Blueberries...

When I said, "I love you," I meant I love you. And though it hurts more than anything in the entire world, I don't care. I don't care if it hurts, because that's what I 'm going to keep on doing! It's a promise I made, and it cannot just dissappear.... not so easily... in fact, never... It's a stubborn side-effect of nobility... The kings of our world are not born into some monarchy of privilaged popularity and figurehead pompousness. They are the ones that, alone --O, so alone!-- commit to all matters of masculine standard and dignity... And commit to LOVE... of all things... but that's the point, that's the reality of it, my carnal stupidity may have wants of lust or revenge... but the fact remains, Love, true, undying, devotion and care are selfless... completely, and utterly selfless. That is love. And this is when I have to bloody prove it...

And it hurts, but that's my battle. My private, inward battle that will keep me pressing towards the next goal, that will overwhelm this cursed apathy that this dead location yields....

I'm going to keep going, and when I look at her, and her at me, I know she'll figure it out, that what keeps her so cursedly trapped in the sea of her own self-conscious need... she's learning to thrive in that society she is a part of.... I can't help that. That's her...

"Occupational hazard of soulmates."

Why did we break up? Why?! Why has love failed me, what part of 'me' wasn't good enough to have at least one part of my life worthwhile.... My ultimate goal was her, and it still is... but the one thing I didn't count on was her 'leaving'.... she reached down into the heart of my future and ripped it from its nest... But that's fine, it would just be a complication to my present goals, college, academia, novels, international realities and law... I need to focus so long and so hard on that reality or it will never come... Now is when I mold myself into the being that controls his own future... History repeats itself, and hope arrives out of the most unexpected places, I cannot forget what the atmosphere of reality was in the months and years leading up to our perfect weekend on May 14th... Only this time, I can't throw it all away for love, because without anything to fuel my life... no goals, no accomplistments, nothing, I won't ever succeed. A failure to her, an appaling waste. She was perfect to me, imperfect to herself... But I was imperfect to her. She couldn't forgive that, I can't forgive myself for it either. Just turn this mourning into anger, because anger I can use, funnel into my writing and passion and drive to excel at these tedious matters that are big enough to distract me from the reality of my empty heart, desperate, frozen soul... and yet, simultaniously, it will ultimately form my future, that will be large enough and powerful enough to appease my emptiness inside... I will have the means to achieve and grant almighty Support to this love I'm searching for. Adelia is not patient enough to wait for "then", for "when" I step beyond this helpless boyhood shell into an accomplished being, as far as this society is concerned. Enlightenment into the realities and relativities of wealth and society and credentials does nothing... If the woman I love is part of the world I hate, then I will put my hate to use and turn myself into a superior part of that world. I will earn her back, or die trying. And she will have grown, she will understand what she had, what it means to love, and she will prove it to me, prove that she loves me... Because, even once I earn her again, I cannot hide the pain that will surface.... the scars of this tare will last forever, it seems... I will not just take her back if all she loves about me is my success. She has to love me, as if I had nothing.... Hopefully she understand how to do that then.... even though she can't do it now. And I can't blame her for now.... but I do blame her for this pain, and I do blame her for not understanding the immensity of patience that love requires.... She doesn't understand that before she can love herself, she must be willing to sacrifice whoever that is for what is truely worth living for.... That's what she's got to learn.

If she doesn't.... Then I died trying.

"I love you more."



...

Haeman's Belmar

Part II.

Speechless and

Screaming Then

I was speechless, without words, with nothing to say that was worth saying... I mean, I tried, but it just wouldn't come, the thoughts that I wanted to think were frozen in an immutable silence... far away....only able to give a moment-by-moment account to himself, and wonder, Why?

He was alone. Why! Why do I need to feel this, go on yearning forever that some invisible force will somehow, somehow, just cease this goddam heart! ...or, if not, if not... Then appease its plea, I won't be silent with it, I'm desperate for it... Just love me! Please, someone, anyone.... look at me, and want me, just as much as I want you, want to care for you, and to see you smile... Maybe then, I can face the world...

He sat on the deck, the wharf for the paddleboats nearby, the snack shop behind him, no one around, and just a grey cat meowing all over the place... It jumped on his lap and spilt the coffee in his cup all over him. Summit Lake was almost over, it would be the last time he would ever go. He'd been there three times before, and every time, he would leave, wondering, why did I even bother going? These were church retreats, intened to regevenate and reitterate one's knowledge and faith... They never worked like that, though, the lectures interesting if the speaker could tell jokes well, but never taught anything that wasn't already obvious. The sex-talks were ludicrous, so stupidly vague and afraid and embarrased to openly describe anything... the ultimate taboo in modern churches. I would later learn why, that everone else was guilty of the same sins, were all just as human when faced with the carnal need for sex. The end of eleventh grade, mid-summer, the last summer of my youth, at Harvey Cedars, the church's beach camp, four guys who were men when it came to admitting what they thought was unspeakable. While sitting in their humid dormroom above the kitchen and without air-conditioning one late night, Phil admitted to looking at pornography, then Ben and Dave also admitted to it. I was close friends with them on-and-off, closest right before I left that church... But they began the Accountability Group, designed to unearth the hidden taboo of sex that plagued the church's conscious. The one person I didn't see there --and come to think of it, anywhere-- was R.D. Back at Summit Lake, back in the taboo, lukewarm days, I was affected by his brave statement that, because of his past premiscuity, he and his new wife lost their first child... His deep, sincere heartbreak effected me deeply. I never forgot.

These thoughts and more sped through the boys mind, while sitting in the stupid classrooms that he hated. Years before he had experienced all those retreats, back in middle school, he was just beginning to taste the problems that would plague his adolesence. The middle-school world would permentantly be a severe oppostition to the church world that co-existed... this linear reality would carry on throughout academia, and not stop until he was almost out of high school. This duel-reality gave the boy two chances to make it in this strange, new social world of emotions and friendships, and relationships. If school failed, he had the youth group. If the youth group failed, he still had school. If both failed, he had home. If home failed, he had his homeschool friends. And if all that failed, he had himself. This multi-world function was a perfect set-up for the boy, and it allowed him to have escapes, back up plans.

Period 2: Mr. Cutting's World Culture's classroom. Mr. Cutting was a kind old man, who didn't have much grasp on the mind or attention span of a 7th grader. Still, though, he tried. It was a brown classroom, with the desks on two sides of the classroom, with a large space in the middle which the desks faced, and the teacher paced, while describing old Europe. This class emphasized 'pretty' work, and rewriting what the textbook said in the Section Reviews that were its only homework sourse. Occassionally, the boy would do them during homeroom, if he did them at all. He always remembered disliking Amber, the large black girl who typed her homework, and copied the entire chapter into her answers. Mr. Cutting praised her openly and often. It was annoying. Not much else happened in that room, Homeroom was average, Period 1 was hell, Period 2 was a break.

Month One was still going full-force. The boy had a slew of new friendships and middle-school girls on his side. He was so cool the black kids liked him, and you gotta be really cool to do that. However, as time went on, he slide from popularity, because of an awful allegiance conflict within the boy. But that's later.

The boy had to decide which girl to go out with. He liked them all, sort of... Actually, he didn't. He liked only Lauren Ashley, little miss LA. She was the best-looking girl he had ever seen, because, as a 7th grader, she was the most developed. The boy was too young and inexperienced in his own feelings to understand that her breasts were what he liked most... he just had a general 'like' of her. You know, 7th grade level romance. However the boy took to long, lulling over the joy of having, now a week or so into the year, 24 lovenotes. The first thing that kept him from 'going out' with the other girls there was his other life. He actually had a girlfriend named Jamie, from church already.

But more on that later, because, alone, in the dark, the boy was pacing, back and forth. It was cold, but clear. The flowers needed adjusted, he took the cheesy plastic wrap off... Now, he had a real dozen roses. A quick shiver from the cold briskly flittered with his blazer collar. Gritted teeth fought it away quickly. And the boy smiled. It was cold. But it was worth the wait.

But even so, where is that bloody bus?




Endthought.

This is short. Love is worth the while, but to really love, everything must be sacrificed. Everything. So, if love doesn't work... Was it worth the while? For the chance, yes.

Because, there is nothing else in life that is worth living for...

Nothing.

Mounds of Grass...

The pain is ludicrious, unbarably impossible, how the hell is it possible for something to hurt so... so.... bad.... bad like, the world is ending, but only for you, while the rest of space and time rotates on, because the unwanted baggage is gone.

Fucking, fucking, goddamn fucking shitty hell, that's all this fucking fuckcrap is worth, I can't stand this, I can't bear it, I hate these words, these damn curses, but there are no other words that explain the violent grief, stubborn war of emotions that carry ramparts of commitment and claim the cause of Love, and there's outrage, defense recoiling that is in shock and disbelief at the huge extent of betrayal I feel...

Brings one thing to mind, though; Love and war, they're almost the same.... It seems, though, that love is the war of peacetime...

Yeah. So. I'm taking this really bad. Really, really fucking, bad. But it's life, I'm living, I risked this... I knew this was going to happen. Heh. Nope, that's a lie. I didn't. That's the one thing I didn't count on, my confidence couldn't overwhelm it just by the mere want to rule.... my ability to reign in whatever I wanted just by wanting it bad enough could not work here... As was proven. So, that's life. It reared its unpredictable head, that's always there. But that just keeps things interesting.

Painful, too. But interesting all the same. But at least for me, this means back to Bebop style... I liked that version of myself better, anyway.

Life goals, in reverse order:

1. My house on a cliff, over looking the ocean...in Austraia...
2. My woman, who is passionately and unconiditionally, loyally in love with me, just as I am in love with her. And there, with us, shall be our children.
3. A coffee house/ surf shop, on the beach. Small, but perfect.
4. Become a Professor, until I retire in my house with the coffeeshop....
5. My decade long film career... five films or so, which aer all thought-stricken and effective, they make the viewers think about their world...
6. A decorated career as an international ambassador, I will personally see to the world I am, right now, criticizing, hating, and desperate to battle...
7. In order to do that, I need international presteige. That will only come through politics and money. For politics, I will attend fiercely to domestic issues in this country that I long to leave...
8. My doorway to dominant politics and money, will emerge from my career in law. Additionally, I will use this opportunity to understand the complex necessities that plague mortal laws... This will sharpen my skills as a public debator, speaker, it will perfect my intelligence, vision to note error, and exploit it.... Further, this will provide me with ample funding for the immensity of the projects to follow, my number 7... politics and global concerns.
9. To be lawyer, I need to gain a law degree. That is goal 9.
10. To get a law degree, I need a masters degree in pre-law. That is goal 10.
11. Get into a school which features pre-law courses. That is what I am working on now. That much is easy... Well... easier...
12. Writing. Though this is goal 12, it is the most important. It will be the wings by which the rest of these goals shall be possible. It will be my voice when I cannot speak, because I cannot speak to the world at once... It will be how I prove myself, manuever myself, parade and dictate and cotrol myself.... when the time comes, manipulate, undermine, and overwhelm.... And when I'm gone, it will be my legacy, what immortalizes everything I will strive to achieve.... It starts now, with little things, like novels and films and essays and theories... but it will be with me, carry me on throughout everything.

...


When tragedy like this attacks, the best way to move on, is to take stock of what I have now, what I am working on, what I have accomplished, and what I will...

Currently:
Writing:
1. Storywriter Analagion - Novel.
2. Storywriter Dramatis - script, screenplay.
3. Essays on Thought - hypercritcal analysis of everything.
4. Haeman's Blemar
5. Converting old poetry penbooks into publishable form.

Body: Working out, often. As in, everyday. The rage that rose from this tragedy has intensely helped with that, and the Martial Arts... Additionally, is acne cream, its useless, almost. Luckily, I rarely need it anymore... My hair is growing longer. Samson's returning...

School: NYU application. Temple application.

Job: Landed a good 11.50 job recently. This should improve my stupid car 'situation'....






And that is all.

Next time, Haeman's Belmar, Part II.

Tussles of Hair...

As a writer, I write stories. Yes. But, I don't need to invent them all. I highly value this creative quality, which invents something completely new, but, once that's done, I'd like, on a minimal level, which only I and those specials whoevers that are part of the secret already, to include special, layeristically significant meanings to the events, reactions, actions, and emotional situations of the characters in the book. In other words, base it on reality, which is nothing new, sadly.... EXCEPT, not just a vague memory, a self-fueled attack on whomever its aimed at, not a overhashed regurgitation of memories out of pure laziness or inability to invent something new, nor even shall it even serve as some far-fetched groping in the balckness of yourself, searching for some justification, some actualization that you even existed....

No, its none of those. It's promoting experience in an area which only exists in experience, and in it alone. There shall be massive, rediculiously huge amounts of new, dreamed and originally imagined situations in my novel, but none of them shall ahve sucha layered appeal of significance to those whom I truly trust to know me.... It's almost a signature. This is my story, and right here I tell you.

I'm just being a clever boy, I guess.

So, what am I saying all this for? To introduce an awfully familiar love-epic....

Haeman's Belmar

It's time to finish
A Flower's Blood

PROLOGUE:

Time recoils, rewinds, reshows, patterns dictate the thousandways, billionways, neverending swirl of new and old and a rehashed future... The fact is, as much as history is concerned with repetition, as far as humans know it, it cannot fence with Love's rewinding.... So the fact is.... Love repeats itself.
Meet girl. Want to love her. Fail. Pain. Meet girl. Want to love her. Fail. Pain. Meet girl. Almost love her. Fail. Pain. Meet girl. Love her. Love her. Love her. Love her.

Love her....

Then, Fail. And, of course... there it is again... the inevitable Pain.

But what the question is now, is... what cycle happens next?

I.
Ex-Morning Star

He just stood there, with flowers and jeans, shirt and blazer. Colonge. Alone. The sent of male perfume drifting mingled with the roses... How long till the bus arrives?

There was a boy, who's love adventures all began at the most horrible time in the world. Middle school, of course. But perhaps its best to start a little earlier...

The boy grew up in a ultra-conservative setting --it wasn't until he was 6 or so, that his parents and grandmother were even willing to get a Christmas Tree. When Halloween rolled around, they would turn off all the lights in the house, and hide upstairs reading old books, as though real witches were running around outside. But, these stanards always faded away, that's one matter that has particular significance to this boy. But, alas, by the time the Halloween taboo had passed, he was too old to want to do that sort of thing, anyway.
But more of the past, later.

Fast forward, the boy is homeschooled, sheltered perhaps, as some may note. This is highly debatable, though... but more of that, later. The effect is, sheltered or not, that's not the point; the point is, compared to Middle School, it was heaven to hell, and the months advanced in the bazaarest of ways, as only they can, in Middle School. 7th grade. Oh boy.

Month 1: Summer's gone, to go back to school is exciting, worthwhile. This is when hormones rage at their highest, and the boy is thrust into a world confused about everything... and his personal want of love is dangerously mingled with the newfound want of sex. Month 1 was the best month, everything was perfect. The boy walked to the bus stop, met his neighbor for the third time, maybe. Only in person this time. A very fat boy, his neighbor was, with a big ego, and no intelligence strong enough to hold it up. He annoyed the boy. Oh well. He also meets the kind old lady who lived at the corner. The bus was always late -he was the last stop- so the woman, a little crazy like all widowed, lonely old people are, but so friendly with friendly cats. Two of them. One black and fat, one orange and fat. So, bus comes, and leaves the kind old lady, to leave for hell in a yellow barge with the annoying fatguy. The boy always hated the bus. First day: Boy gets a love letter. By the third day, he has three. By the end of the week, he has 12, all flirtily placed inside the top level of his way-too-small locker. Cedric, locker on the boy's right, is jealous. Will, on his left, is... different. Homeroom: Boy sits behind Jenn. Not so good looking, really, but one of the love-letter-givers. In the front, is a horrible, backstabbing mouththesizeofkansas named Jill. She is the first girl to demonstrate the evil, covert lunacy of women. Period 1: English, with Mrs. Estala. Foolish woman, with glasses-too-big and a brain-too-small. She should not have taught english. Because of her, the boy would not think writing was his thing.

In the future, it would be his greatest skill, the might sword to duel the world and himself, and the mounting, biting face of reality. He knew this, while waiting there, the roses clentched as close as their thorns would allow, dreams running, thinking of homelessness, randomness, of whatthehell the world is worth... But as far as feelings go, he felt good.

But where is that bus?


Endthought.

There was once a boy, who had nothing else in the world, except for the purest, most awful feeling, that he was empty, but not on the inside, as if he were hungry, like Cassie the orange cat, who meowed for hours, until she could run out into the sun, and feast on rabbitflesh. No, he wasn't empty, per se.... Almost like he were missing something, but not like the bumper on his neighbor's car, which still worked, and would have just gone on looking just as bad if the bumper had been there. No... He was empty on the outside, something was severely missing that wouldn't allow him to function or feel not only complete, but worthwhile, workable.... as if, any funtions his body had now was to fufill that eternal thirst, to become complete... like a bird with no wings.
Of course, he wasn't missing any limbs --they were for running and fighting. No, he was missing something more hidden and invisible and wild and mysterious than his very soul....

What was it?

Love.
Yes. Love, of course.

....
And that is all.

(For now)

Somber, Broken Symphony...

I'm desperately searching for a cure for a broken heart....

A close friend of mine....

Dr. Cornelius' Poetry Corner
THE WATERMARK-WATCHER EDITIONS

(This is the first edition of DCPC on my blog. It is in existence on my computer already, as a sort of 'publishable' form for the rest of my poems, found in my physical poembooks. This first poem is Nameless, and is lighthearted and basic... it's just a starter.)


So, there’s this matter I knew a bit about,
And sang about it just the other day,
And then another sort-of fellow said
Yes, he said something about that thing,
That I think is very interesting,
Though I really can’t remember what he said,
But he said it, so that’s why I remember anything,
Because how could you forget what he said?
Though, of course, I always forget everything,
So I’ve often wondered what would happen
If there was something that no one could forget
But what if a person who forgot everything learned it,
Then…
Well, this is what happens;
I forgot what it was,
But I certainly know he said it.

El Dia Nuevo....

First post, in which, I shall say nothing, except that I'm bloody impatient to see what it looks like!



(Oooooooooo! This is fun!)

One more thing....

I meant to make this a Post, and not a comment... but that's how I did it, accidentally... Yup, this is definitely, for me, a very new toy.

While on the subject of new things, I and my roomie, Joe, waited for about half an hour tonight, at midnight, to pick up a nice, ultrafresh Special Collector's Edition Copy of Halo 2.I was up, playing the game, until now.

Once I finish this post, I'll probably sleep.

First impressions: Graphics are incredible. The story is odd. The dual-weapons feature is very nice, though took a bit to become accustomed to. A more detailed review to come later, maybe.

AND, that is all. I figure, since it's so late, something lighthearted and unintellectual or difficult is a good way to start. That other tough-stuff will come later.