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Tempi duri per I vampiri | Sarah Smiles :: Sarah Bites |
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2/26/2002 Don't miss... Sarah's Funland Slideshow!!!! Nothing more special than my favorite pictures of me that I've played with and uploaded this past year... before I do MORE!!! 2/25/2002 Shit: noun, verb, exclamation, denegration; the â??final actâ?? of a great meal. An act of giving with no expectation of return. A purging of the purpled prose of life. Shit--it falls with scarce a thought and much relief. The ultimate act of solitary solidarity with the self. A woman, giving birth, is not alone, but here there is no divison of the sexes, in the ingored, ignoble action of the cycle of life. Is poetry that different? 2/24/2002 I have the thought for a poem. The thought. Only one. It is called "belalagosi's ed" and it is about the bauhaus song and the tv show Ed. I realized that they're the same. And it is all about ed-iting. Let's see what happens. I think I want to become a concrete and sound poem, and this is a start. I'm gonna ask beth if she can remember the poem she and noor did in school... I think it was called BigGlassPeopleUnitedStatesFullstop. Wheeeee..... I found _ U B U W E B _ while searching for about for katherine parrish. Very strange. But I'm wondering if my poem with pictures counts as a sound poem. I got more interested when the web site hides all the 'about us' stuff inside their site behind a large pair of breasts. http://www.ubu.com/resources_frames.html.... finally their mission statement says they're pan-internationalist and transcends language... but you can't join, you can't see anything about their public discussion. They are a closed house, a private boys (judging from the tits) club of concrete poetry. I guess I'll have to find somewhere else to learn about concrete poetry. ___A B O U T__ U B U W E B ___ Concrete poetry's utopian pan-internationalist bent was clearly articulated by Max Bense in 1965 when he stated, "?concrete poetry does not separate languages; it unites them; it combines them. It is this part of its linguistic intention that makes concrete poetry the first international poetical movement." Its ideogrammatic self-contained, exportable, universally accessible content mirrors the utopian pan-linguistic dreams of cross-platform efforts on today's Internet; Adobe's PDF (portable document format) and Sun System's Java programming language each strive for similarly universal comprehension. The pioneers of concrete poetry could only dream of the now-standard tools used to make language move and morph, stream and scream, distributed worldwide instantaneously at little cost. 2/22/2002
I love Neitherday's journal for its wit and wisdom amid joy and pain. My commend on her journal seemed to be more a comment about me, than about her, so I thought I'd paste it here... though I'm not really qualified to have an opinion, you didn't turn off the comments function... so it seems like an invitation for input. isn't the idea the communcation, the questions and negotiations with distrust, the interiority and exteriority in some negotiation. it is sort of like you're not in therapy at all, and you're not taking or not not taking your meds. therapy and meds are about the intersecting dialogues that go on through and about you, you could say. hard for me to say. i trust no one outside me, and nothing inside me. i couldn't cut or purge because I wouldnt' be cutting myself, and I wouldn't be purging myself. my body is a thing in and of itself. i am a thing in and of myself. all the rest is negotiation. 2/20/2002 And I'm hanging out on my live journal... posting poems there every day. Why not here you say? Well, I don't rightly know. I think it is because more people are reading them there, and because I'm trying to get 100 poems written. Here are today's, incase you're too lazy to click. Something's going on, but I don't know what. Porngraphic desire. (50/100) Pain is... (49/100 on day 50) 2/17/2002 Dear Friends, I have just read and signed the petition: Stop Ted Nugent's Wolf Hunt Sponsorship I personally agree with the petition, and think you might too. http://www.thepetitionsite.com/takeaction/168636381 The system centralizes signature collection to provide consolidated, Please forward this email to others you believe share your concern. Thank you! Sarah Smiles Trickster Sarah Crow Sarah, the trickster of the moment, shoots herself in the foot, again. Hungry with desire, after food or love, stealing soft solutions to your heart. The way she goes for what she wants is a passion to know, to control your heart--turning tricks with her smile. Look at her world and try to understand, there's no other explanation but desire. Her superstitous heart in her world of spirits finds at every turn a new pathway to an old love. 2/16/2002 Ok. This is weird, but I just thought of doing it. It is an imagepoem. Not that concrete abstract stuff, but something infinitely more sexi. Ivy Blossom and I were AIMtalking and the topic of sexi came up... so it is on my brain. Click on the picture and you'll go off magically to RunwayLove. Sorry, it is about 300k. But art hurts. Heeeeeee. I'm thrilled about this. Reading Vanessa on LJ, she got me thinking about trust. On her though of it sucking being a girl... I thought, "I don't think the girl bit helps or hurts. Some of us are shy, some not. It sucks being unable to telling people to back off when you're not feeling comfortable. But it is easy. If the person's cool, they'll suggest a place you feel comfortable. Any good person doesn't want to make you feel uncomfortable. Uncool people push you into uncomfortable places. That's what I live by. If someone pushes me, I push back. If hey hug, I hug back. But as I heard in a movie... "never without my permission". That's my mantra... hmmm... I think I'll use that to rename my web site." 2/10/2002 In reference to Yahoo! Groups : vda-newcarthage, Re: [VDA] Just for Ian...and anyone else that is down. I can't say that I'm totally sympathic with someone's self-depreciating whining in and of itself. This isn't alt.therapy after all. Continual threats of personal violence is just a black hole of despair, to which there is a solution: Go stand in a pile of shit. If life really sucks and is no fun, you might as well stay there. If not, then it is more interesting to live. The solution is easy. Solutions always are. And like easy solutions, they are pretty useless. The hard part is recognizing the solution, and imagining that it is more fun to do than the fun you’re having whining about things. Personally, I like the whining when it is witty and full of humor. If it is merely maudlin it is tiring. It has to be entertaining if you want to keep a ready audience for your pain. I'm not saying that there isn't a profound emotional, chemical or past experience that makes us feel the way we do. And I've dangled on the edge of the cliff (actually) more than once. I do feel there's nothing wrong with it. "It" being wanting to end your life or do significant damage to yourself with drugs or pointy things. Life sucks far too deeply and completely to no think in this manner. The whole point of being on the precipice, however, is to make a choice. What has kept me from doing anything nasty to myself is that I like living. I may hate everything else, and everyone, and myself. But that intake of breath and it coming back out again is pretty cool. Try it, INNNNN... OOOOOUUUUTTT. Didn't that feel good? And with life comes the dream. The one thing you can't do when you're dead is dream. Someone said that in a movie once. To me, suicide is a failure of imagination. And that's not as bad as it seems. We're not all fucking visionaries and like that. But when I feel like complete and total shit, it is because I can only think about this shit that I'm in. Only think about why it sucks, and whose fault it is, and how horrible it is. And when someone (you know you you all are) laugh at me, I just don't see the humor in it. So, what has failed? My life has sucked more before this present tragedy. It will suck more in the future. What's my problem? Lack of imagination. The failure to imagine anything getting better. The failure to figure out how to imagine what it might look like. The failure to imagine what I might do to get there. And the failure to laugh at myself. And when I laugh at myself for the pathetic and foolish thing that I am, I'm magically plucked up and forth into the warm and fuzzy sweater of self-affection. I don't like what I am. But there's a lot worse. And simetimes, just timetimes, I've been known to make myself smile. And for me, that's enough. For now. Oh, and here's the wav file of "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life" that FemmeL was mentioning we should all listen to: http://www.ironworks.com/comedy/python/bright.htm has the lyrics and the wav file. 2/9/2002 Location: Tokelau Today I registered my .tk free domain. Anders (ThraxilBoi) pointed the way, and I couldn't resist. Could you? You know what I mean. It is the idea. Just about as far away as you can get from anything on this planet... is a place giving you a domain. It is that beauty of distance, and the sadness that it is no longer untouched. I read through their site about the place. I know that I heard something about domains when .tv was getting pushed around. But the idea of squandering a the domain rights just to get a little independence is again that drive for independence, and a recognition that there is no notion of dependence left. I don't know how many places like this are left. I ran across some article or something (through spazz I think) about .eh and how a bunch of canadians wanted it. Because western sahara didn't need it because it wasn't really a country. It made me sick to think about it. as doomain names are now the names of a country. To be invented by americans, marketed and usurped by the west. And you have to sell your country name to get a buck. But still Tokelau at least has some magic in her story. 2/8/2002 Hitting an all time low. Wow. I'm so completely boring that I'm not even visiting my web site. Let alone anyone else. This is just too painful. I've run out of things to say. I have things that I want to say. But I've run out of things TO say. Like tonight. I was in a cafe. Standard shit, no one sitting outside in the wind, except where they have those gas heaters and some plastic windows... like a tent or as softtop on a jeep. Esmé's getting a bit figety for some reason, as we're sitting there, me watching her smoke. My notebook is open, but I'm just looking over old stuff, not adding anything. Perhaps circling something to look at later, creasing the paper so I know where to go. Smoothing other creases, so I won't go there. I'm ignoring her because I haven't really realized what's going on. Maybe her jeans are pinching her, or she's sitting on a pea or something. I look up to see her stumping out her butt and going to the toilets inside. Took her a while, so I figured she was using the phone. Patrons came and went before she returned, looking a bit off, so I asked her. Turned out that the people next to us, rather loud group, mostly males. One would assume that they were american, except that they were speaking French. They'd been trashing gypsies, and Esmie was trying to not go an dpick a fight with them. She's really transformed herself since I first met her. We met in a confrontation. Almost a fight. Well, really a fight. That's when she learned that soemwhat desperate tinygirls, as she calls me, are not to be messed with where possible. I think the problem is that we keep getting up ad coming back for more, where really big people have too much gravity to deal with. Over the pasat couple of years she's gotten so so mellow that I'm sure she seesa different women in the mirror. We would have been turfed out even last year, had anyone even commented on Gypsies in a tone she didn't like. I think that the person said something like, "We all know about gypsie. They talk of loyalty, but they only rob you of money. THey no know nothing about honour. Esme let it go. A clear and obvious slight on her people. I wasn't shocke dot hear that comment. This is france. People say things. In the south it is like being in a great old marke of languages and cultures. I really don't know how much of htis is french really. And how much is greek, italian, , north aferican, gypse. And American and global human too. This sort of closeness doesn't seem to stop racism or intolerance, it just makes it more casual, I guess. Well, except for the core french wh o seem to think tha t the south of france has always and will always be french. Just like India should alway s remain british perhaps.. Or that America is really a white country.. Well, with France, perhaps the Celts and the Gypsie have the most obvious rights to be here, who knows. And I guess who cares at this moment. My point was that I was taken by Esme and and idea of loyalty an daffection. It is the closest thing I have had to inspiration to write in a couple of days. Of course I felt a little bit hurt for their comments to E. Who wouldn't But the funny thing is how untrue they are. Sure, whatever they say about travelling people being theirves and doing illegal things is probably true. Who cares. it is not like they're doing it so that they can get rich. You dont' become a billionare by working a crowd or the street, os selling something you shouldn't. You get it by major fraud, by systemetic abuse of the rights of others, or by capturing people's minds and imagination inside your marketting campaign. Theft is just the thythe's to the poor, until there is universal welfare. No, I'm not a commie, so shut up. I prefer the theft. Take what you need. But there's the other half. Share what you have. When taking what you need,is balanced with sharing what you have theyn you're dealing with usch a differnt view of the world that it is hard to judge from an american perspective. Feirce loyalty is the willingness to take what you need, no more. And share what you have, no less. Perhaps this is what I've learned living in our house with our pseudo gypsie troop. And I'm not sure why it is so easy to us. And I really don't know why it won't last. It isn't something that beth or Noor want to participate in. They are always sort of guests when they come by. But hmm... uh... It isn't like it is a commune. No one is taking my sox or panties for the common good. Not that anyone would fit in them. Though I could use Esme's bra for a backpack. A closed door is a closed door. But we do not fight over who took the last of what. Or who has to pay for what. We have a budget, and we just sort of stick to it. There's a jar of cash on the table for general needs, and people do with it what they will. Maybe that's it. Our household shares perhaps more than I've seen before. Not that it is equal, but it is equitable. Christ. How did I get here again? it was loyalty and that sense of love you have for people you live with. Well, it ain't my butt, but it sure it cute. You can work out the events and the stories. Proves what I've been up to when I'm not writing poetry or ranting online. Now I feel like I've done something worthwhile. Miss me? 2/4/2002
Here it is. What I was looking for in the previous post. You must go to http://www.nobodyhere.com/justme/. You must. I said so. And when you're there, visit ... no never mind. Visit it all. And praise me. I told you to. The redesign is goine well, but it is somewhat over my head. I've started by stealing the scripts off the main thraxil page and then adding some layers. Oh, on a background picture based on the image that's my main one now. Well, the same night anyway. You'll like it. Or I will anyways. I'm just not sure about how to stick my livejournal and my blog INSIDE a layer. But I know it can be done. And I will do it. Then I don't hav eto say, like i do tonight. I published a pile of nice poems on my livejournal, go have a look. Poems will be just on my live journal, and that's that. I hate having stuff all over the place. Live journal, dead journal, sarahsmiles' journal. Pain in the ass. But if no one comes to visit me, I must go out to visit them. right? Anyway, go and look at my live journal. Four neat poems that have no blood, but all the pathos. Oh, I have to get you something. hold on. 2/3/2002 Stealer of Souls, or Orange you glad to be me? noor just redesigned her site. SpaZZm (aka Pod/Spazzmodius) has his funblog up. And you know what? They're both orange based color schemes!?!. I dont' fucken believe it. Can I tell you? Will you even believe me? I was doing orange too. I have the background. it is cooler than can be imagined. But what should I do? Like stop it? Like choose green? Or stay with my pretty but pretty bland one? No. No. NOT Likely! I was there. I saw it first. And I have the moral highground. I claim apriori rights to do what ever it is I was going to do. And I'm doing orange. Well, more of a blood orange. But anyway. The shitty bit is that now I have to actually do it. Get of my point little butt and end up with more than a background picture. There's the rub. What the hell am I going to do with this mass mess of my site. Poems everywhere, bits of text no where. Hundreds of pictures all messed about nowhere. I have no idea of how to present it all. So, it has just been stewing in a maelstrom of representation, and a befuddlement of memories. Shit, some of the memories aren't even mine. But that's what you get when you're the stealer of souls. With the blood and the life that we consume as it our nightly feast of dreams, I take unto myself all that I have touched, losing my own experience amid the wash of reflections and memorializations of those who've passed by and on. The consumer is herself consumed by that which she has consumed. Deep. Really deep. Like some meditation on shopping at the Gap or watching all the Bohos at Cannes party and strut their marketable commodities. We become what we eat. Nothing new in that realization. But when you're the stealer of souls, you steal more than the lables, more than the marketting idealizations, more than the representation of the thing in itself. What you steal with the soul is the key. The matricies of memory, locked-like in the liquid between your lips, in some acquious solution of time and being. With the liquid comes the story, the effluence of partially digested lives, seeping recollections of a partial existance now stored impartially within. I'm a warehouse full of wares that have passed their due date, past their prime, past their zone of proximal manifestation. Never to be truck-forthed to live in the malls and shops of living memory. Not warehoused, more like archived, but not even that. An uncatalogued archive of goods piled like drifts and dusty remenants from past mistrals and long summer breezes. Stolen souls, all lost and locked within me now. Stealer of souls, but looking for only one. One that fits. The one that is mine. |