Elementary Me
My mind is the Air, something transient and intangible. My thoughts ethereal, with my guardian creative muse ever elusive. It's sometimes winsome, sometimes flaky, sometimes obstinate, but never subtle.
My spirit is the Water, fluid and graceful as it finds it’s own faith. Flowing and sinuous in it’s devotion to keeping my soul whole, it becomes pliant to suit the mother earth and pagan beliefs, bet never dilute in it’s steadfastness.
My emotions and my mythical heart are the Fire, hot in my chest, stifling my breath, oppressive in it’s impassioned desires. You hear the fervent words it sings, as it possesses me, zealous in it’s needs. It exhausts me and scorches, leaving me licking my blistered skin as its embers glow.
My flesh and bones, my body, is the Earth, everything it came from and everything it will become. The solid calcification keeping me grounded, logical, tenacious, keeping me in the garden growing the fruits that I suckle with my sweat. Devoted like a tree, branching out to bask in the sun and lap up the rain, my roots grow deep. Keeping me by the sea, ever faithful to the oceans with her sirens that call me.
* * * * *
[ I’ve gone back and forth a hundred times with this but it needs to be done. I had the best intentions when I took on Polly, but my fanatical adoration for her is more of a hindrance than a help, and I don’t feel like I can write as well as she deserves. I also can’t devote the time she needs, in a mental or physical sense, and it makes it more difficult to keep going here when you’re not interacting. I want an active PJ but honestly I don't think it is going to be me. I’ve kept her as long as I did because of my friends list, but now I have most of you added in other forms, so I guess it’s sayonara Dirty Mafia, you kept me happy while I was here.
This is also my saying I love her too much to watch her waste away, so I want to pick my successor. There is about seven months of paid journal time left with 50 icons, e-mail, AIM, icons, photobucket account, and links if you need it. Basically it’s ready to go if you send me a writing sample or prior RP history. Yes I’m being a strict bitch about it because I invested a lot of time (and some money) although it may not all show.
If you’re interested drop me a line at ljpjharvey @ yahoo.co.uk
I am going to keep her as alive as I have been until I find someone to take her over or I go mad trying. ]
* * * * *
One last thing, while Steve Buscemi was drinking lager in a musty pub in LA one day I may or may not have snuck up beside him and slipped a near lethal dose of roofies in his drink. It’s then possible that I may have had to pay off the barman and a barfly or two to help me load Steve’s scrawny body into my car and to keep their mouths shut about the whole thing. The barman didn’t seem to mind much, he said it’s the first time he got paid for his drinks instead of hearing “Did you see Reservoir Dogs, do you know what I can do to you? Don’t make me get medieval on your filthy ass,” or some other nonsense.
It’s possible that I may have driven to an abandoned warehouse in the desert halfway to Barstow while listening to Liz Phair (why are you gone?) with Steve slumped over on the beige leather bench seat of the ‘72 Buick, his head on my lap. The string of saliva from his gaping mouth acted as a lubricant in between my thighs, because who wants friction when you’re pressing the accelerator to the floor?
It’s feasible that I had my way with him in that warehouse, but the concrete induced scrapes and abrasions on his knees and cheeks may have come from somewhere else as well, who knows? And who’s to say those leather chafe marks on his wrists and ankles aren’t from a watchband or wearing his socks too tight?
Spent and sated, I may or may not have loaded him into the trunk for the drive back to the city, because I wouldn’t want my cars lovely beige interior marred by dirty, sweaty, bloody discharges. You could assume, if this all actually happened, that I left him in a whore’s motel in West Hollywood. You know the kind with pubic hairs and semen stains perpetually covering the sheets and having to pay an extra $2 for a ‘clean’ towel at the front desk, the kind with cockroaches in the sink and rust stains in the toilet. I may have paid off a hooker with an 8-ball and a crumpled $20 dug out from Steve’s trouser pocket just to make sure he woke up, or that the cops were called if he didn’t, because I’m a nice girl like that.
My spirit is the Water, fluid and graceful as it finds it’s own faith. Flowing and sinuous in it’s devotion to keeping my soul whole, it becomes pliant to suit the mother earth and pagan beliefs, bet never dilute in it’s steadfastness.
My emotions and my mythical heart are the Fire, hot in my chest, stifling my breath, oppressive in it’s impassioned desires. You hear the fervent words it sings, as it possesses me, zealous in it’s needs. It exhausts me and scorches, leaving me licking my blistered skin as its embers glow.
My flesh and bones, my body, is the Earth, everything it came from and everything it will become. The solid calcification keeping me grounded, logical, tenacious, keeping me in the garden growing the fruits that I suckle with my sweat. Devoted like a tree, branching out to bask in the sun and lap up the rain, my roots grow deep. Keeping me by the sea, ever faithful to the oceans with her sirens that call me.
* * * * *
[ I’ve gone back and forth a hundred times with this but it needs to be done. I had the best intentions when I took on Polly, but my fanatical adoration for her is more of a hindrance than a help, and I don’t feel like I can write as well as she deserves. I also can’t devote the time she needs, in a mental or physical sense, and it makes it more difficult to keep going here when you’re not interacting. I want an active PJ but honestly I don't think it is going to be me. I’ve kept her as long as I did because of my friends list, but now I have most of you added in other forms, so I guess it’s sayonara Dirty Mafia, you kept me happy while I was here.
This is also my saying I love her too much to watch her waste away, so I want to pick my successor. There is about seven months of paid journal time left with 50 icons, e-mail, AIM, icons, photobucket account, and links if you need it. Basically it’s ready to go if you send me a writing sample or prior RP history. Yes I’m being a strict bitch about it because I invested a lot of time (and some money) although it may not all show.
If you’re interested drop me a line at ljpjharvey @ yahoo.co.uk
I am going to keep her as alive as I have been until I find someone to take her over or I go mad trying. ]
* * * * *
One last thing, while Steve Buscemi was drinking lager in a musty pub in LA one day I may or may not have snuck up beside him and slipped a near lethal dose of roofies in his drink. It’s then possible that I may have had to pay off the barman and a barfly or two to help me load Steve’s scrawny body into my car and to keep their mouths shut about the whole thing. The barman didn’t seem to mind much, he said it’s the first time he got paid for his drinks instead of hearing “Did you see Reservoir Dogs, do you know what I can do to you? Don’t make me get medieval on your filthy ass,” or some other nonsense.
It’s possible that I may have driven to an abandoned warehouse in the desert halfway to Barstow while listening to Liz Phair (why are you gone?) with Steve slumped over on the beige leather bench seat of the ‘72 Buick, his head on my lap. The string of saliva from his gaping mouth acted as a lubricant in between my thighs, because who wants friction when you’re pressing the accelerator to the floor?
It’s feasible that I had my way with him in that warehouse, but the concrete induced scrapes and abrasions on his knees and cheeks may have come from somewhere else as well, who knows? And who’s to say those leather chafe marks on his wrists and ankles aren’t from a watchband or wearing his socks too tight?
Spent and sated, I may or may not have loaded him into the trunk for the drive back to the city, because I wouldn’t want my cars lovely beige interior marred by dirty, sweaty, bloody discharges. You could assume, if this all actually happened, that I left him in a whore’s motel in West Hollywood. You know the kind with pubic hairs and semen stains perpetually covering the sheets and having to pay an extra $2 for a ‘clean’ towel at the front desk, the kind with cockroaches in the sink and rust stains in the toilet. I may have paid off a hooker with an 8-ball and a crumpled $20 dug out from Steve’s trouser pocket just to make sure he woke up, or that the cops were called if he didn’t, because I’m a nice girl like that.