The Next Chapter

I’m onto something new, something in-between. Something soft and something hard, not quite one, can’t be called the other. A mix, a glorious melody starts a new chapter of me, a page I just turned in my sleep. Let my life sing a new litany, weaving the old one with wild, reckless strains of youthful but mature tones. I won’t be like this forever, because it’s just an in-between, but hey! Anybody cares more than I do! Neutral is my favorite fad, and “V” is my favorite letter. Positive, but off – that slight odd influence that I love, that makes you feel uncomfortably like there is more out there. I scratch the surface of the ocean that calls me, but it is as deep as the sea, of course. Always something deeper! It will never end, going around in a slightly slanted spiral. Iffy is fine, with me, as long as it’s bold and black and white. Doesn’t make sense, you say? Oh really? Just change your picture frame of mind, and look through a new window! You see, it’s all about perspective! That off note is the beginning of the new melody, the one I’d been preparing for forever, just not suspecting anything out of the ordinary. But what is ordinary? Perfection is ordinary, and therefore, perfection is boring. Wild colors you have never seen before haunt me in the sweetest way, and a bump on the head is a trophy. If you think I’m insane, go ahead, take me to the asylum and I’ll dance and have tea parties with all the lovely people there, and sneak out through the golden window of opportunity behind your back when you just thought I had settled in. Mismatched socks are welcome at my ball, but if you wear glass slippers, try the stained glass: the colors are much brighter than the dull, clear glow of drinking glasses. Butterfly wings on an oil slick, hello, there, where are you going today? I’m off to see the world! I just have to dive through an old TV, and Technicolor is going to draw the line and define black and white. Discordant keys on a piano are my lifeblood, and they sing and stretch through my system like nectar and ambrosia. Plain was getting to me, and I needed that turn in the road as much as the road suspected it needed it itself. Let go of negative, because it is much to exhausting to hold on to. Don’t you feel the travel in your bones calling you to faraway places? Them come on, let’s run into a rustic orange and red sunset, and emerge out of a vintage cream-and-gold sunrise, laughing at ourselves for being silly. If you won’t, then farewell: perfection is ordinary, and therefore, perfection is boring. 

Mary Doodles and Apologies, once again

I'm so sorry I can't seem to find the time to post anymore!
I had an awesome summer camp in which many interesting and sad and wonderful things happened, and then I got my new bow. I got back on the fourth from SoCal, and now I don't have any abstract shorts to give you.
But!
I found a Youtube channel I really liked!
Here is a sample video!

Her name is Mary Doodles and if I had money and her email, all of her art would be on all of my walls.
So, check that out, and hopefully in the eight days before my next summer thingy I have to do, I can get you some abstract shorts.
Please love me patiently,
Ivey/Becky

Relentless

The beat of life pulses through me. Relentless. Lights flash through fog, and some dance, while others see monsters and run. Relentless. It chases those who run, haunting their thoughts. Relentless. I will never let you go. You will always stay with me. Relentless. The fangs of summer will come down and envelop you like a letter that says both goodbye and afterward. Relentless. The skyline of the city is the profile of my face. Relentless. Say goodbye to the axe, and come with me. Relentless. Lens flares overstated my point of view, and my eyes will drill a hole into you that will sink into eternity. Relentless. Grinding and gnashing of eyeteeth, sharpened to needlepoint speed. Relentless. Vibrations of color and sound enclose and display a dancing figure skater. Relentless. Does nothing make common sense to you? Relentless. I am falling through the dark into the next era of life, and I like it. Relentless. One thing into another, another day, alone together, sharp lines on a cutting skateboard. Relentless. Pulsing through me. Relentless. You will never go. Relentless. Go ahead; go away; far away in another dry land; as far as the eye can see; the apple of my eye; a poison apple. Relentless. It will never stop. Grinding my bones together, crushing my life for the elixir of the young, mortal gods. Relentless. A laundry line turns to flat line: white lines sear my flesh, holding me back as I champ at the bit. Relentless. Black and white and grey turn to red. Relentless. The end is inevitable, invisible, immoral, irrelevant, irritant, insidious, incredible, insipid. Relentless. 

My First and My Last

Can anything really compare to pure sound? Waves of emotion washing away emptiness like the flotsam and jetsam of my brainwaves, influenced by the rising of moons circling worlds other than the one I live in. Nothing will prepare you for my mind, and nothing can. Dystopian eras rise and fall in the realm of the Empress, and she wisely decides to let time take its toll. Her Guardian, the King in her heart and the Prince in his world, chases away the sadness like the wind chases the russet leaves of autumn, while the Lord of Foxes sees all and partakes of nothing but the best the world has to offer, included in nothing while influencing everything. The Emperor of Dragons, while a Lord in my land, my mind, guards thoughts and hearts from evil, though not the darkness. And the last, the quiet, the simple Healer, content to stay in the background, content to never stand out, but always there, always watching, never judging. Paramount importance means nothing, when my world flies as straight as the shaft of my arrow. Hands emerge out of the darkness and stretch out, imploring for help, for mercy, for blood and food, for souls, and I turn them all away. A straightjacket of iron envelops my thoughts, but it is one of my own devising. I need it, when a stray thought can pluck a stream from the flows of time ad matter, flinging them out into grey space, or ravage a world, splitting it in half and hurling it to places I would not wish anyone to be. Ever shall I remain, while my blood flows in another’s veins, and never will you see the end of it. My worlds are without end, and they are merely the gemstones in my crown, my coronet. Imperial and eternal, mysterious and ethereal, strange and familiar, haughty and distant, suave and slick. Such a way with words, and so sharp at times, you could slice yourself in half without a second thought. Neverchange everchage: the ocean, the desert, the caverns, the face of the moon. Winding through the lives of others like a ribbon threaded through jammed machinery. Look, make notes, but don’t remember: save your memories for things that you can understand. Things no one can understand will be shown to everyone in their small lifetimes, and some will break the barrier down through sound, through scratches on an old piece of wood, through art, through athletics, through anything, but the majority will see, and forget. Neverremember Everremember. 

Just a Room

Curvy and straight, black on white, bright on dark, contrast and compliment. The circular patch of dry-wall on the ceiling is white washed, with a steel rim and steel flush lights. Rough stone gives to smooth floor tiles and overhead glass. Striped purple walls and lightwood doors dare each other to look out of place. Couches and sofas follow the curve of the carpet sunk into the tiles. Long beams of dark cherry wood run above us. Flush wall lights look like they are dripping rusty metal bubbles. Spotted trumpet like-lights hang suspended in midair from the ceiling. Flashy black and white tiles line a counter topped with smooth white marble. Tall red chairs line the counter, stretched against the black and white divide in the floor. Odd placement of sharp and soft objects, juxtapose and parry. Never really knowing what will come next, which mad fancy of the designer will impose itself onto the physical world. But it is easy to walk out, of course: it’s just a room. 

The City Never Sleeps

The city quickens, its breath speeds up. It gazes on the sun, coming up over the horizon. It is not fully awake – it will not truly awaken for hours yet – but it is starting to become more aware. The city never sleeps. It might lie silently in the small hours of the morning, but it never sleeps. There is always someone awake in it, flowing through its veins, and as long as even one of its denizens is awake, the city never sleeps. When it becomes fully conscious, sometime around noon, the pulsing crowd drive and walk around, and the city sings. It sings many songs, but mostly of its giant heart. The city sings, and shouts. It shouts of advertisement, whispering quietly on a bus bench, yelling on signboards, and screaming aloud in vast banners draped over its bones, the buildings and tall towers. The city shouts, and as night falls, it begins to change once again. The city is alive in a different way at night: it pulses, it dances, and it whispers more than it yells or screams. Its pulse pounds at a party, and sighs across sleeping buildings. As long as one person is awake, though, the city never sleeps. And there are always people who are awake in the small hours of the morning, the people who keep 24/7 stores and restaurants running, the people you never see. They will be gone, in the morning, with other people to take their place. But through it all, the city sings, and it shouts, and it pounds with its own pulse. The city never sleeps. 

Maybe Yesterday, Maybe Today, Maybe Tomorrow

I met myself in a mirror yesterday,

And I tried to look over my shoulder,

But someone was there yesterday,

Guarding my back, like a soldier.

I met you in a mirror yesterday,

And I wished you wouldn’t go.

But when I met you in the mirror yesterday,

I wanted to start slow.

I said “Hi” to you yesterday,

And we danced together.

When we met in the mirror yesterday,

My soul started to get warmer.

I met myself in a mirror today,

And I tried to look over my shoulder,

But a memory was there today,

Driving me forward, like a sheepherder.

I saw you in a mirror today,

But you weren’t really there.

I saw you in a mirror today,

And I wished that you were here.

I waited for you today,

I saved the last dance for you.

But after waiting today,

I felt that you would wait, too.

I will meet myself in a mirror tomorrow,

And I will look over my shoulder.

I will meet myself in a mirror tomorrow,

And I hope that you will be there.

And when I look in a mirror tomorrow,

It will be a new day.

And we will both be older tomorrow:

Older by a day.

And maybe we will dance tomorrow,

And throw the world away:

When I meet myself in a mirror tomorrow,

I will know what you will say.