I am constantly amazed how stupid I sound in previous blogs.  Most people are ashamed of what they said in ten year old diaries, and I feel that way reading one month old posts.  I want to move far away.  My life isn't anything I want, and that in itself makes no sense, because life is supposed to be what you make it, right?  Why would I produce something I never wanted?  I don't expect anyone to answer that, although I am sure there are people who would want to answer that for me.  I've noticed I stopped really expressing myself through blogs/journal entries, and I've noticed I write really bad transitional sentences now.  Melancholy hit me.  Death Cab said "there's nothing to cry about..." This is the slowest stream-of-consciousness writing ever produced.  My thoughts are simply heavy and slow, and this music is further impeding their progress.  Guess I'm just writing for the sake of writing.  I feel like I haven't felt in a really long time.  My tears feel new and old, and different than they have lately.  How is it I always lose myself?  I always thought I knew myself really well.  If that was the case I would never get into the positions I get into.  I don't know how to let people I know I'm really scared.  There aren't even people I know, really, anyway.  How do I get out?  This is a hand on the forehead situation.  I wish I had a willow tree. 

I want to live where soul meets body
And let the sun wrap its arms around me
And bathe my skin in water cool and cleansing
And feel, feel what its like to be new

Cause in my head there’s a greyhound station
Where I send my thoughts to far off destinations
So they may have a chance of finding a place
where they’re far more suited than here

And I cannot guess what we'll discover
When we turn the dirt with our palms cupped like shovels
But I know our filthy hands can wash one another’s
And not one speck will remain

And I do believe it’s true
That there are roads left in both of our shoes
But if the silence takes you
Then I hope it takes me too
So brown eyes I hold you near
Cause you’re the only song I want to hear
A melody softly soaring through my atmosphere

Where soul meets body
Where soul meets body
Where soul meets body

And I do believe it’s true
That there are roads left in both of our shoes
But if the silence takes you
Then I hope it takes me too
So brown eyes I hold you near
Cause you’re the only song I want to hear
A melody softly soaring through my atmosphere
A melody softly soaring through my atmosphere
A melody softly soaring through my atmosphere
A melody softly soaring through my atmosphere

I live with ghosts and I don't know how to be rid of them.  How do you kill a ghost?  I can't see them, touch them, hear them, yet I know they are there.  Perhaps I have to kill the parts of myself associated with the ghosts.  I wonder how much of myself I would have left. 

Salt disintegrates snails.  Maybe ginger would evaporate ghosts.

It's 5:06 am; forgive me.

It seems I have to be foreign.  It seems I have broken english.  It seems this is going to be a huge test of my acting skills.

My Vagina Was My Village

My vagina was green, water soft pink fields, cow mooing, sun resting, sweet boyfriend touching lightly with soft piece of blonde straw.

There is something between my legs. I do not know what it is. I do not know where it is. I do not touch. Not now. Not anymore. Not since.

My vagina was chatty, can't wait, so much, so much saying words talking, can't quit trying, can't quit saying, oh yes, oh yes.

Not since I dream there's a dead animal sewn in down there with thick black fishing line. And the bad dead animal smell cannot be removed. And its throat is slit and it bleeds through all my summer dresses.

My vagina singing all girl songs, all goat bell ringing songs, all wild autumn field songs, vagina songs, vagina home songs.

Not since the soldiers put a long thick rifle inside me. So cold, the steel rod cancelling my heart. Don't know whether they're going to fire it or shove it through my spinning brain. Six of them, monstrous doctors with black masks shoving bottles up me too. There were sticks and the end of a broom.

My vagina swimming river water, clean spilling water over sun-baked stones, over stone clit, clit stones over and over.

Not since I heard the skin tear and made lemon screeching sounds, not since a piece of my vagina came off in my hand, a part of the lip, now one side of the lip is completely gone.

My vagina. A live wet water village. My vagina my hometown.

Not since they took turns for seven days smelling like faeces and smoked meat, they left their dirty sperm inside me. I became a river of poison and puss and all the crops died, and the fish.

My vagina a live wet water village.
They invaded it. Butchered it
And burned it down.

I do not touch now.

Do not visit.

I live some place else now.
I don't know where that is.

Wish me luck?  But still...I'm really psyched.