Weird Package Analogy (pretty crap...)

Sept 5th, 07

How come reality always comes in the frayed manila package?
Why not in the beautiful, intricately perfect one with the cute smile?
God delivers both packages to my door and everyone else's, too.
You can never have both, though, so you have to pick which one to try for today.
It's always the pretty one.
You rip it open and it's always something fun and entertaining.
You play around with it till the next day when you wake up and its gone.
Thats the cruel reminder that it wasn't reality.
So another set of packages come, and you had some fun with the last pretty one and miss it so you choose the pretty one again.
It's always something cool and mass produced like a lap top or a CD player...
Life goes on and the packages get old.
Until you are finally so sick of being without when the sun comes up that you go for the frumpy package.
You slowly untie all the little strings and cut all the tape that holds the box together.
Finally, you lift the cardboard flaps and see a whole pile of junk.
Not disappointed, but confused and slightly curious, you begin to pull stuff out one by one.
Every object is unique and interesting.
These things aren't just amusing; they're fascinating and captivating.
Your enthralled all day and still have more to dig out when you go to sleep.
You wake up and the old box, that now looks cozy instead of worn, is still there.
Just like it will be everyday to distract you from wanting to try a new package.
Until the other pretty packages stop coming all together.

Description of a sad girl sitting across from me.

Sept 5th, 07

This person's been there all along. She's the girl who's name you cant remember when you try to list everyone in your group. Sitting there, clutching her closed Bible with thin fidgety fingers. She laughs nervously at a joke; her eyes shifting as I glance a stare at her uncomfortable little face. Her flat lips close tightly over her retainered teeth as soon as she notices my attention. At an attempt to save her from more silent unselfconscious awkwardness, I slide my eyes to the floor in front of me. There sit her feet. Even her toes scream of some lifelong fear of exposure as they lay curled together on the cold marble. Three different ankle bracelets sit as crowns on top of her pale feet. Seems a little unique and artsy for the likes of her. Maybe she likes art and jewelry. Her neck, ears, and wrists are bare. So, maybe they anklets were gifts or have a special meaning or story behind them. Maybe she has her own special story and maybe it's a really good one. I wonder, though, if anyone will ever no Leah Murn's story.

I feel cruel and out of place at this youth Bible study as I begin to think of analogies for poor little Leah that is now my impromptu muse.

A beached piece of trash discarded on a calm shore of Maine. It's not her fault she ended up there. Given the choice, would she be stuck in the sand, living her day-to-day instinct of a life? Depends on what's behind door number two, but I'd honestly like the think she herself would choose to quietly thrive on her never ending predicament of Mundane. Not that it really matters. Most people will walk by and notice the ocean, sand, and sunset without ever noticing her. Those who do see her aren't happy to because she is only a misshapen lump of half-buried plastic. All it can do is exist without change or improvement until the world recycles it into something newer, shinier, and useful. Except Leah wont be recycled into a shiny new creation. Leah will just die the way she is; no shine.

Script for Sylvia Plath's pre-suicide conversation with an hallucination (Rae)...thought it was interesting

Setting: An empty armchair.

=> Sylvia enters, plugging the doorway with a towel behind her.

Syl:

There. That should keep any death from reaching my sleeping children. (walks towards chair to sit down) Now all there is left is to sit alone with my thoughts for the last time.
(Sits and begins to sway and reel with nausea.)

=> Enter Rae(Wearing white, she sits on a table cross legged)

Rae:

Ms. Plath, what have you gotten yourself into this time?

Syl:

I have done this before, and maybe this time it will work. Dying is not a foe but a friend that so far has refused to comfort me. (Pause) Just for the sake of company, will you stay with me till...

Rae:

You know all that anti-depression, institution time, and shock therapy you took couldn't have worked too well if you want me, your own hallucination from the gas leak you created, sit with you till your latest attempt at suicide takes its course.
This is the 60s! You are a young, successful writer, with a loving family...why not lighten up a bit?

Syl:

(Has begun to slouch in her chair a bit). I'm past my prime, pressed for money and out of work. My husband, Ted Hughes, has left me and isn't coming back. I'm just not a light person.

Rae:

Come on, Ms. Plath. Why not stop all this and just go home to Massachusetts where you grew up, for a bit? Or look for a job at Cambridge University where you got your Fulbright scholarship. I'm sure they would be happy to see you.

Syl:

I don't want to go home or teach. I've said what I've had to say. Three books of what I've had to say to this world and now I'm through.

Rae:

They were good. Brilliant in fact. Your three books; The Bell Jar, Ariel, and, what was it...The Collusus?

Syl:

(Sliding from her chair) They got good enough reviews...

Rae:

(Glancing at Plat with concern) They got great reviews! You've been writing since you were 8 and have only gotten better with time!

Syl:

Maybe you're right. Some one should be coming to check on me any minute, maybe this isn't my time to die just yet. But, everything is just getting so blurry...a little sleep might help...(starts to tip)

Rae:

No sleep. Not just yet. Let's talk about...'The Mirror'! That was always my favorite poem of yours. She was you, wasnt she? The girl in the poem, I mean. (Syl's eyes merely flutter with daze).

Syl:

It's about death. Something I'll soon be painfully familiar with.

Rae:

(Wants Sylvia to hold on a little longer) How'd it go again?
(gets up to hold Syl's hand)
/starts reciting 1st verse with hesitation/
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately...-

Syl:

(cuts in - she is now laying on the floor)
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful ‚
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.

Rae:

Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

(-pauses-)
I think it's time for me to go, Ms. Plath.

Syl:

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.*
(She quietly dies as the last slurred words leave her lips)
* 'The Mirror' by Slvia Plath

it was a long flight...and this is basically crap

The fight is officially on
That lady wont stop
I know she's old
But -ugh- does she have to kick my seat?

Turbulence, what a killer.
I heard the clouds were made up butter
Never heard of them being violent though
So much for innocent explanations' credibility

So dry, so cold, so static
Quality for price? I ask you
I guess I shouldn't complain
First class is for pricks anyways

Four hours to go
Only to board for another long haul
The worlds to small
Going across it in 28 hours
Where is the experience in that

Plots #1 (Kendra Durene)

Kendra Durene comes "home" from her beloved the big city to her childhood, small-town entrapment. Bruised and broken, she goes to the only place she can think of; an old friend's house whom she hasn't spoken to in five years. At first he asks no questions and lets her stay in a back room with the instruments. Over the next few days answers come out and we learn of a powerful ex-boyfriend in New York that she had a bad break up with. Austin and Gary (guys who live in the house) fill in the blanks with the good possibility of long term abuse and maybe even rape in the end. Austin always remembered her as the happy-go-lucky, ready-to-get-out best friend of his high school sweetheart, Becky. Back in the day, Kendra would hug any acquaintance instead of waving, and always stayed up late to listen to him talk about his troubles and 'if only's. Gary wasn't as close to her, but never forgot what bonded them all those years ago; a love of Johnny Depp and Modest Mouse. However, now Kendra mostly keeps to herself, flinches when touched, and listens to more Beatles and Blue October than anyone else in the house knew existed. Sex, drugs, and rock'n'roll is the understated motto of the house, and Kendra who used to be clean as a whistle now pleads all but the first. As the weeks go by, she gets a part time job and eases up a bit. On late nights with Zantex, Kendra tells the boys stories of her impressive lifestyle of the years gone by. Landing a few off-Broadway roles and closet full of published articles paid the bills until she landed a job as assistant to the chief editor of the Village Voice. Still, no amount of whiskey or amphetamines can persuade her to talk about how she came to be so skiddish or who pushed her over.
One day a young man arrives in town looking for an old friend of his named Kendra. Word that she is at Gary's has already spread through the 9,000 town's people twice over, and the stranger is driven to the house by a cousin of Austin's. Showing up at the door with the suspicious explanation of wanting to find his old friend Kendra, the guy is immediatly pummeled by Austin and house-regular, BJ. Thinking that this deceptively strong guy must be the asshole who hurt Kendra, Austin's fist collided with his nose as the mystery man pushed BJ to the ground. Kendra hears the rucus and runs to the door to see her old boyfriend and current bestfriend Tim. Yelling at BJ to get off of him, she flings herself into Tim's arms. Austin is taken back as this is the most physical contact she has had with anyone since she arrived five weeks ago.

Plots #2 (Maureen Asher)

She was the worst girlfriend in the world. Maybe if Maureen dated men that she actually liked she wouldn't end up disappointed and have such a cold reputation. 'Here we go again' was all she could tell herself as she looked into Daniel's blue eyes that were slightly quivering with intoxication. Daniel, with his great hair, lip ring, and strong hands (complete with calluses from drumming), was now sitting in front of her expecting her to return his confirmation of love. She hated to reply at all; the poor guy was an idiot. On top of that, she knew he was lying through his teeth. Love is not something that comes after a few make out sessions and bottle of cheap vodka. Well, at least she didn't think so, but who was the infamous Maureen Asher to say what love is and isn't? She had never been in love and desperately refused to believe that she could fall in love with any number of the hot, horny musicians that she seemed to be limited to. She wanted more, but, at the same time, didn't want to leave the haven of a life she had created. A life where she was wanted and "loved" by frontman after lead guitarist. If she was meant to end up with a musician, Maureen wouldn't settle for any less than being a true Lennon's Yoko Ono. Great hair or not; Daniel was no John Lennon. But he was in a regularly booked band with decent pay, frequently showered, and was an amazing cook. So, in spite of her fading tipsiness, Maureen clicked out of "healthy conscience" mode. Letting the ever so cliched phrase "I love you, too," slide off her tongue like flat beer (in the sense that it couldn't do too much harm, but it still just didn't taste right). A fabrication none the less, her puppy seemed happy with the bone she'd thrown him and leaned in for another deep, "meaningful" kiss. As his lips parted her's, Maureen was affronted with the bitter, charred taste of cigarettes. "She tasted like cigarettes" said Tom Hank's amusingly simple Alabama voice in the back of her head. It didn't take half a second for another clip of Forest Gump to come to her. John Lennon sitting on the Johnny Carson show was now flipping in front of her closed eyes as if mocking the fact that Daniel was now feeling her up. Her Lennon in shining armor would come around someday, she told herself half-heartedly. Maureen withdrew from his destined to be cancerous mouth and surveyed his dark hair for some much needed reassurance as he kissed her neck. Suddenly his hair looked a little too...fluffy-ish. Damn.

Backseat Games

I couldn't take your words
I couldn't 'just let it happen'
It must be real but not to my mind
Something's alive there
But its not what you think

Incapable? Maybe
Inexperienced? Yes and No
Unwanted? Never
But my fucked up heart just cant

I shiver and laugh at the same time
I say its just a game
I wish I wouldn't
I just don't know what I want, honest

My lips move
"What do you want?"
"You" He...you say
All I can jump at is 'bullshit'
Hard to believe; but that doesn't help

Words: pretty, sexy, cute, baby,
and the ever impressive: attractive
Make my eyes roll on their own
I cant even get "like" off my tongue
Not without telling myself it's a lie
Which is complete lie in itself

Puppy love some would call it
Do puppies steal bases, too?
Probably shouldn't go there
More; probably shouldn't HAVE gone there
Maybe I let a little too much 'just happen' this time