Halls of the head (This is my Labyrinth)

This is an unfinished poem. Let me know what you think?


Move slow
Through these shadows-
Drag your fingers along the walls,
Feel the ripple
Of stone breathing:
Shudder
Sigh
And whisper
Through the cracks
With cobwebs for breath,
Soft and warm and grey,
Brushing your cheek as you pass the chinks
In the mortar where,
Like runes eroded over time,
All the names you have been named
Are fading to decay;
Leave a finger-trail in the dust
Marking your passage as
You slowly walk away.

Edge around
Ever on around
Quiet, slowly, around the corner;
It is best not to disturb
The sleeping gargoyles in the foyer-
They’d eat you alive
Or leave you alive
And their eyes hold such truths as
To make each progressive choice
Safer, yet,
Far worse than the former-
Best not to have to take your pick,
But instead let sleeping beasts lie
Eyes closed in solitude,
Dark heartbeats echoing your own:
Tock and tic
And tock and tic and
Hold your breath!-
Don’t gasp
Don’t wake them up, sojourner!

That’s right-
Slink low breath held eyes fixed on the spark
Of eyes fixed below slitted lids,
Watching as you glide the dark-
Tip toe, tock tic,
Slip away while they’re feeling generous;
You didn’t really think that they were
Lost in dreams, now, did you?
Oh.
You did.

Haven’t you figured this by now?
No one who walks the halls of the head
Is ever alone-
They walk between the waking breath
And the keening call of wind-played bone.

Steel yourself.
This won’t be easy-
No one ever said it would be easy, child.
Don’t shiver so when the wind howls low;
As long as you don’t dance along,
It will only be another song
In the night-
And after all, you’ve heard enough of those
To fill your inner sight with souls
Twisted and bright and
More beautiful than any sky
At dawn’s first shaking, thin, tormented light.
No,
This is not another nightmare
You will wake from
Shaken and relieved at the sight
Of daybreak windows glowing bright;
You cannot wake from
No sleep, and
This is more than just a dream-
This is your mind.

And didn’t you know?
No one who walks the halls of the head
Ever really walks alone.

So open your eyes
Wide
See the things you couldn’t see
Or wouldn’t see
And mark well your way-
What was the story?
What was his name?-
He kept his hand to the Labyrinth wall, knowing
As long as he touched the stone,
He’d be sure to find the heart of the place;
You’d do best to follow suit
And throw your stubborn pride away
(It will only crumble in the face
Of what you will find in the space
Where your smallest thought
In darkness plays.)

So go on,
Sojourner,
And walk away.
And when the wind shifts the dust away
Don’t be surprised to see
That this place is really everything
You are-
Your twisted fantasies
Lay unashamed with your tamer dreams,
And in the mix you will discover
Each has overridden the other
And what is left is the perfect lover
To command and acquiesce
To your darkest needs,
Softest requests,
And when you try to turn away
You know
You’ll never
Turn away
Now.

Do you see now?

Those who walk the halls of the head
Never walk alone, my friend.

God bless the freaks (another older blog)

...Well, if you belive in a God/Goddess, or many, or nothing, or even the All-Mighty-Spaghetti-Monster in the sky (may He bless you with his noodley goodness.)

That's one of many stickers on my computer at work (the simpler "God bless the freaks," not the long drawn out one I opened with...) I try to keep my work space as reflective of my general eccentricities as possible, to keep myself sane and warn others, of a not-so-open-minded nature, that I'm not as easy to predict as you might think. I've got a magazine cutout of a laughing Buddha taped up on one corner of the monitor, a stick-on-tattoo of a dragon on another, tattoo shop business cards, another magazine cut out of the Dali Lama, Sobe bottle caps I found highly amusing, a clown doll that used to scare the hell out of me as a kid (but we go way back, so we've come to an understanding - it doesn't try to kill me in the middle of the night and I don't rip it's head off and set it on fire, douse the ashes with holy water, throw firecrackers at the still smoking mess, and then throw it all in stinky swampland for the gators to chomp on- and we're cool now) and an Easter Island Stone Head ceramic pencil holder on top, to name a few of my decorations. I'll not go into what all is scattered artfully *around* my computer, as we'd be here all day, but suffice it to say I've got one of the coolest desks in the place.

And today after lunch I added what I deem to be the crowning touch, taped rather precariously at the bottom edge of my monitor- a fortune, from the cookie that came with the chinese lunch special from Raley's, which reads: "Sometimes the wisest person is dressed in the rudest clothing." (This is topped only by the naughty fortune cookie that aon old friend got a while ago that said, "If you masturbated last night, smile!" But I digress...)

Why does this simple little message strike me so strongly? Well... I'm goth (I don't always dress it, but the heart is there), I've got somewhat extensive tattoo-work, several peircings, short hair (loud whisper: OHMYGODSHE'SALESBIAN!!!), I wear leather and spikes and chains and buckles and zippers and whatever other pretty shiny metal things I can find, and last but not least, I'm freaking proud of it all!

And, as do most people who don't conform, I know well the stereotypes placed upon all that I am, and more so, all that I appear to be. So, according to stereotype, I'm a ball-busting-bull-dyke bitch who hates her parents and loves pain and has the ink and metal to prove it, who worships Satan and cuts herself and hates 'preppies,' who's depressed, probably clinically insane in some form or other, and thinks that society in general is too goody-two-shoes for her. Oh, and did I mention that I also probably cry alot, alone, in my cold dark bedroom, because no one understands me and everybody hates me, and I know it all and everyone else is too stupid to see that, and why can't we all just get along and turn annoying ex boyfriends into smelly toads?

*sigh* Ok, one bit of that is true- most people really are too stupid to see that I know it all (kidding! but seriously, the dumbness level of people in general is increasing at an alarming rate and often times I can't help but wonder how some people are actually living because they obviously do not have a working brain... uh... oh, shit... that's right- ZOMBIES!!! RUN OR THEY'LL BITE YOU AND MAKE YOU STUPID, TOO!!!)

Ahem.

Otherwise, all that couldn't be further from the truth Like the length and/or style of my hair has anythign to do with my sexuality anyway, sheesh. But do people (most people) give it a chance and look past all the lies to see who I (or anyone who doesn't match up to to 'the standard') really am? What I'm really like?

Hell. Freaking. No.

I've pretty much gotten used to it by now, and rarely go off on tangents about it- I usually just smile and keep walking, and amazingly, oftentimes a smile is all that's needed to open a mind, and that's really cool. Someone looks at me sideways, sorts of backs away, and I turn and give em a big smile, and all of a sudden they relax and smile back. It rocks.

Usually.

But, it doesn't always work, and it's so damn sad that so many people remain closed off to anyone and anything different from themselves. How can you learn like that? How can you live knowing that the vast majority of the world is your self-inflicted enemy? That no matter where you go, you have to keep your guard up against "them?" I mean, gods forbid you should actually crack a smile at a stranger- you might actually find yourself enjoying the exchange, making a new friend, learning, and we can't have that, now can we? *sigh again*

So the fortune made me think of all of the ways humans have of debasing the pure and simple experience of person to person interaction; of friendship itself, or the possibility of it. If there were no discriminations, no bred-to-the-soul-but-baseless hatreds, no fear of what we backwardly call self-preservation, just imagine the difference. No really- I'm not getting all utopia-minded, or bunny-hugger-ish or anything like that; I'm being perfectly, coldly logical. If we'd stop hating without reason, life in general would be so much... easier? Happier, certainly, to simply say 'hello' to the person who appears to be the exact opposite of yourself and have them greet you back and strike up a conversation that may be simple but fun and quickly forgotten, or which may lead to the kind of memory you treasure when you're old.

It's so damn simple. Just smile. Not everyone bites, you know.

But, to play devil's advocate, I suppose that the hatreds teach us as well, in their own ways. I think the most important lesson to be learned from hate is that it's a destructive force which, although mostly useless and devastating, can in the twists of fate or karma lead to amazing events which uplift the spirits of whole towns, cities, countries, teaching us exactly why NOT to hate or to leave others out. Backfire. There's a flip side to every coin, I guess.

But again, I digress. My point is, simply, that freaks (of any nature and walk of life) are human too, and the shells we all cover ourselves with are far more individualistic than society gives them credit for: stereotypes are lies which are easily swallowed and which are used to judge without putting forth the effort to look deep enough to see the truth. The stereotype is the cop-out, the sell-out. Don't give up your ability to think; open your eyes, and your mind, and your heart- learn and live and make friends with a stranger. It's fun.

Be wise, and dress as rudely as you wish. And don't think about the consequences; they're not real until you make them, anyway.

Prost, and meatball blessings to all!

Fortune cookie wisdom: The dearest dream

This is an older blog, originally posted on my Myspace account. Do enjoy!

So I got another thinker-fortune cookie today, one that just made me grin and think (bad habit, thinking, but I can't seem to quit.) It said, simply: "Your dearest dream is coming true."

This brought an immediate, child-like grin to my face, and a flutter to my heart, because although I know that the 'fortunes' on the little scraps of paper are simply interesting, sometimes uplifting, sayings, all of which are mass produced and don't really mean anything, I still have that little kid spirit in me that wants desperately to believe in EVERYTHING. This includes that the fortunes in fortune cookies don't exist until a person picks up the cookie, at which precise moment, in the dimly lit, hard folds of sweet cookie-stuff, words of truth and wisdom magically appear on the little slip of paper, waiting to be read only by the one for whom the fortune is meant.

Before the Voice Of Reason could charge in and ruin everything, my little kid spirit leapt with joy, thinking, "Sweet! My dearest dream- the one I hold closest and wish for the mostest- is coming true! Right now! YAY! I'm so happy! Oh, this is so exciting!"

Don't laugh. You've got a little kid spirit in you, too. It's ok - I won't tell if you won't.

And a moment later Reason tried desperately to kick some sense in to me, but as I stated, I'd already started thinking. And what I was thinking was, "Ok. So what exactly IS my dearest dream?"

I hadn't the foggiest, because I have so many dreams, see. Some are altogether possible - probable, even. Others are just silly but I dream them anyway. Heres the possibilities so far:

1. I'm turning into a unicorn. Finally, after all these years, my childhood answer to that age-old question, "And what do you want to be when you grow up?" is coming about. I should start looking magenta-ish soon, with purple and blue spots spattered across my cheeks, shoulders, and soon-to-be-enormous-butt. The horn and hooves will be purple, and the mane and tail (and this part seriously appeals to the hardcore hair-dying punk in me) will be purple and blue, with a few random streaks of pink.

Ha. And my teachers always told me it couldn't happen. Guess I showed them!

2. (More reasonable) My dream guy is going to walk into the room at any moment and sweep me off my feet and we'll live happily ever after. *Looks at the door. Waits. Looks at the other door. Waits.*

Anytime, Handsome. Really.

(EDIT: At the time I originally wrote this blog, I was sorrowfully single. As it turns out, my dream guy was EXACTLY what was happening, as a few short months later I met my boyfriend, and we've been darn-near inseparable ever since.)

3. Some odd and wonderfully eccentric ancestor made up a fun and wild and eccentric and totally legally binding will, years and years and years ago, stating that their enormously hugely vastly BIG estate and mind-numbingly stupendously large fortune will go, in full, to the first daughter of the second son of the fourth son of the first child of the fifth granddaughterof the third cousin of the second daughter of their wayward youngest son (try saying that five times fast) upon that first daughter's twenty-fourth Christmas. And that'd be me. And that'd be right around now-ish.

4. (Oh, to Hell with Reason!) I'm growing wings! At any moment, my shoulder blades will start to itch, and then twitch, and then in an amazing moment of blinding light and shredding clothes (no peeking, you naughty person, you!) two big beautiful wings, fully functional, will burst from my back, stretch, fold, and settle. I don't know if they'll be feathery, or leathery, or a really spiffy combination of both, and I don't really care - I just want to fly. Hmmm. Guess I better learn how to land, eh? And stop wearing skirts...

5. (Reason wins on this one again) I'm going travelling. Where? Anywhere, everywhere, silly! To Egypt, to Germany, to Scotland and Tibet! China and Rome and Switzerland, with detours to Africa and Iceland and Russia and France. And a good long trip to Italy, then on to Spain and Brazil.

And everywhere in between. With a really nice camera (and lots of batteries.) And a good friend, or group of good friends, to going adventuring with me. And I'm leaving today. Are you ready? I sure as hell am.

So those are, so far as I can think at the moment, my dearest of dreams. I'm still not sure which is coming true right now. No pretty spots or itchy shoulderblades yet (and my butt, thankfully, has not expanded), but maybe it takes awhile to kick in. I've not gotten any calls about fortunes or vacations, but the day's still young. And the only guys to have walked through either door of the Production Department are either taken or we don't have much at all to say to each other beyond job stuff and that's how it's gonna stay, but who knows who may sneak in while I'm not looking? I'm willling to give the fortune cookie the benfit of the doubt.

Or maybe, just maybe, to mix Reason with Pure Die-Hard Romantic Sappiness, what's happening right now is that I'm alive, and if I'm alive, anything can happen, whether it's a life-long dream or something that will suprise the hell out of me, pleasantly. Or both. Because, really, anything IS possible. That's one lesson that the little kid spirit in me never lets me forget- if I can dream it i can do it. Including being a unicorn (I could be the voice of one in some animated movie, or simply photoshop my head onto a horse's body and stick a horn right smack dab in the middle of my forehead. Or someone could name a stuffed unicorn toy after me. See? Entirely possible) and having wings (I've got a nice pair of black feathery ones hung up in the corner over my bed, with fabric flowers and ribbons streaming down between them, just waiting to be added to the perfect little gothic angel outfit some night for clubbing. And well, I'm sure you've all seen at least one cheesy B-movie featuring the grafting, merging, or growing of animal body parts on humans through science or voodoo or both, right? Hey, it could happen... Open-minded, remember?)

Yeah. That's it. I'm alive, and I'm happy to be so, and in the end, isn't that really the dearest dream anyone has? Just to be happy, no matter what it is that makes them so?

So there's my dream. My dearest one. And it really is coming true. It has it's setbacks at times, and sometimes I wonder if it's lost, but it always comes back. And as long as there is a tomorrow, there's no reason (or Reason) that it cannot continue to come true, bit by bit. It's one of those dreams that has no definite beginning or end, not like deciding one day in kindergarten that you're going to be a unicorn when you grow up and having that dream end when you finally sprout a tail and horn and hooves and start craving hay and get a big butt. It's just there. It has no limits.

It's the dearest dream, and the fact that it's coming true right now, in this here and now, and in every other here and now for the rest of my life, is more appealing in itself than every other dream, no matter how comforting and pretty and wild, combined.

Take that, Voice Of Reason.

A quick hello from the fledgling

Greetings to all, and rum!

Allow me to introduce myself: I’m the fledgling spoken of in my spiffy mom’s blog (http://www.wren-o-blue.blogspot.com). Mamma Wren’s a pretty darn good writer, so check out her blog if you’re looking for a good read (forgive me, I had to get that in there.)

I am much my mother’s daughter, in that we are both disgustingly creative, deep thinkers, and get a huge kick out of simple things like cat toes spread in a lazy feline stretch. We also look alike- well, except for the tattoos and piercings, of course. That’s my thing, not Mom’s, despite all my attempts to encourage her in the inked direction. I still think the snail on the wrist idea is a good one, Mom.

Like Mamma Wren, I too love to write, although I don’t do quite as much of it as she does. My own writing is split pretty cleanly down the middle between random journal-entry-type stuff and poetry — though I’ve been known to indulge in random ponderings on anything from the meaning of life to the meaning of automatically being handed the fortune cookie with the naughty fortune in it rather than the usual tame stuff handed to Soccer Moms and elderly ladies at my favorite Chinese Restaurant. I didn’t know I gave off that particular vibe, but well, they are entertaining…

Despite my love of the written word, I am first and foremost an artist. I’ll draw on anything. Really. I’ve conjured up spectacular pieces on bare backs and white T-shirts; it’s sort of like Zen, in that the backs are washed clean, and well… ok, only one white T-shirt was Zen-like; my friend’s grandmother took it and burned it (she didn’t like the skulls and horns and the demonic hedgehog in the background, for some odd reason). And that was the best one, too; scribbled out after several beers while watching a Monty Python’s Flying Circus marathon. Remember Dimsby? Or was it Dimsdale? I can’t remember- but that’s what I drew: Dimsby as a redneck with horns (don’t ask why the horns, I just like them) being chased along a skull-on-spike-studded path by the infamous hedgehog. Beer is wonderful.

Sigh. I miss that shirt.

My preferred medium is simple pencil on paper, though I’ve taken quite a fancy to Photoshop over the years. I’ve drawn all my life (much to many teachers’ dismay) and love the feeling of falling into another world where the white-noise of everyday life is drowned out by the sounds that thread and crash and trill through the world in the pictures I draw. Nothing really compares to it, and often times I’ll find myself mimicking the expression of whatever creature evolves on the page. Sometimes it’s good that no one watches me as I draw — they’d call the loony bin at the look on my face reflecting some ugly gargoyle or demon.

My goal, career-wise, is to someday become a tattoo artist. I’m already a shoe-in; my tattoo artist wants to take me on as an apprentice, but he can’t until the shop owner decides they’re ready for one. I’ve been “number one on the list” for several years now. Wish me luck.

At the moment, as is seen on Mamma Wren’s blog, I am indeed the fledgling testing her wings. I will be moving into my very own apartment next month, for the very first time, and I am quite honestly thrilled. I’ll be moving with my boyfriend, who at the moment lives with me and Mamma and Pappa Wren. With the both of us and our various collections of stuff shoved into one tiny room, he, like me, is getting a little anxious to get out and get more breathing space. He’s been a very good sport, and has become almost as good as me at stacking things…

I’m also testing my skills of responsibility (and patience) at my current job. I am unofficially the next in line to be Manager of the Production department of the local newspaper, and am chomping at the bit. As soon as my boss finds a new job, I’m it, unless I get that tattoo apprenticeship first. I have sort of mixed feelings about being a manager; the experience will be priceless, and I’ll be free to run things the way I wish (and I can think of several things that need changing already) and to make absolutely sure that those I work with are quality workers, BUT… But, I’ll have to sit in at the weekly Managers’ meeting amongst other managers whom I do not respect (one of whom I despise with every fiber of my being) and hold my tongue when I know that something they say or do is wrong. I’m only 25(ish), after all, and unfortunately, age is of more import at my work than intelligence. I’ll also be responsible for clashing horns with other managers over mistakes, and although his shouldn’t be a problem as our department is rarely the one MAKING mistakes, we are the official scapegoats, and everything is our fault. Immediately. Without thought. Despite hard evidence to the contrary. Continuously.

Sigh. I’m not exactly looking forward to those bits, but it comes with the territory. Wish me luck there, too?

As for more mundane (or simply eccentric) details, those can be found on my MySpace profile, if you’d care to peruse it: http://www.myspace.com/royos_apprentice). Yes, I know. MySpace is evil. It’s also addicting, and really quite fun if you find the right people, rather than the moronic “I have five bazillion friends already and I want YOU to be my friend too!” people who have obviously read absolutely nothing on your profile beyond your screen name, as you and they have nothing in common beyond the necessity of breathing oxygen. That said, at least take a look for the background image I made for my profile there — I spent a long time on Photoshop on that, and am rather proud of it.

I’m thinking that many of the blogs I post there will be posted here as well, and vice versa, and in fact will post some of my older ones here while I write new blogs. A blog-friend of Mamma Wren’s told her that to be a god blogger and maintain your readers you should attempt to blog everyday, even if it’s just something small and seemingly unimportant.

I cannot promise to blog daily, but I’ll try for at least one a week. I do hope that in my meanderings I can make someone smile, or laugh, or feel anything at all when they read what I write.

And so, let us begin.