Artemis Drifting

Just because she tippietoes, doesn't mean she's a creepin'.

World, pardon the dust.

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Howdy ya’ll. Working on getting all my business over to this website now.  Hang tight! 


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Unhappy icon for unhappy face.


No bashing, please, but in my study to figure out how to pace my new story – I picked up a couple of Koontz novels today. I know a lot of folk don’t like his subject matter for writing, or hell, they may not even like that genre of writing style – but I really like the way he delivers plot, characterization and drama without immersing the reader in unnecessary descriptives.


For instance: I really hate the new trend in recent novels to tell me every damned thing about every damned thing. What I mean by this is that a lovely protagonist will walk into a room, and the next 40 pages are dedicated to describing that dusty old chair (which isn’t even his favorite) and what it means, and then what it meant to the last 3 owners, the middle names of those owners and ON AND ON IN ENDLESS BULLSHIT. 


Is anyone else particularly annoyed by the tone of recent authors? The self-biography that describes everyone else BUT the damn person the book is actually about? Don’t go off and tell me ‘well, that’s the art of it.’ No, it’s not. I shouldn’t have to hunt through a book like Nicolas Cage in National Treasure to figure out who the main character is.


Here’s what gets me about the books that have been published in the last five years. The only way you can possibly enjoy some of these stories is if you are into intellectual masturbation. I feel like Dennis Miller (pre republican switch and monday night football) is consulting on half of these shitty novels. It is physically painful to get through some of these, no matter how well written, because you know the only way you can actually enjoy them in the end is if you are a pretentious bastard. You may pat yourself on the back after you’ve done something worthwhile, like donating food to a shelter – not after reading a book. Chortling to yourself because you actually enjoy reading books about quirky characters with even quirkier families written in a style where the author is playing down the quirkiness as if you, yourself, should think a family who paints with peanut butter and pigeon feathers is absolutely normal just makes me want to kick you in the teeth.


THOSE PEOPLE ARE JUST WEIRD, NOT INTERESTING, JUST WEIRD. ADMIT IT. MOVE ON. IT DOES NOT MAKE IT A GOOD BOOK. I am so sorry, but people just have to know this. Please stop trying to tell me that we can be friends just because we both enjoy reading literature. You’re not reading literature, you are reading Reality Television Scripts. And what’s so damn tragic about it, is those Reality Television Scripts are cunningly hidden within genuinely good writing.



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There were two numbers that I always chose for my softball uniform during the many years that I played, 7 and 13.


One represents luck, and the other has been often connected to misfortune.


I believe, unknowingly, I may have set the guidelines for the wax and wane of fortune in my life. I will possess neither in entirety, but by chance fall to one or the other. Too long in one will only lead to the tumble or rise of the other becoming dominant. In twelve steps I have found a pair of lost glasses in a grassy field, and in two steps have walked headfirst into the back-swing of a baseball bat. 


I have learned to manage both gains and losses well, and that attitude has muffled the feeling of exhilaration and tragedy to only a dull buzzing between my ears. For me, I should never have taken my feelings as something to be categorized and treated like a long white box of comics. When the cardboard lid is on, they simply don’t exist, and when opened – the vivid drawings and powerful stories are contained by strips of tape and thin clear sheaths. Effort is required to reveal them to the conscious front of my mind. And even then, when those fragile sheets of ink and color are thumbed through – I rarely smile or express at the sight of them. So, not only do I file my feelings away, I cannot even visibly celebrate or despair at what is contained within.


Occasionally I am able to emote, and the fury of being restrained is palatable. I do not take joy in ordering my life, and I hate organizing. I like messes, I like things being lost – I like my life being sprawled out around me in absolute disarray. To have your memories underfoot, spilling from drawers, bowing outward folding closet doors and obscuring carpet ensures that no matter where the ball of my foot rests – sensation occurs. Remembrance plumes upward, chalky and gritty as ball field dirt does when your body hits the earth just before second base and fills your mouth, nostrils, eyes and ears.

Busy morning!

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I have to wait about another twenty minutes until I pick up my grandfather and we set about getting my car sniffed and tags renewed.


There’s a girl on a bench near the river that I never listened to enough in the past. I did just enough to make sense of our conversations, and took her advice from afar. Turns out she got her ass up, grabbed my wrist and decided enough was enough. I had always heard her words, but it turns out I had forgotten what it was like sitting at that bench. Now I realize why I never should’ve gotten up in the first place. The view is spectacular.


It’s a very cold morning, but I have a solar paneled heart and Lord is it sunny today.


“Out of the crooked timber of humanity no straight thing was ever made.”

— Immanuel Kant

Small Hopes.

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I went through a box that my mother passed down to me. You see, I filled it with things from my childhood up to my college years. I had planned on making the box a small start to my Hope Chest .. but well, I’m not quite ready to start stacking quilts and memories into one of those. I am not settled, and this small box is enough – for now – to carry my most precious memories with me.


It’s been awhile since I’ve looked through it by myself. I reflected a great deal on the child-me that I saw depicted in those pictures. Where the hell I found magenta knee-socks when I was 9, I’ll never know. We can only hope the bastard who created them has been sent into ruin. Furthermore, as to why I was only wearing socks instead of shoes outside remains a mystery. I remember the days of my childhood, but I cannot peer into them as anyone but an observer now. It’s impossible for me to fathom the thoughts, feelings and actions of the girl I was back then. I can only replay the events and haphazardly guess the motivations I had. It’s a queer thing to realize you can become an outsider in your own life, that the child-you could likely stick her tongue out at the woman you’ve become. I was a private child, and her reckless smile doesn’t allow me to sink in past her eyes. I was that kid who knew everybody, but no one really knew.

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Hold the sails, boys.

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One of my friends — well, it doesn’t really matter how it happened. But we talked about our smile lines for a moment.


This entry is already beginning in a way that I dislike. I’ve halted, stuttered and stopped and nothing about the way that I write seems to flow anymore. But it doesn’t matter, not right now, I’ll acknowledge my shame in my weakening craft later.


I looked into the mirror and I wasn’t exactly sure who I saw. I recognize the face, the lines of my jaw and the soft, dark skin under my eyes. Though there’s nothing particularly spectacular about the blue of my irises, I’ve realized that those dark pupils had weight. They were pitch black irons, and to me it was like seeing through an immeasurable ocean to a dark anchor resting on white sand below.


What boat bobs on those unsettled waves, tethered there, I do not know.


All I know that is she has proved sea worthy so far. The creaks of her wooden planes do not pitch high, as they did when new lumber would be under pressure. This noise has grown seasoned, and groans throughout the entire vessel. There have been places that her sails have been patched, and a great many causes and their flags had been pulled up to display. She has had more than her share of salt crusted, sodden white sheets pulled up in surrender. The sound those flags make during a storm, when they droop with the weight of water and slap the rigging is northing short of terrifying.


No flag snaps crisp in the air now, she is a vessel that is waiting for the captain to catch a breath.

Those are your eyes, ain’t they?

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They say when a door is shut, that a window’s gonna open sometime. What happens when that door shuts and you find yourself in an entirely different house? What you thought you were gonna be seein’ out the window is something else entirely. You can’t stay inside, because it isn’t your room anymore. The floorboards don’t squeak the same when you walk over them, and you certainly didn’t pick out the goofy lookin’ wallpaper. You either gotta step out into a yard you know nothing about, or wrench that door open and figure out just what sort of house you’ve gotten yourself into.


Occasionally you find some stuff that’s yours. Maybe some pictures scattered under the bed. You’re looking at them, and you know that you’ve been pals with them. But just like everything else that’s changed around you, they’re not the same people anymore either. You don’t know whether you’re supposed to be disappointed or angry – or hell, maybe you could be a little relieved.


But the part of you that remembers your old house, it’s not ready to let go of all those echoes. It can’t see, it won’t see, the way everything has turned out. Because you know that when you finally go out that window, some of those folks won’t be there anymore. You’re going to forget some of those memories that really defined who you were for the longest time.


But here’s the thing, I figure – you spend so much time looking around on how everything’s gotten up and damn well done a one eighty on you, you don’t notice that it everything looks so funny because while you were distracted someone snuck in and changed out your eyes.


Nothing changed. It was always your room, always your yard – but one morning you woke up and you saw everything differently.


Sometimes, sometimes, you could touch something and remember. But it’s never going to be the same again. All you have got to go on is sensations that crumble like ash the moment you try to push any deeper. An’ old song that sounds so damn familiar, but you can’t remember the lyrics or why it had you bawlin’ in the car when it started playing.


But I’m okay, I’m going to be more than okay. Because even if I didn’t have that window, I have a hatchet. And if I had too, I’d bust my way out in a storm of bricks and plaster.


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Another snippet morning, I believe. It was a cool wet day, which threw my memories into autumn mode. I only seem to focus on certain events around that time of year. They’re chilly and bittersweet, and they just wouldn’t do without the crunch of spent leaves beneath my feet. That strong autumn wind, for me, exists to sweep my attentions away from wandering headlong into the past.


Whatever is going on, it’s still evolving, still being nurtured deep down inside of me. But the roots of the very thing have already begun to show, changing the way I think and feel. This is the creation of wising up. I’ve walked down that path of temptation, stumbled out onto the other side and learned to heal from my wounds without scarring. I’m certain I’m the same girl, deep down, and that my potential for loving is still a well which continues to remain bottomless for me. 


But I’ve casually learned to separate that fleshy part of me from that insistent white-knight soul of mine. I know there is an animal inside of me that wants to submit, to give into the simple pleasures of life that most think naught twice over. She’s a creature that wants free of my personal bondage to put herself into someone else’s. I cannot abide by this. Where she goes, I go, and there is not a decision yet that she’s tried to make that I’ve vehemently fought every inch of the way.


I thought I could live in coexistence with her. But as I’ve grown older, her demands border on the impossible and dangerous – they have no concern for me. She’s no longer welcome, she endangers too many of the things I care for. She can starve. I will not give in. There’s too much I stand to lose. 


I’ve finally realized what I’m fighting for.