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Undefined Reality

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...fft. [19 Sep 2005|01:07am]

Sometimes I wish my art was as famous as the art this guy my father used to write to was.

Then I wonder if I would have to be incarcerated for killing people, too, in exchange for it.

And at times like that, I just laaaaugh.

Of course, it would also help if I wasn't deathly afraid of people seeing my work and then deciding I should be locked away in a loony bin.

Isn't it funny, the sort of religion people find?

The left side of my head is burning. I think I made a mistake somewhere and should probably stop scratching it. But my hair feels so soft when it's wet like this. Stains on your fingers and lint in your thumbnail.

Maybe I should take up drinking.
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We Want you! [18 Sep 2005|02:39pm]

[ mood | dirty ]

Art? Join the revolution

Join our community as Well!

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Hello? [02 Apr 2005|06:45pm]

Is anyone in this community around anymore?
3 epiphanies| Hear your muse

[30 Nov 2004|02:10pm]

[ mood | aggravated ]

Rain falls upon a face that holds nothing but paths of dried tears. To cleanse the soul it attempts to wash away whatever filth that has gather upon the surface. Dirt and grim blocks the senses, blinds the eyes to see if there is any truth to the matter before hand. Nothing ever changes, nothing evey seems to become better. Everything is just buried, like a forgotten past, a forgotten lie, ashamed it hides behind the curtain of deception that a lover gives to his bride. A lover that said that happiness is a virtue that has nver been given to him with such purity and grace. Yet the bride has suffered so, made to walk a beaten path, to fight and and withstand the horrors he has given to her constantly. Then why does the white dove that represents her love, has been given to this groom of never understanding doubt. Why does she put forth so much faith is the untrusting lover of lies and decete? No one can understand why she feel the need to stay, the need to love a blank mannequin. She is lost inthis world, to far in that there is no turing back, not right now, not untill the lies are raised to the surface so there is at least closer in the matter.

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[27 Aug 2004|04:40am]

Flowing like the water, the thoughts have no end. The mistakes are done, and over with. That time spent has ended. Right now the butterfly flew over a garden that it was not allowed into. Only to be tempted by the scent of the deadly rose. So carelessly did the butterfly, who has for so long worried about it's nector. To collect from only those it trusted. Flies ignorantly towards the trap. The sweet smell of sugar, the whispering chanting breeze. It was all to perfect to, almost suspicious. This is what the butterfly longed for. To find that one nector that it could not resist. Unknowingly it comes with a price. What was the price. So cautiously it moved towards the bitter sweet sent. Ingulfed in the presence, a moth to the flame. It's mind flutters until it is fogged with every delight. The Smell was sweet, it could not resist. On the pedals in stood, reading to drink it wanted reward... only to find out it was trap. The rose it fell in love with, has now turned into it's enemey... the venuse fly trap. Ther is no escape from it's grasps. The wings torn and broken, but maybe this was the end that the butterfly wanted. The finale of the beauty caught in it's own temptation.
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Juggler [25 Jun 2004|03:04am]

Tumbling over under, dancing on the edge of a thread, touching my threshold for what I am.
Thoughts pouring through my mind, indisposal, predisposal, indefinite reality of what is. What you can see and touch; is that real? Or, as these are things interpreted through your mind, is the unreality more real? They are all impulses, thrusters of electric springs drawing out then striking back. BAM a memory is born. BAM a reversal of what you knew. BAM a new java script for your interaction with the species you claim relation to. But was this all real, or was it, very possibly, a misinterpretation of your brain; is black really red and cars, donkeys? Are all that we see shadows on the cave walls, or is that a misunderstanding as well?

Are we the shadows, and developing our own view of the world through what we think it should be?

-this brain slop brought to you by insomnia
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These things. [17 Jun 2004|11:43am]

Rusted and wished to be long forgotten. Infected with hatred and covered in carmillion yellow pus. The crimson stained the white lace dress of a girl who isn't a girl for long. ripped at the seams, she walks down the beaten raod of what she calls her own personal hell. She ask god many times, "why didn't you let me into heaven?" When he was ready to pluck her from the garden so many years ago. The scar slowly bleed open, as her delicate procilin hand guids the temptaion of metal against her infantile skin. "To you." she annouced, looking up at the Virgin Mary, who seems to weep for all eturnity. But nothing is returned, as the tears fall down, and attempt to wash the crimson off the lace. She still wonders, down that dirt path, only hoping to find the walk way to the end. All she sees is the unwanted darkness, with every step she attempts, with worn and withered shoes. Staggering like a drunkard, coming home from the pub to a beaten half dead wife. Intoxicated with lies that fill her self, she hold tight to the only thing she knows in certain in this fabled fairy tale world. The only truth is that she often regrets living, feeling as if no one really cares for her. Yes, the whispers tell her other wise. So what of the ruby glass slippers he had promised her? The ones that will guider her surely to her destination of paradise? They have torn and lost their glow, for nothing, she only is disgusted by the thought of what she did to recived them. So she stills Walks along the path of self-degrating fantacies. Maybe one of these days, the rusted razor blade memories will finnaly bring her the life she always wanted.
1 epiphany| Hear your muse

[29 May 2004|11:50am]

hi! i have an interesting collage using mixed media such as multiples of photographs and other objects. it was made by this guy i called "orpheus." it is the LAST PICTURE (#16 to be exact) among the the 16 pics displayed. you can see it on andrew's website:


Posted comments and criticism are appreciated. thanx - a grace
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[26 May 2004|03:43pm]

I am doing more collage and writing pieces and veering off a bit from the "art deco on acid" - my influences lately have been influenced by collage, arabic and greek writing, cats, and people - who i shall name by the pseudonyms i created for them "the nurturer," "rumplestiltskin," "stathis the strange," and "orpheus" (who got me to join this dada/ surrealism writing focused group).

to see more of my new stuff - go to this link on Andrew's website:


posted comments and criticism under the pictures are welcomed, read, considered, and appreciated. they help give me new ideas.

thanx, a grace
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Everything You Know Is Wrong: an essay on pre-adulthood by the Gothvark [24 May 2004|03:23am]

[ mood | sleepy ]

There are few things more upsetting than waking up one day and realising that everything you know and are is fake. There is also, no doubt, few things more releasing.
Honestly, though; your friendships are imaginary, the only friends you keep are digital or over the phone lines, you life has no direction or meaning, save, maybe, in the service of those who have you by the balls because you thought they'd give you a little freedom.
No friends, no life, no hope.
You don't even have a sexual drive or the care/respect of those around you. You are the worthless extra cog in the working machine; you didn't even escape that through adolescence.
You do have something, however. What you do have is one massive headache and a washing machine full of your dirty underwear. There is also 1 1/2 percocets swimming through your stomach. You only wish absorption was faster, or that you had the foresight to crush and draw it into you sinuses. All the while, sitting, wondering, repeating what has become a mantra: Why didn't I take that leap to Savannah?

One Fish.
Two Fish.
Red Fish.
Blue Fish.

- written on a piece of toilet paper while seated on a washer between 12 and 1 a.m., brought to you by the wonders of machines. first entry in esoteric_space

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[23 May 2004|03:13pm]

hello, i manufactured more art deco on acid pieces. You can see them on Andrew's website at:


Criticism and comments posted on there are read and appreciated. thanx - a grace
Hear your muse

[21 May 2004|11:59pm]

hi, i'm new to the community. i dabble in art since january. i love making strange dolls out of clay with multiple body parts or missing body parts. you can see it on andrew's website at this link:


please post comments/ criticism under the pics - thanx - a grace
2 epiphanies| Hear your muse

[13 May 2004|02:00am]

So many things are going on right now, my thoughts are spinning out of control. Really I don't know where I am, lost in this world. I always feel alone. I can't see my feet anymore, they are lost in the sand. I hear the ocean winds that call out to me, but my fear of letting go doesn't allow me to lose myself in the murky water. I don't know what to do, I can't see anymore. This blindness in comforting untill I hear someone elses voice in my bubble of ignorance. They beckon me to open up and try to be myself but in the end nothing is really accomplish. I'll never tell the world what goes on in these thoughts. Never say that you are beautiful, it confuses your reflection. But yet again... this feeling of losing myself is wanted and dislike at the same moment the the feeling is birthed. Sighing and looking out at the sea, when the horizon is no longer visible because the grayness of the water melts with the grayness of the sky. That is how it is all veiw. Gray. I asked to become gray, and now that I finnaly accomplished it, it seems that I want the later. "Never satisfied", said the Craine to the fox, tempting him with her neck. Flutting her feathers in an extravegant dance of false pretences. Yet it seems keep her company. In this land, bordem runs rampent. THe feeling, no the need of finding a new place to call home. Growing larger every second, untill it soon explods like a weak dam, flooding the planes of stability. Why can't one ever be satisfied with the way this seem to be? Yet on always desires something more with every breath taken. Humans are such selfish creatures. Complaining how their expenisive tap water isn't chilled enough as the world crumbles underneath their feet. That is the way of the world and no one person can change it.
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Dali community [12 May 2004|12:38pm]

if this post is somehow unacceptable, I apologize and will delete it if requested.

If you are interested in the work and life of Salvador Dalí, a community for discussing him and his thoughts intelligently has finally been created. Please join dalinian, and let's get some insightful conversation going.

crossposted insanely.
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penny for your thoughts [11 May 2004|12:55am]

[ mood | lonely ]

I'm a bridge burner truth be told just walking down a path, don't know whether I chose it or it chose me. none of that really matters however because no matter the chooser the walker must walk. and so I do and when I cross brdige I burn the ropes, leaving one of two and hoping that those will last. hope to god those will last. and i think that sometime in the future, when i'm older, maybe with a streak of grey in my hair, maybe colored dark i'll look back on those bridges and wonderwhy i did what I did. i'll look back and think, whatever happened to that sweet gentleman i knew so long ago. the one that would talk for hours like he owned the world and then continue on to show that it wasn't the world that he own but that it owned him and it was crashing. i'll look back and wonder what happened to him, where he is now. and maybe i'll flip through a plasticene phone book, looking for a name and find it. find the number and memorize it for the future. pick up the phone in my little self built tower and begin to dial then hang up and forget for a few more years. i build myself this tower as if i am rapunzel living in it. a princess not in truth but perhaps in mind. with shorn hair and nothing but a little pink phone on a desk to connect me to the outside world. and in a way i like it like that. i like the silence and when it becomes oppressive i'll pick up thereceiver on that little phone and dial out. perhaps to actually speak to another person or perhaps just for the satisfaction of hearing another voice and hanging up. never saying a word but glad to know that there is something else out there even if I ca'n t make the jum pt oreach it. i wait in that tower, knowing not what for because i know better than to think there's a prince on the way, with his white horse and a my little pony lunchbox with cookies and a thermos full of koolaid to save me. i wait by that little phone, staring at it, picking up thhe receiver, setting it down and forgetting why i picked it up in the first place. i think sometimes i just wait for it to ring. because why should i do all the dialing. i want to cnnect with someone but i don't want to do the connecting myself. bringbringbring is all i need. a voice on the other end that actually tried to reach me, even if it is jusyt a wrong number. like ap rincess in a cage. a cage of ice and snow. and when it's al over when my hair is greying more and more and i have a horde of children that i teach things to, that are not my children but just the same a respectless as any real mother's children would be i'll think back on that phone , brush the cobwebs off it and maybe, just maybe, remember that number i found so long ago. those memorized digits and dial...since that phone never rings anyway. or maybe it does and i'm just not aware enough to hear it...

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[06 May 2004|03:13am]

Waves of desire fill the room.
Come in with a swift throw of the heavens light.
Nothing is done, nothing is seen but fall into place.
It really isn't real, can't you just taste the bitterness?
Feel that nothing is actually beating with life.
Just a cold space waiting to be filled.
With anything.
A filler, nothing more.
It's really nothing, can't you see the lies.
See beyond the walls.
Nothing really exists.
See it, beleive, turn and walk away.
It okay, it has happen before.
Time means nothing.
Life is just a game.
Pawns moving slowly, meaninglessly.
Untill finally the day comes.
When there is no where to go.
Lay down and curl up.
Honestly, it would be for the best.
Can't you feel it?
The imitation emotion that is shown.
Look harder, it's there, look at it from another angle.
You will see it.
Open your eyes, because even though it is nothing.
It's really there.
Hear your muse

[03 May 2004|06:45pm]

Everything culumates here at the end of all things, when everything ends. But if all of it ends, how can we know that it ends? My schooling ends. Next wednesday and precisely 7:10 in the evening as the sun is going down. The sun goes down every night you know. If it didn't go down it wouldn't be night, it would be more day and noon, because you must have darkness for it to be called night. You take the night out of darkness and you have day. Today, yesterday, five weeks from now, two months ago, who knows when I'll finally have the answers? The question is a mystery too, but I know that I'm missing something, so there has to be a question I don't know, and an answer I don't know that's very important. Like an ambassodor is. Perhaps I'm the ambassador to the words on the page, that pop out every so often to say hello. Or sometimes even Suilad; you can never tell what kind of words you'll get. French or American or even Sindarin on occasion. A party with streamers and pink confetti and love all around and we dance like no one's watching us. It's because we're Nessian, you know. And Nessians dance like there's no tomorrow because there might not even be a 5:00! And who can argue with that? Even the most well-constructed argument by the most well-constructed lawyers will fall apart at that. There may be no yesterday, because life ends unexpectedly.
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[01 May 2004|09:27am]

Here it comes, falling down, like a tear from something devine. Do you hear it? the hymns and chants of what is it that keeps us alive here? Donot use your eyes to see what is infront of you. Open you heart and accept it with open arms. Trial times, where the only way to fight is to fight yourself. You feel as if you are lost, and you will have to learn to fight. FIGHT FIGHT ... Fight. it is times like this we all wish we can disapperar into oblivion. Washed away like the grains of sand on the coast line. Anger, sadness, caring, contemplation. Everything... everything just flowing out of your fingertips like the crimson rivers that pulsate with every beat of your heart. Nothing can be done, and nothing can take it away. You said so many things, but in reality where either one of us telling the truth in the end. Time will pass, people will die, and the sun will rise and fall. It is the wait that is the true killer of ourselves.
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[28 Apr 2004|01:40pm]

[ mood | contemplative ]

Everything is so slow and ponderous, how can we be excited when everything is so sad? I don't know why ponderous is ponderous it ponders everthing that is glass. Glass slippers, my mind are just as fragile as they, ready to shatter at the precise moment when it becomes most beautiful. Ponder the meaning of life, the universe, everything and 42 is the answer according to some, and freedom of speech to others, and some say that it's different for everyone. But if it's different then privacy exists for yourself and for me and it doesn't how can you say it does? Everyday my life spewed over the airwaves, held up for all to see and laugh. They think it's rubbish, like the rubbish heap of things they call my "talents". I am not talented at all, though, there's the kicker. And yet the ghosts of my fancy fly about and whisper that I am one of them, not truely alive, and sometimes I believe them. How can I not? It doesn't seem like I'm alive, even when I stand beneath the pine trees and feel the wind on my face, it's an illusion don't you see? None of it is real. If it were, we'd be happy, because this dream would is so perfect, as a reality, but it's not. it's my mind running wild as I sit motionless in the white room of truth and hear that my lies are too many. I cannot enter heaven. I am banished as a fairy to the earth, my wings so fragile, my body so tiny, and easily crushed beneath the hands and feet of careless giants. But I have to keep swimming, for isn't that the way of things? Never give up, slow and steady wins respect for that but not always the race. More often the quicker ones win the race, and the tortise is left to wonder what went wrong, for he knew the ending, but it never came. I hate it when the ending runs away.

First time. That was interesting.

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[28 Apr 2004|02:19am]

[ mood | blank ]

visions float before my eyes. I don't know where they came from, how they came to be but they're there. plain as day, or ratherp lain as whisps of smoke before they dissipate. I am my own worst enemy, I haunt my own dreams and change my own mind. I am woman. I am dirt. I am everything and nothing all at once. sometimes I can't cope. most times I can at least pretend. I live vicariously...through the lives of people that don't exist. fly me away. make me dream. let e step out of the dream ino something rea. something tangible. something not so transient. everything vchange, the only thing that as constant is that nothing is in fact constant. i want to stop time so just wait and let everything be still. and silent. I feel like a little glass sphere, flying through space. something we as spehere bounce together. what these little touches do depends on the strenght of the glass. sometimes they bounce off, nothing doing. other time they crack. one more little bump and the sphere will shatter. where am i travelling, who will I coolide with next? why are we even here... it's a cosmic game of marbles and we don't know who is controlling the big marble. who pushes us around. is it in fact nothing but a figment of the imagination. do we create a god only to let it destroy itself? we make and make and when we're done making we don't love what we've made. we finsd nothing but faults in the thing that is a part of us and yet separate, a thing that holds part of our very soul and essence in it's hands and we can do nothing but hate it for what it has taken from us. for what it is. we want to control but can we control?

wow, first time I've tried this. dunno what half this gibberish is supposed to mean but now I am le tired.

1 epiphany| Hear your muse

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