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Song Memorabilia

Tue Oct 28, 2014, 5:51 PM
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Got tagged a few days ago by the ever-so-lovely Lady-Yume to post a journal listing ten random songs that I like. Finally got a chance to do it so here goes... *rubs hands together*

1. "Carousel" by Melanie Martinez (first heard this on a promo for American Horror Story: Freak Show and fell instantly in love -- a perfect mix of carnival music and eroticism)

2. "Ready to Start" by Arcade Fire (Arcade Fire -- need I say more?)

3. "The Wanderer" by Johnny Cash and U2 (separate these two are amazing; together they're incredible)

4. "400 Lux" by Lorde (I know Lorde is "the thing" now, but this is one of her lesser known songs and, incidentally, it's my favorite)

5. "The Killing Type" by Amanda Palmer (this song is so honest and so deep and so brutal and so, so beautiful)

6. "We Are the Wild Ones" by Nina (heard this on the US version of Being Human and immediately looked it up)

7. "Little Sister" by Your Favorite Enemies, the acoustic version (I owe my knowledge of this song to someone on dA, and the first time I heard it I was very close to crying -- beautiful, just beautiful)

8. "Riptide" by Vance Joy (this song is just fun fun fun; I can't listen to it without moving my body)

9. "Vicious Traditions" by The Veils (I have the movie Mr. Brooks to thank for this song; I remember listening to it over and over and over again. I just couldn't get enough of it.)

10. "Mad World" by Gary Jules (Thank you, Donnie Darko! If I hadn't decided to watch you, I likely would never have heard this gorgeous song!)

That's all, folks! Actually, not quite. I'm supposed to tag people. Hmm, let's see, I tag... ImagineAppleScruffs, chromeantennae, pearwood, and MsGeekNerd. (Apologies in advance if anyone's already done this.) :heart:


  • Mood: Peaceful
When Eli stepped out into the courtyard of the St. Thomas Mental Health Institute, he had to shield his eyes against the light. It wasn’t a particularly warm day—a cool breeze was blowing by—but the sun was high in the sky and blindingly bright.

The courtyard was the closest thing some people at the institute got to freedom; a place where they could roam around without being confined by walls, where they could see something other than small, hospital-like rooms and offices and evaluation sheets, where they could feel like they were still part of society. It wasn’t much to look at: a mown lawn with a few benches, a garden, a pavilion, and a badminton net. But it was an open area and that counted for something in a place like this.

Eli sat down on one of the benches and drifted off to sleep with his head leaned back. He dreamt of faceless soldiers, pitch-black nights lit up by fires and machine guns; he dreamt of screaming children, of shadows and eerie silence; he dreamt of a figure stumbling towards him from the dark, blood-soaked and babbling; he dreamt of himself in a desert, alone except for a dove that circled overhead and then landed gracefully before his feet; he dreamt that the dove spoke to him, though its words were incoherent; then he dreamt of Sarah and Hallie, standing at the end of a long hallway, the hallway getting longer and longer as he tried to run to them.

He was awoken by a shake to the shoulder. When he opened his eyes and looked up, there was a man standing over him. The man looked to be about fifty, gray-haired and gray-bearded, about six feet tall though he was hunched over. Eli had seen him a time or two but had never spoken to him.

The man was holding an acoustic guitar, most likely from the activity room. (Sometimes “clients”—that was what the people receiving mental health services were called—could take items from the activity room with them outside, so long as, A, they brought them back undamaged, and B, they did not use them for anything other than what they were supposed to be used for.) He sat next to Eli and started playing. He played a song about the end of the world—about how the world needed to end so that it could be reborn, and about how humanity needed to burn so that it could be cleansed.

“So, uh, that was quite a song,” Eli said once the man had stopped playing. “Did you write it?”

“Sure did,” the man replied. “I write all my music.”

“Why did you decide to write about the end of the world being a good thing?”

“Name me one other musician who’s done that.”

Eli couldn’t think of a single one. “Point taken. So does your song have a name?”

“Nope. Don’t name my songs. Don’t like ‘em to be labeled.”

“Do you play professionally?”

“Depends. Does playing on the street count as professionally?”

“Did you make any money off of it?”

“People tried to offer me money. Never took it, though. To me music should be free. It’s a form of expression. No one should have to pay to hear someone express themselves. It should be like it was back in the good old days, when people used to gather together and just sing, without demanding rewards for it.” The man shook his head. “Capitalism—the never-ending itch in the world’s asshole.”

Eli chuckled.

“Nah, man,” the man continued, “my music is my gift to the world. And it’s real music, y’know? None of that techno shit. Just me and my guitar.”

“That’s not your guitar, is it?”

“Nope.” He stroked his fingers over the strings. “But it does the job just as well, and I’m the only one here who uses it so it feels like it’s mine. By the way,”—the man stretched out his hand towards Eli—“my name’s Joe. Joseph according to my birth certificate, but I’ve gone by Joe so long Joseph doesn’t even feel like me anymore.”

Eli chuckled again and took Joe’s hand. “Eli,” he said.
 
“Eli,” Joe repeated. “You Jewish?”

“Sort of . . . not really. My parents were Jewish, but they weren’t in my life for very long. My foster parents raised me as a Christian. Now I’m not sure I even believe in God.”

Joe nodded like he understood. “Religion sure ain’t for everybody,” he said.

“You got that right.”

“It’s too set in stone, y’know? There’s only one road to salvation. You’re either saved or you’re lost. There are a billion ways to go to hell but only one way to get into heaven. Who can live up to that? It’s ludicrous.”

Eli smiled. He liked this Joe fellow. “Why are you in here?” he asked. “You’re the sanest person I’ve met in weeks. And that’s including my psychiatrist.”
       
“Panic Disorder,” Joe answered. “That’s the label they gave me. Basically I freak out for no apparent reason. Start shaking and feeling like something bad’s gonna happen. It makes plenty of sense when you consider the society we live in, but you know these headshrinkers, they’ve gotta make a buck. What about you?”

Eli looked away from Joe, his eyes falling on a tree at the edge of the courtyard—a massive tree with a truck about as big around as he was, towering over all the other trees surrounding it. It looked out of place, and yet like it was exactly where it belonged. “They say I tried to kill myself,” Eli said.

“Did you?”

“No.”

There was a pause, then Joe asked, “Do you want to die?”

“I just said I didn’t try to kill myself.”

“I didn’t ask if you tried to kill yourself, I asked if you wanted to die.”

Eli didn’t answer.
 
Someone screamed. Eli followed the sound to where, at the other end of the courtyard, he saw a young man try to climb the surrounding fence—the fence that led to the outside world, to freedom. A woman was pointing at him and screaming. Service providers—that was what the staff were called—all rushed to the scene. Two of them grabbed the man around the waist and tried to yank him down. He clung for a moment, then realized he wasn’t going anywhere and gave up. Once he was on the ground again, the two service providers who’d grabbed him started ushering him towards the building. Eli’s eyes followed them as they went inside. Joe’s did as well. “You see that kinda thing here every once in a while,” he said. “You get used to it.”

But Eli already felt used to it. He’d seen people huddled in corners and running for their lives across streets. He’d seen them yanked this way and that, kicked while they were down, spat on, and shot. He’d seen them cry out to their god, even as guns were put to their heads, and die with serene expressions on their faces. He’d seen them look up at him as though they knew him on some level, as though there was something in him they could see, before he pulled the trigger.

“I wanted him to make it,” he said.

“What?” Joe asked.

“That boy,” he said louder, “I wanted him to make it.”

~

Later that same day, after lights out, Eil sat on his bed, his head against the wall behind him, and let the thoughts flow. His roommate Larry was snoring but it didn’t bother him. His mind was elsewhere—with Sarah and Hallie: Sarah and Hallie at the park; Sarah and Hallie on roller coasters; Sarah’s hand under his as they both sliced through a wedding cake; baby Hallie in a car seat, in a stroller, bouncing on his knees, finger-painting in the kitchen, hiding behind Sarah’s leg as she was introduced to her first teacher; Sarah and Hallie watching family movies with popcorn, building snowmen, going swimming, smiling, laughing, hugging him, begging him to come back home, lying dead on the floor in puddles of their own blood.

Eli shook himself out of his stupor. He looked around at his darkened room, realizing just then that he badly had to pee. He got off his bed and ambled over to his and Larry’s private bathroom.

The St. Thomas Mental Health Institute was not a quiet place at night, when darkness swallowed everything. Screaming, crying, whimpering and begging filled the halls, accompanied by the calm reassurances of the service providers. Eli heard one man several rooms down give an ear-splitting scream and then yell, over and over again, that he was on fire. “You’re not on fire, Mr. Young,” said a female service provider. But the man kept yelling, kept screaming. “Mr. Young, listen to me,” the service provider pleaded, “you’re not on fire.” Then there was a girl who was raving that the institute was really a top-secret government prison and that the service providers were really scientists whose purpose was to conduct experiments on her and the other clients. A service provider, also female, tried to encourage her to take some pills and go to bed.

Nighttime at the St. Thomas Mental Health Institute brought out people’s demons—their broken dreams, their fears, their memories, their delusions. They vibrated in Eli’s chest, and he took them in.

The bathroom only had one toilet. Eli went over to it without even bothering to close or lock the door. As he relieved himself, he felt what he immediately assumed was a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. Absentmindedly he touched his fingers to it and examined them.

His breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t sweat—it was blood.

Eli flushed the toilet, then hurried over to the mirror which hung on the wall above the rusty sink. It was in desperate need of cleaning but Eli could see his reflection. The gashes in his forehand had somehow reopened. Blood oozed through his stitches, trickling down his face. Eli gazed at them, stupefied, panicked. What was happening to him?

And just like that, a sharp burst of pain shot through his wrists. He screamed and hunched over, cradling his arms to his chest. The pain was so intense it pounded in his head. Hot, sticky blood seeped through his shirt, droplets of it falling to the floor, forming a crimson puddle. Eli leaned against the side wall and slid into a sitting position, gnashing his teeth, trying not to scream again. Larry, who’d been awoken, stood in the doorway to the bathroom. He stared for a moment at Eli as if unsure about what to do, then bolted for the door of their room and banged on it, calling for help.

Eli sucked in deep breaths. He tried counting in his head—one, two, three, four—but it wasn’t enough to take him out of reality. His wrists were on fire. The pain was shooting up his arms. Blood pattered on the floor and soaked through his clothes. What if he bled to death? Deep breaths, he told himself, deep breaths. He swallowed and kept trying not to scream.

He failed. Another burst of pain erupted in him and another scream escaped him. Just let me die, he thought. If anyone's up there, please just let me die! The whole front of his shirt was drenched. Fresh droplets fell on top of the already coagulating puddle on the floor.

Two service providers rushed into the bathroom, followed by Larry. One of them tried to shoo Larry away, telling him to go back to bed, but he just stood a few feet behind them and watched. Once they were attending to him, the pain in Eli’s wrists and arms subsided, lessening to a dull throb. Eli steadied his breathing. The service providers knelt in front of him. “Jesus Christ,” one of them said. “The supervisors are gonna fry us over this.”

“What the hell did he even do?” asked the other.

Gently, they pulled his arms away from his chest, gasping at the holes in his wrists that went all the way through.

Good ol' Fascism

Journal Entry: Fri Oct 24, 2014, 6:48 PM
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Went shopping today. Got some much-needed groceries, a refill of my Zoloft, two pairs of pants, and some gas to top it off. Ended up spending $160.85. Methinks I shall take it easy on the money for a few weeks. 

In other news, recently one of the higher ups at the agency I work for made the brilliant decision to ban "holiday decorations" in the interest of "diversity." That means no Halloween ornaments, no Christmas tree, no menorahs, no Easter bunnies, no nothing. We can't even have Santa Claus statues... all because someone might get offended. THIS IS FUCKING RIDICULOUS! Pretty soon they'll be telling us we can't wear certain colors! "You're wearing white but not black? How racist!" People need to grow the fuck up and stop being so hypersensitive about everything (and that's coming from someone who has BPD). There is nothing "offensive" about a damn Christmas tree. I mean seriously,  people are starving to death, being murdered and raped, and exploited in every which way on a daily basis, and THAT'S what bothers you? What. The. Fuck?!

Folks, shit like this is not diverse. It's not inclusive. Just the opposite, it's bigoted and exclusive. People shouldn't have to refrain from showing their holiday spirit just to accommodate other people's feelings. If Santa Claus offended me, would stores be obligated to stop selling Santa figurines? Would people have to stop putting Santa decorations on their private property? NO! Because my personal hangups shouldn't cost someone else their rights.

Funny how we pride ourselves on being an "open society." An open society wouldn't be so uptight. An open society would see that what's truly important is not what a person celebrates but the person. A truly open society would be more concerned about love and acceptance -- in other words "openness" -- than about petty political correctness.  

Anyway, I'm done. Just thought I'd throw that out there.             


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  • Mood: Not Impressed

Tagged

Journal Entry: Mon Oct 20, 2014, 5:41 PM
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... by MsGeekNerd

Her Questions:


1. What keeps you writing?

My love of writing. It's a part of me. To stop would be to deny myself.
 

2. How do you get over a block?
Reading, listening to music, sleeping, taking a walk... any number of things. I find that I get over blocks when I least expect to.

3. What is your favorite word?
This is subject to change but right now, epiphany. 

4. What is your favorite thing to write?
I would say philosophical fiction – stories that explore philosophical concepts. I also like to write bizarre stories. I’m an “out there” kinda gal. :P I'm attracted to the weird, the inexplicable, and the downright awkward; I plan to write a story (in the distant-ish future) about conjoined twins where one falls in love with someone the other has no interest in, and another story (in the even more distant future) where a girl with Dissociative Identity Disorder falls for a guy her alter ego wants to kill. Neither are situations one sees every day, and yet they’re both plausible.

5. What would you say your style is?
I'm not sure. I used to be quite the verbose writer. Now I make a steadfast effort to pare away all unnecessary words. My goal is to pack the biggest punch I can using the simplest prose.
 

6. What is your biggest challenge when writing?
Getting started.

7. Who is your favorite person to show your work to? (On or offline)
I don't have a favorite. I take feedback as I get it.
  

8. What made you decide to make writing a part of your life?
I feel like it's always been a part of my life, in a way. It was always there, in me, waiting to be discovered.
 

9. Do you have a favorite font?
I have a few. Nyala and Garamond are both pretty; I also like Bookman Old Style.

10. What is your favorite thing to read? (A book, a poem, poems in general, books in general, etc)
I’d say I like novels most, but I have nothing against poetry collections.

11. What music do you usually listen to, if any, when writing?
All sorts. It depends on what type of story I’m writing, what kind of mood I need to get in.
 

12. Is there a phrase that you tend to love and/or use a lot in your writing?
When a character is smiling, I tend to say that the smile is “tugging” at their lips, or “splitting their face.” For pauses in dialogue, I say “there was a moment of silence.” And I have a habit of conveying awkwardness or uncertainty by having a character “bite their lower lip”; it’s a common gesture of mine, so it finds its way into my literature. 
 

13. Do you have a favorite character (orginal? Not original?) or topic you like to write about?
Not so much a specific character as a specific type of character. My characters are pessimistic, self-loathing, and hyper-aware. They’re introverted and reflective. Cut off from society. Oftentimes they’re angry and prone to sarcasm. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever written a well-adjusted character. Well-adjusted people don’t make good character studies. :lol: As for topics, I like morally gray areas. There’s one story I’ve been meaning to write where a young girl gets into a car wreck that leaves her brain dead and forces her deeply religious parents to contemplate euthanasia. It’s been on my to-write list for a few years now, and I’m hoping that with time and planning it comes to fruition.
 

14. The best part about writing is?
Telling a story. Taking a journey with a character and seeing it through (even if it doesn’t get resolved). Creating. 


My questions (they're not writing-specific -- they're more general):

1. Is art a hobby to you, or do you plan to make a living off of it? (No judgment, just curious. ;))

2. Has becoming an artist changed your view of yourself or the world?

3. What would you say is an artist’s role in society?

4. Are there any themes that consistently show up in your art?

5. Describe a real-life situation that inspired you. (It may be something that happened directly to you, or it may be something that happened to someone else but you knew about it.)

6. What is some memorable feedback you’ve received on your work?

7. Is there anything you dislike about the art world?

8. Name an artist, living or dead, who you’d like to critique your work.

9. Do you have a specific “method”? (For example, if you’re a writer, do you start out with an overall idea and then work down to the details, or do you start with details and work your way up to an overall idea?)  

10. How do you know when a work is finished?

11. How do you feel when someone interprets your art differently?

12. How would you say your work has changed/developed over time?

13. Is there any advice you have for aspiring artists (or fellow aspiring artists)?

14. And lastly, do you know you’re awesome? (Because you are. :heart:

I tag... whoever's reading this. :XD: I know, I cheated. Shame on me. But I'm really interested in you guys' answers. :D Take as much time as you need. No pressure. :hug: 



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  • Mood: Peaceful
  • Watching: Goosebumps
Man. I tell ya, I don't get sick often but when I do, I do a bang up job of it. I still have a cough, although it's not nearly as bad as it was a few days ago so I'm hoping it goes away soon. My sister and I are having a good ole time watching Goosebumps, gettin' in the Halloween mood. I've been meaning to start writing again. I'm juggling three stories, jotting stuff down for them whenever I can. I will post more. I have no idea when, but it will happen. ;)
  • Mood: Neutral
  • Reading: Paper Towns
  • Watching: The Wolf Man

Song Memorabilia

Tue Oct 28, 2014, 5:51 PM
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Got tagged a few days ago by the ever-so-lovely Lady-Yume to post a journal listing ten random songs that I like. Finally got a chance to do it so here goes... *rubs hands together*

1. "Carousel" by Melanie Martinez (first heard this on a promo for American Horror Story: Freak Show and fell instantly in love -- a perfect mix of carnival music and eroticism)

2. "Ready to Start" by Arcade Fire (Arcade Fire -- need I say more?)

3. "The Wanderer" by Johnny Cash and U2 (separate these two are amazing; together they're incredible)

4. "400 Lux" by Lorde (I know Lorde is "the thing" now, but this is one of her lesser known songs and, incidentally, it's my favorite)

5. "The Killing Type" by Amanda Palmer (this song is so honest and so deep and so brutal and so, so beautiful)

6. "We Are the Wild Ones" by Nina (heard this on the US version of Being Human and immediately looked it up)

7. "Little Sister" by Your Favorite Enemies, the acoustic version (I owe my knowledge of this song to someone on dA, and the first time I heard it I was very close to crying -- beautiful, just beautiful)

8. "Riptide" by Vance Joy (this song is just fun fun fun; I can't listen to it without moving my body)

9. "Vicious Traditions" by The Veils (I have the movie Mr. Brooks to thank for this song; I remember listening to it over and over and over again. I just couldn't get enough of it.)

10. "Mad World" by Gary Jules (Thank you, Donnie Darko! If I hadn't decided to watch you, I likely would never have heard this gorgeous song!)

That's all, folks! Actually, not quite. I'm supposed to tag people. Hmm, let's see, I tag... ImagineAppleScruffs, chromeantennae, pearwood, and MsGeekNerd. (Apologies in advance if anyone's already done this.) :heart:


  • Mood: Peaceful

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TwilightPoetess Featured By Owner 23 hours ago  Hobbyist General Artist
We all know you're wonderful, but in case you've forgotten for a moment, here's a reminder.

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Thanks very much for faving my work!
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 Thanks for faving :)
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