Which came first the blackness or the colors?

My perspective curbed from blackness only by the glow colors falsely accused of fraudently adding vivaciousness to my step.

Colors help resusitate the black from its grave perspective. Colors help black become a spectator again; black watches as the colors do the fandanga manrango/a around it. Then the black dances with reverence at the behest of the colors. No one hears the chanting except the color and the blackness. Amen.

Hi restless and playful partiers! So, I used to party (you could call it that, but I did it kind of regular like hummm…everyday during most activites:-<$), but I figured out not to see royal blue, as in that awesome, beautiful J.Crew sweater I wanted, or a lavender sharp-such as the amethyst that I learned since is the sobriety stone (and thats not all). I never looked anyone in the eyes, hammered and high, or my vision blurred. Whoa, my eyesandmind ganged up on me, and instead of the normal two eyes I would see possibly eight eyes on a good night. Now I love hazel eyes more on the army green side, with jagged yellow strips (smaller than ever) on the iris. Oh my, I warn people and I look very closely. Sometimes I see colors and I cry. Everything previous looked Black or Gray. Except for myself. I have this blonde hair–one huge, fat blonde, eye sore, walking the mall (oh, not so much, any more.) or the alley. The tears, oh if only they shed from a source of oil, gas, oh you know, the shit that runs a car. A millionairesse. Huh. Never. I acclimated to poverty. I work to live. I count my nickles and deny myself pleasure to breathe in O2. Cable sucks. Yet, I’m not struggling philosophically. I’m not asking theological “it’s not fair questions”. I’m not really living too far above my means. We struggle, but I read the news. Oh my God, I’m not overseas living in Syria with a diabolical nutjob as the ruler of my country. I started to see colors again. My better half even wears orange. It didn’t require a social change. He used to wear only black T-Shirts. Me–I wear my heart I have with the small hole in it (Peyton Valve) blah blah, on my sleeve. Nothing I think I rarely hold back. (right now I’m biting my lip.) Hey, but out of the darkness, alone or accompanied, anyone is welcome to live, breathe and eat colors again in their life. No this is not about Jesus or Christianity. I’d consider Polytheism with seven gods–each a color of the rainbow–please don’t compare this with the Seven Deadly Sins unless you prepare a tutorial and are ready to teach it. NO bullshit here. I’m merely spouting off my chain of thoughts, course I’m speaking in code for you know who you are creepy vines.WTF>Have a good colorful day.   

American Idiot(ic) Thunking

ALERT–BEEEEEEP!!

Parts of me...Unwilling to let go to surrender to the inevitable flow.

Parts of me…Unwilling to go with the flow.

DYSTOPIA–HERE IT MEANS AN ILLNESS NOW RECOGNIZED INTHE DSM V–similar to schizophrenia (paranoid), however the individual here doesn’t suffer from delusions. Dystopia’s symptoms begin much earlier between the ages of nine and thirteen, warning signs i.e. writing messeges of propoganda in nature on their bedroom walls or anywhere else that speak only to the DYSTOPIAC. Adopts a corporate, bureaucratic, technological, moral, or totalitarian obsession that the DYSTOPIAC carefully (within the individual’s illusion of his or her ability to “fix” a broken society) designs over a period of months or a couple years a plan within their chosen area to effect as many citizens in their country of origin as possible. Unlike a sociopath, or psychopath, the DYSTOPIAC due to a very present conscience as well as a very high IQ (140-) stuck inside of his or her illusion, not only rattles society into a recogniton (be it only the individual’s family), the individual’s creativity, conscious, commitment and command of carrying through his or her mission on D-day jolts the DYSTOPIAC out of his or her current illusion. For a moment the individual ingests reality. Scared into shitlessness, the DYSTOPIAC returns to an illusionary state with a new determination. The DYSTOPIAC suffers from a disorder of perception. The individual hides in illusions esp. as a child because of the controlling family system the individual grew up enduring. The DYSTOPIAC senses within his or her family system that something is terribly wrong. Yet, the DYSTOPIAC is too young and without the proper language to identify it. Prone to: addiction, eating disorders, depression, OCD, running away, severe hatred that leads to violence, volitile adulthood, cutting, burning, anything a sick person can think of to destroy his or her body: at last suical ideations. Attempts are probable.

Anti choas

Image

Conflict can be exactly this; terrifying and confusing with chaotic anti-figures and a richness in feeling that brutally excites one’s nerves with hues of colors that suck a person deeper into the conflict.

As of this epoch in time though it be only a sliver, think of when your pencil at home needed sharpened before the fancy pancy electric sharpeners, and with a nice cool little gadget you sharpened your pencil. The shavings of the wood usually ended up on my floor; in a hurry I pretended to be with only one damn place to go. [Invisibility while insinuating presence]. Back to the sliver (I haven’t loss myself guys), as of now Conflict in no terms compared with my Conscious that rests on the same image; the same colors warned me to keep alert, evaluate my purpose within the conflict, stay true to my journey, and remember that I wear many faces. Do not project a face that I wanted see staring back at me when I shopped for groceries, went to a used bookstore, or dined out at a restaurant or visited a library. Conflict will permeate my entire being until I’m flooded. The Lord  is not my Life Jacket folks. So good day,sleep tight, lock your doors tonite. :-) ))) [I'm just messing with ya'll]

From: The Selected Prose of Fernando Pessoa (I'd beg him to be my pimp: as Pesso Rewardo)

Reblogged from jessicawritesnow:

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Pessoa lived in Lisbon for most of his life and he loved the sun./

If you know of this writer, you either believe in Multiple Personality disorder-which begging the question if you believe in that diagnosis, or you think he is  a stark raving mad genius. A quote then from the man…”Brotherhood is born out of mutual contempt,” (Zenith 67). The longer I meditated on the…

Read more… 51 more words

I Promise You Will Feel Better….So Much!!

Max Skinner

Just struck me as appropriate right now. I take only nows one at a time. Especially when I hear disturbing medical news about my dad. So now I’m okay. Now he is too. He is in gratuitious hands always.

Hello class A citizens in my world in which Huxleyplaced a timeless sign above my head that says…bloggers do you know? It says “A Brave New World”,and by God as I age and accumulate great nows, andorgasmic nows, and oh my embarassing as hell nows, each time I “grow a thicker skin”. This worldevery square inch, requires a tweak, a newness, inthe citizens perspectives and actions. The Citizen’sbeliefs that grow or are aquired or are possibly wired,decide on the color spectrum of action any human being can freely take. I’m not yet over the line andinto the five or seven or ten stages of grief. The USAlet’s me go freely when I discern the time is true and I no longer need the dam to go thru each now sanely. I CHALLENGE FELLOW BLOGGERS TO ADJUSTTHE COLOR OF ONE OF YOUR ACTIONS; ONETHAT NO ONE WOULD EXPECT. THINK OF THE COLOR SPECTRUM OR GOOGLE IT, TAKECHARGE OF ONE ACTION THAT YOU LIKE LESS THAN ANY OTHER. LIGHTEN IT. DARKEN IT. You will feel sooo much better. I promise.Thanks for tuning in to my Now in time.    

“God’s joke is God,” F…

“God’s joke is God,” Fernando Pessoa

I on the other hand, am no joke at all. I’m seriously creatively consciously obtuse and crazy. I inherited the crazy part from my mom’s middle sister who started to act out at the age of 13. She still acts very deceitful, like hoarding her pills on the mental ward. She is in her late sixties folks. Paranoia schizophrenic. I missed the schizo part by a hairbreadth. But if I were a bat some of the outlandish things I say and do would be considered crazy shit. I read. and read. and read. and read. chuga chuga chuu chuu wheels go round and round ashes to ashes dust to dust we all fall down (soon).    

Okay fellow Bloggers…Name this painting! Not the real name.

Okay fellow Bloggers…Name this painting! Not the real name..

“I hereby excuse you from appearing in my idea of you”

My spirit is ornate with sequins. I am not a fan of “prodigious poop,” and still I believe “the pen is mightier than the whore” depending on how one describes their pen and how one classifies a whore. I have the utmost respect no matter what.

I’m a Sucker (This is not used in aquaintance with oceanic beings) Yucko!

Please don't show me the moon twice as, orbs luminescent, brilliant and enchanting in your eyes.

Please don’t reveal the moon twice, as luminescent orbs, brilliant and enchanting in your night like eyes.

Jim Morrison still Occupy’s Wall Space in front of my desk in the apartment I live in with my–well the love of my life–With that already estabished I see him as many characters from a stuffed rabbit (Alice in Wonderland leave out the Wonder and Alice and one gets inland.)All of his characters are most def inland.Yes, I imagine him a ballerina, because certain movements he just does without doing are so gentle and suave. Oh, at times in the car on the way out of town driving on the freeway I say Hail Mary or WTF cause he yells like a whole new level of devil, “ Asshole “, I think more than we have”assholes” in this country. Gamer–literallyI hope peeps know what that entails by now.I see him as the piston, or the trigger or the remote or the bulldog–He supports one cause that I know of without a doubt–My breasts secure in a good bra and most people know her as red lips or XTINA. You know I love him enough to love her enough to propose a ChuckBerry via Twitter somehow to her. Dirty brought him to his knees. In another life His/her name was Stella (my fiance’s) I often keep small notebooks with me in case I’m struck with a mad genius thought. Oh Lordy, this is one from a journal I finished on 1/22/11. ”Barking Vagina”. (Well you see… that’s it). Thanks for tuning into the Madness Parade.

Pablo Honey Medidtation

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