From: owner-eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org (eda-thoughts-digest) To: eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org Subject: eda-thoughts-digest V3 #256 Reply-To: eda-thoughts@smoe.org Sender: owner-eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org Errors-To: owner-eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org Precedence: bulk eda-thoughts-digest Thursday, July 6 2000 Volume 03 : Number 256 * If you ever wish to unsubscribe, send an email to * eda-thoughts-digest-request@smoe.org with ONLY * the word unsubscribe in the body of the email * . * PLEASE :) when you reply to this digest to send a post TO the list, * change the subject to reflect what your post is about. A subject * of Re: eda-thoughts-digest V3 #xxx or the like gives readers no clue * as to what your message is about. Today's Subjects: ----------------- ET: exploding flowerlights (aka.. happy fourth..) [RJonthego@aol.com] ET: thanks!! [RJonthego@aol.com] ET: An ode to society ["Claudia" ] ET: another poem ["Claudia" ] ET: I hope this is a dream(poem) ["Seth D. Fulmer" ] ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Date: Wed, 5 Jul 2000 01:11:14 EDT From: RJonthego@aol.com Subject: ET: exploding flowerlights (aka.. happy fourth..) ~Happy Fourth~ we don't do anything half way the loud noise hurts and my dog hides, shivering my head pounds but the colors entrance no we don't skimp but we sure can't make up our minds why does something so beautiful sound like there is a war going on? ~~ i am trying so hard to remember last year what i was doing where i was who i was with you we were together and i was alone that much i recall but did i see the beauty in the sky-- or was i too preoccupied by the noise? did i cry, last year, i wonder was i happy lonely content i am too busy tonight wondering what last year was to feel anything myself another night fades into wondering oblivion the pattern that will rise again next year. ~~ there are sirens more tonight than any other night every year car alarms their owners far away enthralled in explosions not hearing them left behind like a warning no one hears i find myself thinking that gunshots are well masked tonight bombs could be dropped tonight and no one would flinch fires are being started tonight the car alarms hysterical and no one is listening no one seems to notice that there are more sirens tonight than on any other night all year. ~ these exploding flower lights don't entrance me as much as they did when i was 7 when i screeched and ran down the familiar street in darkness and bare feet rejoicing in the noise i could make outside at nine pm after my bed time. Or even at 10 when i slapped the pavement in my sandals as i ran to find a better spot where i could see the lights and i felt old because i could remember seven and squealing. Now my dog shakes and shivers and runs under the car i am in bare feet again wondering about broken glass wondering if there is room under the honda for me too. These exploding flower lights don't entrance me like they did when I was seven and screeching. ~~~ roya "Love takes hostages." ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 5 Jul 2000 01:14:28 EDT From: RJonthego@aol.com Subject: ET: thanks!! Hey everyone, thanks a bunch to all of you who sent me quotes. Those were great! I've saved them all - and put them in my quotes book. So once again... thank you!!!! Roya now that I've got so many, i can't decide which one to use as a sig line "I like to torture my plants by watering them with icecubes." ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 5 Jul 2000 15:04:37 +0200 From: "Claudia" Subject: ET: An ode to society You only fear the corruption of the dark and don't see how much beauty and grace surround you while you yell at the moon to go and shine somewhere else. You wear your prejudices as if they were a crown of glory and laugh at me, at the way i cling to simple things and i still cry honest tears. ~Love does not consist in gazing at each other but in looking together in the same direction.~ - - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 5 Jul 2000 15:11:22 +0200 From: "Claudia" Subject: ET: another poem I'll be your sweet squaw spirit, i'll dwell on the highest peak of your conscience teaching you the gift of silence sending you waves of wisdom. I'll open and shut the doors of day and night guided by the dance of your eyes, i'll hang up new moons in the sky and cut up the old ones into stars to give you every night the joy of tasting a lovely heaven you only find in your heart. I'll make your dreams float in the air like little flakes of light until the heat of the sun dissolves them into a sturdust fall that gently showers you with love and peace and heals your old wounds with a cosmic touch. ~Love does not consist in gazing at each other but in looking together in the same direction.~ - - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 05 Jul 2000 19:02:34 -0400 From: "Seth D. Fulmer" Subject: ET: I hope this is a dream(poem) Hey everyone :) Not much to say...If you don't want to receive my poems, just lemme know...Any comments, questions, suggestions, and flames are welcome but not required...Take care of yourself and Have a Great Day! :o) - -Seth ==================================== I hope this is a dream by Seth D. Fulmer 7-5-00 Am I trying too much? Is it just my fault? Why is nothing working out the way that I have planned it? She did love me, she said so She now is blunt and doesn't talk Was this a love spell? or just an evil curse? Did Cupid have some target practice and got her lungs or instead of her heart? Seeing my ugly face in the past has had its many negative effects movies with guys like me who have crushes never should be viewed by minors She does have a way about her a lovely angellic voice many many aspects that she puts on display but she controls strictly the hours of viewing Satan places in my path of life many other tempting choices girls who have a similar situation and those who live near but so far Those who live near me and yet are so mean Those are just the worst Sometimes I want to die Why can't the gods just leave me alone? I feel like it's a midsummer night's dream If that's true..pinch my ass girl Maybe I'll feel it and wake up ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 5 Jul 2000 22:40:00 -0400 From: Nondescript Subject: ET: Epileptic I don't know what a doctor should call me if he were to label me and smother me in formaldehyde. But I do know that given the opportunity, I would swallow that juice and wait, biding my time, until he opened it to see what had gone wrong. And then I would spit it at him, a fountain of sticky preservatives, an upside-down acid rain for his face. But that's just the way I am. The idea of being someone's pet has always snatched me like a serpent--venomous and infamous for being dangerous; yet fanging with intimacy. A kiss of death, and all out of love, darling. And here I am, cautionless and free of intimacy. Thank God. It is like sky-diving. The notion always excites me, but if I were to actually do it, it would cost too much money for too short a moment, and I could not fathom making a lifetime out of that dizzying freefall. Not that I am the sort of girl who hangs and dangles easily, mind you. No, my shoulders do not resemble fine little peaches, ready to be plucked. My hair is not a Chinese fan, stirring the breeze. I am a slice of hurricane; the eye, the least troublesome piece, cut away with a blunt scalpel. I am the sort of girl who likes to stand on sighing pavement on those hot, withery days that can make eyelashes wilt. I thrill in the feeling of being a blade of grass, collecting dew, collecting sun. Until I recall that doing so causes cancer. Well, dammit. Everything causes cancer these days. I'd be willing to bet that love is that greatest cancer-causing mosquito of all time. I am not usually this way, not often so bitter. But I've played the villain for sixteen years, and I'm wearing to the role now. It's starting to mold to me, the way mud cakes and bakes, where before it once felt slippery and sweet as sinful kisses on vulnerable skin. Men are just that way, and like freckles, they only get bolder with exposure. Sometimes I would just love to let the world see into my skull, and show those testosterone-clad mysteries the true atrocity that is my mind. A harbor for suicide, cadavers, wild primitive passion, femininity at her worst. Raw, unfiltered judgement backed by violins pleading mercy. My only home, attached to my strangleable neck. Yes, the same neck that has been clutched by man's hands. The same neck that I clawed at, desperate to obtain under my fingernails when I realized, truly and fully, that I could never be like those girls. You know the kind-witty, bold, lovable, beautiful at all angles and capable of being so casually bored when they are busy appearing like a sensation. I cannot even control my neurological impulses. My thoughts jump back and forth, a rabid dog's tail wagging without reason. My mind is overworked, I use one half too much and the other side just gets as dull as a spoon or wasted as a lawnchair. The safest thing are my pills, a peachy-orange with alien lettering on them that mean nothing to me. A small and powerful gestapo, they are my goose-stepping angels. Well, they smell like vanilla extract, but I wouldn't suck on them for a guarantee of silken life. I try not to think about anything when they leap down my esophagus-- eager, stupid gazelles that they are. They keep my knees from becoming soft as paste. They hold me back from falling, so I am always one step away from the steamy edge of a nighttime cliff, the seaside sort that is quiet only during the day. But I know when they let go. I know when the grin turns sinister and I can feel my mind screaming. Holy, holy, Christ, holy holy--I think it over and over, because if I concentrate on something I can fight it. Three times three is nine, three times four is twelve, and I think all my tables, all my routines in my mind to hold back Chaos. But I can't fight forever. And that's when I sink into it, sobbing, until I realize my sobs become mutilated as my face goes numb. I fall then, and after that I can't realize anything until after, when I wake up on a gurney, strapped down like a fugitive shot in the leg by a police officer. It's always the waking up that kills me. And my friends are crying because they've never seen a living seizure, now helpless with an oxygen mask to her face. I try to shove it off, because at least I know damn well enough that I can breathe without anyone's help. But lifting my hand is just too overbearing, and it feels like dead weight. So I'll try to shout at them to go away, that all I need is some sleep, not a baker's dozen pairs of worried eyes on me, wondering if I'm about to die. But my mouth is not complying to my will anymore. And then, I want to laugh. I feel sorry for them, even as they look at me with that pity that I loathe. They don't know what I know. I died half my lifetime ago. So I guess what I'm trying to say is the rust of everything is finally going to my head. The tradition of falling and foaming, like a stormy sea--it ceases to frighten me. It makes me want to tear apart the roots digging into me like I'm an untended and neglected garden bed. The veins, the fingers--I just want to shred them and leave them as raw nitrogen for the dirt. I am sick of being under ground, drinking the fretful water of runoff. Love--what do I know or care for this? I am the twisted psyche everyone either pities or despises. I am never fed envy or lust, and too much concern is suffocating, stealing my oxygen before I can take it. I am my own personal hell, and my seizures are a schizophrenic's best and worst confidantes. I take them as they are given to me, gift-wrapped demons from God, and I thank him with a curtsy in my best Easter dress before being placed on the gurney. For once, I would like to climb onto it and strap myself down. And when they come at me with the oxygen mask, I would like the chew it to a thousand and seven pieces. And for just once, I would like to wake up to laughing and a cup of tea (in a porcelain cup, no less) offered my way. I would like to wake up in the arms of some man I do not know and do not have to talk to, but only haze over as I paint plums on his eyelids. Then he would chuckle, giddy amidst the hullabaloo, and place two hesitant mourning doves in my mouth. - -Annie (Yes, I really and truly am an epileptic. Isn't that just pee-your-pants exciting?) ------------------------------ End of eda-thoughts-digest V3 #256 **********************************