the BEEKEEPER prophecies

Roses

Wed, 07 Jun 2006 11:52:25 GMT

A boy gave me a rose. And now it is dead and I don't know what to do with it anymore.

I wore a shimmery red dress and drank champagne and ignored nostalgia. Time is running away from me again, because they were all right, you just can't catch up with time.
And formulae scream around my head and I drink too much coffee again, and make too many lists.
I don't know what to do about very much anymore.

Sat, 20 May 2006 21:54:48 GMT

Katie

Oh.

(too close for comfort)

Lets run away and join the circus

Sun, 14 May 2006 20:48:43 GMT

I'm having trouble trying to articulate. ~~Words~~ Pictures are in my head filling it up till spill-over but nothing purposeful ever comes out. I end up flirting with the posters of rock-gods on my wall when I should really be doing this:

With her hourglass body, she has problems drinking milk

Fri, 12 May 2006 15:57:10 GMT

IT IS SUMMER!
Have you noticed yet?

Yes

Thu, 11 May 2006 13:57:07 GMT

"To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour."
William Blake

Wed, 10 May 2006 16:13:36 GMT

I am collecting coincidences that never happened

SO nostalgia is a weapon, and shyness a weakness and lazyness a sin. Sit in the sun and tweak daisies out of the grass and wear flower-dresses just because you can. And yet I still don't understand existentialism

My Bookshelf

Sun, 23 Apr 2006 21:53:15 GMT

I like reading. It is probably my third or fourth thing to do. At the moment I am reading these:

In bed before dreamtime:

Alias Grace by Maragaret Atwood
“Sometimes I whisper it over to myself: Murderess. Murderess. It rustles like a taffeta skirt along the floor”
Adoration of Margaret Atwood is compulsory. I read Cats Eyes at just the right age, and she has kept me strung on since. I started Alias Grace a couple of years ago, but couldn't enjoy it. Last week I found it tucked away in one of parents booksheleves, and tried it on for size. I like it very much this time.

For comfort while brushing my teeth:

The Time Travellers Wife by Audrey Niffenegger
The essential re-read.

When I am feeling Brave:

Wizard and Glass by Stephen King
I am two-thirds through and scared to go further. It will be sad and I shall cry and I am most annoyed at Mr. King for putting me through this. However, since the Dark Tower series is one of the best fantasy series I have (ever?) read he shall probably be forgiven eventually.

On the bus to school:

The Code Book by Simon Singh
My maths teacher lent me this after we had an interesting discussion about Fermat's Last Theorem. It makes me happy with how interesting it is. (So far!) it is a neat little history of codes and their uses with yummy bits of history thrown in so that you know you are reading about real life with mathematics in it, and not just mathematics and its glorious puzzles and mind-tricks.

And when insomnia hits:

Maya by Jostein Gaarder
This book is very special to me. I think Jostein Gaarder is my favourite writer, just because he reminds me how peculiar and strange and WONDERFUL this game of being alive is. I think that everyone should read at least one book by him (preferably Maya or Sophie's World) and then maybe people would be nicer to each other. He lulls you into smiles with sleight of word and phrase, and you think 'ah, so this is this books point' and then neatly side-steps and kicks your feet out from underneath you and next thing you know you are lying on your back but it is OK because you are staring at THE STARS.

P.S. What are YOU reading?

Wed, 19 Apr 2006 21:31:47 GMT

Maybe all we ever want is someone to rescue us.

We build castles with towers and moats and dragons. Wolves at our backs. Lost in the woods.
We want to be rescued (shining armour, white horse, strong sword) or we want someone to want to rescue us or we want to be strong enough to not need rescuing anyway.

"And it's beginning to get to me
That I know more of the stars and sea
Than I do of what's in your head
Barely touching in our cold bed

Are you beginning to get get my point?
They're always fighting with aching joints
It's doing nothing but tire us out
No one knows what this fight's about

It's so thrilling but also wrong
Don't have to prove that you are so strong
'Cause I can carry you on my back
After our enemies attack

I tried to tell you before I left
But I was screaming under my breath
You are the only thing that makes sense
Just ignore all this present tense

We need to feel breathless with love
And not collapsed under its weight
I'm gasping for the air to fill
My lungs with everything I've lost"
- 'It's beginning to get to me' by Snow Patrol

we can see you, did you know?

Tue, 18 Apr 2006 21:52:21 GMT

oh&yes

laceandflora

Sat, 15 Apr 2006 22:38:27 GMT

Nothing resonates nothing stimulates nothing CLICKS.

(go to bed sleepy-child please would you just go to bed! you are listening to bright eyes on repeat and composing thoughts of nothing so please just go to sleep)

Tue, 11 Apr 2006 13:18:19 GMT

i can feel myself softening
blurring at the edges
mellowing
yellow

i am gaining weight, flesh on these bones, covering this empty bird cage where ribs no longer lurk like sharks. i drink tea over coffee, and muffins follow tea with their apple and their spice and their cinnamon. i collect the old packets (Earl Grey & Raspberry & English Breakfast & Blackcurrant and Ginseng) and bake cookies with raisins and wholemeal flour. this ties me down to this world, i am solid, the black ribbon laced round my ankle anchors me, stops the wind rushing me away because i am just not ready yet. (i don't care if my hair wants to play with the sky i am staying here till.)
the music in my ears crones and soothes with Joanna Newsom and The Decemberists. no more wailing, i skip these songs on purpose. who needs to remember pain? who wants to re-feel anger that lost it's point years&years ago? who needs music to remember friends anyway?

instead i wake up still clutching my teddy bear, which i have not done for eleven whole years.
i re-read Margaret Atwood (Robber Bride, i am still working my way up to the big pink sore that is Cats Eyes) and open blank sketchbooks to show them my pencils and paint.

i am tired and words escape me, fleeing these chapped lips before they can work up the courage to BITE down.

this is largely intentional. i don't (want to?) know why.

warrior, witch, woman

Fri, 07 Apr 2006 22:31:01 GMT

I sit on my bed, cross-legged and braiding my eternal hair. Mouth full of peppermint, listening half-heartedly to the radio, contemplating fate and destiny.

You see, we women don't fight our wars on the street.

To your face.

In the open.

Our battles last lifetimes and we are desparate warriors who fight to win only. We give our whole bodies to our holy crusade, and I mean our WHOLE bodies.

Soft, silly, boys take our salty-sweet sex with embarassing fumbles, then pass us on without hesitation to hard beautiful men who cry when we refuse to give them our hearts. (I have not decided yet whether it is more embarassing that this is enjoyable, extinguishing for a moment the constant ache of loneliness, or that for even the briefest of moments it makes them our equals in the battle for our bodies.)
New sparks of life (LIFE! Dear god when will this madness cease?! A new mind/conciousness! Something from nothing! How does that even work?!) blossom in our secret spaces. We cradle these seeds in darkness, sharing our hard earned warmth. We nourish them carefully, feeding them little pieces of our hearts, one by one, hand to mouth. We even stop the flow of blood that reminds us that we are still alive, just incase it scares these flickers of light into the great unknown.

We fight for our lives, the whole of our lives. Our mothers taught us their witch-craft, and they taught us well.

We keep these brooms for sweeping.
But we all know they are only for the final flight.

Tue, 04 Apr 2006 20:43:32 GMT

Lillies make me d-i-z-z-y

Their smell fills my eyes and tickles my thoughts and trails an inquistive finger up my neck (only to whisper a sneaky kiss into the shell-folds of my ear)

I come over all Georgia-O'Keefe without the pretty paints.

Not even chocolate cake can save me from this.

Sun, 02 Apr 2006 09:22:44 GMT

I never was a pretty girl

a milk-eyed meander

Sat, 01 Apr 2006 23:03:27 GMT

I want to be a Lolita for a day.
Just to see what it is like, to be oh-so overly-fucked up and feminine.
To be aware of my body only. To not give a s-h-i-t about my mind (because my mind is too hard and cold and male to be truely comfortable with).

I told the other girls to read Anais Nin, but they preferred their magazines. The shiny covers of beautiful girls with screaming headlines. The sordid problem pages- 'I had sex with my boyfriend when I was on my period- will he think I'm a freak?' 'How much should your pubic hair grow?' 'I'm eighteen years old and I've never kissed a boy, am I a lesbian?' True, the magazines looked prettier when lined up in a bookshelf; when compared to my tea-stained, second hand, battered beloveds, but did they tell you anything you ever needed to know? I collected their names, delightful frivolities of plastic: Bliss, Sugar, ElleGirl. Meaningless sounds. Pretty nothings. Fake orgasms. I could never enjoy them however hard I tried (maybe this is why I don't enjoy him now) which only ever re-inforced my secret fear that I was a boy.

Baptise me in sugar-pink. Lick my chapped lips and chuck me under the chin. Pull a dirty ringlet and loose yourself in my freckles. These cliches are trite, but fill my belly, which is more than I can say for the words you have tumbled out. I will make you spit out your chewing gum before you kiss me so that I can taste you properly, not just the sweat and the saliva and the heat, but all the other flavours that come with you. How long did you lie under the covers this morning and how strong was the morning coffee? Who shared their cigarette with you before the tinny school bell rang and did you chew your pencil in maths or english? I don't care if it is sour because at least it is true.
I want to taste you tasting me.
That is sweeter.

Sat, 11 Mar 2006 15:44:16 GMT

All the books are lined up on the shelf. One by one they sit together, girls and boys and lovers, and mothers, and scared old men, and bitter old women, and heartbroken travellers who have truely been to the depths of the world, and those brave souls who stayed in their front room the whole time.
The bookshelf holds all of the father figures I built in my head, and a few of the ones I discovered along the way.

It is not romantically dusty, for I am still too practically minded, and enjoy envisioning a future where I will read these books again, even those that took my heart with their thin papery fingers and ran straight away in to the sunset. Books I can forgive (people not so much), and I do.
Every time.

Fri, 10 Mar 2006 20:48:44 GMT

muh
mmm babba mm du du du dah!
muh huh

muuuuu huh
mummuh
muma muma muma mumama muma muma muma muma muma!

Mumma?

Mummy!