Musik: Something In The Way - Nirvana
Kleiden: Purple top, tights and grey skirt
Filme: Tron (Kosinski)
Buchen: The Bible
As you've probably noticed I've been reading the Bible a lot recently. I'm particularly struck with Psalm's 22 and 23, having studied them at hall group. Something about them resonates with me. I was attempting to write seasonal poetry, so have come up with a bizzare mix of those two poems. I'm a fan of intertextuality, however.
It’s a communal gathering of discontent;
The winter of it, in fact.
That’s what I meant.
Everyone makes a pact
To be cheerful, jolly, fat.
I shall not want,
I shall demand at the font;
Demand; why hast thou forsaken me?
‘Tis the season of need, you see!
Why art thou so far from helping me?
This pact is false;
Nothing changes from any other time of year!
I still have my pulse;
But I do not want it, I fear.
My God, I pray thee Lord!
He is not with me in this season of cheer
‘Tis only fear, only fear.
Trouble is near, and there are none to help me.
I am alone, alone, alone
I have no home.
The season of jovial greetings,
Lights, gaudy lights
And mistletoe meetings.
Meaningless now
Because thou hast forsaken me.
Thou hast forsaken me.
23 December 2010
18 December 2010
Pour vivre est de mourir
Musik: The Art of Suicide - Emilie Autumn
Kleiden: Red lacy tights, pinafore dress
Filme: Nightmare Before Christmas (Selick)
Buchen: The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
This poem reminds me a little of the famous Shakespeare monologue 'All the world's a stage' from As You Like It. And the 'Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow' speech from Macbeth. I guess it's a universal theme.
Little, amorphous blob of joy;
Dribbling, puking, shitting;
Miniature fingers, toes and nails
Staring gormlessly,
Blissfully unaware of the world,
Ignorant to the extreme.
What it is to be you!
To know nothing at all but what you see,
To do nothing but follow base desires.
But why wonder at you?
You are new.
You are the same as every other of your kind.
And you shall become the same as everybody else;
Dust.
Wrinkled, defined, wizened figure;
Drooling, coughing, gasping;
Gnarled knuckles, nails and feet
Glaring knowingly,
All too aware of the terror,
The monstrosity that is this world;
Tired of it.
We shall become you.
To age is to carry more and more weight,
Until that weight is unbearable, until it breaks your bones.
You are old.
Grey, fading fast but glowing, glowing
With that spark of life.
Pour vivre est de mourir…
Kleiden: Red lacy tights, pinafore dress
Filme: Nightmare Before Christmas (Selick)
Buchen: The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
This poem reminds me a little of the famous Shakespeare monologue 'All the world's a stage' from As You Like It. And the 'Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow' speech from Macbeth. I guess it's a universal theme.
Little, amorphous blob of joy;
Dribbling, puking, shitting;
Miniature fingers, toes and nails
Staring gormlessly,
Blissfully unaware of the world,
Ignorant to the extreme.
What it is to be you!
To know nothing at all but what you see,
To do nothing but follow base desires.
But why wonder at you?
You are new.
You are the same as every other of your kind.
And you shall become the same as everybody else;
Dust.
Wrinkled, defined, wizened figure;
Drooling, coughing, gasping;
Gnarled knuckles, nails and feet
Glaring knowingly,
All too aware of the terror,
The monstrosity that is this world;
Tired of it.
We shall become you.
To age is to carry more and more weight,
Until that weight is unbearable, until it breaks your bones.
You are old.
Grey, fading fast but glowing, glowing
With that spark of life.
Pour vivre est de mourir…
11 December 2010
Moonlight
Musik: Pretty On The Inside - Hole
Kleiden: Red hoodie and jeans
Filme: Daybreakers (Spierig)
Buchen: The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
This is a poem called Moonlight.
My heart is made of ice,
It can shatter.
It’s hot as a star,
It shall self-combust.
I feel the rays of moonlight,
Reflecting off my skin;
I shiver, and think of you.
An empty lake;
All the water has drained away;
I swallowed it with my pills.
The purity of the numbness,
Leaves me gasping,
Struggling to fill my lungs at all.
My lungs are composed of cold,
Chilly winds pass through them
Like a draft under a door.
If I felt anymore,
The pure volume of the concept,
Would destroy my brain;
It would become a black hole,
Consuming everything in its wake.
If I felt any less,
The emptiness of the void,
Would be filled with shattered glass,
And I would bleed until death.
A mirror-image of myself,
Would create pure joy,
It would create calmness,
Peace of mind.
This being would never know love,
Nor heart-break
But live its life in blissful ignorance.
Kill me, keep her.
She wants to stay forever.
My heart isn’t made of anything,
Because I amputated it.
It out-lived its use.
Kleiden: Red hoodie and jeans
Filme: Daybreakers (Spierig)
Buchen: The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
This is a poem called Moonlight.
My heart is made of ice,
It can shatter.
It’s hot as a star,
It shall self-combust.
I feel the rays of moonlight,
Reflecting off my skin;
I shiver, and think of you.
An empty lake;
All the water has drained away;
I swallowed it with my pills.
The purity of the numbness,
Leaves me gasping,
Struggling to fill my lungs at all.
My lungs are composed of cold,
Chilly winds pass through them
Like a draft under a door.
If I felt anymore,
The pure volume of the concept,
Would destroy my brain;
It would become a black hole,
Consuming everything in its wake.
If I felt any less,
The emptiness of the void,
Would be filled with shattered glass,
And I would bleed until death.
A mirror-image of myself,
Would create pure joy,
It would create calmness,
Peace of mind.
This being would never know love,
Nor heart-break
But live its life in blissful ignorance.
Kill me, keep her.
She wants to stay forever.
My heart isn’t made of anything,
Because I amputated it.
It out-lived its use.
04 December 2010
Monologue
Musik: I Don't Love You - My Chemical Romance
Kleiden: PJs, with big red hoodie
Filme: Public Enemies (Mann)
Buchen: Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe
I don't normally write monologues, due to a traumatic experience in my AS year but I decided to give it another go.
I know you don’t give a fuck about me. This is your job, you do it every day. It grinds on you with a terrible jarring, grating sound like fingernails across a blackboard. You have to sit and listen to every sorry fucker who comes your way. The whole thing bores you; the air around you is like carbon monoxide gas; poisonous and slowly sapping the life out of you. Things are stagnant. You meticulously note down what I am saying. It makes your hand ache. You just wish people would tell you everything the first time round, instead of holding things back as though they were the most personal thing in the world. You wish they knew that their insanity was mundane to you. Nothing shocks you anymore.
When you go home at night it is already pitch black. You are so tired, all you want to do is let the soft sheets of your bed envelope you. Your spouse kisses you softly on the cheek; asks how your day was. But you have nothing to report. Everything blurs into one nowadays.
You sluggishly eat the over-cooked meal that has been waiting in the oven for you for hours. The kids are already in bed; you won’t see them properly until the weekend at the earliest. When you go to check on them they are dead to the world, sleeping like little cherubim. There’s a soft glow of cleanliness surrounding them as you kiss them on the cheeks. They do not even stir.
Years and years you dreamt of this. You remember that first year at university, telling everyone with a blinding glow of pride that you were a medic. Everyone, without exception, was impressed by this. For the first three years you enjoyed every second of it; lapped up knowledge as though it were nourishment. Then, most people left; graduated and began work. But that was okay. You were in it for the long haul.
You had always been interested in the human mind, and so that is what you specialised in. It was fascinating, you loved sitting in on the examinations with the senior doctors. Every case was new and interesting. Finally, after seven long years, you were ready. But ready for what?
You were so well qualified, top of your class, that you got a job right away. This was it. This was your life, and you’d even had time to pick up a partner along the way. A marriage amidst the textbooks. The kids were on the way. You had a house, a nice car. This was it.
Yes, that’s all. All that work and you get to listen to people talking about their problems and you never say a word about your own. Nobody can know the emptiness that is within you, because it should not be there. Your life is perfect. What is there to cry about?
I know you don’t give a fuck about me. You don’t give a fuck about anything anymore.
Kleiden: PJs, with big red hoodie
Filme: Public Enemies (Mann)
Buchen: Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe
I don't normally write monologues, due to a traumatic experience in my AS year but I decided to give it another go.
I know you don’t give a fuck about me. This is your job, you do it every day. It grinds on you with a terrible jarring, grating sound like fingernails across a blackboard. You have to sit and listen to every sorry fucker who comes your way. The whole thing bores you; the air around you is like carbon monoxide gas; poisonous and slowly sapping the life out of you. Things are stagnant. You meticulously note down what I am saying. It makes your hand ache. You just wish people would tell you everything the first time round, instead of holding things back as though they were the most personal thing in the world. You wish they knew that their insanity was mundane to you. Nothing shocks you anymore.
When you go home at night it is already pitch black. You are so tired, all you want to do is let the soft sheets of your bed envelope you. Your spouse kisses you softly on the cheek; asks how your day was. But you have nothing to report. Everything blurs into one nowadays.
You sluggishly eat the over-cooked meal that has been waiting in the oven for you for hours. The kids are already in bed; you won’t see them properly until the weekend at the earliest. When you go to check on them they are dead to the world, sleeping like little cherubim. There’s a soft glow of cleanliness surrounding them as you kiss them on the cheeks. They do not even stir.
Years and years you dreamt of this. You remember that first year at university, telling everyone with a blinding glow of pride that you were a medic. Everyone, without exception, was impressed by this. For the first three years you enjoyed every second of it; lapped up knowledge as though it were nourishment. Then, most people left; graduated and began work. But that was okay. You were in it for the long haul.
You had always been interested in the human mind, and so that is what you specialised in. It was fascinating, you loved sitting in on the examinations with the senior doctors. Every case was new and interesting. Finally, after seven long years, you were ready. But ready for what?
You were so well qualified, top of your class, that you got a job right away. This was it. This was your life, and you’d even had time to pick up a partner along the way. A marriage amidst the textbooks. The kids were on the way. You had a house, a nice car. This was it.
Yes, that’s all. All that work and you get to listen to people talking about their problems and you never say a word about your own. Nobody can know the emptiness that is within you, because it should not be there. Your life is perfect. What is there to cry about?
I know you don’t give a fuck about me. You don’t give a fuck about anything anymore.
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