thejunipertree: (Default)
The conversation in my head stops on the eighth panel.

The problem is, I'm just unsure who I should be having the conversation with.
thejunipertree: (Default)
I decided this weekend that I'd gone entirely too long without another copy of 'Bone Machine', by Tom Waits. I'd had it on cassette some time ago, but it disappeared during one of my many household moves. So, The Engineer and I took a trip to the record store and I bought it on CD.

Playing it on the way home, I was keeled over by a slew of memories and images. The memories hurt, even the good ones. But, it's a pain that I hold close to me and cherish.

Walking through the quiet city streets in the wee hours of the morning. It's still dark and silence has settled over everything, a grey and damp blanket. Music in my ears and a cigarette between my fingers. This world is a dreamscape and I'm its only inhabitant. I could walk forever like this. I could walk forever.

Well hell doesn't want you
And heaven is full
Bring me some water
Put it in this skull
I walk between the raindrops
Wait in Bug House Square
And the army ants
They leave nothin' but the bones

This large house, all to myself. Hunched over the keyboard of a bedraggled word processor that has definitely seen better days. The stereo, also battered, in the corner with its volume cranked to a just barely acceptable level. Pounding out words in a dire frenzy, scowling fiercely all the while.

Well Pale Face said
To the Eyeball Kid
She just goes clank and boom and steam
A halo, wings, horns and a tail
Shoveling coal inside my dreams
There are no laws
She's made of cream
She's such a scream

Sprawling on Donald's bedroom floor, with my brain reeling in a puddle of THC. Giggling hysterically and singing along with the rest of them. Telling Anthony that because he doesn't know karate or voodoo, that he wasn't allowed to sing the song. Inebriated gaiety as I colour in the dog's white spots with non-toxic chalk. "Go show Daddy how pretty you are!"

I'm gonna drive all night
Take some speed
I'm gonna wait for the sun
To shine down on me
I cut a hole in my roof
The shape of a heart

Laughing as he suggested 'who are you' as our wedding song. And not fully understanding the reasons why. Realising them, many years later. He's smarter then I thought.

How do your pistol and your Bible and your
Sleeping pills go.
Are you still jumping out of windows in expensive clothes?
Well I fell in love
With your sailor's mouth and your wounded eyes.
You better get down on the floor
Don't you know this is war
Tell me who are you this time?
Tell me who are you this time?
thejunipertree: (Default)

The 11th of July passed with absolutely no notice of mine. I'm fairly sure I noticed it last year, the anniversary of me being kickbanned from the UK. The beginning of the end, you might say.

And it's strange now, this feeling of emptiness in my chest. I'm not really sure what to name it, if there is indeed a name for this feeling.

I can't believe that I was that girl in the year 2000, so completely blindsided and hopeful and stupidly thinking every little thing is gonna be alright. That used to be my mantra, you know. Fucking Bob Marley. It came from me sitting in the bedroom of one of my old roommates, stoned out of my gills and talking so much shit about how my life was going to be. How it was to be green and golden. Every little thing is gonna be alright. I repeated it to myself over and over again, a futile chanting invocation against the powers that be, as I curled in a ball in the detention center at Heathrow International.

I repeated it to myself every single time his words arced through me, every little stab and prick of that ignorant knife. Every little thing is gonna be alright. I said it each morning when I opened my eyes and prepared to drudge through another nine hours of work that I despised. For him. For me. There was a meaning, there was a point. I was getting through this. I was going to walk through this dark tunnel to the light on the other side.

I repeated it to myself when he left me broken. I repeated it when he told me I'd forgotten how to dream. I repeated it when he compared me to his psycho ex-wife. Every little thing is gonna be alright.

I repeated it when I met the Engineer and schemed to make him mine. I repeated it every time I saw the Cheshire Cat and his grin at my arrival. I sang it to myself on the empty nights where I kicked myself for being so thoughtless. Every little thing is gonna be alright.

An endless loop, those seven small words. Constant run through my brain. It was my sword and shield. My proof that all of my efforts were for something. I drove alone up to Irish Hill in the middle of the night and screamed it at the sky, as my mother lie sick and near dying in the hospital. I held her hand and whispered it under my breath as she drifted, motionless, in a morphine haze. Over and over again.

My grandmother dying at home, starved to death because there was nothing else we could do for her but pump in more drugs. Letting her sip her Tanqueray through a straw, to hell with the nurses.

My father covering his face from me, hiding his tears.

Losing my job last summer.

My friend, Henry, dying two Halloweens ago. Far from his friends and refused the dignity of his religion to deliver him from this coil.

Every fight I've had, all the biting words I've thrown and had sent back to me on a goddamn gleaming platter.

All of it, each time: Every little thing is gonna be alright.

But, it's not going to. Is it? It never is. There's always something else, getting in the way. Always something bigger and worse to push us back down.

It's all fucking temporary. And I'm tired of deluding myself into believing that I'll make it out of each obstacles with my feet under me and a smile on my face. I'm sick of it. It's foolish.

This is temporary.
I'll not play the fool any longer.

I'll get through whatever is thrown at me. Not because of the good grace of God, but of my own voalition. My own steam. I'm Queen of this fucking shitheap and it would behoove the Fates to grasp that notion and mark it in their fucking dayplanner.

I'm not going to be pushed around any longer.
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It's a Saturday night and I haven't seen these streets in quite some time. It's amazing how the city can still get under my skin. Settle insidiously just under the first layer, not so you can see it. But, enough to where I know it's resting there. Barely beneath the surface.

And as I guide my charge through tiny shortcuts and dim lit alleys, I realise that I'm moving without even thinking about it. There's a map printed behind my eyes and in my brain, I don't think I could be rid of it if I even tried. I could do this in my sleep, I tell him. I could do this blindfolded.

We reach our first destination, which is an apartment that has been passed down from bookstore employee to bookstore employee. It hasn't seen different hands in about seven years, I would reckon. And I've spent time surrounded by those walls under the temporary ownership of them all. It's strange to see it again, the familiar and unfamiliar. Disconcerting. I wobble a bit on the steps, as I've forgotten how steep the climb is.

There is a bar wedged between where our bookstore stood and the shitty New Orleans knock off that serves alcoholic slushes. I wrote a poem once about the patch of sidewalk in front of the New Orleans wannabe and how it stunk nauseatingly, even in the cold and still February mornings.

But, the bar we went to that Saturday night wasn't so bad. Just cramped. And with weak drinks. All the better that my first three were only a dollar each. They filled my cup to the brim and it sloshed over, sticky and golden in the stagelights, onto my fingers. I licked it away, smiling slightly at my old love. He's recently taking up the hobby of drinking, something which I find uncomfortable and unbecoming of him. It doesn't lessen the twinge I feel in my chest whenever I see his face, though. I don't think anything could rid me of that, no matter how much I wished it would.

Later and later and later again, I'm on the rooftop of the earlier mentioned apartment. The night has grown cold, but I'm huddled in a borrowed coat whose sleeves drape over my hands.

So many people from my past, it's as if I never left. And our gracious hostess voices this thought aloud. I grimace to myself and pull the borrowed coat closer around me, to block out the memories.

Their laughter rises over our heads to mingle with our cigarette smoke and it's too much temptation. I can't stay huddled and frowning for very long. It's not in my nature to be like that, especially not when I'm surrounded by people who I've loved for so long.

I smile and stretch my legs under the table, kicking the feet of the person who sits across from me. He catches my eye and the once private moment of me rising from my self induced shell is shared with another.

I miss all of you.
So much.
thejunipertree: (Default)
My hair is clean, bangs cut freshly short and proper. The last vestiges of my fever are drifting away. Though my continual retyping of words is more then enough evidence that it's still a bit here.

It snowed yesterday, strangely enough. And I, wrapped in my sleep sick, never even knew until about four in the evening. I woke up, went to the kitchen for ice water, and happened to glance out the window.

Snow. On the asphalt and covering the cars. I was thrown back and left dumb. And my mind reeled at the idea of it all. Snow in April? Okay. I grin and go back to bed, thinking it all a product of my fever ridden mind.

In my dreams, I turned away. Over and over and over again.
You never wanted me. Not really.
I did, but you never saw. Your eyes were shut and they still are.

For anyone who may be of the mind to care: Thursday April 10th at 1:35 am, my friend Michael's band, Stellastarr*, will be playing on Last Call with Carson Daly. Technically, 1:35 Friday morning. But you know what I mean, yes?
thejunipertree: (Default)
ometimes, when I'm feeling particularly sadistic and blamey, I like to wonder what exactly in my life has been real and what hasn't. It's a wonderful game. And it makes all the many knife wounds in my back and through my heart twist in a remarkable manner.

oh Elise, believe I never wanted this.
I thought this time I'd keep all of my promises.
I thought you were the girl I'd always dreamed about.
But, I let the dream go.
The promises broke.
The make believe ran out.
thejunipertree: (Default)

You look so very strange like that. Not bad. Just...not the person I knew.
I suppose neither of us are the people we knew anymore.

You surely aren't the person who has hid inside my head for all this time,
all these years. Same eyes, though. Same voice as well, I'd reckon.

But, there's a brittleness around your mouth. It comes out in your breath and blood.

Time is never kind to the heart.
thejunipertree: (Default)
It has become very obvious to me that love is really only a measure of how much pain a person can inflict upon you. The more you love someone, the more they can hurt you.

And I'm not talking little piddling kind of hurt. I speak of the big pain. Capital P. Wounds. Scars. Crippled fucking hearts. The same kind of pain that left me in a gibbering pile of sobs and snot when I was 17. When I didn't eat for two weeks straight, existing only on cigarettes (THREE packs a day) and pink lemonade. The same hurt that caused me to turn from the one who cared about me the most in this world, turn and ran straight into the arms of another person who would inflict wound upon wound on my already beaten and battered skin.

Thinking back on it now, I was only running because I was wounded. And because I saw the stability that the Cheshire Cat offered me. The stability that scared the shit out of me. I've never been the sort of character who wanted that type of thing. I've always wanted explosion and dum dum bullets riccoheting off the walls. I've wanted an adversary, an equal. Someone who always kept me guessing.

The Cheshire Cat couldn't offer me that, bless his sweet heart. And neither could Richard, though I fooled myself into believing he could. I still don't have it. And that thought leaves me shaking to my very bones because I don't wish to cause the same pain on the Engineer as has been brought onto me.

It would seem that the only people who I've ever truly given myself over to were the ones who inflicted the most soul crushing pain. The liars. The cheaters. The boys who made me feel stupid and worthless. The ones who were light years ahead of me. And when they disappeared for good, I was left on the floor. Bleeding, panting, and broken.

And craving even more.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

A month ago I would have told you that while I was over Richard, I still loved him deeply. Now, after speaking to him at length this week (goddamn you unemployment), he only leaves me cold. Sad that I'm not the same girl who fell in love with him. And disappointed at what he did to me. But still, cold.

There's nothing left in my chest for him. The thought of him doesn't gives me a twinge anymore, except of annoyance at the lies he dropped on my flighty little skull. However, thoughts of the Antichrist will reduce me to a blithering wreck. Memories of Chris will send me into a depression for weeks.

But, the wounds from Richard seem to be closing over. They're not the deep and scarring knife edges that I once thought they were. If this maturity? Or yet another sickness festering away inside the rot I call a brain?

I say it again: What the fuck is wrong with me?

And why am I so scared of stability?
thejunipertree: (Default)
Last night I told a stranger all about you
They smiled patiently with disbelief
I always knew you would succeed no matter what you tried
And I know you did it all
in spite of me
Still I'm proud to have know you for the short time that I did
Glad to have been a step up on your way
Proud to be part of your illustrious career
And I know you did it all
in spite of me
In spite of me
Late last night I saw you in my living room
You seemed so close but yet so cold
For a long time I thought that you'd be coming back to me
Those kind of thoughts can be so cruel
So cruel
And I know you did it all
in spite of me
In spite of me

thejunipertree: (Default)
Today feels strange.

The speed of my location motion turns me into
a lumbering Quasimodo. I hate it.

And I just feel...slumpy today.

My hair is down, for once, and all tangled
around my face. I've got my black hoody on.
Punk fucking rock. Except for the fact that
I'm wearing these goofy ass ballerina flats
in an effort to help walking. I hate them.
They're flat. I'm a midget in them.

Everyone at work was amazed at how short I
actually am. None of them realised it before.

I spent most of the day wanting to kick
people in the fucking teeth. I learned a trick
from an email forward that the Sensitive Artist
sent to me.

"How to talk at work". It has what you should
say and then the translation. The one which I
have picked up and made my own is this:

What You Say: "I see."
Translation: "Blow me."

I think I said "I see" about sixteen times
today, most of it to my boss. I hope she falls
from a cliff. Snidely Whiplash, I'll tie her
to the railroad tracks.

The Cheshire Cat still hasn't wished me a happy
birthday. Sometimes I'm shocked, sometimes not.
He can be very wifty at times. But, usually
he catches it before now. I shouldn't expect
anything from him. Not after the violations I've
committed upon his person. But, Christ! What
does it take to send me one stinky little email?
I know I broke your heart. I know I betrayed
every promise I made to you. I know I was the
worst type of whore imaginable.
But, c'mon. Happy birthday? Please?

The last time I spoke to Ghoulie, she told me
that he had asked her if she'd met the Engineer
yet. To which she said no, because she hadn't.
His question made me feel strange. And I can't
quite pinpoint why.

I can't seem to pinpoint anything lately.
thejunipertree: (Default)
Last night, I spoke to Pixie on AIM. We were
being girly. Giggling and talking about mushy
heads. Being silly. Things that I don't normally
do with other girls. I've never been someone who
had close girlfriends. I've only one or two.
Now I have a third and this makes me happy.

But, she said something last night which made
me cry. Not because it was mean or hateful, but
because I wanted so badly to make her life
beautiful for her and I know that I can't. It's
not within my power. It's not my story to

She was telling me that I would get what I wanted,
and I was denying it. I asked how she knew.
She said because I wasn't her. And she never gets
what she wants.

So, I cried.

This morning, I spoke to Matthew on AIM. The
two of us are like the walking fucking wounded
right now. Both hurting and hateful and angry.
The Hearse Girl got on a plane last night,
bound for a land that should have mine. That
probably would have been, if I weren't such a

She got on a plane. And I sat here, last night,
with a Jack on ice, wishing that it would go
up in flames. And then feeling terribly guilty
for having such nasty thoughts.

And I cried this morning, as I was talking with
Matthew, when he asked how I was doing. I cried
as I typed and told him about hateful thoughts
and drinking alone.

Everything has begun to hit me. And it's like
a sack of bricks, come down on my head. I thought
that I was okay. I thought that I was coping. I
suppose that's because the fact of what's gone on
wasn't a true reality until yesterday. Or to be
more specific, last week. When I was told that
plane tickets had been gotten and that there was
an actual date of departure.

That was supposed to be my life. And I hate both
of them for it. Something which I've never
admitted to anyone. That I do, in fact, hate them.

I'll never say it out loud, though.

I hate them because I put so much of myself into
something for almost two years. And it was
apparently a futile effort. I hate them because
I tried so goddamn hard to be a good person,
an understanding girl. Only to have the dirt
kicked in my face as I was down. I hate them
because I held hopes. And because I had faith.
And trust, though it is the most difficult thing
in the world for me to trust someone.

I hate them because they hurt me, despite the fact
that it wasn't maliciously or on purpose.

I also hate them because it echoes back to what
I did to the Cheshire Cat, when I left
Philadelphia with my heart in a suitcase. I'm
seeing the repurcussions of my own leaving and
feeling his pain, only now the positions are
reversed and I'm the one who's heartsick.

I hate them because they've shown me exactly how
horrible and unthinking of a person I was.

A month or so ago, the Engineer and I were having
a conversation about what I did. I had made
the comment that what is happening to me must
be the punishment for all my former sins. He
sighed and said "Where's the chaos girl? It's
only a punishment if you want it to be."

Another time, he and I got into an argument
because I've remained friends with Richard. He's
never done such a thing because he feels it only
leads to getting back with the person (by his
personal experience). He said it was unforgivable
what Richard had done to me and what the Hearse
Girl had done to Matthew. He made the comment
that it was something a bad person would do (I'm
roughly paraphrasing here, I don't remember
the exact words).

I sucked in my breath and told him that made me
a bad person because I had done practically the
same thing to the Cheshire Cat. He looked at me
and asked "You're never going to forgive yourself
for that, are you?"

Am I? I don't think so.

He gets upset because I won't always talk about
what's bothering me. Fact of the matter is
(and I write this, knowing full well that he will
read it) that I don't always wish to express
myself. I don't always want to give voice to the
pain in my head, despite the fact that it causes
worry in those who care about me. Sometimes, I
just want to feel the pain for what it is.
Sometimes, I don't know HOW to talk about it. And
sometimes, I just don't feel like talking about
it at all.

Foolish and selfish, I know. I recognise
those two traits in me. I give credit where
credit is due, I would reckon.

I don't want to talk about it because it
makes me feel stupid for having trusted someone
to such a degree. I don't want to talk about it
because I'm tired of hearing how rotten somebody
was to me. I don't want to talk about it because
hearing how rotten somebody was to me makes ME
feel rotten for having done almost the same thing
to someone else. I don't want to talk about it
because I feel pathetic. I don't want pity. I
just want my life to go back to whatever degree
of normalcy I can potentially achieve right now.

This isn't said in anger. I'm just tired of
hurting. I want to heal and be clean again. It's
going to take me quite some time and I can't
promise that I'll be the same girl at the end
of it. I've been burned, quite badly, and fire
always changed what it touches. Sometimes for
the good. Sometimes not.

I'm not always sad. I'm not always the broken
girl, crying her heart out. I can smile, still.
I can find happiness in the things and people
I love. It's just not always going to be a
constant, running pattern. I'm going to be down.
I'm going to be reminded of something from my
past every once in awhile.

I've just come home from a war. Now is the time
for me to build myself back up again. Pixie's
entry in her own journal last night spoke of how
she used to have small wings, but time and people
and circumstances plucked the feathers from them
until there was nothing left but bony nubs. And
how now, she's growing them back to be more
beautiful than they were before. But, it's going
to hurt for a long time as they're reforming.

This is what is happening to me, as well.

I'm growing back my wings.

It's going to take time, patience, and a hell of
a lot of courage. On my part and the parts of
everyone who comes into contact with me.

I can only ask for understanding.
thejunipertree: (Default)
I burned my thumb quite badly not that long ago
as I was cooking dinner. I also managed to throw
half of my own plate out when no one was looking,
because I truly haven't felt like eating in the
past week and a half. Usually, I'll force it down
because if I don't, I'm given thirty three shades
of hell. Today was different.

Pensive and lonely have been colouring me all day.
This seems to be a trend that doesn't have
a foreseeable stop. Wishing for it to stop doesn't
produce any results. Nor does slapping on the
happy mask. I've decided to just stop pretending.
To everyone. I'm sick of the falseness. I'm tired
of the illusion.

Speaking of illusion, the Orphan was under one
that I was someone else. I'm not quite sure if
he's still believing this, but I've done my best
to disprove the theory. It makes me laugh, in a
way. That someone thinks I'm someone else
pretending to be someone else.

Richard has just sent me an email. Full of
cheeriness and I love you's. He says he'll be
online soon, but we'll see about that. It's been
said before. I've been a complete bitch to him
lately, for which I'd dearly love to slap myself
for. It's truely not fair to him. I just don't
know what to do. I despair of never seeing him
again. It's a gut feeling. The past loves to
hit replay over and over and over. Will it be
my past or his past that flashes across the
screen? The world may never know.

I believe that this is my punishment for the
way I acted in my relationship with Bill, though.
For all the veils of secrecy. The half-truths.
The behind the back and round again. I'm vermin
for the things that I've done. And being forced
apart from someone I actually /want/ to be with
now is justifiable punishment, I would venture
to guess. I deserve to be punished. For all of
the things I did, I don't think I really even
deserve to still be breathing. I became something
that I despised. All in an effort to give my
heart away to someone who just didn't want it.
To someone who was more in love with the idea of
me, than me in actuality.

Thoughts of pills gather in my brain. I remember
the bottle of muscle relaxers I was prescribed
a few months prior. They would go nicely with
some vodka and cigarettes. I carry them around
with me like a shield. Knowing that if I ever
needed oblivion, I had my passport right in my
purse. How very fucking Anne Sexton of me.


angst angst angst


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January 2011

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