Artemis Drifting

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

Can’t blog with music


Just finished The Filth by Grant Morrison.

Now if that isn’t a familiar story, I don’t know what is. Filth read like the chronicle of an acid trip. Reality switching out with the sub-reality created by an intense loss of ego. That’s the problem with LSD, for a few hours you too can feel like a space cop patrolling war between neutrons, however the struggle for asserting The Self ends up being a buzz kill. Who wants to be reminded they’re sitting on a couch when ten seconds ago they were cruising on the back of space dolphins?

I guess what I’m trying to say here is that I liked it, even though the fantastical portion made the “real world” a little dull to read.

After all, it’s not often that reality is as sweet or intense as our dreams.

I caught up on Wolverine v3– the Old Man Logan run, picked up all the one shots I could and snagged a manga inspired version of the Origin story. And I did what I usually do. I read them all in a few hours and have now had to resort to re-reading the novels around my house for a 3rd or 4th time.

I cannot do these following things without reading:
Driving (Passenger, obviously)
Take a bath
Watch Television
Any event, except ones I’m expected to pay sharp attention too

– I guess in summary, only the internet and hanging out with friends seems to interrupt my addiction.


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Beautiful boys have a way of making even the ugly things they do bearable by the adorable symmetry of their smile.

My science teacher had a fondness for injured wildlife — all but bunnies that is, and if you have any familiarity with trying to save baby wild rabbits, you’d know why.  A student had brought in an injured barn owl that my teacher had taken great pains to bring to full health.  I remember peeking over the tattered rim of the cardboard box, smelling the pungent scraps of trashed blankets that how now become its bedding.  It was a beautiful animal, but I was at the age where I still refused to be star struck by even the simplest of pleasures in life.

When it came time to release the owl, our class trooped out across the soccer field and around the newly steam-rolled tennis courts.  The outskirts of my campus led deep into the woods, and there honestly wasn’t a better spot to release the animal that the students could appreciate it without having to buss’em out to the wild yonder.  Frankly, we were already there.

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When most children are palm wet with excitement at penning their own name and learning to corral their jerky little movements into BIG BLOCK LETTERS – I really hated it.

Hello, have a piece of me.

It seemed to say.

I hate personalizing things.  I break into a cold sweat at personal gifts.  I’m not an ancient egyptian reborn, I assure you, but for awhile I did not think I could handle the fingers and toes of my well intentioned friends.

I left most of my journals unsigned, more than a fair lot of my poems untitled, and arguably all of them hidden for the duration of the rash that came after creation.  I made and then itched and was absolutely not well enough to deal with the repercussions to my big ol’ mouth.  

I can tell you one thing, writing the poem about the bloodied all-seeing Jesus on the cross who is severely disappointed in you and YOU and YOU was something my sixth grade teacher caught the rash on.  Maybe it was about the gore.  Or even the tender care given to the way gore-flesh flutters in a healthy downward stream of blood like watercress.  Either way, it was bad news.

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What’s an apologetic?

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Dear Whosawhatsis,

I would like to write about a few things that have occurred to me that I’ve overlooked.  Or ignored.  The latter is far more likely.

So I’m thinkin’.  There’s quite a few people I don’t communicate with on the sole principle that they’ve gone and pissed off the few people I care about.  Well, some of them have done a little more then pissin’ on absorbent berber.  That’s asides the point.  I don’t talk to them out of the bloody rule in the south that you don’t go buddying up to knuckleheads that have reamed your kinfolk.  

It’s a rough realization knowing that behavior can be likened to sheets of metal pounded in over storm windows during a hurricane.  We do an awful lot to keep our honor intact.  I walk away the instant I feel someone’s looking down their nose at me, or curling their lip in some smarmy gear-up for a ‘verbose bashin’.  

Then I’m partway down the sidewalk with my pride, honor and dignity and I’m struck still by the frozen smile of the maid halfway down the stairs to a stately home.  The homeowner is irate, slinging insults in such a way that they were her embodied frustrations slimed up into little leeches.  Really  no other way to put it, the lady had a bad day and she was flickin’ leeches at the maid holding about fifty pounds of laundry on her way out to figure out how she was going to get the merlot stains out of those 500 thread monstrosities. 

She damn well stood there.  Smiling.  Listening to the ranting, raving, her eyelashes not even fluttering when the sticky bodies of pent up bitterness bounced off her weathered cheeks.  I’m thinking, if I was there, I’d be up those stairs feeding the lady that premium manure she more than likely insists on ordering for her goofy looking porch plants.

But you know what?  I don’t got nothing to lose.

That worker does.  She’s smilin’ because she’s ten times braver then I am.  She’s a hundred times more patient than I.  All she’s got to do is smile, lower her eyes and get into her car that don’t got more then 10k left on it’s sputtering corpse.  Because you know what?  She’s taking that pay check home.  Her kid is going to get lunches at school, her bills are going to get paid and they won’t be eating out of the bean-crock for another week.  

So I’m sitting here and thinkin’ guys .. I’m coming to the conclusion I don’t really know what honor or dignity is.  I don’t know.  

And I’m willing to bet, you don’t either.


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In my friendships, it was the union of our mutual griefs and joys that brought tears to our cheeks. Hot, sticky – with rolling breath filling in the fleshy caverns between.

It was cold when I laid beside the numerous pits in the rock floor, my fingers exploring the grooves within. Above me, in this cave, were explosions of wet fauna seeking to lattice downward and veil me into this cave. Here, my fingers bruised and bloody, I feel the women so far back pouring sweat from their temples as basket after basket of rough root or dried corn into paste for substance. In these intricate notches, I wonder when they went to gather the remnants of a days work – do they sweep them to the center of a pit without another thought or do their calloused fingertips gather the grainy discharge to the center of their bone-dry palms.

Rediscovery- the face that so many years was a sewing needle distance from your own, suddenly thrust into a world. I say a world – because I have no right to break it down. It was simply somewhere other, a place that the sun was left to simply skim over the dense fogs and the swollen rain clouds above. 

Some of us, that day would be the most marvelous of natures wonders. For others, like myself, my soul climbs, leaps, flies to the very point of the needle – and with one great big breath – scatters it all, so those young gents and gentlewomen can throw their heads back and see the true stars – dying messages, infant sparkles, the sky so blue that it urges those who would seek more to find that stone of cobalt blue within themselves. The sky, the stars, they do not attempt to reach you to impart a message. They reach towards you to find a comrade, a brother – because as you use the skies to see their extraordinary powers – their abilities see the budding galaxy within us all.


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They say being unable to acknowledge insanity is a sign that one is truly insane.

But in the twilight of madness, there must be some sort of acknowledgement. Before the sun sets entirely, can man finally turn to see the shadow that has followed him for so long?

She can’t bear to turn around.

Instead she looks at the knobs of her wrists. Skeletal, the bones are winter trees on an empty skyline. Her fingers do not lay, they crouch. Bruises mottle her skin because she cannot bare to watch herself reach out to grasp what she needs, the very action reminds her of reanimated corpses clawing their way to air they do not need.

Her pores leak shadows, becoming beginnings of inky umbilical cords unfurling away from her body. Soon they will find their way into the moldering bodies of her ancestors, and between them, spark life into dormant genes.

Do you know what Unjust really is?

As much as I want to spin it into being a story of redemption, a collection of therapy sessions – it really is only about grief.

It is a lament of the generational curse, one of which none of us have ever been able to escape.

We die standing, we die in institutions, we die in secrets – hidden away in the many held breaths of those who still survive.

But still we breed.

Because what crawls behind our eyes will always need more.


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      She stepped off the bus, shouldering her travel bag and feeling for the lump of plastic over her heart. Good. The passport was still there. It had almost been stolen weeks earlier. The money she could do without, the leather purse and all the neatly filed credit cards within would receive no funeral service. At this time in her life, the theft of her identity was far more of a concern. She had no earthly idea why she felt that losing a cheap plastic binder, a mangled photo and oil-slick empty papers would erase her. In whatever would have become of the hypothetically stolen passport, she imagined, would so befall her as well. Into the ocean? She’d be swept overboard, her legs still tangled in her dive suit with her weight-belt still wrapped around her forearm. If it were to be burned and the flames stubbed out under the boots of an impatient villain, her mangled body would be strewn across the melted plastic shell of a horrific car accident.
Those sorts of horrors, the kind that whisper each time her heart is on the down beat – have a way of sweeping in unfounded paranoia and childish superstitions that quite frankly, ignore most and if not all rules of gravity, relativity, and sanity. 
How did it come down to this? How do any passport cousins – the state identification, drivers license, motorcycle license, military identification .. manage to wield the exact same power? That when lost or stolen, rob us of the ability to move. 
They open doors, they close doors. They get you privileges, they deny you services. The card you own summarizes your worth. It tells you where you can go and when you have to go back.
She must’ve figured it out, somewhere, when she was walking from the bus stop to the office – there isn’t a damn card for your soul.
And ain’t that a fucking shame?

Intentionally Blind.

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I’m sure I’ve said it before, you know – the fact that it isn’t always easy for me to speak freely. Of course, I could always just take a browse through my archives and come up with enough examples that the whole first statement becomes ludicrous in light of said research. I’m sitting outside and it’s a pleasant day. The sort of day that makes you itch to go do something, even if it isn’t something you really enjoy. Already the sun is setting and I can hear our neighbors boats cruising in to dock up for the night. It’s well enough to be boating when it’s sunny, but the wind will nip you until you’ve got too many goosebumps to count when you’re gunning it to get back home.
To those who’ve kept up with me these past few months, it’s no secret that I’ve been having a rough time of it. Frankly, I’m having trouble finding a memory to indulge in that’s fresh enough to erase the pain and discomfort that I’ve been subjected too. So all I can do is take the snippets of pleasure I get between doses of foul medication, stomach aches, anxiety attacks and strangle them to get every ounce of relief out. It’s tough feeling sorry for yourself, it isn’t something I’m real good at. I have a habit of gauging myself against the entire suffering world and finding myself with no excuse to be as down as I am. But here I am anyways – and I’m sitting outside on a spiderwebbed reclining chair and listening to the stray dog we’ve adopted rustle through the trees that lead down to the lake. I want to feel miserable and sorry for myself, I want to crawl up into a musty hot attic and sleep until the sour feeling in my stomach goes away.
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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.


Lonely Mary.

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What happened? I remembered when the bottle was my savior and damnation. Now I’m so incredibly indifferent. My martini has become the ex-boyfriend at my party. I sure as hell know he’s there, and yes – we’re still friends thank you very much, but I’m not going to maneuver through a room full of people to start up a conversation.


I nurse from the drink, I twirl my straw, and I give the glass startled looks. ‘Did I really only drink that much?’. I used to have quite the crowded table, with little empty cups crowding like Elementary School Field Day Prizes. Now it’s just me and this one glass, and dammit, it doesn’t appear to be drinking itself. I don’t think it’s age that causes me to notice that even a single drink makes my contacts get sticky. My stomach, even though it dearly loves you, Ms. Bloody Mary, doesn’t chill with you as well as before. I can already anticipate the sleepy come down, the irritating knowledge that I’ll wake up the next morning and something will be off.


Did I really delude myself that much? How could a driver’s license lead me on to conveniently forget that being intoxicated provides a good thirty minutes of fun followed by two days of apologizing or a diet of stale bread? I mean, I won’t refuse that vodka and tonic. I’ll be the first to admit that I like a drink with my dinner. But I think it’s time that I admit that it isn’t all cracked up as I’d thought it’d be. I find drinking now more of a chore than a pleasure. I hesitate at the thought of the next day being ruined because my stomach’s ‘just not right’ and my head is ‘still a little fuzzy’. Now, I’m not even talking about getting drunk here folks. Just the two drinks seems to do that to me these days. It’s not tolerance, because I certainly don’t get drunk – I get sick.


So the bar tonight was stranger than usual thanks to these revelations. There was a walker in the middle of the floor. Hey, if you’re still coming to bars with a walker, I’ll buy you a drink. You deserve it because I give a thumbs up to dedications of all sorts. There was the pool table hustler who made forty dollars in one pop and seemed genuinely surprised his opponent left after bitter defeat. There was also the ass-ette that put her cigarette out in the sink. None of these things really mean anything in particular.


So to wrap this up, I’m still going to have my damn Bloody Mary. I just don’t think she’ll have as many sisters as usual.