For a Moment

I am a child. An infant at best.

But, for a moment,

Forget that we exist.

There is a cloud, which does exist, floating surrendorously from the depths of some long, thick pipe, extracting itself from some building, some factory, of sorts. It is floating, carefully, but surely to the bottom of some region that we have not yet discovered, which lies plainly above our universe, dully twinkling in an invisible hum.

The cloud swells amongst the laughing children, and barking dogs, and screaming women, and shouting men, and illicit drug influenced inbetweens. And over a monotonously long time, too long to begin to conceive, but miraculously occurring in an instant, a millisecond, a flicker, a moment of time. Much like this year has progressed, dubiously slowly, but we've found ourselves recklessly tossed from the beginning to now, almost the end, at the click of some sweaty, disproportionate fingers.

This moment brings a cloud, the cloud, our cloud, to the cusp. This consequential cusp between continuity and predeceasing. That is to say, the universe, and some other land. In this cusp is a firm crust resembling the sweet texture of golden waffles, as the cloud begins to penetrate such force, it is pushed away by some inconceivable force. A spray of sorts, as if a can of whipped cream were exploded through a minuscule point.

The puffy cloud, diluted between dark matter, waffle crust cusp and whipped cream. The confusion heightens, along with the immense desire and yearn for waffles that some child or infant may experience daily. And so begins the start of something that is yet to begin and sises to start. Thumbs twiddle, and minds numb, and a melody hums lightly in the background. A moment passes. A few others stumble by. Before a crashing wave of insomnia and unsubtle convulsions stutter through space, and swirl in to a large black space.
Which is a hole, open mouthed, teeth beared waiting to swallow us whole, but on our approach, on our clouds approach, it's eyebrows furrow and are raised magically in correlation with some child, some infant, pressing their lips to a beacon of swell cuteness.

Not.

Collect my tears,
catch them in your hands,
feel them seep through your fingers-
don't
stop them falling.

Watch my eyes,
envelope them with your own,
swallow my sorrow
and forget

Laugh at me,
laughing at you-
to mask my need;
to protect my heart;
to ignore your unreciprocation.

Follow my toes,
crinkle your nose,
curl your fingers like a rose
thorn weaving through mine.
our eyes can close.

You are perfectly able,
to ignore what isn't there,
as i am,
to ignore what is.

So, what,
what is it?
something i can see
now
but i pretend to not.

Little wet tears on my baby's shoulder

I hear a cry of incredible pain. A shrill scream of uncomfortable frustration, with such immensity I can hardly resist the silent surrender to my curiosity. I see a face of pure emotion, mouth open wide, stretching the soft skin, leaving subtle creases of intense anger. Eyes sealed tightly with a tear welled up in each, and that button nose scrunched up, caught in the moment. The minute fingers a crushed in balls, dangling ferociously on the ends of restless, belting arms. His hands rub his ruby red cheeks and press awkwardly into his nose.

Then he is in my arms. I think of feelings similar; A girl, the other half of me, scrunched up to my chest, heart throbbing against my bosom, my arm tracing love hearts in her back, warm kisses on her forhead. A boy, kissing my shoulder and reminding me how much he loves me, heart joltingly revoltingly lovely, a hand on my neck and a hand on his belly, extended cuddles. A girl, sitting beside me, just existing and appreciating and loving and living, but being together, belonging, caring, staring, wearing eachothers hearts on our engagement fingers, effervescent smiles. A boy, prancing around like a fisk bitch, but caring through loving eyes, and being on the otherside of my fogged up window of confusion with a steelcapped hammer and some chocolate coated strawberries, lingering laughter.

But this, carried my heart hight, with much more intensity, through clouds of thunder, lightening and hail, with the burn of something mightier than a pen or a sword. Thin hair of such perfection, an object of beauty, combined with a soul of perfection, and outrageous screams. So I rock. Slowly upward, and down, from left to right, whichever way feels comfortable for him. Tiny fingers trace circles, and spirals around my neck, and grab for a clinging pinch in moments of hostile shreiks.

I feel as though I'm dancing, as a newly bloomed rose may dance in the calm summer wind, to the tune of my own heart beat, intertwined with his. I am alone, but accompanied by my own solace and a soul which I do not understand, and may not begin to comprehend it's great complex simplicities. I begin to hum. A tune to which becomes forgotten after songs of folding chairs, broken hearts, leaning on some other, and silent nights. His cheek falls upon mine, and I watch his eyelashes close softly in tired complacency. I stroke his flushing cheek tenderly and close my eyes in fine contentment.

His head slowly drops to the left, as his left hand clutches desperately at some finger. His breath is silent, and his lips pure comfortably to drool on my shoulder. I feel his legs slacken their grip, his muscles relax and his soul drift to a dreamlike state. I hum on.

It is time to farewell my new friend. I wipe away the tears and salivations from my shoulder and drift like a small lonely cloud to a place where I belong. My bed, full of pillows, soft blankets and dreams. Dreams that maybe someday I will hold something so closely sometime again, and feel such warmth and affection that I feel like crying and screaming just like him.

Dearest Morgan Rose Duhig,

Evenin' ButterRollz, the shit to my fat dog, moomoo-cah-choo, morgz, morgatron, biff, otherwise known as Sinden. Before I start talking deep shit and the like, I'd just like to take a moment to laugh out loud, not just at the hilarious shamrocktitteh comments of your messages, but at the intense irony that said cuntsmear happened to telephone me at the exact time that I was reading your message, I got the familiar scooped "heee-llo?" and replied "hey, it's mary" in a confused sort of way, to which I was responded with comforting beeping.
heh.
So, anyway.
There appears to be a lot more important things in my life and your life, our lives, or just a single life that happens to have two little heads, with unknown contents of things inside. I'd like to start by saying:
"I've always wondered what might happen if the sun exploded and sent our nine tiny planets flying accross the infinate universe like a humungous firework, possibly similar to the illicit chinese variety of minature explosive..." (1/2/10 ~ quote a-la my amelay diary)
At the time, I though that's how it would feel to be "in love." But now I know, that it is takes more of a resemblance to the feeling of missing you, my andere halb, but a more prolonged version, like, if the solar system exploded in 12 days.
So, my point here is, well I'm not entirely sure. I guess you just sort of mean more than the world to me, because if I write a list of things I missed in china:
my saxamaphone(s)
phonie
ipod
facebook
cereal
REAL bread (without excess sugar)
real milk, that didn't taste like gruel
baked beans
vegemite
Boost
WAFFLES
my dogs
Max Brenner
movies in english
not being constantly stared at
oporto chips
COFFEE
my bed
shower

if I think about how much I miss my friends, I could slot some of them in to this list, with most toward the top. But I missed you more than all of the missage of each thing put together is, times-d by infinity, plus 7.

So, enough of seedy mcseedatron marebear,
I have to tell you, I HAVE THE BEST PRESENT YOU WILL EVER RECIEVE, ever. [well maybe not..]
waiting in my bedroom, so call me to get it, yus?
and I have your clothes which you left her 3 weeks ago.
and I have a hug, waiting to embrace my sweet sweet moopoo.

I'm not sure what else to say, because I will ramble for months about the insane events of china, like seeing a small girl take her pants of and pee on the floor while waiting in a 2 and a half hour que which we were also standing in, and walking casually past a cage stuffed to the brim with chickens/pidgeons, and being stared at and photographed by random chinese people as if we were celebrities, and taking a dump in a squat toilet.

That is all, so until I see you next, here is my heart, handle it with care, and as it floats towards you I will say "be still my heart." Because that's a pretty lame injoke of ours, and GET IN MY BELLY.
<3 forever yours,
mary winifred osborn

Just.

There's nothing that makes less sense. Weather written in perfect grammar, with adjectives describing details with precice precision, sealed with no blemishes. Nothing could make less sense. How do you suppose I might understand, with a hand covering your mouth, rabens shading your eyes, your legs crossed, staring ahead. The impossibility is impossible, everything is paradoxal, and you sit there, unaware, calm, collected and alone.

Time floats around you, like a hot air balloon dwindling in the breeze, so much hot air and energy enfusing to power it, yet it just floats effortlessly. Taking all for granted, a great trait of yours, but you don't even know. It's ridiculous, because it's not. I try to understand, but I'm not sure if there is anything to understand.

So why do I write? Why do I think? Why do I type? Why do I sing? Why do I wait?

Confusion has always been complacent in my life, but never so overwhelming. It pours over the edges with subtlety, so subtle that it's evidently obvious, just like overfilled chocolate licks, waiting to be licked. But for some reason, I can't taste an creamy chocolate on my tongue, or endulge in sugary goodness. Help me understand.

Insomnia, but I'm fine. A plane trip ought to do, but how would I know. Relax. I breathe and melt, my hands twitching to the clicks of my trecherous mind. I think, tensely. I hope, tenderly. I find a path, of soil and crunchy grey leaves, the tips of short strands of grass tangled in my toes, and the white clouds so bright my eyes hurt. I can't walk, or run, or move, until you link my arm and we skip.

We are lame, but not lame enough it seems. There is nothing perfect about anything, but at the same time there is. No heart is being crumpled or torn or shredded or crushed beneath reckless feet, because your heart is playing hide and seek with itself, while mine dances to the sound of my song, with no chorus, and no direction, just the same three simple verses about a bird and a dog and a boy.

But, It's confused, like me. The final verse, it is never complete, and my heart, pauses awkwardly and cringes, embarassed. And then she cries, just like me, crying in embarassment, and crying more in further embarassment. It's too far away from the end, and too close to a misleading path. So it cries until it is dry and baren, and I hold her between my thumbs an hum the final bars, quietly.

"Somewhat Beautiful"

I would write a blog about you, as the title references a referenced quote from me to you (ps. with love from me to you, beatles are mai life), but I'm pretty certain that I'm not stupid enough NOT to notice that you're actually a lot more than somewhat beautiful. You, are kind of my everything, and an entrancingly beautiful face to accompany it. *hums saxophone duo music in head*

So, this is a blog, for someone anonymous, so anonymous that we don't know eachothers name's apparently, and I have no idea who you are. None the less, this is for you, sir.

A small girl walks, in a that tempting way that drives you crazy. You love the way her shoes move accross the floor, like a puffy cloud, gliding sweetly accross the morning sky, as she walks past you. You can't take your eyes off her, the most perfect thing you have ever seen, it seems.

The glint in your eye travels discreetly up her long, perfectly slender legs, over her rippling skirt, only to rest gazing at her waist, wondering how you could hold something so beautiful in your hands, how you would protect it with all your power. You watch her shake her hair out of her eyes, and love how pefectly it rests on her neck, and you yearn to see her face.

You spend what feels like years imagining what her face might look like, hoping that it belongs with the beauty of the rest of her. Untill finally you hear a familiar clicking of heals, and a laugh that melts with the wind and gives you a rush of, something beautiful. You turn to see her smiling at friends. The most perfect teeth glittering in the sun, lips of the sweetest kind lifting rosy cheeks.

Then, you are almost shocked at the intensity of her glowing eyes, the deepth of happiness to which is displayed as she is hugged by her friend. You watch her fingers squeeze tightly into anothers back, and wish she would hug you too. You feel faint, like you're on some acid trip.

Out of the blue, she walks again, in that amazing way. And as she walks by, she clicks her heels, and rests her eyes upon you, smiling politely and continuing on. You stop breathing in fear, regain composure, and smile back, but by then she is gone.

You think about her, and lust over her. And she remembers you.
It is somewhat beautiful, one might say.

erk's adventure

I am here, and here is me.
Just sitting, just being.
I like to think that I'm something out of the ordinary, something unforgetable, somethinig perfectly imperfect.
So I sit, and feel.

An explosion, like a rushing cloud of cigarette smoke, flattens my mind for a moment, and leaves me distorted. The feeling of a piece of glass being wedged into your big toe, your fumbling steps of mindless pain, the short, quick expression of that slight hurt, rippling up your ankle, curling around your knees and accross even your belly button. A second and it's gone. But for me it lingers, flowing through quick jolts and twitches in elbows and tired shoulders, and I feel isolated.

This seperation is somewhat beautiful, in the same way that old, pretentious women find souless "art" beautiful, or the same way that a plastic bag caught in the wind is said to be. However, it is not aloneness or solitude I feel. Just lack of, anything but myself.

I cringe as the circles under my eyes deepen of their own accord and my fingertips become more harsh against the keyboard. My eyes feel like paintings of fear, and acknowledgement, and regret, and craving, and loss, and lust, but mostly understanding. They understand what happened, and what continues to happen, following each breath with an heir of curiosity, or perhaps blind idiocy. The understanding seems mediocre, and useless, but is deeper than it appears to be, deeper than it is willing to admit.

Confusion rises, as hesitation falls, almost systematically. The wonder for what is really up is overwhelming, so much so that I look up for answers. The ceiling is bare, cream and calm, the lights nearby burning my eyes and distorting my vision. My feelings remain the same, peachy with a touch of brilliance. I cling to this painfully perfectly imperfect feeling, and it feels like nothing.

But everything. It is everything. And everything is extremely wholesome, but empty. The thoughts are frightening, yet happy and playful. The pain is heartwarming. So, I sit and enjoy, hoping and waiting for some sort of real feeling, in intense patience. Willing to ache in hunger, or for my heart to swell in some sort of compassion or sickness, or for something bad to happen.

Nothing happens, so I stop sitting and waiting and breathing and being and feeling.
For just a moment.