storytellers and stowawitches

Just A Poem

2008-07-05T03:24:42Z

Hi everyone, I've been lurking on this community for a while, but this is my first ever time posting here. You're all so good with your art, and it has inspired me to share a bit of my art. I don't know how good it is, but it's written for someone I love, so I hope that will show through the poem.

Star Show

When I'm sitting next to you at the planetarium
I notice that your eyes are shining brighter than the stars above us
The scene turns, and planets whirl by
But you're at the center of my galaxy
You smile and it looks remarkably like the explosion
After some sort of supernova in the sky
Your lips are as bright as the red planet
And I can't stop staring as they move with your laughter
It feels as if there's a halo of light around you
Surrounding us like the rings of Saturn
We see the rocks of the asteroid breaking on a distant planet
And I can feel my heart breaking in much the same way
Because your smile could move constellations
From their points in the heavens
And though I'd like to dance with you forever
I can't steal you from your home among the celestial bodies
The universe needs your light and your energy
And to ask you to stay with me
Would be like asking the satellites to stop circling
Or asking the sun to stop shining
As the show ends and you stand up
I swear I can feel the earth shaking beneath my feet
You're the black hole at the center of the Milky Way
You pull me in and I can't let go
But I love to watch you spin
Even as my body crashes against the comets in your eyes

It's late and I'm tired, but I hope you like this anyway

2007-07-03T11:42:50Z

I chased her. I chased her through the garden, through the branches of the old weeping willow where I used to pretend I was a flower. I chased her into the fields behind my house, never losing sight of her despite the tall grass. I ran until I could run no more, collapsing in a heap of blue lace skirt and long red hair.

"Why? I asked out loud. "Why are you running from me?"

There was silence. I fell backwards, landed on my side staring at the tall grasses and wildflowers. I pulled my shoes off using my feet, and stroked the grass inbetween my toes. As I lay there breathing heavily, she peeked out from behind a patch of daisies. And then she stepped forward.

Her gossamer wings were shining with an ethereal light. She had long brown hair decorated with small purple and white flowers. Her eyes were as brown as the dirt on the ground, and large with... was it fear? No, but there was hesitance, mixed with curiousness and awe. Her dress was whiter than snow, whiter than light even.

"Why are you chasing me?" she replied. Her voice was small, but strong.

"I..." I stopped. Why was I chasing her? "I wanted to see you. Up close."

She blinked, then laughed. "Well, here I am," she said. Then her face took on a different emotion. "You're old."

"What?" I couldn't help it. "I'm not even 25 yet, how can I be old?"

She tossed her head nonchalantly. "Most your age stop seeing us, you know. Too busy working, never any time to play. They just... stop." She flew up and poked my nose. "So how are you able to keep seeing?"

"Does it matter?" I asked.

"YES. What makes you so different from every other mortal in the world?"

I paused. "I don't know," I finally replied. "But I'm different, and I'd rather stay different if it means having moments like this."

She smiled. "Then next time, open your window or something. All chasing me does is make you too tired to do anything else." She turned, then looked back over her shoulder. "You will open your window, won't you?"

"Yes," I whispered.

"Good," she said. And then she disappeared into the field again.

pancake_dancers @ 2007-05-26T13:42:00

2007-05-26T17:43:03Z

Hi, just joined. I write little poems, so come to my LJ and check them out.

Sick of My Writing Yet? ;D

2007-05-24T06:48:08Z

Hi! I come bearing another poem, this one about my current object d'amour. But this time around I have a greater sense of irony and a more realistic approach to such matters. Hope ya like!

(X-Posted to francesca_lia and my own LJ)

Because I Write Poems For Guys I Like

Bad poetry thrives on desire.

Honeytongued dreamers,

more tubercular than lovesick,

flock ‘round the altar of Eros,

clamoring for ambrosial inspiration.

The god tosses scraps to the slobbering minions,

counts the minutes till his cigarette break,

and hopes the sparks won’t scorch his wings this time.

Nonetheless, I must congratulate you:

You’ve joined the illustrious ranks.

Like your predecessors,

fresh-faced, effeminate teen idols

smoldering pirates with great asses

espresso-skinned hockey-playing nymphomaniacs

and tufty-haired yogi boys in pig masks,

you’ve earned a place between my sheets–

of paper.

Yeah, I’d like to write

about conventional minutia

like the sunlight filtering through my dorm room window

as you nibbled on my hipbones like a hungry puppy

the Brillo-bristle of your goatee as I ravaged your lips

our legs twisted into who’s-touching-who entanglements,

knots to make a Boy Scout weep.

Or to dwell on pointless anecdotes, like

how we sprawled, dance-sweaty and tequila-tipsy

on the couch after Drag Ball,

(you in Pippi pigtails, I a corseted hussy)

and talked till we fell asleep

side by side.

But that would just be wrong, y’know?

Not "fresh" or "singular"

as my English professor

so articulately-- and frequently-- buzzworded

the qualities of good writing.

You’re not the first,

and won’t likely be the last

whose dirty jokes give me laughing seizures

whose bear hugs almost knock me over

whose awkwardness makes me want to kiss you even more.

But love poems are, by nature, masturbatory:

mindless,

self-indulgent,

and really damn fun.

pancake_dancers @ 2007-05-17T00:05:00

2007-05-17T04:07:21Z

When the storms would roll in, we'd turn off all the lights and sit out on the sun porch, some rain misting through the screen and the candles flickering and sparking in the humid air, we'd roll a joint and let the smoke intermingle with the wet air and eat a cold dinner of chicken, homemade guacamole, and strawberries sitting on the picnic table, and it seemed like music was playing all around, like having headphones in, Ray Lamontagne strumming his guitar, and James Taylor humming along, all the folk greats playing to the rain as the ozone smell descended from the clouds and the earthy smell rose from the dirt.
You'd press your thumb to the corner of your mouth in the orange glow and white mist and say like Nick Drake, "Rain's the way you move now, Sun the way you seem, Leaves the way you wonder, Flowers the way you dream." While I laid out in my picnic blanket dress and closed my eyes to the patter of the rain and the creak of the house.
On those nights the sky spoke to the ground like it was consummating a marriage, like it was making a promise, and I'd stretch back like a tabby cat and listen to the earth making love to the sky and the phantom guitar playing in the screen windows.
In the summer I'd lay a sheet out on the picnic table on that sun porch and listen to the crickets sing in the drizzle of the rain, the rain in the summertime was cleansing there, everything felt washed away, renewed as the electric smell descended and the mud seeped around your toes in the grass.
When the day would break the water would settle as dew on my skin and mulberries would drip from the trees, asking to be slipped between lips, staining skin purple where they touched, bare feet would sink in the grass between the sunflowers that bloomed after the rain like alien babies, unearthly and swaying in the morning air. Ink would run on damp pages and book pages would tear in the heavy air, everyone laying in the wet grass letting the green leaves drip water down on our faces, the wind whispering morning spells in our tangled hair.

pancake_dancers @ 2007-05-05T09:19:00

2007-05-05T08:21:30Z

(pssst, more here: teacupfrenzy)

pancake_dancers @ 2007-04-16T20:44:00

2007-04-17T00:44:31Z

Dear Angels,

I was recently asked to put together a showing of my work for a gallery. I'll have the whole place to myself, and the owner wants me to do a show of portraits. I'm doing a mix of digital and film images, and at the moment I'm still picking the digitals. I have about half the ones I'm sending the owner to choose from selected, but not I have to pick from the rest of these, so I was hoping you could help me angels, which of these would you submit for portraits, if any of them?
At the bottom is a link to the images I'm certain I'm submitting, if you're curious.

1

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5

6

7

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10

11

12

13

14

to see the images I am definitely submitting, go here: http://neverstarsburn.livejournal.com/122356.html#cutid1

pancake_dancers @ 2007-03-31T18:32:00

2007-03-31T22:32:35Z

You picked me up and spun me after the show. We where both salty with sweat. The smell of your cologne gave me a headache. My arms where exhausted, but I held onto the back of your neck as tight as I could. You had always acted like my big brother, making my feelings for you feel incestuous. Now your eyes shown dark and frightening under your heavy black lashes. I can feel you through your clothes, as you carry me out to your truck.
The night flashes around us. That is you, speed demon. I feel the salt air on my sticky skin before I even know where we are. Your hand was on my thigh the whole drive here, creeping higher, making my head buzz. You make me feel intoxicated. You stop the truck, and sit staring out at the dark, roaring waves for a long time.
"I've never done this before," you said.
"Let's go for a walk," and your voice is hard and flat.
We stroll through the balmy night. I cross my arms across my small chest.
"Are you cold?"
I shake my head no, looking up at you, then back down at the tops of my sneakers..
You stop and grab my arm.
"We don't have to do anything."
I keep looking at the tops of my shoes. You spin me around by my shoulders, and lift my chin with your fingers.
"Your eyes are beautiful."
My first reaction is to shut them, but I hold your gaze, your eyes look even darker with the pupils dilated. Cautiously you bring your lips close to mine and we kiss. I don't really know what to do with my hands, so I leave them dangling at my sides. You know what to do with yours, and they are ravenous carnivores. You are whispering spanish between my lips, I do not understand, but I know it is everything I want to say. I want to cry, and almost let myself, but it is like I do not remember how.
You untangle yourself from me, and walk to where the sand is dry. I sit down, playing with the sand, letting it sift between my fingers. You are taking off your clothes, I keep my eyes focused on the tiny granules. I have only ever accidentally seen you naked, and my cheeks and hands go hot to cold. You come down to where I sit, and pull me down. I put my arms around you, and your lips and fingers consume me. I do not know what to do, my body is all I have to offer.
Our clothing collects in a pile beside us. My bones glowing under my white skin from the moonlight remind me of skeletons I saw in the desert. Your skin is the color of sand, and I feel it scorching mine. All at once my head hurts, and my stomach churns like I am on a bad trip. Pain flashes like sparks from between my things. I squeeze my eyes shut the whole time, only looking at you once to see your black hair slick and shiny with sweat, your own eyes shut tight, and your face twisted. I feel you shutter and start to go limp. Then I am empty and you are gasping for breath beside me on the cool sand.
I look into the sea and see a gleaming green tail diving back into it's depths.

pancake_dancers @ 2007-03-31T16:26:00

2007-03-31T20:32:14Z

I really enjoy writing fan fiction with Block's characters. This community, francesca_lia, and my personal journal will be the outlits for them. Suggestions for other stories would be great.

Cherokee slowly awakens in her tee pee not sure if it is night or day.
A brown hand rests against her flat pale stomach, and there is shallow breathing. Atleast Raphel found his way to her bed. Turning over she looks at her boyfriend. Fast asleep, his eyelids are smooth and soft, his lips glow burgendy against the cocoo chocolate of his skin. Cherokee wants to kiss him, and watch him bleed. Fewer and fewer nights he sleeps with her. Finding more comfort in smoking pot and other partners. Sometimes she smells perfume, sometimes cologne, but pretends it is jasmine and roses, or the ocean carried by the wind. Raphel snorts softly in his sleep and rolls over. A long scratch breaks the velvet of this back. Tears swell in Cherokee's eyes.
She wishes she could go sleep with her almost sister in the shed, but knows Witch Baby will only wish Cherokee were Angel Juan. Ever since finding him in New York, Witch Baby has become even more distant. She wears long sleeves, and Cherokee worries what they may be covering. The rest of her family is in Europe shotting a movie. She was invited, but afraid to leave Raphel. She could deal with the infidelity as long as he returned to her bed.
Groping around in the dark Cherokee finds a shirt, long enough on her small frame to be a night gown. Peeking out from under the tee pees' flap it is still night. Bodies are strewn about the room. Entangled arms and legs, dyed hair and glittering piercings. The broken moonlight, sifted through the crystals in the window makes the room seem safe. Like all the bodies where corpses. Cherokee steps out, finding small spaces to walk between the sleeping bodies. The room smells bad, like B.O. and cigarettes. Raphel invites all his friends to the cottage in the canyons because of its' size and the hot tub. These are all people he meet while they where The Goat Guys. Now they all need a place to do their drugs and crash.
A window is smashed in the living room. Bottles, and plastic cups litter the floor, counters, and tables. Cherokee will clean this up while Raphel nurses his hangover, and Witch Baby sits in the cobwebs smoking. The air coming in from the broken window smells of a brewing storm, and the tossing ocean. The wind chimes, gathered around the doors, twinkle and kong. Cherokee hears love sounds coming from the bedrooms, and feels her stomach coil tight and hot, and finds her way into the backyard to vomit beer and vodka. The sky has broken open and a warm rain is pouring down. Cherokee's long blond hair and t-shirt stick to her body. She falls to her knees, and wishes the rain would cleanse her.
Cherokee hears birds, and sunlight turns the inside of her eyelids red. The rain has stopped, but the air still hangs heavy and wet. Picking herself off of the sodden ground, Cherokee makes her way back to her bed. The house is deserted, and a lamp is missing. Inside the tee pee is a forgotten bra, and no Raphel.

I'm looking for some input and this seems to a be a good place to find people who would have answers

2007-03-31T20:22:38Z

One of my final projects is to make postcards for place that does not exist.

Where in books did you really want to go when you were a kid? [Like Rutabega Country or Cair Paravel]
Where did you imagine as your own places you could go? [Like a Terabithia of your own]
What were some fantastic things that you wished were part of the real world? [Either from stories or that you invented]
Where of the places you imagined or read about as a kid would you really want to go now?

Thanks so much.

pancake_dancers @ 2007-01-28T16:24:00

2007-01-28T16:25:11Z

The Other Side of Censorship

2007-01-25T14:17:28Z

x-posted to my journal

I am not really alive, I am dead. Can't you see the veins of my wrist fighting through my skin? Their dream always was to see the sun.

Words are a thing of fear if spoken without censorship. Do not offend religion or life when you wish people to admire you, and never dream of preaching fears. Horror is loved by the world if the author of the insanity is kept hidden behind book bindings. If you show your face, the world will resent you for exposing truths in tragedy, and for being so open about taboo thoughts, when the world itself is too much of a coward to admit such things.

Hooray, more randomness!

2007-01-23T02:44:42Z

Hey again, witchies. I come bearing more stream-of-conciousness-style creative fruit for your consumption. X-posted to francesca_lia and my own LJ, two of my favorite outlets for my writing experiments, along with this community, of course. Enjoy!

(Because I feel like writing, for no good reason).

Picture this moment like a snapshot:

I can hear the booming bass of my nextdoor neighbor's rap music pounding through the walls, mingling with the deeply intoned "Om Namah Shivaya" of my Krishna Das. The strange musical lovechild of a hip-hopper and a hippie, born between the walls of an ancient dorm, filled with women who try to ignore the threat of a two-minute burn time posed by the straw insulation within said plaster walls. Decades ago, my kindred spirit lived just down the hall, a profound, overachieving Scorpio poetess, prone to depression and fond of bubble baths (at least her Esther Greenwood was; I can't vouch for Miss Sylvia herself). I wouldn't be surprised if her ghost still hangs out here, making the radiators hiss and smell like gas, blowing doors shut and whispering inspiration into the ears of young Smithie poets late at night.

A pint of Ben & Jerry's American Pie ice cream, bought under hormonal duress, sings to me from my audition-flyer-papered freezer with the alluring vocals of a swanky lounge singer. Is you is or is you ain't my baby. Making its neighbors, my Amy's organic Indian dinners, wish it would shut the fuck up already and leave them to their saffrony frozen slumber. Promising sweet creamy temptation, melting on the heat of my tongue like the snowflakes which graced the Massachusetts skies today. I lapped them up like candy from the heavens as I prowled the streets in the cold, searching for a cell phone charger so I can regain contact with the world.

Calls from potential beaux pepper my messages, one hundreds of miles away, the other a balding middle-aged man, met at a community hippie dance. Hopefully he just wants to be friends, and if not, he'd better look for some other cradle to rob. A snarky green-eyed Bostonian in commedia runs hot and cold, once liking my cute toe socks and red sari-print purse, now turning away to trade barbs and shoulder rubs with a friend of mine. Oh well. I close my eyes and see visions of ex-loveboy standing in a wooded clearing during a meteor shower, stars falling like the torrential rains he loves, pouring into his open palms as he throws his head back in exultation. Like Marina in "Wasteland", read for the umpteenth time before lending it to a friend, he should have stars,all over his body like jewelry. And like West, I would give them to him, along with Sigur Ros CDs and coffee ice cream and MYST computer games and whatever else he wanted. Here's to the men I loved, to those that loved me, and to everything in between and to come.

I want to stretch and breathe, clear the novels and clothes, shoes and poetry books off of my dorm room floor and do some yoga. But for now I hunch over my laptop and ramble on about everything and nothing. Impending auditions, tech work, JYA applications, and the upcoming semester make me want to pee myself. I turn to my Tarot cards and angel readings for guidance in this period of silent, surfacely-calm limbo. My dreams become anxious, convoluted, strange. And, inspired by Sean Michael Kalahar (www.seanmichaelkalahar.com, please check him out), a modern hipster beatnik whose work I stumbled upon while educating Amanda about Kerouac, I spew poetry from my pores and fingertips in the guise of a blog entry, wondering who it will touch.

as long as they gaze on waterloo sunset they are in paradise

2007-01-17T23:18:00Z

http://diamondskydance.livejournal.com/15231.html?mode=reply

you'll see!

haystack charm around your neck

2007-01-17T23:11:00Z

pancake_dancers @ 2007-01-02T15:10:00

2007-01-02T23:10:08Z

Hi there my beloved Pancake Dancers Stowawitches~~

Please come by and chekout this community

I think you'll like it!

Join ___bohemiankids!

new

2006-12-31T16:25:56Z

Hi everyone. I'm a long time lurker, first time poster. My name is Sophie and I'm 19, from charlotte nc.

i love flb, of course and this community seems really amazing so far.

I have a project of an FLB type that I'm currently working on.

It's a photographical kind of story, entitled Dreamcity...kind of an urban adventure for beautiful boys and girls. Kind of like ecstasia you could say.

I plan on posting it when it's under way. I just wanted to share my idea with some people who love FLB as much as I do.

Sorry if this post was rambling, it's been a rough night :)

Verbal Collages

2006-12-25T01:18:12Z

Hi Pancake Dancers! Recently, inspired by the "verbal graffiti" of slam poet Emmanuel Xavier, I wrote an almost-poem which is a series of collages of the things that represent different times in my life. It's kind of random and contains a lot of inside jokes, but I think it has a sort of universal aesthetic appeal. Please let me know what you think. Enjoy, and Happy Holidays!

(X-posted in an earlier form to francesca_lia).

Collages
Inspired by Emmanuel Xavier and Keith Haring

Fall 2005

It’s becoming who I am. It’s meeting some of the best people of my life and skipping orientation stuff just to spend all night talking with them. It’s letting down my defenses. It’s watching bad anime in Bianca’s room when I should be studying. It’s Burdick’s hot cocoa, rich and sweet like melted chocolate bars. It’s fusion food at Cha Cha Cha. It’s playing a monkey in a show and typing with my feet. It’s having an insatiable crush on my gay Mythology teacher. It’s writing poems about ancient Greek heroines and Orlando Bloom smutfic. It’s rose oil perfume. It’s innocence. It’s diving into my head and setting up shop in the crazy interesting world I find. It’s lavender creme brulee. It’s roleplaying the French Revolution and the Indian independence struggle. It’s seeing Elizabethtown on a rainy Parents’ Weekend. It’s Amanda licking cake off my floor like she’s making out with a boy. It’s late-night 7-11 runs. It’s pretty henna tattoos. It’s playing Galadriel in live-action chess because they wouldn’t let me be Arwen. It’s rollerblading and laser tag on Tuesday nights. It’s having Sylvia Plath haunt my room. It’s crying amethyst tears in my dreams. It’s Tori Amos’s "Boys For Pele" and Jeff Buckley’s "Grace," spelling out the soundtrack to it all. It’s the cocoon before rebirth.

Winter ‘05-‘06

It’s regeneration. It’s "The Skriker." It’s forming a cameraderie of sweat and striving to the sounds of "The Scatman" and Cirque du Soleil’s "Quidam" and Eminem’s "Lose Yourself." It’s "Cleopatra’s Desire" orange and patchouli soap and tiramisu-scented body lotion. It’s napping on the couch in the Green Room during breaks. It’s Steve-O’s "monkeydillas" at Blanchard. It’s me coat and me cunt. It’s parties at the house on Silver Street, the nucleus of our social scene. It’s the smell of fresh paint as I apply it to the sets. It’s Troy, Troy, so much Troy. It’s my heart opening like a flower for him. It’s disco bowling and hey Ezra, table for 15 at Green Street Café! It’s the dilapidated swing set. It’s huge papier-mache masks and leather jackets. It’s just the tip and e-nun-ciate ar-tic-ulate exag-gerate. It’s vivid dreams written in my butterfly-decorated dream journal. It’s my vintage red silk kimono. It’s watching "Roman Holiday" and "Much Ado About Nothing" late at night. It’s SinNamon popcorn. It’s fear. It’s wishing that a house would fall on the Wicked Bitch of the East, with her skinny legs sticking out from underneath. It’s "I Will Not Forget You" and forgetting regret. It’s an orgy dance on the slide, piggie snarfs and "I’ll be your sausage this evening." It’s woven yoga mats for me and smoothies for him. It’s ‘80s dance parties and sexy parties and Billie Jean is not my love. It’s "Let’s Hear It For The Boy" – my boy– he may not be no Romeo but he’s my love and one-man show. It’s being told at an audition how well we all work together. It’s massage circles. It’s accoustic Metallica and Katie’s "Across the Sea." It’s taking a risk and living La Vie Boheme.

Spring ‘06

It’s slavery and freedom. It’s the estro-fest of Voice for Actors. It’s om namah shivaya and breathing away my depression. It’s listening to Joni Mitchell’s "Ladies of the Canyon" and crying. It’s longing, longing for so long. It’s sandalwood perfume from the health food store. It’s sleeping through Craig Felton’s Peanuts’-teacher-esque "wah-wah-wah" and still getting an A. It’s BBQ seitan burritos at Bueno y Sano. It’s following the Lover’s Path. It’s wishing on stars. It’s playing the peacemaker in the midst of a bitter feud. It’s peach cobbler machine cappucino and Bawls guarana– the finals-time red eye remedy. It’s chasing crazy beagles and doing somersaults. It’s Catharsis. It’s my gauzy fuschia batik skirt. It’s getting plastered on Buttershots with Draco and the Malfoys, almost dancing on Johanna’s couch and telling the same jokes over and over. It’s a Light in the Dark, people coming into our lives and quickly going. It’s holding on to what I have. It’s the Saddest Song. It’s my hands cradling the crown of my head as I do an Ashtanga headstand. It’s the Tittie Inspector. It’s bhangra dance, bobbing shoulders and head, swirling imaginary scarves. It’s rosemary bread and staying up all night reading Tarot. It’s Krishna Das’s music. It’s Hamlet’s soliloquoy and the Big Bad Patriarchy. It’s Peeps s’mores and Peep sacrifices, because we know those little bastards are out to get us. It’s after the boys of summer have gone. It’s wanting to be Chick’s chick and ending up just a friend. It’s a desperate gambit. It’s crying when I have to leave.

Summer 2006

It’s the gritty Pitty city. It’s yoga class with Marya, my mat smelling like the incense I burn in my room. It’s ruining my lungs with too many flowery-sweet hookahs shared. It’s days so hot that it’s only tolerable at dawn. It’s late nights watching Brokeback Mountain on demand and making fun of cheesy QVC jewelry. It’s chiaroscuro and no star above my Bethlehem. It’s Gemini. It’s Johnny Depp the Octopus. It’s lunches at the co-op. It’s seeing POTC 2 late at night. It’s Ruby. It’s dramaturgy for Beauty and the Beast. It’s Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians. It’s reading poetry in coffeehouses. It’s sitar music on AOL Radio. It’s going back to therapy. It’s practically living at Eat & Park. It’s baseball games with fireworks and dinner at Nakama. It’s swingsets at night. It’s the stripping away of delusions. It’s heartache. It’s Kali, sadaguru shri mata. It’s HIP kirtan. It’s a hot, sunken pit. It’s a drop in the ocean– my cell phone. It’s reading Tarot for bus fare in Point State Park. It’s PAT busses, not PVTAs. It’s standing still. It’s the moon over the Atlantic. It’s Dollie’s caramel corn. It’s Jai Uttal and singing "Radhe Govinda" like a prayer for my wounded heart. It’s limbo. It’s just a phase. It’s frantic hope for a better year.

Fall 2006

It’s hope. It’s a fresh start. It’s so much worry. It’s my own single, in many ways. It’s the smell of my lavender-vanilla reed diffuser. It’s back in black for convocation. It’s apple picking and RenFests. It’s being in love with a ghost. It’s dharma and "how long till my soul gets it right?" It’s "Lydia." It’s scarves and beads and memories popping and tugging. It’s Medellin and Ponce, get yo’ ass on board! It’s ichi-ni-son and "Once More Into the Breach" and "Wakare." It’s feet pounding the floor, calling up spirits and putting old ones to rest. It’s Jesus Freaks in public restrooms. It’s maple macchiatos at Starbucks. It’s cheap and pretty velour vintage skirts. It’s becoming an honorary Jew and a kickass Turk. It’s tofu kabobs and hard cider and challah at Debi’s apartment. It’s the bearded lizard with the name meaning "prickly pear" in Hebrew. It’s bowling in character. It’s Amanda and Dan, Trea and Connor. It’s peacock-feather masks and sneaking into Hampshire Halloween. It’s cheap wine swigged straight from the bottle. It’s fresh hot babke and raspy throats. It’s dirty show-related inside jokes. It’s lamb’s feet and special grandmas. It’s becoming 13 again, when everything was magical. It’s fake beards. It’s Noah’s Star Wars opera. It’s Little Eagle and whirling like a dervish in my fez and long skirt. It’s speed-thrus. It’s becoming tree gnomes and tickle monsters. It’s late-night walks with Amanda. It’s lavender flower water. It’s Jafra body lotion. It’s ‘sblood and "pricked" and Peanuts "Hey Ya!" It’s Intimacy and apple juice. It’s seeing his face again and walking away. It’s new clothes on the parental tab. It’s faerie cards. It’s your mom. It’s a cry of triumph, not a primal scream.

pancake_dancers @ 2006-12-14T11:10:00

2006-12-14T16:15:58Z

Hello everyone, how are you!

I just want to let you know about my new writing journal, where I will be posting my writing from now on delia_sighs.

Also, I offer a writing gift

First of all, do not react. At least do not act surprised. The anti-Christ loves brash action and reactions to unexpected things that are not thought out. She just likes to catch you on them, and point out to you how completely weak you are as a human. Of course, she is a human as well. But she is more then that, she is the anti-Christ, and for some reason, that makes her feel superior.

Yes, she, as in the anti-Christ, is in fact, a girl. The Christians would have it no other way of course. Especially the male ones. I think the women in their prim Sunday dresses at Mass would find it to be a shocking relief that the anti-Christ they all fear turned out to be a woman, and that they have been oppressed all these years for some reason at least. At least then they can feel fullness as they bow their heads to pray once more, begging forgiveness for having such wretched souls. So wretched that they were cursed with tits.

The only problem with having the anti-Christ in your kitchen, especially if that anti-Christ is a woman, is that she will insist on making dinner. Do not allow her near the pots and pans! She may turn the stove up too hot and end up burning down the entire house! Her favorite food is fruitcake, and she likes to eat that every second of the day. You don’t want her making fruitcake in your kitchen now do you? Especially if there is the risk of her burning the house down. So you better take that mixing bowl and collection of grapefruits away from her right now. Just like that.

So now she’s yelling at you. Well what she going to do to you? She’s the anti-Christ and not anti-you. What are you doing with the anti-Christ in your Kitchen anyway? Yes life is full of hard questions.

I know; I’m not helping. I’m supposed to be telling you what to do if the anti-Christ is in your kitchen. In reality, I have no clue. Buy her a nice dress I guess. A pretty ruby red one with a skirt that sways back and forth, and really soft lace. That way she’ll look pretty for the Apocalypse. Do her hair; help her out on the whole “Look” factor. That will be her weapon you know, man’s love for materialism and beauty. All she needs to do is shave her legs, drop her weight to 105, and walk down a runway while stripping on national television, and she’ll have Christ beat.

In fact, what is she doing in your Kitchen? She’s much more useful in the bedroom.

Oh and now she wants you to help her! She wants you to shave your legs and curl your hair and bear those sinful tits and strut right along beside her. And you don’t want to help out the anti-Christ. Hell, you don’t even believe in the anti-Christ. In your mind there is just some random chick in the kitchen yelling at you. Well fuck, you’ve got a dilemma don’t you? You don’t believe in Christ or the devil, and you don’t believe in the Apocalypse and never read Revelations, and still you’re getting tied into this web, this knot, and before you know it, it will all end, very badly. If you keep this woman in your kitchen any longer, the whole world will label you as Satan’s little helper. That could be problematic, as you don’t know anyone named Satan, and don’t think there is such thing. And how can you be the helper of someone you have never met?

And all these thoughts are rushing through your head a mile a minute, aren’t they? You’re staring at this woman in your kitchen, and her back is carved out, she’s all hallow inside. She turns to you and tells you she is the anti-Christ and she knows that you aren’t Christian and that you can help her. That everyone hates you anyway for not being Christian. That they already have this “label” for you, it’s the wrong one, but hey, why not give the people what they want?

Well what else can you do? You tell the truth. That you are Wiccan and you don’t believe in her. It works the same way as it does for Faeries you see. If you don’t believe in something, it will just die out. So you tell her “no”, that she is not real to you. That she needs to leave. It doesn’t matter what the world thinks is real. It doesn’t matter whether you know Satan or not. You don’t believe she’s real. So how can she be? That’s what you need to do, and get the anti-Christ the fuck out of your Kitchen. Beat her out with a broom if you have to. Or else she’ll burn your entire house down.

Black Butterfly Available For Viewing

2006-12-08T13:37:48Z

I have finally created a community for Black Butterfly, so that those who are interested in reading it may do so. I think making communities for stories is much easier. Now BB is a Novella that i'm looking into some places to submit it for publishing, so I want you guys to tell me what needs to be fixed, to give the story a fighting chance.

pancake_dancers @ 2006-12-05T17:28:00

2006-12-05T22:28:36Z

Dentists in the Nude

Each uncovered limb mirrored that of another, curling together to mimic the intricate design of a spider’s legs at rest. It had been a long day of ‘hello’s and ‘goodbye’s, the only consistency being our presence shared. We were here together, and before then we were there together, as I hope it will always be. Lying beside her, my female counterpart, the realist to my idealist, I listened to the subtle noises released only in sleep—the subtle greetings to dreamy figures in the form of her teeth grinding, or small sighs of sleep. I can’t count how many mornings I had woken before her, and waited observantly for her to stir first, so as not to make an obligation of myself.

That particular morning’s sun rose after an evening of heavy dancing with the beats of a foreign drum, coinciding with the rhythmic thumps of feet in the crowd pounding and stomping along. She was forever alongside me, and we were forever dancing, spinning, twirling, and jiving with the bodies, collectively one in significance, surrounding simply trying to catch up. She’s my best dancing partner. As our hips would press together, and lips grazing along the plains of the other’s cheek, our feminine air encompassed a scene, and on far more than a single occasion an admiring bystander would try to capture this energy on film—a feat I’m sure was far more difficult than they’d have imagined. I can’t help but wonder how many frozen images of she and I are floating around this world.
As the stage’s festivities reached its climax, so it seemed the sky itself burst upon the point. With the deep rumbling of an ancient stomach, the waves swiftly fell from the sky, and as quickly as it began the crowd collectively departed for cover. We mentally converged as to where our haven would lie, and with a laugh erupting from the soul at this glorious predicament, we took off at a pace uncharted for cover. Our personal cache was located between stone walls otherwise open to whatsoever the winds would want with us, the only useful cover found in the solid rooftop, which, too, had its own interpretation of ‘open courtyard’ to adhere to. Needless to say, we were cold, wet, and increasingly frigid with the whipping winds—and all the while blithely concerning ourselves with the terrible conditions. Staring and smiling, we took it upon ourselves to leave our own cave drawings upon the chipped paint of walls which had certainly seen better days. I told her tales of the origin of rain, and she left inspiring quotes imprinted there alongside. Perhaps some other day two loving lasses may find themselves in just a predicament, and need the knowledge of generations past on how to accommodate to the circumstance.
I suppose it was soon after that when three equally soaked lads made their way upon our domain, and so our self-sustaining duo became a set of five looking for closed walls and dry clothes. We ran through puddles worth splashing in, in sight of a dental office with the names and souls of festival persons inhabiting within. As we stepped in from the rain, the warm sparse crowd smiled at our group, as wet dogs in from the rain needing nurturing. We took off what we could while maintaining modesty and the five of us settled in a corner, wrapped in white lab coats put to, quite possibly, the most worthwhile purpose they ever had been. As vivacious the new, loving family was, we quietly kept to ourselves, laughing at the situation as a whole. I should like to recall Chelsea today, yesterday, tomorrow, and for ever after that my mind may dwell on her jiva in this body, as my dynamic foil—the character in my life today, written in to make me recognize the full potential within myself.

pancake_dancers @ 2006-11-16T18:44:00

2006-11-16T23:44:47Z

Living in New York makes me feel like Witchbaby, like Angel Juan.

All of these were taken on a Holga (toy plastic camera known for weird colours/distortions)

Sometimes i see things that remind me of FLB, especially of missing angel juan. tree spirits in central park, little fairy girls with wings, white dirty wings hanging in a shop in the east village, and today a store front of mannequins, sometimes i'm afraid of Cake, always keeping my eyes open. Maybe I will post my pictures of these things, maybe soon.

pancake_dancers @ 2006-10-22T23:31:00

2006-10-23T06:32:47Z

___selfsnapshot

summer dies here, and so could I

2006-10-12T12:47:17Z

A true story to make my introduction.

She always said it was too hot to eat in the summer, but I never listened. In the morning, I always brought her breakfast. Sometimes oatmeal with honey and bananas (looking back, maybe it was too hot for that), other times fruit smoothies and biscotti. Much as she complained about my clucking over her like a Mother Hen, I think she would've been lost without it. Twenty-five, never having had the warmth of a sweet mother, or the quiet protection of a loving father. Instead, she had me. An insane-lost-twisted sixteen year old girl, who was always after her to eat, and constantly made sure she had a comfortable, safe place to sleep.

Deep down, I think she needed me to hold her in one place. To keep her from flying away in a violent storm. But it would take several years before I realized I needed her too, back in those strange days. Focusing on her, making sure she was alright and healthy and couldn't hurt herself, allowed me to slip out of my own nightmares and troubles. They no longer mattered, because there was something real - something flesh and blood - that desperately needed my attention. There wasn't enough time to shoot up, or wander the streets looking for trouble, or make myself bleed. Better to take her home for dinner for a hot bath, and badly made coffee, and pancakes at three a.m. while we watched stupid cartoons.

Nights in my bed were always so strange. She was beautiful and bewitching, like a golden-haired Snow White. I sat with my legs curled up under me, madly scribbling in whatever notebook was nearby. I was so different back then, with a plump-rosy face and a chubby little body. Who knew age would lengthen me into something lean and sleek, ready for battles at midnight? But she was always the same human skeleton, showing bones and delicate hands. Beautiful, but so fragile. Sometimes I worried I would crush her, like the smallest touch would turn her into crumbling ash. So I stayed far away, at the end of my bed, so careful. Always impatient, she'd playfully prod me with her foot, or lure me with sugary-sparse kisses. "Make love to me," she'd say, and I could've sworn she purred. But I never did. Too afraid. Of her. Of hurting her. Of myself. Always afraid, in those days.

Somewhere along the line, we lost touch. I forgot to bring her breakfast one morning, and she forgot to call, and it was like someone took a pencil eraser to our connection. We were like static on a phone line. And then we were gone.

I saw her once, earlier this year. Six years later. She looked right at me ... but she didn't see me. I don't think she recognized me. How could she? So much of me had changed, physically and emotionally. Life was different, and new, and sacred. But she was still the same. Still the skeleton I wanted so much to protect - that I had loved so much it made my heart hurt - but time had etched dark circles under her eyes, and needle marks in the crooks of her tender arms. Hair like dying mermaids, and she had so many more scars than I remembered, none of them physical. Old habits die hard, and I started to walk towards her, eager to take her home. I'd give her clean clothes, and help her shampoo her hair (her arms didn't look strong enough to do it, anymore), and cook her dinner. Make her tea. Write her stories, play my guitar, anything to take away that wretched weariness that pressed her normally sweet little mouth into cement lines. But then a man stepped into my line of sight, and grabbed her forcefully by the arm. She smiled, and made no move to fight him, and off they went. And just like that, she was gone again. Out of my life once more.

Today my phone rang, the caller ID flashing a number I hadn't seen in months. An old friend, more of an acquaintance really, but we had many mutual friends and thus stayed casually in touch.

"Did you hear?" she asked me, and from her tone of voice I knew a part of my moon would soon eclipse.

"No," I said, already wishing I could just hang up the phone.

"Alessandra Richardson was found dead three days ago. They said she OD'd on coke."

China Doll Corpse

2006-09-15T13:40:54Z

She took her dreams,

To cast aside.

And revel at how the young men died.

And understand, but for her part

Teacup cracks inside her heart.

Her longing. a spider web,

Weaved so many ways.

And his entrance into her bed,

Kept her for the rest of her days.

And the corpse that she,

Who never knew,

Freedom in a witches brew,

Found among the human rot:

The beauty of love,

And how it lost it’s appeal

With the premier of the spinning wheel.

But take, my ladies in waiting,

And place across your mind,

Roses, and poses, and antique shaped noses,

And ribbons and lace for your hair.

True love is evident

In the bone and rib,

Bursting from your flesh.

And in your breast, bare.