boxtalks: a writing journal [entries|friends|calendar] Johnnie Alexandra [ userinfo | livejournal userinfo ] [ calendar | livejournal calendar ]

[16 Nov 2007|06:31pm] Are you ready for the brutal honesty that I’ve always been known for? That your little darling baby girl isn’t the angel – broken wings or not – that you always thought she was; she’s a mess of tears wrapped up in a skirt and heels, and she spits poetry up in her sleep, clear bottle that was filled with vodka lying next to the bed. You always made comments, offhanded comments, about girls that we would see in public: the broken, starved girls, the girls with cigarettes in their hands, the girls who looked like they’d been living on the street, tears in their eyes, the girls who were acting out to the world, crying underneath their make up. You always wished they’d straighten up their act, never noticing that I was a crumbled mess right there next to you, underneath my own make up and through my cup of coffee. No one’s perfect; you’d know that best of all, wouldn’t you father? I’m your blood and strength, but I was doomed from the start. Correct? Yes? I’ve always been doomed; I’ve held that word close to my heart for some time now, giving me a twisted sort of strength. You’ve always been aware that I’m not a naïve optimist; I’m a cynic, full of broken ambitions and wicked dreams, always writing of suicidal, sad girls who are too absorbed in words and poetry; you never make the connection, dear father. Thus far, in the few short years that I have spent on this ephemeral planet, I’ve broken three hearts: all of them belonged to boys, men; I can never get too close; I fear that they’ll all be even worse than I am with escapism into words and bottles; I cannot bear another drunken conversation, so I shut them out yet again, afraid of what they or I will see and realize. I’ve come accustomed to driving out to a distant country road when it snows, getting out of the car after a few short minutes of tears to feel the wind on my face and to let the flakes fall on my hair. The air out there is so silent, Daddy, so peaceful and warm, even through the chill of white and winter. And the silence is so ominous, it’s almost comforting – you know my twisted sense of calm: the shrill, deafening nature of silence can shoot straight to your heart, like an icicle to your soul, right when you need it most. You pushed me to the edge, forced your little songbird to sing before my wings had even grown, had to take the plunge and run to the edge of the stage, singing out to someone as if I loved them; you taught me so much of performances and pretending. I just wanted to the a little birdie, sitting in a nest, grooming and dreaming the days away; I didn’t want to perform and pretend for you in your time of deep despair, when you would confess your secrets to me - only a little baby songbird, wanting so much to dream the days away; you confessed your darkest wants to me. I’m so lonely, tired, and sick of hiding, but that’s what you had felt for some many years, wasn’t it? You lied to hide yourself and to forget about things that hurt too much to feel and bear; I guess I learned from you, then, didn’t I? Mother at least felt what she felt, however wrong or random it might have been: she felt. I want so desperately to not be numb; I want so desperately to be able to love someone and not feel fear instead. I want to be okay, as much as any human being can be okay. I want to not want to escape; I want to not want to hide; I want to not want to run. I want to sing with my own two lungs and to sing for what I long for, to write songs about desires and dreams; I don’t want to feel the need to protect your dreams and cradle you. Must I repeat myself again to you? Can I shed my skin of you and make a new me, shed my blood that is yours and cry my own tears for my own loss of dreams? Just tell my, darling father, what it is that is acceptable to you, because this is one bedtime story in despair that I don’t wish to tell my maybe children. --(© Johnnie A. Moore, Friday 11/16/07)-- post comment

[15 Nov 2007|02:07pm] You’re beautiful, doll- we all are. We have something that they can never steal, no matter how many of them arrive dressed in black masks with guns; it’s ours, we’re here for one another, and I won’t let any of you down if I can help it. We’re so much stronger than they assume. We’re a sweet sort of venom with sad, manipulative eyes and pouty, ruby lips- we always manage to get it done, stifle our fears and put on a show. Women are the greatest of theatrical professionals, because that’s what we’re made for, our lives are based on. You all know the drill, the pattern: smile, laugh, giggle, hug and kiss, lie, and then just simply give yourself five minutes to cry in private (in the shower, preferably). We must carry the world and hold up men because they’re rather broken on their own, no matter what they tell you otherwise. Telling so many, many people that we love them, we’re all so tired- plain and simple. Running and running, from the rain, from ourselves, from men who have hurt us- our legs don’t know how to rest and our lips have forgotten how to factually frown or factually smile. But we are stronger than that, dears. These lives are not ours; they’re our mothers, grand mothers: that’s simply the past. We can let it go, let it float out into the breeze with the autumn leaves, and start anew, with a different brand of cigarettes and a brand new coffee pot. We’ll start a silent moving revolution, whisper to one another, dye our hair and curl it in our bedrooms, and go find the man we want: no more waiting, doll. Get up, get out, and live your life for you. The patterns of the past and your mother must stop. We’re our own person, we’re our own woman- we’re stronger than that. Have fun for the sake of having fun, dear, not just to impress or please someone else; we’re living for ourselves, and no one else. Hold our heads up high, humming piano and saxophone notes, and we’ll make it through this, pass this. If I have faith in nothing else, I have faith in us. --(© Johnnie A. Moore, Thursday 11/15/07)-- 2 comments|post comment

[10 Nov 2007|09:25am] You constantly question yourself as to why you create all these realities and characters within your own mind, and the answer that you always reiterate to yourself never seems to suffice. It’s because you lonely, my dear. Creating and inventing makes you feel a lot less lonely and a lot less abandoned. Josie and Robert and Zach and Calvin- inside your mind; they keep you company, and you know them better than you know yourself. You take so much warm comfort in that, even more so than you do with your coffee and cigarettes. You’re not an introvert- quite the contrary, actually. You love to talk, you love to smile, you love to laugh, and you love your fellow people. It’s just that maybe you sometimes need your alone time to visit with yourself and your mind. Because you still remember what it felt like- the tears and the punches, your fighting. You don’t have tears inside your conscious mind; that’s a physical debilitation. You can pretend it didn't ever happen and that you’ve never shed blood or tears… You’re really just an Earth-stranded angel, beautiful, and I’m sure if you looked in the mirror, you’d have scars on your back where your wings have been ripped off. --(© Johnnie A. Moore, Saturday 11/10/07)-- 2 comments|post comment

[23 Oct 2007|12:16pm] Life is a painful highway, Full of death, love, loss, redemption, tears, smiles, ups and downs Until our bodies give way. How far can we go? We ask and ask, with waterfall tears. But Buddha can never answer; he only smiles upon us. His eternal smile makes us weep, desiring that more than anything. We watch the news, read the paper, walk the streets; pain is rampant. Humans have numbed themselves, With beasts of drugs, bottles of drunken lust, Televisions filled with false realities, fairytales that we continue to live in, And books of false words, used to hurt one another, Always forgetting that we are all alone, empty and alone, together and whole. We’re always left with nothing and everything, all at once. We curse our children to numb lives: Boys are lied to and forced to fight, Girls are beaten and held down, raped, And elders turn blind eyes, immersed deeply into their mindless lust for greed. Those who observe are sickened, crying and wishing, But always feeling a consistent state of dread and hopelessness. What can we do? They ask and ask. But Buddha never answers; let out a weep. --(© Johnnie A. Moore, Tuesday 10/23/07)-- post comment

[22 Oct 2007|09:51pm] Susanna, darling dear, with mournful pitiful eyes filled with frozen blue tears, Which fall like an acid sort of rain, filling the puddles and lakes of your life, You’ll be fine, dear darling; Gods do not care of your matters, But you will be fine. Trust in that, mournful child of seventeen. The world is cruel, but it’s only a sphere; blue sphere, green sphere- Make of it what you will. Your heart can be purple if you wish it to be; design your lover out of paper and crayons. Amiable, life is, and it will soon grow accustomed to your acid rain. Give it all some time, darling dear. (Give yourself a hug.) --(© Johnnie A. Moore, Monday 10/22/07)-- 1 comment|post comment

[17 Oct 2007|11:47am] "Flowers, left to wilt, suffer without the proper nutrition, as do all things." That's how she would describe herself if she were to be asked. She's been left exposed to the sun and the wind, but her nurturer forgot about the water. Without water, flowers wilt; they dwindle, and she is aware of it. She feels the wilting (and sees it, too). Her mind is drifting, sleep is lacking, stress is rising; all of it despairingly cascading from her lips and ears (eyes, as well), leaving her body however it can be expelled, even in unhealthy ways. But a flower will find a way to shine, even as it's wilting; by nature, flowers are meant to be beautiful, so she must try. Difficulty is merely a hurdle, a life-long hurdle, but only a hurdle, nonetheless. Eventually a storm will come, replenish her hope, and she can sustain her life and hope without her nurturer. Violent storms can renew your might- ask any flower you know. --(© Johnnie A. Moore, Wednesday 10/17/07)-- post comment

[18 Sep 2007|08:05am] I never promised you much of anything, I told you that because I knew we'd end up in this mess. I'm an Aries with a Virgo moon; I need your stability and sense more than anything. The fire within gets the best of me a lot of the time. You forgot. You forgot that you're a Capricorn with a Cancer moon - stable, sensible; it's important. We spoke of so much more than we produced; we were just dreamers. You read the French poems that my parents never could; I wrote stories that had no true plot. But we didn't care; nothing mattered (at the time.) At the time, we were happy, delirious without thought. Until you hit the bottle, then we crumbled, crashed. My brother always said that I had high expectations, which is true. I expect every one to be better than I, because I cannot catch any of you. I cannot catch you when you fall, but you have to catch me. The things you said, things you did, were foolish; frankly foolish. But I tried my best to ignore it, tried to remember the sweet sensibility. Too late, too late; we're both bottle sippers; we need to numb our pain. We cannot speak about it, because words kill the numbness; we need ice. We panic when we're alone now; it's only a matter of time until one of us slips. It's in our nature, because we're too much alike. We pretend to be nonchalant, when we're truly scared and dreaming. Both of us have far too many of our own worlds, within our minds. We stopped sharing our separate realities; we used to create one together. Too late, too late; we never have apologized to one another, about anything. It's not in our nature; we need ice. My stories began to have plot; you stuffed the French book in the dresser. I threw away my favourite boots, dumped your favourite drink down the drain. You stopped making tea, and began with coffee instead; you became an insomniac, avoiding me. We're too much alike. You expected too much of me, and I of you. Ice, expectations, wine, nature, poems; we're too dependent. We still share air with one another, but we've stopped expressing; we're still dependent. It's too late, too late. I no longer want ice; Je ne veux pas de vin. Trying not to be dependent, I'm going to walk away, run away, like ripping off a band-aid. It's not too late, not too late, for me. --(© Johnnie A. Moore, Tuesday 9/18/07)-- post comment

[18 Sep 2007|07:42am] Directed to the world stage, people and ancestors alike; these are my apologies, for my nation, for myself: Forgive us for the blood we've shed, stolen; we've pillaged and stolen far too much; please forgive. Forgive us for our sins of the past and citizens who have preached; it was not their right and we are sorry; please forgive. Forgive me for the lies I've told, black and white; no matter what my intentions were; please forgive. Forgive me for what I have not done; I promised so much more, but did not deliver; that is my own fault and responsibility; please forgive. Forgive. Forgive. Forgive. It's all we have left; words, forgiveness, peace, love: I wish we had more, but we don't; please forgive. --(© Johnnie A. Moore, Thursday 9/13/07)-- 1 comment|post comment

[17 Sep 2007|07:31am] So, what is my opinion on inspiration, classics? There's only so much inspiration one can absorb until one becomes unoriginal, loses their spark, and becomes just another poet writing about the never-ending, always repeating, hopeless battles of human existence; you'll end up writing about those little tiny moments, those moments where everything comes into focus, or those moments where you realize that everything is lost; every one goes through those moments (sometimes on a daily basis). Maybe poets would be a lot better off if they didn't write about how they felt, but, instead, wrote about their observations on the existence of other human beings; they could put their own spin on another person's tiny moments, instead of their own. It could be more interesting, maybe; maybe. "And that's why Shakespeare isn't brilliant," I say to him, his face enigmatic for a moment. He took in a breath, quick, habitual. "So, instead of seeing the simple brilliance that his work is, you tear him down and find the little things, and talk about the other writers, other writers who were possibly inspired by him, and say that they are far superior?" "Exactly," He looked as if he was about to take in another breath and reply, but thought better of if, slumping back into the cushion of the couch with a sigh, knowing that he could not change my view and that he couldn't win. Using my knee to support the notebook placed in my lap, I crossed Matthew's name off of the list, the list of readers and writers in my life, a list I'd use to keep track of their opinions, of their thoughts, and of our discussions with one another. Another battle won, I think to myself, glancing up to look at Matthew, his eyes half-closed, obviously thinking. --(© Johnnie A. Moore, Monday 9/17/07)-- post comment

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