on a darkling plain.

i am the child of the wasteland....a land of haunted houses and monsters i call father. dark talents run in the family, but i shatter the glass to let the moonlight in, not to destroy something fragile for the feeling of breaking beneath my fists. all i can do is scream, crawl out, and keep screaming. but i can hold the sparrow, mend its wing... i am the spring rain and the hurricane... the monsters cower now, not me, not you. *xn*

Wednesday, Feb. 26, 2003 - 3:57 am

my best friend/partner rick had a sound project to do but it didn't start until 2 am this morning. its not unusual in the world of music and soundtracks to have odd hours- this is a film that has had some problems and need to be worked out. so off he went.

i have weird sleep hours, as my times of entries can probably prove sometimes.. its been a long standing trend, i am a night person, not much i can do about it currently plus i am not trying to change it.

for some reason watching him leave was sparking all these long forgotten childhood memories of my parents putting me and my brothers in the car to go on a trip early in the am- i can't match trips with departure memories, trips always had some violent outburst involved ala father but sometimes you could find a way to have a nice time when they weren't looking- not like he wanted us there anyway- well... i always loved the getting up early in the morning, while it was still dark out. leaving right around the time the blue began to appear in the sky- that wonderful dark blue turning light. even if it was summer the air was cool and all was quiet. in that part of MD at that time it was still remote, still had countryside and you could see the milkyway. the air always smelled clean and when the wndows were down the seats and car were cold- but it was a life-like cold, the kind that makes you happy, no the kind that cracks you.

these departure memories running through my mind, and the cold, brought on other memories of what used to make me happy as a kid... fabrics and interestingly textured papers and books filled with writing. i loved looking at the fabric and seeing how it was held together with tiny thread intertwined and i felt like i was the only one who knew this mystery, how wonderful the tiny patterns woven together made- but even then i knew that these feelings would fade, that the glow of things would no longer be wonderful- true now in the fabric world since now all i can wonder is what sweatshop and poor child had to manufacture that piece of cotton. i don't always think this, but then when i realize i don't always think this, i feel guilty.

then more memories came on and i remembered a winter hike long ago on the local hill that called itself a mountain (compared to things like Rainier etc). Sugarloaf Mountain in MD was where my church would drag us to get badges for our youth group. one snowy icy winter we hiked all the way up it and back down again, and i loved it. i have been up that "mountain" many times in the dimly lit past. this one winter day i slid on my butt down snowy paths much of the way being caught just in time before sliding off the trail down a drop. one of the bigger boys had set himself up to catch the girls screaming on their way down. i wondered- why scream? there was really little room for error, he caught all of us. the trail was white, everything covered in ice and it was the closest to magical i had ever gotten in my life back then.

i just wonder why rick leaving for work for a 2am start started all of it going, playing like some film. its not sunrise, i am not going to the mountains and i can't see stars in the sky here in the east village of NYC. strange what triggers what.. wish i had some control over it- seems like most triggers shoot out the bad, this one was a nice surprise. nice things not sure why. not complaining.

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