our Audience (2002)* (Comment on this)
Tuesday, April 5th, 2005
1:50 pm	Exit Muse Exit muse, stage left. Enter the weapon of self destruction, stage right. There is a pen in a frustrated, stubborn hand with fingertips that grip the plastic tip tightly. Angst pours onto the pages, the font is plain text- but the statement is bold. To a scrutinizing eye, every attempt is futile. Truth is black and white, like piano keys. A bitter symphony taps away, note by note, and turns me grey. Seperation and division come together, in music, in art,in culture and in life, to form unity. But this pen and paper, black ink and white paper, unite to divide my mind! Why is my creativity suck pumped out of me? Is there a thick sludge backed up somewhere in my cerebral cortex? How can you tap the pink worm all coiled up in your skull? Perhaps I am seeking something that was never there, should I abandon the mental “rescue”, or, did I already retreat that mission subconsciously long ago? I long for inspiration, what forest is my muse hidden? She is probably nesting in a hot little house, inside the Earth’s core bathing in molten lava. It’s not going to be an easy journey, is it? (Comment on this)
Monday, April 4th, 2005
3:32 pm	milk and sexfiends Last night, I walked into the gas station to buy some milk for my best friend's nephews. It was 12:30 a.m.-technically Monday morning. However, to the nocturnal collegiate sex-fiends, it was late Sunday night, and it was the last call for alcohol and the last chance to "score". Prior to going to the BP gas station to pick up my gallon of 2% milk, I went to Blockbuster to try and find a few movies. I picked up Eulogy, and two other titles I have yet to see. The Blockbuster video store I went to was located in a lot with a few different popular bars that are commonly frequented for those in search of numbing their brain and slurring their speech to ease awkward social situations. Regardless, there were a lot of drunken college students out and about, and I had noticed in the parking lot, quite a few of them were in fact proceeding to drive home albeit clearly inebriated. I noticed many cops, parked off to the side of the road, possibly doing a radar speed check to fill a quota- but nonetheless, perhaps even for the first time, I was happy to see “The Force" on top of their civil duties...) I was amazed at how many students were still out drinking this late (12:30 am) on a Sunday night. I wondered how many students would actually show up for their first period college algebra class in the morning. I wondered how many young men would call in to their jobs at Barnes and Noble, hung over, and try to whisper to their manager over a phone receiver, that they were sick with explosive diarrhea all weekend-and that they wouldn’t be able to make it in. I guess that kind of excuse would stop a potential employer from asking leading questions, in fact, I know someone who did use that excuse, and it worked...but anyway, that is all besides the point. I was having a particularly good day on Sunday, nothing thrilling happened- but then again, more oft than not, "no news is good news". So, I am at the counter, paying for my milk. There is one of those tipsy college students behind me now, as a matter of fact. Wow. I finally got to see one up close for the evening. He was a 20+ year old, slim, slightly attractive (to average standards anyway) cocky male. I heard him cackle away on his cell phone behind me, and couldn't help but hear what this esteemed human had the audacity to speak of. Of course, I couldn't hear what the other person on the phone with him was saying, but I could pretty much guess the dialogue. I have decided to nickname the guy behind me, "Mr.Prick", and the other guy on the phone will be known as "Mr.Friend". Clever, no? Anyway... (Keep in mind Mr. Prick’s dialogue is what I actually listened to spew from his lecherous mouth) Mr.Prick: Fuckin' dumb bitch...(mutters) Mr.Friend: What? Mr.Prick: its smoking!... Mr.Friend: What's smoking? Mr.Prick: My car. This girl I'm trying to FUCK wanted to drive my car.(Shifts position, impatiently in line) Mr.Friend: ...okay...?... Mr.Prick: So, I let her drive my car, and the dumb bitch burnt up my clutch! Mr.Friend: (gasp) Mr.Prick: It's a $2,000 part! (Grips forehead in anger) At that point, I walked away, disgusted. Rolled my eyes, and too my sick surprise, I smiled sadistically in amusement at the whole fiasco. I was thoroughly provoked. At first I thought, what a $%#%!?*!!! Who does he think he is to try and use someone like that? Like she is just a rag doll? I know, through learning the hard way, through painful observation, that many men see women as meat. I remember the " 3 F's ", roughly: Feel'em, Fuck'em, and Forget’em. (Um, thanks Dad for your, er, twisted words of "wisdom" :) Part of me was upset because I imagined a young naive sorority "trick ass hoe" flipping her fake highlights with her acrylic french manicured fingernails, coyly asking if she could go for a joy ride. I imagined that Mr.Prick thought to himself that he would give her the proverbial "ride of her life", and hoping that she would be gripping more than the car's stick shift by the end of the night. Or perhaps, he thought, she had a fantasy planned, and would drive to a desolate location where they could rendezvous and stain the back seat with their act of lust. Maybe, the poor girl was just depressed and wanted some type of physical affection to make up for the emotional void she felt within her self. The next morning, she may have woken up feeling as used as the broken condom still left within her from the night before- coming to grips with reality, realizing she just FUCKED a stranger. I am not Fannie Feminist (despite the cool moniker :) But- I suppose I felt anger in thinking protectively for my unknown "friend" if you will. I've had too many of my own friends falter only to regret their decisions. They have lent me their open heart with gaping wounds, and expected me to stitch them back together again. Yet I am not a surgeon, in fact my own hand can be quite unsteady, and I can offer no local anesthetic to ease their afflictions. Yet I try with hope, to salvage their raw nerve endings. I thought about Mr. Prick on my way back to the house. I quickly got over it, thinking it was just another jerk on this infectious planet,and I watched Eulogy. Eulogy was actually a good movie. It wasn't hilarious, and it times it was predictable, but it got points for family values and for a cool casket explosion at the end, where it "rained Grandpa"- I recommend it actually. After the movie, it was three in the morning, so I decided I should at least try to sleep. I laid in bed for a half hour, staring at the ceiling. I listened to some Wumpscut to try and lull me to dreamland, but it only made me want to dance and/or kill, so needless to say I was quite restless. Once again, I thought of Mr.Prick, and had a slight epiphany. I had to find something to write with- which was incredibly difficult to do- since I was staying at my best friend's sister's house for the evening to keep her company because she didn't like being alone while her husband was out on a business trip. At the house I was at, there are three little rugrats (cute and obnoxious) that run rampant through out the day, and things like markers or pens that are left out will be a sure invitation for them to get creative and scrawl a wall mural overnight. Being unfamiliar with my surroundings, I had no idea where to search. I looked in drawers, storage cups with things like scissors and glue in them, but there was nothing. NOT ONE PEN! ONE FUCKING PEN! Go figure. I fumbled around in the dark house, trying to be quiet. I realized I should look under the couches for something to write with, that’s where I used to hide my crayons when I was little. Sure enough, after and hour of frustration, I found a green crayon. And I started writing down my thoughts and observations. I thought deeper, and make a contradiction to my previous beliefs, to see if there were any standards I had neglected. There were. I realized I did not know the entirety of the situation, and had made a blind assumption. I am entitled to my own opinion, but I wondered if it could be more valid. I thought, WHAT IF... What if, the girl I thought was so naive or nonchalant about her sex life, and so called impending doom from possible heart break- was in fact a wolf in sheep’s clothing? What if, Mr.Prick, who dubbed this girl who burned up his clutch, "Dumb Bitch", had a plan? Perhaps, she burned up his clutch on purpose, it could in fact have been some steaming hot retribution for every other guy that has literally tried to fuck her over! "Oops, teehee, what’s a clutch?" (YEAH, maybe...maybe not!!!) What if...she really did just want to get fucked? I was getting upset over nothing. People do tend to have casual sex in this era, right? Sometimes I forget about these things. Once in a while I disassociate myself from society and practice abstinence, so it's easy for me to forget or misconstrue a situation. What if...She was really a murderous, deranged woman on the brink, and Mr.Prick had no idea what he was setting himself up for? Maybe its better that she "accidentally" burnt up his clutch and he can bitch and moan and take her home before something tragic were to happen. What if...she was a silent killer? Her body could be a host to a multitude of viruses, waiting to be passed on to infect her next victim of choice through acts of lust. Was she a victim of an uncaring, morally deviant and sexually inclined society? Or was Mr.Prick going to become the victim? Then, I had another epiphany. I analyze waaaaay too much bullshit! Regardless. It was funny his clutch burned up. :) Current Mood: discontent Current Music: Wumpscut (Comment on this)
Thursday, March 17th, 2005
4:14 pm	FATE?!? The Masochistic Mistress known as "Fate" is spinning a web of demise and confusion. I am entangled in the sinewy, silvery strands feeling trapped and vengeful. I ponder, what did I do to get myself in such a predicament? There is barely room to panic, the silken cocoon I am woven into is taught upon my skin. She is omniscient, with her eight eyes. She sees and foresees, she withholds wisdom and inspires both fear and hope in one, she is a juxtaposition. Her vision is fixated on her prey; her third eye is wide open and glaring. If I had a third eye, my corrupt mind would send a distorted signal through my CNS and my arms and hands would perform like clockwork to gouge out the foreign mass in the center of my head! (Sometimes it seems my mind is here to spite my body, and vice versa, but that’s another subject…)She tip toes on blackened prosthetic limbs towards me on her tight wire, she hisses a cryptic verse. Chills reverberate through my suspended body, shaking the metallic cables. She hisses and says,” My child, flailing only entangles you in my tightly woven web. I have constructed it with care, do you wish to disrupt such perfection? Close your eyes, relax, and rest your weary head." Even with as much hatred as I had let build up inside, being filled to the brim with malice and apathy, veins pulsating with vile ooze only to further poison my malignant heart, do to the sufferings I had once believed were caused by Fate, I realized I was wrong, and that she spoke the truth. I decided to LET GO. Why fight the inevitable? Why make life such an obstacle, with magestic mountains of chaos built up so great in my own mind, that I cannot conquer them? She approached me with her fangs protruding, ready to strike. She appeared to be salivating at her awaiting delicacy, and hissed in delight. I exhaled and closed my eyes tightly, and awaited the horror and the pain to come. Would I bleed to death, with blood spurting from my neck like the fountains gushing in Rome? Or, would she slowly suck the life from me, turning my visceral organs into soup so I can be alive to feel her take away everything from my flesh? Twisted thoughts ran through my mind, metaphors rang through my head, and my short lived, fearful life flashed before my eyes. I felt the cold pressure upon the little bit of skin that was exposed through the cocoon, and then I heard a loud tearing sound that reminded me of Dante’s Harpies crowing through a static oblivion. Was I dead? NO. Another shrill sound to echo throughout the universe, a deeper serration than before, the snapping sounds crackled and popped, and sounded like a catastrophic train wreck. Amongst the clamor, with ears ringing, I wondered what she had done to me, I felt no pain. My eyes were still shut. I wondered if the pain was too intense for my body to perceive, I wondered if her talon like legs were so sharp that I couldn’t feel the cut. I let go. I opened my eyes, and too my surprise, I was free falling from my heavenly suspension. She had set me free, and I was too fearful to open my eyes for so long that I was oblivious, totally unaware. I was free. She had never meant to burden me, to wear down my soul ‘til it was transparent- I did that on my own. I inflicted my own fear upon myself. She only wanted to enlighten me. Although the path is not always easy to tread upon, there is a lesson in life you may only learn when near death. CREATE YOUR OWN FATE, WEAVE YOUR OWN TAPESTRY! Current Mood: contemplative (Comment on this)