Hello, you

Hello my few remaining followers ❤ I’ve been away for a very long time and not giving you the attention you deserve at all, but tonight I’ve written a poem for you all and I hope you enjoy it ❤

Hello, You – By Ali Carroll

 

Scent of you:

Scent of new and scent of old.

 

Thinking of you, I paste my lips

Against the envelope of letters home.

Ink sinks into me as it sinks into pulp,

And I breathe your notes just as I read them,

Flipping through nostalgia.

 

Twisted in memory the feel of water,

The smell of chlorine in tousled hair.

I remember it as I pass by doors,

Open doors of public pools,

I remember summer.

 

Summer days of sand and sea,

A beach of waving wind and sodden towels,

Picnic baskets with the smell of bread,

I open the bottle and breathe in sun.

 

There’s no space between then and now.

 

I remember the burial when I smell the earth,

Upturned earth on polished wood.

The casket smelled of varnished stain,

But the wind smelled sweet and warm.

 

Fluttering lillies on the arm of your mother,

They kissed you, caressed you and took you home.

 

It’s funny,

That a single drop of men’s cologne

Can break your heart with its static jolt,

Yet bring back to life what’s long been gone:

 

You.

 

You make your home in the hollows of my synapses.

You’re in my nose, my hands, my fading eyes,

Ingrained in me with the sun and the beach,

With the chlorinated waft of heated pools,

And the quiet rake of a stippled beard.

 

I eat your memory on a salivated tongue.

 

I know you’re not here anymore,

But I like to think of you.

 

Inside morning coffee brewed past done,

Inside jean and ballcap oiled hair,

Inside fall and dust and musky leaves,

 

I like to think,

 

That all those little sparkling reminders,

 

Are you inside me saying hello.

 

Hello, you.

 

Orange

It’s been a really long time since I’ve posted anything on here, and to my few wonderful and loyal supporters I apologize, life has been super hectic and busy in art school. But here’s a short story I wrote for a short story class I was able to take, tried to shake some of the rust off while doing it, and it mostly pulled itself together. Enjoy and have a great day!

 

Orange

 

The streetlight shone warm orange through the window and played over the contours of the darkened bedroom.

We collapsed onto our backs, breathing heavily, our limbs intertwined. My heart thudded.

“Well,” he gasped hoarsely.

I gave a throaty laugh and looked at him. “Well,” I agreed.

The light was playing over his features. His crooked nose, his sandy hair and his soft lips. I felt safe looking at him. I put my hand on his cheek and we just smiled at each other for awhile. I let out a small sigh and closed my eyes. “I love you,” he said. I opened my eyes again and he kissed my nose.

“I love you too.” We shifted and he drew me against him with his arm around me so I was looking out the window.

“Sleep well,” he said, and kissed my neck.

“You too,” I said.

We did.

 

The streetlight shone warm orange through the window and played over the contours of the darkened bedroom.

I layed down slowly and grimaced as I shifted the pillow under my neck. I must have pulled it while working. I sighed and flopped around a bit until I found a position that was bearable. A half-hearted moan of complaint came from the dark beside me and Des shifted in his sleep, tugging the sheet closer around him. I’d been staying at work late for the last while and we kept missing each other. I looked over at his silhouetted form for a little, then softly kissed his head and turned back to the window. I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to quiet the headache I’d been feeling the past few days. There were just so many things to get done. I studied the leaves outside, with their warm halo of yellow-orange, and eventually their soft swaying lulled me into a fitful sleep.

 

The streetlight shone warm orange through the window and played over the contours of the darkened bedroom.

I sat cross legged on the bed and he sat beside me. Neither one of us were looking at each other. Tears filled my eyes, a by-product of most things these days. The dark room still echoed with his last accusation and my outraged counter. The silence stretched out and I brushed away the occasional tear, glittering a blurry orange in my watery vision. I was angry. I could understand him, of course, but if he just pulled himself to-fucking-gether maybe he’d actually realize how unreasonable he was being. I could feel him struggling with something else to say but I refused to help him this time. I’d said my piece.

“Look,” he finally said. “I just need some recognition, okay?”

I pursed my lips. I’d thrown out all my accusations before, it wouldn’t help bringing them up again. “Same,” I said tersely. I couldn’t look at him yet.

He sighed, sensing I wasn’t ready to give. “Tay, you know I appreciate you. You’ve been working so fucking hard – too hard -” I gave him a warning look,“ – how could I not appreciate that. It’s just you’re never here anymore. It’s just hard okay, just recognize it’s hard for me too.”

I didn’t say anything yet.

“Okay?”

Obviously I did, but the hurt from before was keeping me looking out the window at the streetlight and saying nothing. He threw his hands in the air. “Like it’s not like I asked to be let go!” He sunk back against the wall, frustration and a vague helplessness clearly evident in him.

I gave in. I finally looked at him, and shifted over until i was resting on his shoulder, the touching of our bodies an apology and acquiescence of its own.  “I know,” I said softly. I found his hand in the soft light and interlocked our fingers, stroking his with my thumb. “I know.” I looked up at him and he seemed thankful as our lips brushed softly.

“You should get to bed,” He said after a few minutes of quiet. “You have another long day tomorrow.”

I sighed and found my way back to my pillow and under the covers. I did love him. I turned back to him and told him so. “My big project’s done at the end of this month and as soon as you get a job I’ll be able to take fewer clients.”

He laughed bitterly, “Yeah,” he said.

We both fell asleep.

 

The streetlight shone warm orange through the window and played over the contours of the darkened bedroom.

I couldn’t stop giggling.

“What?” he said. “Do you not find me attractive anymore?” He flung his flipper up against his forehead in mock horror, or least he tried to, but it being a flipper, only managed to knock his shark head askew. I giggled even harder. He feigned indignation. “Is it my back? Is there something on my back?” he tried to spin around on his knees on the bed to see the back of his shark costume but got tangled up in his tail fin and tumbled into a chortling heap.

I leaped on top of him with a wicked grin. “No, it is most definitely not your back,” I purred, and I kissed him. I pulled away. “Are you looking forward to dominating the children’s television screens with some incredibly manly shark wisdom tomorrow?”

He growled. “There is only one thing that I’m going to be dominating and it is most definitely not children.” And he flipped me over and finished the kiss, and we both felt hopeful and alive.

 

The streetlight shone warm orange through the window and played over the contours of the darkened bedroom.

I lay fitful in bed. Des hadn’t come home. I tried to tell myself that this was what it was like for him before, but I couldn’t help but feel a little indignant. I’d taken fewer clients so I could be home more, and now he was gone. At some cast gathering with Mina the stage hand.

I punched my pillow then picked it up and buried my head under it. I tried to find comfort in the black heavy suffocating air underneath it.

I sighed and pulled myself back out and looked at the light until sleep found me.

 

The streetlight shone warm orange through the window and played over the contours of the darkened bedroom.

I woke to him thudding the door, tripping over the edge of the bed and swearing. He threw himself down and slid up close to me, groping his hands over me and nuzzling into my neck. He murmured a breathy, “Hey,” that reeked of liquor and I felt a moment of repulsion. He stuck his hand down my pants and started feeling me with his fingers. I grabbed his hand. “Where have you been?” I didn’t ask it like a question.

“Just out.” He drawled in a way that made him sound like a teenager and I hated him for it. He started moving his hand again and I wrenched myself away.

“No.”

He seemed perplexed. Like the concept of me being upset made utterly no sense to him.

“Baby -” He reached for me again and I slapped his hand away. I saw his slow thinking change from confusion to anger. He grabbed my wrist, pulled me down and threw himself on top of me so I would stop pulling away. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Again, like coming home in the middle of the night without any word and waking me up to have sex was perfectly reasonable to him.

I glared at him. “So this is how it’s going to be? You walk in at God knows when from doing whatever the fuck you do nowadays, reeking of alcohol and what I hope to fucking God isn’t your own cigarettes and expect to just have your way with me, hmm? Maybe slap me around a little bit?” His hair hung down into my face and his hot breath panted in and out.

I squirmed my hips mockingly under him and stuck out my chin. “Just fucking do it then.” I stared into his glazed eyes and watched as they eventually cleared. He softly let go of my wrists and flipped off of me, staring up at the ceiling.

A tear leaked out of my eye. He stayed quietly the way he was. I turned away from him and curled into a ball on my side shaking silently. Soon enough I heard him snoring. I gritted my teeth and pulled the covers off of him and wrapped them closely around my trembling form.

 

The streetlight shone warm orange through the window and played over the contours of the darkened bedroom.

Kisses rained down all over my face, showering my eyelids, cheeks and nose with his soft lips. I beamed and laughed. I put my hand on his chest and pushed him away gently. “We don’t know for sure yet, okay?” He grinned back, and hell if his grin didn’t make me smile even harder. I punched him softly. “I’m serious! Don’t go getting your hopes up yet!” He nodded but kept smiling then pulled me into a tight hug that I had to cry out from and remind him I was one of the people who liked to keep their bones intact. loosening his hold a bit, he cradled my head against his chest and sighed.

He took his thumb under my chin and tilted my face up to him. “I love you, Taylor-Ann.”

I sighed and curled more comfortably against him. “I love you too.”

We lay there contentedly feeling each other’s breathing, and even though I’d warned him not to get too excited, a thrill went through me.

 

The streetlight shone warm orange through the window and played over the contours of the darkened bedroom.

His hand was on my stomach. My naked body lay bare in the light and his hand made my stomach look small. It felt like I hadn’t stopped smiling in hours. I was literally carrying life. It was a feeling more electric than I have ever experienced.

I curled my hand over his on top of me and our orange hands made curving shadows over my skin. Looking down at us, at our overlapping limbs, at his thin, toned legs blending with the curve of my own, sinking into our white sheets and splayed in hopeful giddiness, it seemed to me that the orange light seemed brighter than it had. That we were glowing and radiating the light back, that the room was more light than it was shadow. With our hands together on top of my stomach on top of the light, it seemed to me like I could feel the light thrumming around us. I knew it was silly, but in my state of euphoria I could almost believe that the life inside me was that orange light, and I desperately didn’t want to fuck it up.

I squeezed Des’s hand harder and looked at him. He was already looking at me. I think he knew what I was about to say, because he just nodded, and from that, I drew comfort.

I turned onto my side again and pressed against him. I looked out at the streetlight, I looked out at the leaves, I looked out at the wind, and the light playing off of these, and as I fell asleep, my dreams were orange.

The Wires

A vacant highway, and you’re there, and they’re gone.

But the numbness is there. You’re not alone, you’ve got that. You’ve got the numbness.

The cold realization that you’ve got no feeling; the burning inferno of a hypothermic heart.

But you can’t feel that. You can’t feel it burn.

So you melt in it. Melt unconsciously.

While you sit idly, slack jawed and hardly moving, while it melts you.

While your fingers slip, your eyes drip, your skin slides away.

You’re a case, an empty suitcase they left on the line,

Of already gone suitcases at the airport.

Running the cycle over and over because no one is coming,

The contents aren’t filling,

They never did.

Because you’re empty. The luggage bag that spins, and rides, and just, goes, on.

Why.

Why?

Why.

It’s a heart.

Why do they stare at it like that?

It’s a heart.

It’s open and bloody and the holes are infecting

But it’s a heart.

So why do they stare?

It’s probably got something to do with wires.

With the pulling and unplugging of wires,

With the electrocution of kids and the safety plugs.

I don’t know why,

But it’s probably got something to do with that.

Maybe it’s the way the current just never…

Ebbs.

It’s a flow, a constant, incendiary flow that you can always count on

To kill the children

That get too close.

Too close to the wires.

I just think it’s got to be connected to that.

Life, I mean.

Because it’s nothing alike.

It’s nothing like those wires.

Sure it’s cold, and hot, and alive.

But constant? It’s not that.

You can’t count on life to kill children.

It will, and they’ll all be screaming, and crying and hating and dying,

But not always.

Sometimes they live.

Sometimes they’ll get old and they’ll watch it.

The sun, I mean.

They’ll watch the sun, and wonder where the wire is

The one they don’t have the cord to

Wonder when the fuse will blow.

‘Cause there’s no safety plugs for life.

Just a control panel

And switches that flick on

And on and off

Then off

And off

And

Off.

No, there’s no safety plugs to life.

Just wires.

Open , uncovered wires.

Over a lake

Of radioactive water.

I don’t know why,

But I think it has something to do with that.

Glass Palace

She flashed the lights in Morse code, he answered with a cigarette

Then a toothless woman smiled and handed her a chance

The bird answered back by saying,

Nothing at all

And she wondered what it meant, if anything, if everything.

See, the walls she built were made of stone

She stacked each one so she wouldn’t see

The Night

But then instead she blocked out the sun.

But those bricks were glass.

She covered them with drapes she wrapped around her waste

Clawing at her arms, craving for a taste

Of calm, that sweet, addictive moment when everything seems right,

When for just that time she didn’t fear

The Night.

 

So I run.

 

Curled up in a ball the drapes fall to the ground

And she cringes, digging through the floor

‘Cause the emptiness is staring,

The cameras are panning,

Zooming out and her brain is following

‘Till she’s not herself anymore but sees herself,

See’s her cringing on the floor

And she feels sick,

‘Cause she hates what she sees,

Another broken wing to add among the rest.

Is this some kind of fucking test?

Is it a game that we all draw lots to win?

The shorter straws get cut and thrown into the wind?

For the hands that don’t reach.

But her strength isn’t there anymore.

 

So I run.

 

She’s not there anymore, but she sees him,

Sees him lying there with Her,

Sees the sheets and the clothes and the echoes on the floor,

She’s the walls, she’s the air,

She feels his fingers in Her hair,

Hears the breath in Her ear and his arm on Her chest

But the cameras keep panning until they don’t exist.

She’s back, back on the stained tile floor

With the windows and the street

And the empty sound of no reply,

Fighting the need to light and get high

And the voices that say, ‘Who’d care if you die?’

 

So I run.

 

She curls up in a corner, hands clutching at her head

Hating the voice that’s wishing her dead,

Eating food from boxes and cans

And feels the walls and the familiar halls,

The godforsaken doors,

And it seems like it’s all she ever sees.

So she runs, runs through the hallways

Shrinking and slowing as they grow larger,

As they twist and turn and compress

Trapping her in the cage she didn’t want to be in but went willingly on repeat.

But now she can’t find the exit and the doorways are spinning,

She can’t hear her breathing

Can’t feel her heartbeat and wonders if she’s living

But crying and screaming she runs for the door

And jumps through the ceiling,

Shattering the floor.

She’s running through people and down one way streets,

Trying to catch up with the path that she’s on,

Kicking the heels of her own written fate,

Not letting her, feet, stop.

Until she crashes into her life

And flies.

 

Microfiber Lies

Don’t worry, all they did was take your thoughts and replace them with their own intentions.

Don’t worry, lines on your face will be gone in a moment, they’ll take them, erase them.

Don’t worry, your hair and skin will be new in a moment, they’ll change them, to plastic.

Don’t worry, the incisions are just to alter your body, and fix it, to perfection.

 

Don’t worry, your doubts will all go away in a moment,

As you fit in, with the masses.

 

Mindwash.

They’re tearing you apart while telling you ‘you need it’.

Brainwash.

They’re wrapping you with strings while telling you ‘you want it’.

Burried.

Who you are, under six inches of microfiber lies.

 

But don’t worry, it’ll all go away as you fit in with the masses.

 

Don’t worry. Can’t you feel the needles pry as they’re sowing shut your eyelids?

Don’t worry. Can’t you see the false reflections they paint across your mirrors?

Don’t worry. Can’t you hear your buried thoughts breathing anymore?

Don’t worry. Can’t you see your shadow self, convulsing on the floor?

 

Mindwash.

They’re tearing you apart while telling you ‘you need it’.

Brainwash.

They’re wrapping you with strings while telling you ‘you want it’.

Burried.

Who you are, under six inches of microfiber lies.

 

And who you are, is lost.

But don’t worry, your doubts will all go away in a moment,

As you fit in, with the masses.

The Sympathy of the Motherboard

The systems’ wires are becoming extensive,

Reaching, encircling, strangling independence,

Tying legs and numbing perspective.

 

Electrocution of the mind.

Yet it knows we’re hooked.

 

Its illusions and implications are all that’s been needed

For the collapse of a wavering mind.

What will we find?

What will we find?

 

When we look behind the shield of an unsympathetic screen,

As its life withers and sparks and shatters to death,

The life that sustained us and built up inside us

 

What will veiled eyes see when the screens go blank?

When the buzzing dies and the life fades through blackened wires,

What will we find?

What will we find?

 

Yet it knows we’re hooked.

 

Longing in withdrawal we stumble through the wreckage

Of actions influenced by influenced minds,

How long ‘till we reach the end of our leash?

When Habit whispers to answer the pull of the motherboard

Convincing us that it’s inescapable.

 

What will we find when we look behind the shield of an unsympathetic screen?

What will we find?

What will we find?

 

And wading through the aftermath humanity screams:

You trained me to need you.

You trained me to need you.

 

Yet sickly and obediently,

Making our own chains,

We did this to ourselves.

The Aftermath

“Eftirmála.

Hví spyrr þú kvelja stöðugt að mínum með þessu repetitious hringrás skera hálsi höfnun?

Og hvernig getur þú titill það sem höfnun þegar þú leggur reyna fyrirfram emptory þarf athöfn áfrýjun?

En sumir hlutir þurfa ekki að höfða.

Tár og tætari skuldabréfa gert þykkari á annan endann en hinn stunga sama ef ekki meira þegar rómantík er ekki að ræða.

Því þá er það ekki lengur brothætt höfnun vantar aðdráttarafl, en í staðinn er það heill skortur á hvers konar umönnun eða beint tilfinning af neinu tagi.

Það er heill afneitun hvers áhrifum mann, það er hækkað nef sem landamæri um slóðir að uppsöfnun eðli gengur á.

Það er hrópaði fræðileg orð, ‘þú átt ekkert að mér! ”

Og áhrif bein falla svipa á köldu járni höfnun blöðrum inni.

Og barinn hluti sem eftir er bak – brainwashed af bitur þögn Whip-hefr, kennir sig fyrir sársauka hennar, relinquishing að kenna sett á hendina sem heldur, og gröf það yfir í hönd sem fær.

Og endurtekur sögu þrisvar.”

-The Broken Soul’d Icelander

 

“The Aftermath.

Why dost thou continuously torment my being with this repetitious cycle of cut throat rejection?

And how can thou title it as rejection when thou dost not attempt the pre-emptory required act of appeal?

But some things do not need an appeal.

The tear and shredding of bonds made thicker on one end than the other sting the same if not more when romance is not involved.

Because then it is no longer the brittle rejection of lacking attraction, but instead it is the complete absence of any sort of care or directed feeling whatsoever.

It is the complete denial of any impact of person; it is the raised nose that borders the paths that the accumulation of character walks upon.

It is the shouted theoretical words, ‘you mean nothing to me!’

And the impact of the bone covered whip of cold iron rejection blisters inside.

And the beaten part that’s left behind – brainwashed by the bitter silence of the whip-wielder, blames itself for its pain, relinquishing the fault placed on the hand that holds, and burying it over the hand that receives.

And repeats history thrice.”

–The Solemn English Translator

Ethical Thoughts

Many often wonder whether or not people can be good without God. But to answer that, I must first point out what I believe to be the flaw in it: Is it even possible for people to be without God? I don’t think so. Just as a piece of an artist’s self goes into their artwork, part of God went into all that he created. That piece doesn’t just get up and leave on whim: it’s ingrained in us forever. So instead the question should be: can people be good without recognizing the existence of God within themselves? I believe they can. Because God – or goodness – is still in them, whether they know it or not.  – God’s reach is not limited to the select few who call him out by name.

MORE PHILOSOPHICAL STUFF FOR ALL THE PHILOSOFIZERZ

Human rights verses the security of living will always be a controversial matter; for example, analyzing what rights – if any – people should be prepared to relinquish in return for the security of living. Though saying that everyone is not entirely free to practice their religions seems to infringe on the freedom of individuals, it is a statement that must be true when taking into account the safety and security of living in a democracy or any sort of social environment. Some religions have traditions that violate the Charter of Rights and Freedoms, for example: women’s rights. A particular religion may believe it appropriate that women aren’t treated equally, and are beaten by a man. Also, in some religions the penalty for violating their ways is death. Obviously there are many places where religion is not completely compatible with a secure and modern society. Therefore to insure the safety of the greatest number of people, there are times when religions must be willing to give up some of their rights – especially when we live in a society of such cultural and religious diversity where conflicts are bound to arise.

Epistimological Stuff

“Are there some things humans can know with absolute certainty?”

Besides our own emotions, all we can know with absolute certainty is that for at least as long as we are limited to our physical bodies and the limitations of the physical world – nothing is for certain.

Although, maybe math. And the past. But not even that because the only way we have of telling the past is through stories passed down through other individuals and everyone has their own biases. And as for math – it’s probably a lie. All the algorithms are probably just sent to us by aliens intent on a slow and steady destruction of the human race.

I’m on to you, floating green alien population.