Gears of my Flying Machine. By Rachel.

Gears of my Flying Machine. By Rachel.
by Rachel Miracle on Wednesday, 09 March 2011 at 02:41

Am I a different person?



Everyone looks at me like I'm speaking my own made-up gibberish language. Like they don't remember me. I have things I want to say and things that need to be said but I can't make them make any sense. All of my papers are blowing out of my hands and other things keep falling from the clouds.



I am...hesitant. I don't know. I just want certain things really bad and I can't have them and I get all hott and angry and stupid and all that.



So it sucks. I feel like hiding. I feel like playing a magnificent game of hide and seek!



Anyways, I keep waiting for the bamboo to grow and grow and take over the entire room until I have to hire a panda to come and eat the stalk and the leaves (do pandas eat bamboo leaves?) and I will crawl out the window and roll onto the grass and fall to sleep on a preschool mat.



I had a dream last night that I went to a fitness club and taught a dinosaur to drive a car. Only it wasn't really a dinosaur. It was my sister. I think I drove a white car around a bus loop. It was so bright.



I feel strange for writing all of this, but also so at home and welcome. I wonder if anyone will even read it or whether I'm just pouring a glass of juice no one will even drink. It's tasty, but no one will ever know it. It's sad and even a little spooky.



There is a place between the Dreaming and the Waking where all the goblins march in pairs. The pairs are uni-sexual but the lust in their eyes is explosive. I cannot tell you think they think, for they are sacred, but they are deep and intense thoughts. I met a goblin once that ruled my world, only to find out months later that she was only something I created, within my mind, to fuel myself.



What do I do but dream? I want some sort of placid architecture to house myself in.



I do not. I sit. I wish. I love the environment for its being, but it is not what I want.



I want a stream that speaks to me when I walk within it. I want rainbows to bow to me and lift me into the sky, giggling and telling colorful jokes.



I can't understand mortality so I want to get all I can from a plot.



I see only clouds in the sky and clouds under my feet and clouds in my soup.



I cannot understand the Earth when I float above it. My mind is only reels, spinning with unending passion into a world that is not my own. It belongs to them, but they share it with me.



I cannot eat, or breathe. But I feel this.



I can teach you my vocabulary because that's basically all I'm good for. I have many things to do but writing these words isn't one of them.



I AM A SIDE TABLE + DRAWER.



Woe is definately me and I am definately woe. But in other news, there is no other news because this is all there is.



There seems to be a draft, young person. I'm so sure it means something. I threw you some literary curve and I'm being punished with diet creations.



How undeniably queer.



I'm being metaphorical here so keep your pants on.



I was just walking over and the trees were singing and the grass was dancing and the sun was like "what's up?" but I was less than omniscient and didn't see it. I was very much in the way of languishing...languidly... Then suddenly, with unexpected suddenness... The condition I am in presently became known. I am now soulless and immortal and I hunger for things I'd rather not hunger for. I can't go outside during the day. However I'm still just as pale, so no change there.



Some things trouble me. Most of which I read in a book in high school.



Mrs. Spider died in the cold a few weeks ago but Miss Spider is living in a water bottle on the kitchen table.



Currently I can't find who I'm looking for because they are hiding in a board game underneath the chifferobe. Oh how the days go by.



I'm not creatively drunk enough and I just can't be all philosophical now that I've got that cookoo-pants thang goin' on. Then everyone would just get confused.



I'm sure excited about dinner tonight. I'm eating a thesaurus because I'm hungry for something that's similar but not the same as what I usually eat.



I think probably, any minute now, me and my building and all my notebook paper and my blue pen will be swept away. Into the sky. The sky is gray and my stomach is beginning to feel like cotton-candy spinning around in a world of pastels.



What can I do but write when everything around me has became so viral?



People. People, people, people. I'm tired of them, you know that? I'm tired of them and the things they do. I can't be in three places at once. I cannot billocate in the workplace. I have more creativity in my eyelashes than most plebians have in their whole bodies.



I'm running out of things to rant about and that makes me mad.



I'm sorry that everything I come up with falls into your chess-club definition of geek. I'm sorry I don't do what you do. Or think what you think.



But...



Jealousy is real. I think that maybe if you took away all the fake human emotions that we sort of hang around at work and at home and pull out of our stuffy pockets smeared in melted peppermint and speckled with lint and fuzz... There would be jealousy, just driving around in her Jeep, looking sort of pissed but too shy to admit it. Jealousy. I need to find a way to syphen this ultimately violent emotion into a water bottle. Then when I'm thirsty I can take a sip and feel like a normal human being.



Who on this PLANET can forget about a character when it is just so damn vibrant?



But basically. Really. You were right. I mean above all. Above that satellite hanging by a golden thread and the spirits giggling behind my shoulders and the kittens tickling my ankles with their whiskers... You. Were. Right. Do you understand? I mean, you were right. Finding a way to translate this into what you want it to mean and what I want it to sound like it means will be cryptic. Maybe, I don't know, too hard. It's all about figuring out what's right and what causes the thoughts in your head at night that bring those ignrorant dreams. I mean I know what they are. I KNOW what I intend to describe and the pictures I want to paint with vocabulary and sentence structure. But how do I get you to see that too?



What do you see when you look at me? I see a library full of fiction. But then a few shelves, near the back... It's a biography.



Let me ask you something. Are you one of those people that think the world is going to end? I shake my head. No. I know it is.



I work at an icecream parlor. I don't smoke and I dropped out of care. There was this dime glittering on my carpet today and I picked it up.It rained today. There was much in the way of me wishing I was a duck so I could quack about. I have this Superman wallet and it's caused a whole lot of ruckus once. People are all "that's awesome" and "ooh la la" but I've had it for YEARS and the only thing "ooh la la" are french-fries.



Sometimes you want something really bad and so you gain this new-found ability to be bold. I mean if you dream about it and think about it like all the freaking time, suddenly you just want to say something right? It's not exactly malicious behavior. Just curiosity. I'm not at all ashamed.



Long, long, long hair. Smooth lips and perfume. A nymph, or a siren, or a dryad with beautiful diction and a fantastic collection of classic novels. Pale shoulders. Vibrant eyes.



A prognosis I find hopeless gives me the idea of an ending to this fishing and a beginning to this new life of happy. But it's not going to come easy. And I'm not made of wine and cordite. So what's there to forget? And to give and to get?



Illusion tells me that it won't matter. Here I am. Here I'll be. There I go.



I'm a lame loser for thinking it but... Wouldn't it be easier if we were just little cell bodies that simply split apart? I don't think meiosis is sexy. Yet, there is hope while there is kerosene.



I'm writing a book that I like to think is intensely passionate. I call it "romance inside out, smeared on a slightly burnt scone". I'd say what its about but I'm not really ready to tell anyone yet. Sometimes I want to pour myself into creation. But other times...I want creation to pour itself into me. It make me feel as if I have purpose.



Am I amazing? Not so much. But I am hungry and lovable, I guess.



I feel like a naked tornado ripping something apart. Or maybe I'm sitting in a folding chair leaning on 2 legs against a wall. I am a girl getting scared of an apocalypse. And you are?



The ironey that dripped instead of rain from the overhang was bitter. I'm enjoying it because thunder is omnipotent in a sexy way. And life will sing praise directed at me. Or whatever.



I have decided that when small females reeking of demonic legitamacey order small icecream beverages, I will complimentary up-size them. It's a story. And I tell a story like you're my wartime buddy and we're in 'Nam. And now I notice how I just referred to it as 'Nam. And I think maybe it's not okay for people that weren't in 'Nam to call it 'Nam. But I am unable to stop myself from reptitively saying 'Nam. 'Nam, 'Nam, 'Nam.



Sometimes I've noticed that the oreos are merciless and exist on the other side of the room, close to the edge of the table, laughing. They mock me with their being-over-there and my being-over-here. I grow weak from wanting to devour their chocolately beings. If only I had one, I think, elaborately, squiggly with a paintbrush... Life would be good again instead of full of woe and sorrow and a cookie shaped hole that only they can fill. Love would be if you got up and brought them over to the coffee table and THERE they were. Just sitting. Just waiting to be eaten. A beautiful vortex of sparkling light would shine down on them. It would be such a pretty sight. I would feel enlightened and ravenous simutaneously. The Coke in the can before me would be restless and ready to to be swished within the ground corpses of the double stuffs. And, boy, that sounds gross. But it sounds like love.



I was thinking about "The Odyssey" today and I thought... I thought that maybe Odysseus didn't leave to find himself, but maybe because Penelope was nagging him and he wanted some boy time. Pity all his poker buddies were devoured by cyclopes and what-not...



I'm going to put on pajamas and sink into the quick-sand that is my bed. By the way, do I come off as retro-active in my ipod shuffling?



I feel like a parasite sometimes. It's difficult to be so vibrant in a plantoon of charcoal mass.



I think about grapes. Grapes. Pearled scarlets reflecting an aura so smooth, so rubbered, so revered. Then I think about another year of it.



Here's a concept. The adjective used is "stupid" because a person thinks that calling me stupid is justified when everyone else knows I'm not stupid and they're actually stupid for not knowing it too. You want to better yourself and live the life you want to live and blablabla? Nope. You want to whine. Wine and cordite. And other burnable things. Meet my match. Meet your match. This match. Flames.



You know...apple juice is not choosey about who it loves. But it is never going get with her.



And for a while I saw this vision of the perfect mermaid. I see bits of her in other soldiers. But they are covered in paper-mache and I don't believe anymore. I put on some silk. I exist on the boundaires. Mermaid? They don't delve. They die. They break apart...and they die.



What's important in anything is keeping the target in site. The big red one. Ha. Forget that. Don't even shoot arrows. Just waltz up and toss your equipment into the field. And get our your cage.



See. We're in this ocean. And some of us are at the deep, dark bottom. And some of us are on the surface. Floating. Drowning really. But then we remember the other's existance. And we make an effort. Or we don't. We do or we don't. It's all relative. The ones at the bottom can swim up and dry out on the shore. Or the ones on the surface can swim down, lose their breath, run out of strength and die inside. Slowly. Then they can let go. And swim back up. The pressure will lessen. They'll stop being crushed. And they can go back to treading water. The one's on the surface? Yeah they'll dry up. Like pancakes.



There is no comfort. There is no companionship. There are moment where you forget this and become brain-dead like everyone else. We must never let the last bit of dust land on the floor and rest.



How am I? I'm okay. Thanks for asking. How are you?



I think it's really sad about Lindsay Lohan.



There are a lot of lesbian couples. Librarian lesbians. Lesbian bestfriends. Emo and rich kid lesbians. Gargoyle and sculptor lesbians. Lesbian lesbians. Lesbian explosion lesbians. Boy-girl lesbians. Boy-boy lesbians. Cats. Potato chips. Mushroommushroomsunami.



And sometimes I'm all, KNOW WHAT YOU'RE GOING TO ORDER YOU CORNBREAD HILLBILLY! Go take a bath and learn to spell your name, you gargantuan bigfooted SLoth. I don't have time for your ignorant, slow-pronunciated speech patterns. And while you're at it, stop reproducing, because I can't take any more of your spawn coming in here and snotting all over the counter. Just...Go home to your She-Wife and tell her you're "eatin' good tonight" since, due to the fact that you had no idea what the heck you wanted to order...I assumed you wanted Onion Cheesecake. Nom. NOMFREAKINGNOM.



Don't you think it's strange when you have a lot to say but all you manage is "uh."? I'm not really sure why. Surely I would learn from my misgivings? But, ahahahaha, I don't.



I could freeze time and buy a creamsicle and sit with you under the stars. I could watch asteroids collide and you could lean your head on my shoulder. I could put my arm around your shoulders and speak such things as rhymes and the cataclysmic nothings of my impervious tongue. I could caress your senses with compliments, ignite your whimsical connotations... People could tell tales of my greatness! I could hold you and write epic poetry of your splendor. I could dream of existing on the farest reaches of stride and embrace. Fifty men could swoon! Realization of being a godess! Personified beauty! But all romantics meet the same fate. All love ends in tragedy. So let's just hang out.



When we have really bad days and we don't want to go on we have to think about beauty and love and hope growing within us until we burst.



I am not a profitable person. I can't turn trash into treasure and I can't turn your left overs into a dessert. There is only liquid and everytime I pour a glass it dissolved into my gears and I think- Maybe I'll just waver?



Riding in a little blue ferarri I see myself as unharvested sugarcane. There are water reeds all around me and they crystalize and come swim below my roots. You do whatever weather-vanes do. I would like to be shiny.



Spiraling.



Days and nights are kinda like pouring tea. There's the smelly bit where it's the porcelain pot and then smellier bit where it's in your cup and you're expected to be drinking it now. I don't like tea.



If I met a person on the street with four or six eyes and like twenty-four mouths I would think it was funny to look and them and I would seriously die of the what-the-hecks.



Mostly I'm just dreaming but there's a whole lot of real in me too when I forget about that.



Things make it hard to focus on focusing. These things are loving people, knowing you can't be with them and licking the choices you've made. I mean your wounds. I mean an icecream cone. Above all things...I'm below everything else.



You know, one day after the football games and the jumping up and down in the tiny-skirts...I'll be ruling the world with my evolved intellect and the little teeny-bopping-cheerleaders will be clutching their yearbooks, wishing that Robert Pattinson was still attractive. Or ya know, had ever been attractive.



Oh relax Snuffy...Here. This is me. I know that sometimes I just have to let it go down. Some people are only after conquest. Because they are crafty. And sticky with glue. And it happens. It ALWAYS happens.



What you need to know about saving someone is that you can't. Ultimatums make everything sound so easy. But you're just going to keep falling all over yourself like you have no bones in your body and life isn't going to choose your tomorrow. When they pull you out of the water there won't be any ropes. There will be a reflection in your eyes. Headlights. So here's what you do. Stand up. Breathe deep. And say "Okay."



I think people could generally get a lot more done if the world went celibate for a year. Like fortification is denied completely by the king. Or law, or whatever. No sex fo you buddy. Keep it zipped up in your trousers. I just want to cuddle and watch Parent Trap on repeat until I die.



I think people are people. Some people evolve quickly. Think about how they change! Ridiculous. People weave through each other!! Sometimes...Sometimes you have to take a drink. Get a new drink. Refill your glass. Or whatever. Love is like a liquid that evaporates and is swallowed and spills all the time.



People are generally indecisive, I've found. They're not sure what to wear, or what to cook for dinner. Or about which person they'd rather bang for forty-five minutes in the back of a four-door Toyota Corolla. People are generally stark-raving mad.



Take me by the hand and we'll precariously balance on this extreme balancey thingy and wonder what we should do.



There is not a great story here. Falling in love takes merely seconds. It's so insignificant. It has no definition. It means nothing. But you are brilliantly beautiful. Outstanding.



I don't know what I mean and what I don't mean anymore. I mean I could quote Sylvia Plath here and be all epic and dark and twisted. But I'm not going to. Because acting like a kid doesn't make me young again.



My arrow is broken. I'm directed at one target and it keeps moving so I just go skidding through the open air and land in this itchy field of alfalfa and weat and stuff and lay there and hope the target will pauge for a minute so I can jump up and tackle it. My metaphors suck okay? See I can't even write one anymore because all I think about is you. I mean them. I mena the target. And hitting it dead on and making it crackle break from the center and spiral shards outwards, raining that same, empty field. But I've pinned a pin up. And so. And so. And so. When I forget about you. Her. She. They. It. The target. Me as an arrow. All of it... I love it. I love me. I love directing. I love what I've become.



And you were never there. And I needed a friend. You can pump my gas. You were perfect until you stomped me under your jackboot and called it art. And it's apparently all okay. Rainbows and smiles. Yeah. Whatever. You are numbers. Nameless numbers.



I'm not going to take it anymore. I like who I am.


Now that I have all those words out. It's just me now.



Go. I'll find my own way out.



392011