a materialistic brand-name wasteland penetrates my skyline at nite time. when it is practically guaranteed to not show up, since i am not bombarded with any outside stimulus, the unwanted guest appears. the visions can slowly unfurl like whisks of smoke from a cigarette, or hit you face-on like a train wreck, like a car crash.

"every night i dream the same dreams of getting older all the time." that is my own personal divinity, that is me relating. but it is not true. there are other certain themes to my dreams. if they are set in any house, it is either an unknown, the apt where i used to live, or my grandmother's trailer in gloucester. i lose my teeth frequently. the roads are not roads, they are tollbridges which warn you to fasten yr seatbelts, you are in for a ride. they act as screaming death coasters, they rise up over invisible mountains. we drive around in exhilarating loop-de-loops. what does this mean?

when i was a child, my dreams were simple, my dreams were frightening. it's been so long since i've had a proper nightmare. i dreamed the other week of a baby i couldn't save, hitting the pavement with a thud, it's head cracking open on the heavy cement, of the paramedics and the sirens of the evening, an overwhelming fear of this death being mine, all mine. the blame was placed on my shoulders.

that is a nightmare, yes, but not one of the right kind. when i was younger than i am now, when i actually lived in these famed apts, i dreamt of drowning every nite for a week. they weren't nightmares either. they took place in a pool at the ymca, i equipped only with a sense of going under and not caring. drowning without fear. i was not depressed, i was not happy. i was nonexistent.

my shoes were forgotten when i went to skool. back then my dreams were set in the apartments as well. does that mean anything? does that mean i have refused to grow up?

the nightmares were axe murderers, convenience stores with hulking shadow monsters. the knowledge that i was dreaming was what made them so frightening. that was the problem. i was dreaming, but i couldn't get out. i couldn't surrender. forever to be immersed in these dreams, i ran for hours, panting, eyes popping out of my skull, pleading for mercy to whatever god was out there. escape then, was my god. finally i would just scream and bend down on my knees wherever i could, and blink. just blink, rapidfire, once twice, fifteen times, as quickly as i could, and i was awake. i willed myself awake.

those are the nightmares that i miss. i never know that i'm asleep anymore. i wish i still had the power. it was magickal.

last nite, everything else of the outside world was present. i read a bridget jones novel, and stole a bag of cheetos from my friend. i read brand new comics in eye-opening colors, swirls of light, where suddenly the words and characters weren't important, just the colors, and i felt a new jesus emerge from the paper and engulf me with his lightly pressured arms. i was alive, i was dead, it didnt matter.

these were comic strips, and that was all. have i surrendered to pop culture? it would never surrender to me.

pop culture is most people's lives. but to visit the real world even in a state of almost death?

life is just one dream.

child of the nineties dying for any other cause. friendly afro-american and womyn supporting environmental left wing nutcase. i'll support any charity as long as it is not yrs, mr. bighead, for you wound me so. you are different, you are not me, your needs and mine are separate, so yourself and mine can never together work towards a common goal. only this being the plague, the doom of every slut and cunt and bitch and ho and coon and nigger empowerment movement. mr. bighead sir, i wished for the swift removal of page three, or the realization of a petition to blacklist the newspaper, because i resisted the negative stereotypes and body image problems a young grrl could discover within. you wished for its eradication so to read it because it is shockful! alluring! something you can jerk off to every nite, you know you fucking would. but how would the remainder of the right, religious community think of you? slander! scandal! follow the herd mister bighead, you must not stray. what would they say? baah baaah black sheep have you any wool? not on page three, not anymore. what will the children think? stereotypes huh? negative body images whaa? surely, bighead sir, you must jest. you are too uptight in yr old age, children have to learn sometime, it's better to learn from than watching you fuck yr secretary before you know they're even home from skool. yeah pig, you will be our downfall.

isnt it right that the extreme left and right are repetitive and similar? ban that, ban this, censor that, blacklist. what we need is open communication. what we need is not tipper gore. what we need is an ear to listen in, a lap to sit on, a mother to explain this shit, explain why it's bad, have a reason, but not to censor it.

curse words? what are curse words? the construct is bullshit. push the boundaries until it is disgusting, vile, sensational, radical. no. push the boundaries for truth art and love. curse words are a fucked-up falsity. whoever said that sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me should have a rock thrown at his head. broken bones are temporary, a broken heart may be forever. nonetheless, these words are nothing. hallow. legalize these words until they lose all meaning. they can only mean what society wants them to mean. they are rooted in meanings from slightly more socially acceptable words. the acceptable words are fine, but these, meaning the same thing, are outrageous? mr bighead, please tell me that this is a cruel joke.

asshole is a jerk or butt crack.
hell is an imaginary concept.
shit is excrement, waste, poo or simply "stuff".
damn is an action taken by a god to send sinners to the imaginary concept.
fuck is a sexual act. fuck is an "oh no!" of anger, frustration, or surprise. mostly anger.
fuck is a fucking word, goddamn it. that is all.

the middle finger means only what it is believed to mean. our mind makes heavens out of hells, and hells out of heavens. our mind weaves simple actions which physically or emotionally hurts no one into a symbol of fuck you. fuck you is a symbol of i am very angry at you right now, please die, please rot, please be reamed up the asshole by a giant clockwork orange like penis of plaster.

is reality objective, is reality subjective? the latter is so much more divine. our fate is in its own hands. serendipity is non existent. we control our enviroment and our mindset, our opinions are always truth, and truths are always lies, if you believe it. the former is a hegemonic construct. formed by scientists it is everything. ejaculated by ayn rand it means nothing. conservative writers believe their truths to be objective. they're always conservative, or libertarian, or no, not at all, because i refuse to believe. their truths are subjective. is there an objective to be found?

thinking subjectively, i can will the dimension objective into nothing, into nada, into heaven, hell, alpha z beta.

thinking subjectively, i can reason that subjective thinking is the way of the world. i'm a hedonistic fool who wants only to believe in my own influence. ego inflating power trip. i am only human.

yet thinking objectively is the only way to reason. logic becomes science becomes reason, becomes objectivity and anthem. aristotle quoted socrates as saying that the unexamined life is not worth living. that was his opinion. it is also said that ignorance is bliss. so the innocent cum ignorant, the joyful masses, they shall wither away, while the miserable intellectuals continue their wordworld weary travels? bliss is derived from the insightful realization that you are, indeed, ignorant and always will be. that realization followed by a pursuit of intellectualism besides. don't the unenlightened seem unhappy? with the advent of media influence during the century, the wrong information is difficult to ignore.

the usage of the phrase "wrong information" within the text is one example of my bludgeoning, inescapable ignorance unmatched. questioning everything is the key. what is wrong and what is right? the world is not set in black and white, a shady middle ground exists. only shades of gray. what is good and what is evil? pure evil is just as much of a concept as pure good, it's non existent, it's nothing, it's impossible to achieve. even hitler had the slightest strain of goodwill, and of empathy, towards his dog.

wrong is anything that hurts yrself or others without enlightenment or a heavier benefit attached. acid is good if you use it for the purposes. swallow two pills, watch the television sprout eyes, chatter, and run down the hall. it's entertainment, but not enlightenment. stare at yr hands as they suddenly sprout hair and age with liver spots, stare at the sky as you converse with muhammad and siddharta gautama and joe smith and jesus x all perched in heaven. open yr eyes and view the world in a different perspective. life is for us to figure out, explore.

wrong is choosing to be ignorant.
wrong is stifling others harmless creativity.

 pray tell me, somebody, anybody, what it is about myself that allows attraction only towards older men? i speak not on a physical, metaphysical, or an even strictly emotional level, but on one that, if not far deeper, is instantly more gratifying: an intellectual level. what leads a girl to be so satisfied from an in-depth discussion with a busy, jaded, twenty-something-year-old man? is it that we've both read, enjoyed, and thoroughly analyzed our favorite novels, ready to discuss? or is it because we've shared similar experiences and subscribe to the same general philosophies? perhaps we've  simply realized the beauty of life itself, along with the ultimate futility of it all, and have learned to accept it in a very zen way which leads to conversation on a higher level. or is it simply a matter of aesthetics? "hello, how are you?" is infinitely more pleasing to the eye than "yo wut ^".

but how's a girl to act when she's loath to adapt to the societal structure of other teenagers? several times i've tried, (some more wholeheartedly than others, to be sure), yet each time i've encountered nothing but ridicule and scorn. "you're uptight," the black-haired boy sneered to me last week. oh yes, i who've dropped acid, smoked weed, snuck off from skool and made out in the woods, stolen a fifty cent machine (yes, the machine itself),from food lion. "you're losing at your own game", he continued. and which game is this, i asked, intrigued. "you're the one that thinks that it's a contest, and you're failing miserably." is this so? i'm the only one who plays this so-called game, the only one whose head it's supposedly ingrained in, yet he's the individual to decide who wins and loses?

girls and boys my own age are barely left to be an option, so who am i to turn to in all teenage angst and loneliness? should i search inside myself? can i truly be my own best friend? to thy own self be true is an oft-repeated statement, yet thy own self is my worst enemy. the only course of action left is to befriend the slightly older, the more intelligent, those who leave a figurative trail of "magic" dust (i believe in magic, and it isn't wiccanry or hat tricks)wherever they may go.

yet within the problem lies. in madonna kolbenshlag's informative "kiss sleeping beauty goodbye", she explains the situation in layman's terms. in europe, the father-son relationship is stressed, and in africa, the powerful bond between brothers is traditional. america, though, is a "romantic dyad," a culture "characterized by genitalization, misogny, anality and homosexuality", adverse to fostering the friendship. this also causes, then, for the most laidback bond between unrelated teenage girls and slightly older young men to be considered hostile and suspicious.

this morning, while messaging a friend online, i discovered that the ratward, ( my most beloved, a smoky meeting place for the subterraneans of hampton roads), is hosting an unposted poetry reading tonite. my eyes immediately lit up and i said, "damn, i wish i could go." my mind's eye hearkened back to baby bebop, and i leaped at the occasion. this young man then offered me a ride, and, with much trepidation, i left the room to ask my mum. "no." please? "no." "i just--" "no."

i suppose then, that i'm not allowed to leave the house until i'm eighteen. to wit, i do have just a few younger acquaintances, some that i love very dearly, ones who don't yet have their permit.

 until then, i guess i just must live vicariously thru kerouac, my new best friend.

this isnt much, but i'll complete it later, most likely in private. all i offer is a simple taste of the ratward for those who havent been.