(no subject)
Good Morning:
Cleft in Twain.
Kind Hearted Witch.
DUALITY.
These are our words of the day.
I am taking three classes at Uvic. "Engl 372: 18th C. Now" , "The Canterbury Tales" and Vampire Studies. I am working one day a week at the Olympic View Golf Course, and more than one day a week at Empire University 4 Cinemas. I bought a drum kit. I wanted to write for the Martlett - but I changed my mind. I will write for Thirdspace instead - and certinally for This Side West.
I am a good student. I am a bad student.
I am a selfish person. But several of you would disagree. I get wrapped up in my dreams, my mind, my alone, the handicapped nature of communication. I make excuses. I draw lines. I do right by a few, I do wrong by many.
There are tunnels underground. Walk with me under the bare light bulbs and I will tell you of the silences I have given to my friends. Of the lashings out I have given to my family, to the people who love me though I pace in sunless rooms. Walk with me down flights of dirty 2 by 4s. See the map rooms and confrence rooms with roots in the ceiling. I will tell you of the wrongs I have done to myself of the holes I dig into myself of the graves I dig into myself. (myself myself myself myself - I am a selfish person.)
If you're still reading this you're mad.
I just want to say I'm sorry. Keep reading and walking with me. I can't speak as to whether or not it will be benificial to you. But it could be of intrest.
Jill wakes up and crawls out to the feild. It is still dark out when she begins. Bent on her hands and knees she toils in the dirt. She turns the earth up with her spade-hands. She slashes at clumps of dirt. She digs up veins of fresh soil. The dust stings her eyes and she weeps. The ground will be fertile. The Harvest is coming. Dig Deep. Her hair kerchief comes loose and the paisley scrap is folded into the earth. Her matted greybrown hairs prickle in the damp dawn static. There are smears on her face and clothes. She throws herself at the earth. Dig Deep. She humps at the land; Jill turns the earth with her spade-hands. The feild stretches away from her shack in all directions and lays itself tightly against the grey sky. The ground must be fertile. One day plants will grow. Flowers will grow. Vegtables and crops of all description. Dig Deep. Jill sleeps and in her dreams there are scarecrows and gravediggers. It is still dark out when she begins. Sometimes the spades hit rocks. They glance back and slice her hands. Sometimes Jill doesn't see the sunrise or the sunset because she plows so intently. The sticky brown earth digs back and Jill, up under her fingernails and into her ears. It is plugging her up.