The similarities were uncanny; the lady who first taught me jazz and the girl of eyes that swapped on you, dark brown to blue, a woman who lived just several rooms down. But this one, she was different. Most birds don't lock eyes with you the moment you enter the room, stride over with unearthly grace, timed perfectly with the saxophonist in the background in the midst of his spiel, a timing no one can teach. Her mouth shimmered into a smile not too big, but just enough to where it'd be stuck in your mind for years. And the name: she went by "Missy," a hand forward, fingers pointing down. I took it, kissed it. She indeed was a legend in the work, and for a night at least, I had the pleasure to dance with a goddess.

Disruption on account of the Christmas Mass. Mostly too tired while being woken up to really put forth the whole Disorient concept, mostly all just boiled to yelling. Drift 'tween Mum and me, as always, but what's one gonna do? I mean, had the conversation where most of the Catholic teaching amounts to a lot of guilt-tripping, where her stance was that you take what you make of it...of course. Cut out the argument. Whatever, singing and a free sip of wine. Brighter things to consider. New Year. New goals, new outlooks...so long as I can get through these blasted last weeks.

Lone procrastination again. A couple hours 'till daylight, not a thing done. CD ripping binge.

---

Opening hard riff. Ascending, slight descend. Repetition. Ascension, variation. Enter sustain, bass, and a softer guitar sound. Enter drums. Breakdown into transition. Steady bass pedal. First verse.

"'Son,' she said,
'Have I got a little story for you
'What you thought was your daddy
'Was nothing but a...

"'While you were sitting
'Home alone at age thirteen,
'Your real daddy was dying
'Sorry you didn't see him,
But I'm glad we talked.'"

Pearl Jam. Alive. A man proclaims survival to the encroaching dark right before the dawn, a soaring, incendiary current of sound through hardships and situations no one expects to hear about nor experience.

"While she walks slowly
Across a young man's room
She says, 'I'm ready
'For you.'

"Well I can't remember
Anything to this very day
'Cept the look,
The look
You know where
Now I can't see,
I just stare."

Who the hell are we to judge anything? What's worth remembering and what isn't? What's truly good and what's just a waste of time? What builds character and what's simply degrading?

"'Is something wrong?,' she said
Of course there is.
'You're still alive,' she said.
And do I deserve to be?
Is that the question?
And if so, who answers?
Who answers?"

We live perpetually in an identity crisis, with survivor's guilt for all those who have gone before and those in more dire straits than we. The question is meaningless: one is alive and capable of action of some kind, to amount in some shape or form to somebody, somewhere, somewhen.

The singer heralds a solo nothing short of electrifying. Raw, harsh, yet righteous in how it flows through you, drives one through despair and gloom.

One flies.

---

Irony.
   Remember your promise.
   To see the dark, to understand.
   To know what it means to see from the other side.
   But to never forget.
   There is a bright side,
   Just several steps right.
   No fall is permanent.
   No rise is impossible.

-26th of September. Ashton. Didn't completely finish, wasn't completely bought.

-9th of October. Habibi. Arabic for night? Lemon mint and mint and berry? Girl in a white coat, brown eyes, brown hair..I owe Zach one. Maybe.

Still haven't found her. Mildly distressing, mildly relieving. Journaled lately in a green notepad. Problem is I need to keep a pen, which can be problematic in some jeans.

Journaling. Whether it's jotting down bits of what I remember of a series of not-so-disturbing-just-illogical dreams on a pad or hacking together a somewhat readable account of the day, week, or whatever, mostly for my own benefit (and that of my dearest Miss Dissonance...and occasionally that of rare friends of mine who actually remember I have this) of practicing regular writing - if not of the quality-fiction nor news-worthy variety - it's generally the most frequent form of writing I do. There generally are no rules, even when it comes to public entries on, say, even here, Xanga. ('Sides the obvious, of course, general Internet safety measures: no terribly personal information, information that could legally incriminate me or anyone else, plans best kept between me and another person) I write what I want, how I will, and may whatever any reader - even perhaps a future, older version of myself, looking back on these - say or think whatever they will on it.

Then it's close to 4 in the morning here and I see this *lovely Xanga article, and for a moment I'm kinda pissed. But then, I've felt a gamut of emotions all..er..morning. And last night.

Past couple nights/wee early mornings I've had the same sort of mental episode that has me obsessed over a **girl I met on a cruise some months ago, whom (in this state) I've deemed the collective personification of all sorts of romantic muses. Should I actually speak to someone about it (random Omegle acquaintances who actually do have names, for instance), the episodes tend to peter out fairly safely, or sometimes of their own accord, generally if I let my rational side actually think it out (or have someone unknowingly act as a "bounce" to reaffirm this through a second source).

The late nights (for no real productive reason) and decaffeinated coffee (in a somewhat feeble attempt to shorten these late nights) likely have some hand in it all.

...but no mention of the upcoming college transition, you say? (Yes, I do talk to my imaginary audience, thanks) I figure that was a given.

To close, something more or less completely unrelated with anything above, an orchestrated (in that it all just came to mind and I happened to have WordPad up) conversation 'tween alternate parts of my personality (the romantic/introspective side generally more in charge of writing lately, and the goal-getter that I try to get to work in all aspects of my life)

---

"Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"Why the fuck did you ever choose all this introspective shit over regular fiction?"
"Regular fiction?"
"The old fantasy, science-fiction, crime novels?"
"I still do that.."
"No, you don't. All you've shoveled out is scripture for the worship of women. It's not even vainglory or misplaced narcissism anymore, it's downright self-de-manning."
"Maybe."
"Can you answer me?"
"Talking about the sort of stuff I was considering to write at the time..the mafia, criminal organizations, weapons, violence? I was a teenager in a Catholic high school, a lovely little place with all its lovely little people spouting its lovely little nothings and I called myself a writer, talked like a writer. You're forced to tone it down just so people realize it's fiction. And then you realize, hey, I'm not actually putting time into my writing, so I'm just spouting this nonsense. Feh. Human nature was what I learned to put into anything I wrote."

---

*No offense meant to the author of the article, of course, it simply comes up.
**She, however, along with the film noir style/prior life experience with the human nature/et cetera, has some credit for inspiring the naming of a particular "theme" that's pervaded some of my recent works.