Tuesday, October 01, 2002

In A Much Lighter Mood: Playing With Chris

zer0 n0de: how was your weekend?
desert flower: worked
desert flower: my jaw is killing me
zer0 n0de: to much candy?
desert flower: too much playing (the sax) lol
zer0 n0de: lol
zer0 n0de: :-D
desert flower: i guess that would look funny to those who don't know what i do huh?
desert flower: work? jaw hurting?
desert flower: umm, what do you do?
zer0 n0de: and does it pay well?
zer0 n0de: /me ducks
desert flower: i play around
zer0 n0de: lol
desert flower: haha

(beware the mind of a man)

zer0 n0de: sometimes with a bunch of other people to !
zer0 n0de: sometimes, just with one or two others
zer0 n0de: sometimes just by myself
desert flower: sometimes i even do it for tips
desert flower: and i do take requests
zer0 n0de: sometimes you do it just for fun
desert flower: oy Chris, another one for the blog!
desert flower: haha
zer0 n0de: lol
desert flower: Playing with Chris ;)



posted @ 11:39 AM

Why write poetry right now? Why increase our doubt by writing it over and over? Why tell the story of past conflicts, of unexpected loves? Nobody needs the remains of old victories. All of it is just noise - added to a world full of sounds that will surely overpower what the individual has to say. Can we be clear when surrounded by confusion? We should stop the nonesense and put our words to better use.

But if you and I don't say what it is that lives inside of us, then how will tomorrow know about today? Maybe I am right and our words are just nonesense. Still, I like to read about why it is so many people hurt, laugh, cry, love. You can't generalize such emotions - they're different for everyone. Who better to tell a story about romance than those who are madly in love? Who better to tell a story about solitude, than those who have lost a loved one? Who better to tell a story of happiness than those who have found a fountain of youth.

There is one thing I always try and keep in mind: words are powerful. They can kill or give life. With one simple word you can bring a man or woman down in an instant. You can also build them up. Know what I'm talking about?

Maybe some us do need the remains of old victories. I know I do. And if I write about my doubts over and over, will they go away? Maybe not, but perhaps someone else out there won't feel so lonely questioning the circumstances of life as I do. In the middle of confusion, sometimes, a single voice is heard by the masses. Maybe your world is waiting for you to speak up.

Why write poetry right now? Because we have the freedom to do so!

Desert Flower



posted @ 10:37 AM

Staying in and blocking out the outside world surrounded by sweetness - isn't that a nice thought?

Get up! You there, get up! I don't want to stay in. Let us join forces against organizations of misery. Systems that distribute hunger and violence. Come, we can start a fire like no other. Next to me, you'll want to live the world not block it out.

Live it baby! We are strong.

~woman



posted @ 6:43 PM

I am not Carolina, Elizabeth, or Bella.

I am not of great stature and I don't always dress well.

Only the things I've seen encircle my mind and what I've seen isn't much. Yes, I come from a small town.

I am not sad.
I don't believe in defeat.

I admire the ocean and appreciate the beauty of a single drop of water.

I'm not sure if I believe time returns to us in another dimension, but I want to.

I am not afraid of what might come: I've seen enough not to fear death more than I fear life.

I am not the savior nor the one who wants to be saved.

I am not Carolina, Elizabeth, or Bella.

All I am is the result of someone -sometime- bringing me to this world.

A breath of life.
The moment in which light is created and then dies.
The sound of a miracle passing by.

That is who I am and that is who I am not.




posted @ 1:50 PM

Is it me hidden in these pages? Is it really me? Venting away on a page, staining it even now with a single thought. Scribbling a lifetime of words. Words that enchant me.

I don't believe one needs glosses or alphabets to write. All you need is life. Everyday is like a blank page set before you. Go ahead, tell a story. How about one of love?

time circles a ring of desire
and no words will suffice
ripe as a kiss
woven with sun
with eyes closed
I await you

I've never been the cause of such words, emotions exchanged with a rose. Maybe that's the reason they haunt my mind. But tell me a story. How about one of sadness?

I turned back to the house I grew up in
covered now only by shadows and dust
I tried to remember being happy
but the pain of today was too much
it wouldn't let go of me
my childhood was finally gone

Oh how I wish I could make life better for my family with a simple poetry line. It is so hard to wipe away tears with a wish. So many things one can't leave behind by simply saying goodbye.

Just one more story. Please, make this one about you.

posted @ 3:15 PM

To the east is the place where the grieving began, some will say from the west. Travelers will go, pushing the distance away, to say their goodbyes. All want to pay tribute to unexpected heroes and survivors who are trying to find their identity once again.

Before? How was life before? We complained about anything: I hate the day-in-day-out of my work, the sweat-for-your-dollar, the rich hate their gold, the poor their sore feet, the teller his cage. Funny how the beauty complained that her feet were too ugly. We didn't even know it then, but we were already weeping.

Some have tried to live unperturbed but things still keep pressing hard. Strong pilars fell down to the ground as if they were made out of salt!

Alas, all of it hopeless, I know - but I adore living still.

Will you let the dead rest in peace? I don't know if we'll ever be able to let go. Not forget but stop pounding memories on the stone. We cannot fix what wasn't conceived on this earth with the entitlement of our own hands - the past.

I lost so much in places I haven't been to. I went back to my newspaper and read on, like any good citizen. I wonder about those who had to live the fires, and the dust, the unbearable sounds and the solitude. Those who had to stand there 'till nothing remained to be seen.

Alas, all of it hopeless, I know - but I adore living still.

If given the chance, hatred won't let us breathe or go on with our writing. It will never leave us alone unless we speak up and say: shit on you all! in our name. Then we will see our enemy hopelessly buried, with power to harm only himself. Our grief we will endure and then we'll keep on being happy. We will sing of our mountains and valleys - a victory over the shadows of the monster.

Alas, all of it hopeless, I know - but we are living still.



posted @ 10:27 AM