(no subject)
The first day that she came, she was sauntering about in the path’s of our land, just surprisingly at the same time that I was collecting wood so I could hear the vague rustling of branches. Considering my folks are very uptight about intruders, this was something that I could only keep to myself. It was amusing, it gave me something to look forward to each day, was watching her stroll down my trails with her little golden forest bike. It seemed an escape for her as it was to me just to watch her escape into a different world, and as long as she wasn’t loud or disruptive, what did I truly care to burden?
It seemed almost everyday including rainy days she was sitting on the rock on top of the ledge that overlooked the land, hidden at least a decent mile’s back from the road and close enough to the stonewall where I could hide. She had long brown hair and I would assume brown or hazel eyes, short in structure and frail yet fit. She was a plain person that wore plain clothing and see-through water shoes and carried a bag with her everywhere she went, a multi-coloured bag, not a purse nor a pocket-book, but an envious bag that seemed dirtied and worn out for years.
When she settled on the rock she would lay out an old blanket of blue and white, maybe an afghan it’s hard to tell, and she would smoke a bowl of marijuana, or drink a forty-ounce of cheap beer, and would write in a blue journal, but every now and then the colour or type of journal would change, and it would be a composition one, or a frail broken-down pages falling out, type of bright yellow journal with writings on the cover as she’d restlessly try and catch the pieces that would tumble out and onto the soiled floor. I didn’t know her name but was curious, so I called her Margaret, the name of my dream woman. She talked to herself often and to the trees of pointless conversations or vented to them about her day as if her surroundings was her journal. I wasn’t certain if it was a journal she had kept or a diary but I know the vague difference is there so I guessed a journal to be more precise.
She smoked cheap tobacco, in a small blue bag and I’m thinking it might have been Bugler rolling tobacco from the colour. Sometimes she would clear out a certain spot next to the rock where her bike would rest gracefully against a Maple tree (always seemed to be the same place she would park her bicycle), and she would dance to music on a headphone set. If I got lucky, she would wear long pretty skirts of different colours and sometimes more than one at the same time and the way she swayed, oh the way she swayed, back and forth, and twirled gently with her arms opening to the sky as she’d look off into the rays of the sun with a smile that could beat the heat beaming down on us both.
It seemed to be that I grew a love for her when I started to know her like the back of my own tissue-scarred hand without speaking a word to her, like the ghost has ridden but is still there in peace. And I, was the ridden ghost, that sat behind the stonewall and would watch her as if from above, or behind, or even in front, she could not see me and could not suspect. Unless I made myself obvious, would that be a different case, but I felt like a ghost. The feeling of being able to see a body do what no one would ever portray them to do, like a little white lie or a secret hidden behind trails of leaves and enveloping trees made me feel dominating, and also weak at the same time. If I had ever met her, my knees would cry for strength within seconds, but when I was watching her and I was alone and she was too, my eyes grew curious as well as my thoughts of wanting to be next to her on that rock.
For some reason, I felt a massive tension that disallowed me from confronting her with my presence, so I would have never just came out of the bushes to talk. I’ve always been tempted, but have found enough justification in just watching her from afar. I felt the need to protect her, even though she seemed to have her head up high, but I felt that I was there to watch out for her. There are people on this road, including my parents and siblings, that wouldn’t appreciate nor take well to such a person like her, and would feel the groove of jealousy within the smooth of their back and would feel dominance towards the fact she is gallivanting about on our property.
Eventually I came to dream about meeting her, and in my dreams was I, walking not from the bushes, but from the local package store buying my booze as she would come up to me from the side of the store and give me a handful of quarters begging for a forty-ounce of Milwaukee’s best, or something generic and warm such as that. Of course I didn’t deny, I knew perfectly well who she was, and gave a gentle smile and without her asking me what she had wanted, I paraded into the store once more and brought her back two instead of one. You can easily suggest that second one was for me, and I followed her into the woods and sat with her on the rock she had slightly claimed hers and not no longer technically nor legally mine or my family’s, and that I had almost respected and envied. It could have been the most ideal yet frustrating dream I had ever had, because I wanted that dream to turn into some sort of perfect reality and felt I almost had control over that but not over her.
I felt a warmth inside my body that tingled as I sat there smoking my real cigarettes from a real hard pack instead of rolling and almost thought to offer her a real one but was scared she would run away and never come back, and then my search for the girl on the golden forest bike could just well be forever or never.
Eventually she started to explore beyond the rock from the ledge in search of what I assumed maybe some water to bathe in, or a tree to sleep under, or maybe marijuana plants to pull up. Whatever she was doing, I was curious so I followed within the yards of the stonewall as far as I could non-chalantly go within.
And in about two months or so is when I gained the courage to betray myself and pretend I was a land claimer, too. I had it all planned out and I was destined to meet Margaret, I had gathered a few sentimental belongings from my loft-like room above the garage, gathered my marijuana, my little metal bowl (which is ironic I noticed she had a small metal bowl as well), and took a few beers from the basement fridge and was on my way to “accidentally” bump into her. The plan had went well I must say, I felt deceiving but not enough to care, just to get the feel of being around her. I walked from the road down to the trail where I noticed the golden bike resting by the Maple tree and saw her sunbathing on the rock, so I shouted.
“Hey! That’s my rock you’re sitting on.” She jumped up in disbelief and stood her ground.
“Oh no you don’t, this rock has been mine for quite some time now, I’ve never seen you in these parts, who do you think you are?” I smiled, almost gasped in relief, and walked up to her as if I was angry, then sat down beside her.
“It doesn’t matter, we can share, as long as you promise not to tell anyone about this rock, it’s the best view you can get in this towne ya’ know. Care to toke? Do you? I know you do, I can tell.”
She nodded, smiled, and gathered up her bones and sat beside me and inhaled, exhaled and gently nodded again, “thank you, that’s what I needed to get my mind off of this.”
“Off of what?”
“Claiming land that has already been claimed.”
“Does it really bother you that much? I mean, I’ll give it to you…”
“You have to earn land, you travel by your means and morals and sense the feeling it is yours and yours to keep, when someone tells you otherwise, it’s like a sudden reaction of betrayal towards your own lifestyle.” I was baffled by these words and had to think for a minute, I was no land-claimer, nor much of an explorer, well perhaps an explorer, but not to the extent where land is sentimental to me, just a spot where I go that maybe one or two people may know about, maybe none at all.
“I see, well…likewise, haven’t you ever claimed a land with another person?”
“No, not really, perhaps it can be something new, and I don’t really mind, as long as you don’t…”
“Of course not, if anything, we could become friends, and this could be what is the ideal place for us to go to gather a friendship.”
“Agreed…yes, by far, agreed.”
Now this almost felt like the time to say I had grown a love for her, and knew the person that she was, and everything that she had done, and everything that she had lived for, but once again, an intriguing mysterious tension held me back. Likewise, there was something there, a hole that was filled, a curious hole that seemed to have been inside of me for a long time, the want for a person like her for me to meet, maybe not potentially as a lover, but at least to know her was all I had needed. And correction, her eyes were hazel.
and i now know what i'm going to say to my boss to call out of work for saturday, consistent diarrhea. awww yeah baby fire me now fire me now.
i like those dreams where it's so realistic i can feel the atmosphere around me...likewise, when i was sober, i had a dream i was high, and could feel the true echoe's of laughter and the hovering fan over my head with detail it was as if i was really stoned. and earlier this mourning, a dream about the winter left the cold so right that my hands and face turned a cold blue.
two more days, gina got the tickets, i have the money, she's got the weed, and i've got the bowl. she's got the camera and i've got the skirts. the music will be loud and hick, with hippies and long beards, flannel shirts and tye-dye skirts, flowers and headresses, pretty circlets of roses, ban-joesss and geetahs, a bright sunny field and gathering of marijuana smoke and joints left carelessly on the ground to pick up. this is going to be fucking amazing.
oh and...i dont think you realize...
how stoned i am.
like, i dont know how long i stared at the screen in "awe" until i realized it was a computer monitor.
and i know no one really reads this, but i pretend everyone does so that's why i write shit in here. i could have a secret stalker? im listening to this song,
i havent listened in a very long time
i used to sit in my old dining room, the real diningroom of this home that none of you have ever seen, and sit there listening to this, soundtrack
this soundtrack that was like,..godzilla.
hahaha and it's the best.
it';s got silverchair, that untitled track which is one the best htis album?
and like..rage against the machine,, THEEREE BE NO SHELTA HERE THE FRONTLIIINEE IS EVERYWHEA@!!!!!!!!
oh god. and fucking
i think ben folds five was on irt, IM COMING UP FOR AIIIIRRRR whih is such a foogood fucking song,.
um.? lets not talk about the jimmy page remix from puff daddy please? thats where i say enough is nigger, enough is enough. you stay your grounds and keep away from good music.
fukcking black pople i swear to god. i met some fucking wencht hat like
told me i dont want to wrok at shaws
you know, the ones that sit behind a desk and feel equality towrds black women? silently theyre just idiots? well, no fucking shit i dont wantr to work at shaws my whole life i wont be here in a month i bet so eat me, and as far as my writing goes (i guess i told her about the school i was going to, prior to this visit?) and i told her how i really felt about the shcool
"ohh well,...you wont get money doing that"
WHATTTttt. I WANT jfa TO DIE PLEASE
SHUT UP PLEASE i hate these things i have to do
like, wooo a job. yeah....a job. to do what? spend half of it to give my mom just to get there and the other half on cigarettes?
GRRRAEATT IVE GOTS OME LIFe
il write to my discretion to keep me from blowing your black ass up
feel better than a white person because you can answer phonec alls and use a real computer and press buttons that give off appointments
youre some fucking revolutionary black woman arent ya?\
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how long can i do this for until i say enough is enoguh?
i want rage now i want rage im still trying to think of the other bandso n there
but im too occupied on feeling nasucause sfsl efse vomiitttt or sleep
maybe lssleep. i have to sleep/. this is bad beut i shoudl sleep with the musico n but yeah
i barel;y ever get to do that... always afraid ill get smacked in the face cause cant hear them
SDHFSHf?FSDG;
oh and this:
Now there's room in your Buddy List® feature for 500 of your closest friends. Organize your chats with tabbed IMs, and stay in touch with the Universal Address Book.
how many of your close friends have you retrieved from myspace miss paris hilton juniour?
(???my mom mentioned otm e baout paris hilton and some sort of life we could have had back in the day, and paris hilton was my best friend)
Use your PC to talk with anyone on the AIM service, no matter where they are*. Our Voice Chat feature lets you talk to up to 20 buddies at a time. Or activate your free AIM® Phoneline to get a local phone number with unlimited incoming calls, caller ID, and voicemail delivered to your AIM mailbox. Upgrade to add unlimited outbound calling to the US, Canada, and over 30 other countries for a low monthly fee.
and like... how many people do YOU know in other countries rather than canada,??
i need to shoot myself