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Post by Jenny (Reffy) on Mar 24, 2011 16:56:40 GMT -5
In that picture it looks more like a gas ... and as thus, I've decided that they must be aliens and should probably be protected, or something!
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Post by Matteo ((Taed)) on Mar 24, 2011 17:03:30 GMT -5
Oh, what a surprise. Reffy suggesting we protect the horseshoe crabs. That obviously doesn't benefit you personally in any way.
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Post by Jenny (Reffy) on Mar 24, 2011 17:17:37 GMT -5
I bleed red blood, tyvm! (Albeit low in iron human blood >.>) Human! Human-being! Need photo proof? I suppose I could close my eyes and attempt to draw some - although I doubt I'd be successful! Bit of a wimp, really >.> heh
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Post by Matteo ((Taed)) on Mar 24, 2011 17:22:08 GMT -5
Are you a wimp? Or is it simply that the needle cannot penetrate your chitinous shell!?
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Post by Jenny (Reffy) on Mar 24, 2011 17:27:06 GMT -5
Are you a wimp? Or is it simply that the needle cannot penetrate your chitinous shell!?(I actually had to "google: define chitinous" >.>) Taed is a messed up individual! I'm a wimp. Pretty sure my "giving blood" rant/story would have confirmed that! Besides, I ain't seeing no proof of him being human either! Why you picking on me lately, bro?  |
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Post by ASGetty ((Zovo)) on Mar 24, 2011 17:43:42 GMT -5
I would assume that the picture I posted is the 'greyish or maybe a pale of-white' state and the picture you posted is oxygenated. I thought this specific kind of blood was unique to horseshoe crabs. . . not just -any- crab. |
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Post by ASGetty ((Zovo)) on Mar 24, 2011 17:46:27 GMT -5
Are you a wimp? Or is it simply that the needle cannot penetrate your chitinous shell!?(I actually had to "google: define chitinous" >.>) Taed is a messed up individual! I'm a wimp. Pretty sure my "giving blood" rant/story would have confirmed that! Besides, I ain't seeing no proof of him being human either! Why you picking on me lately, bro? Pretty sure Taed is mostly machine. I base this largely on his affinity toward his computer and that fro of what appears to be steel-wool that "grows" (is extruded?) on his head. |
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Post by Kaez on Mar 24, 2011 17:49:23 GMT -5
I would assume that the picture I posted is the 'greyish or maybe a pale of-white' state and the picture you posted is oxygenated. I thought this specific kind of blood was unique to horseshoe crabs. . . not just -any- crab. It's a handful of arthopods. That just happens to include the horseshoe crab (not actually a crab) and the red rock crab. |
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Post by Matteo ((Taed)) on Mar 24, 2011 22:20:49 GMT -5
(I actually had to "google: define chitinous" >.>) Taed is a messed up individual! I'm a wimp. Pretty sure my "giving blood" rant/story would have confirmed that! Besides, I ain't seeing no proof of him being human either! Why you picking on me lately, bro? Pretty sure Taed is mostly machine. I base this largely on his affinity toward his computer and that fro of what appears to be steel-wool that "grows" (is extruded?) on his head. That's patently ridiculous, Zovo. Just come over here and feel my hair. I promise it isn't composed of a monofilament that will lacerate your puny human flesh on the merest contact, resulting in massive hemorrhages and rapid desanguination. |
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Post by Kaez on Mar 24, 2011 22:26:59 GMT -5
Pretty sure Taed is mostly machine. I base this largely on his affinity toward his computer and that fro of what appears to be steel-wool that "grows" (is extruded?) on his head. That's patently ridiculous, Zovo. Just come over here and feel my hair. I promise it isn't composed of a monofilament that will lacerate your puny human flesh on the merest contact, resulting in massive hemorrhages and rapid desanguination.calm yourselfsudo calm yourself |
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Post by Kwan on Mar 24, 2011 23:01:51 GMT -5
...Jen, stay away from Taed, before he starts getting wild with the nanite injector.
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Post by ASGetty ((Zovo)) on Mar 25, 2011 14:57:59 GMT -5
Pretty sure Taed is mostly machine. I base this largely on his affinity toward his computer and that fro of what appears to be steel-wool that "grows" (is extruded?) on his head. That's patently ridiculous, Zovo. Just come over here and feel my hair. I promise it isn't composed of a monofilament that will lacerate your puny human flesh on the merest contact, resulting in massive hemorrhages and rapid desanguination.Of course, my mistake. *bandages hand* |
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Post by Jenny (Reffy) on Mar 28, 2011 7:56:01 GMT -5
Shrug. Just stretching fingers work! Belittling the importance of this story because there is a lot more than meets the eyes here ...My head lifts from staring aimlessly at the hot drink before me. I look at you from across the table. I wonder briefly if you will actually listen to what I say or what you will think once I have said it all. Thinking these thoughts before I have even opened my mouth makes my cheeks flush a quick red. My eyes are quickly averted to the drink once again.
The empty feeling is still there; the desperate and empty space from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet. You make no sound from the other side of the table. I can only guess that you are staring into your drink as well or perhaps you know some of what I am going to say ... perhaps you know how difficult it is for me to say this and you are giving me the space to do so. We both know it’s been a long time coming. You’ve watched me struggle and survive and continue to hurt. A silly thought sneaks in and I cannot help a short chuckle, which sounds more like a lot of air being forced through my nose quickly with a quirked lip-line.
The joke is quickly gone again. It doesn’t really matter what I say, any way, not to you at least. It matters to me. You’d probably just nod or perhaps tell me it doesn’t have to be like that. Unconsciously my hands snake around the hot drink to try and comfort myself with the warmth. I can feel my fingers tingle as the heat penetrates. Hesitantly I chew my bottom lip, just inside where you cannot see my apprehension. My stomach rolls like it is starting to unlock the words I want to say. A headache arises from seemingly nowhere, a condition caused by my own suffering.
Still you sit silently. I consider giving up and very nearly do. You don’t care about my problems and I probably wouldn’t care about yours either. Why show ... why show my weakness? Dog eat dog world, and all of that jazz. It would be easier to just talk about the weather or what was on the television last night. Why talk about it? Why admit it? Why give you that burden? For the longest time that’s all I believed I am ... and it is hard not to believe that as again I look up to your face.
I can feel my hands shaking and the beginnings of tears. My throat constricts inwards while I can feel the sobs clambering to climb my throat and escape my own personal hell. Thoughts are attempting to run the marathon. I can hardly pick up where the last one stopped and the next one began; although they all carry the same emotion. It is like a stain on a carpet that can never be cleaned off, no matter the product used, and even when it is miraculously gone I will still know the stain was originally there.
I take a sip of the tea to calm my nerves. The cup quakes a little as it moves to my lips. It’s difficult to swallow the brew but I manage it, not letting on that tears are just hidden around the corner.
It is funny really. A new thought raises its ugly head in the back of my mind as the tea settles in my belly. A small click sound breaks the quickly becoming heavy silence, the sound of my cup being placed down again. It is funny, really. I have all the compassion and love in the world, for everybody, no matter what they have done ... everybody except me.
That is probably why I am here now, in front of you. You aren’t the important bit in this admission. It is the admission, the step, the beginning; the moving towards actually being true to myself. To lower the shield for once, it is a scary thought and the main reason for my hesitation. I’ve always had to be strong and love everybody else. I was the eldest child, in an abusive family, with a mum and dad that didn’t really love each other. I had to be the pillar for my siblings ... but you know all of this as well. Dragging it up just pulls up the suffering once again. I don’t want to live inside that story any more.
I go back to chewing my bottom lip again, letting my tongue run over the pinched bit of skin inside my mouth. If I concentrate enough I fancy that I can feel the taste buds, the porcelain teeth, and bumps in my lower lip.
I worry once again, if I had ever really stopped worrying! With every conversation that happens you bring something to that chat. It is like giving parcels to each other. Most people want to receive a nice parcel, a happy me, or some good news. They don’t want to be lumbered with a shitty present, a troubled me, or tears. This present is exactly that but I feel that it is something I need to say ... but I wish I didn’t have to. Most of all I wish it didn’t have to bog you down. You have enough of your own worries. In fact, I should be the one receiving the bad parcel...
I wonder if it is too late to turn this around, to let you have a cry. I can do that. I can bottle away the tears again and not admit to anything. I can just go back to being the mask and the strong one. My eyes flit up from the edge of my cup to your eyes. You notice me studying you but I don’t care in this moment. My heart has risen a little at the hopes of turning this around and I have stopped some of the shaking. However, it isn’t to be. Your eyes tell me there is nothing you need to say ... not yet, any way. You’re here for me and that is an odd feeling and not a pleasant one for me either.
My heart sinks again and the headache that was there just compounds itself. I feel stupid for going through such a thought process, for torturing myself like this, and if you knew I’d probably die of embarrassment ... but this is difficult for me. It shouldn’t be like this but it is. This is how I was raised, how I grew up, how I learnt to get on with things. To admit that I am anything different is comparable to ripping down my walls, my house, my mask, my safety, my everything ... my world.
Feeling that desperate crawling through my body, cell by cell, via the veins, down to my bones, even tingling through every hair on my body, I finally speak up.
“I’m not strong. I’m not okay. I’m not fine.”
The sickness blossoms in my stomach and now I am gulping back against the tears, but I know it makes more sense just to let them flow. I manage to look back up at you, there is no surprise shown or emotion. The blurriness of my eyes gets worse as finally the tears spill forth. I wonder, stupidly, if you feel like you want to hug me. That is how I feel when I see somebody crying. It is usually my job to remove those tears, even if I was crying on the inside.
“I’m not coping.” I manage to stutter that out as well. “All I’m doing is screwing up.” I can taste the sickness in my mouth, the sour taste. My cheeks are getting cold where the tears are streaming. Inside my guts are hot with shame and embarrassment but also anger. I’m angry because I had to drop it all, drop everything, and just admit that I cannot do it.
I release the cup so my hands can fidget with the upset and anger. I turn to picking at the edges of my cuticles and parts of my fingernails. My feet are doing much the same, one on top of the other as if they are trying to cause pain there as well. My chest and ribs heave with the effort to keep pulling air in but also against the want to just scream and continue doing so. I can feel my torso collapsing downwards as my body crunches up and shoulders draw in – it feels like somebody is trying to both push my body down on top of itself and at the same time wrenching my spine out of my back.
“Life is in tatters. There is no direct-direction that I want. There is nothing. I just don’t want to be a part of anything any more!” I know some of this isn’t the truth but the emotions push it forward all the same. I haven’t done so badly really but I don’t, and can’t, ever let myself think that. All I can think of is what I should have and how I should have sorted it out by now.
In order to be compassionate to myself I have to admit when I am not strong enough and slow down. As if I couldn’t be any slower right now. Mentally my mind runs over my nonexistent life, beating myself up again: days spent running back and forth from the card shop – at their whim, avoiding certain people like my own mother, not attending piss-ups at the pub because jeez alcohol is a great idea for probable-depression and I’m sick of the fake-ness my friends can exude and the drama, nights are spent playing the “F5” game with my writing sites, attempting to get meditation right and often not because my emotions go squib, and occasionally accidentally stumbling into some happiness. I wonder briefly what it is like to feel alive again but I know that is just my sulking-pity talking.
Still, without admitting this I’d just keep pushing and pretending and I’ve seen just how much good that has done me. I’ve had damned near fifteen years of doing it. The tears slow. To my surprise I haven’t thrown up and my stomach is settling once again. You’ve given me enough time to get it out and let the emotion both consume me and then move on. Still you say nothing and I doubt you will. There really isn’t much for you to say. Perhaps you think “told you so” or maybe even “sorry you feel this way” ... maybe not.
It doesn’t entirely matter what you think. It matters what I think though ... and what I think is about the present me. Will she be able to stop beating herself up? Will she be able to be compassionate towards herself? Can she stop pretending and perhaps be okay with being fragile? Can she finally get it around her head that not everybody has to be a “super-something” all of the time?
With the sleeve of my jacket I wipe away the tears. A little awkwardly my hands trail back to the cup of tea, which is now mostly cold. I just feel numb now but maybe that is okay.
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Post by Jenny (Reffy) on Mar 28, 2011 9:45:21 GMT -5
Idea I've been stewing for a while. A smidge clichéd but it is finger and brain practice and I like it.
To and fro
In dark recesses, the past, a vigilant thief, lurks ominously.
Did it really happen the way you remember it?
Do you have any proof it really happened?
You live there, days at a time.
As it steals you back again.
Is the memory truly happy?
Probably it is sad.
Clung to, dearly.
Distant reminders
Gone.
The present is exactly that; make use of it.
Future.
What now?
Where to go?
Questions fly by quickly.
A pervading and menacing bully.
Forcing on the thoughts and worries.
Not a moment’s rest as it approaches.
No time to breathe as it pushes forwards.
Time marches on and over everything that stands still.
Don’t stand still, ever. Push forwards. Don’t breathe. Keep going!
Two 55-ers: one descending, the other ascending, and a one-liner in the middle. Lots going on! Think 55-ers are only supposed to descend, but shrug, it works for this idea.
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Post by Jenny (Reffy) on Mar 30, 2011 10:08:25 GMT -5
Finger stretching, again, with a difference. See if you can find the sneaky difference - if anybody is actually still reading this junk!
Smile ... it confuses people
Sandy readjusted her teeth. The creases around the edge of her mouth briefly disappeared as she shifted the false-set around her jaw on her thin pale-pink tongue. They clicked back into place finally with a “schlooop” sound. A shaky hand, complete with paper-like-skin, reached for the gin and tonic as her little, blue, beady, and blurry eyes peered around the pub, observing the other patrons.
It was just after lunch, on a Tuesday. The Swan and Duck were doing a special geriatrics for lunch where the old aged pensioners could get a drink and snack for under a fiver. It was why Sandy and Thomas had managed to drag themselves out of their grooves on the settee. Sandy lived by the rule that any day out at only five pounds was worth it. She would have continued to rant that most things these days cost over twenty pounds and weren’t nearly worth it!
There were a few people resting on the bar, literally, their curved spines clearly showing through the back of their chequered shirts or printed blouses. A few of the oldies had even managed to haul themselves up on to a stool and were leaning like professional bar-goers on the wooden top. By the door a bunch of walking sticks and one Zimmer-frame rested.
Sandy and Thomas had settled on sitting at a small table, with a bowl of peanuts on it. The waitress was kind enough to come to them when they needed the drinks refreshing. They could see everybody from the rickety table. Even little Mary-Ann had managed to wobble her way down to the pub. Sandy was glad to see her, since she’d just lost her husband last month ... although, she reckoned, drowning her sorrows wasn’t the way to do it.
Another shaky hand reached out and knocked Thomas on the elbow, disturbing him from his reverie, or was it sleep? Sandy nodded to the chap on the stool at the far end of the bar. The man was leaning over his drink, wheezing. “Walter the war hero.”
Thomas looked over, even adjusting his specs to get a closer look.
Sandy continued, whether or not Thomas could actually see him. “He's there from opening till time.”
Finally Thomas found the man Sandy was looking at. He’d heard a few things that Sandy had said but his hearing wasn’t what it used to be. He couldn’t help himself before he blurted out, “Eh?” He knew he shouldn’t say that and that it irritated Sandy but it was an automatic reaction.
It had irritated Sandy, which was obvious from her reaction, “Time! Time! You know, Thomas! Time – like clocks and such!”
Thomas nodded, meekly, and picked up his beer-shandy. It was all Sandy would allow him to have, even if he had wished for a couple of shots of brandy!
The beady eyes moved on. “There's Mary – the housewife.” Sandy raised her nose at spying her. She and Mary had never gotten along, especially after her dog had dug up the roses in Mary’s garden. She’d turned alcoholic early on and never did a good job at running her house, and it only got worse when her son had come along. “She’s the one slumped at the bar drinking wine. Some things never change.”
“Eh?” Thomas obviously hadn’t spotted her.
“Wine! Thomas, listen: wine. You know the stuff, yes. Pinot Grigio and Zinfandel!” Sandy huffed and gave up trying to get Thomas to understand. She was mostly talking for her benefit anyway, since Thomas never bloody well listened!
Thomas changed the subject. He was sure Sandy was just back to her bitching anyway! After fifty-odd years of her snide comments he was sick of her – he’d been sick of her nearly thirty years ago but life without her would have been too quiet. “Did you see the line-up for this week? The bands they get here: they get Kylie on Wednesday, The Stones on a Friday, and The Beatles on a Saturday night. You like The Beatles, don’t you? Sweetheart?”
She ignored his attempts to calm her down, going back to Walter instead. He’d been struck with Alzheimer’s before the rest of them and it had sent a nasty reaction out amongst the community. “He's Dylan on Monday, Bowie on Sunday, does Bee Gees on Thursday ... as high as a kite, no doubt!”
Sandy took a swizzle stick to give her lagging gin and tonic a stir. “They call him the human jukebox. He plays second hand rock n roll.”
Giving up Thomas spouted the line that Sandy had hammered into his head via repetition. “They call him the human jukebox, yes, deary.” A little more quietly he added, “He's healing hearts with his soul.” Strangely Thomas had held a soft spot for the old veteran. Somehow, Walter being an outcast had given Thomas something to fight for, even if it was quietly and behind Sandy’s back!
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