Things I Throw Away
12/24/2003 07:28 a.m.
I delete a lot of my poems, regularly, to make room for new poems. I hope no one gets attached to the ones that were already there. I never know what I'm going to delete until I decide that it could go, in favor of something better.

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Four Seasons in Pictures
12/19/2003 02:40 a.m.
I've never posted pictures here, but I didn't want to post this in my livejournal because I've already posted all of these pictures there once, when I took them, and not in my blog because the way the layout is there, it would look funny. So, anyway, I wanted to do a little restrospective type of thing. I shrunk all the pictures so they wouldn't take up so much space. The bottom three are all quite a bit larger. They're all digital, as I've only had my slr since the end of June.

You can almost see my photography skills improving.

.spring.



.summer.



.fall.



.winter.

Find out what it means to me?
12/19/2003 01:05 a.m.
I have issues with the whole idea of respect. Maybe it's because I grew up with a father who was eager to punish you when he felt you weren't displaying the proper amount of it, even though his idea of respect was more akin to fear than anything. Maybe it's because I don't have any for myself, and therefore can't find it in me to have much for other people.

What irritates me is the idea that respect is something that some people are owed for pretty much nothing at all. Like I owe old people respect just because they've been alive forever when I don't think that being alive forever is such a fait accompli. Or like I owe George W. Bush respect just because people I don't agree with, and not even the majority, voted to put him in the authority position. Or like I owe my mother respect just because she's my mother, even though she's never been good at it. Or, like I always owed my father respect because, as he said, "I'm your father, I own you," when what he really meant was "I can hurt you and no one can stop me."

Still, I try to always, when aiming to avoid trouble, give at least the illusion of being respectful. The manners, etc. That's what people want, to be respected. You give them what they want and they are happy and they don't bother you. Personally, I don't care about respect, which I guess is good, because I rarely get it. I'm young. I'm a woman. I'm more than slightly mental. There's nothing about me that screams "respect me" in the traditional sense. Maybe if I ever get old or elected to an office. Equally bad chances for both of those.

I can honestly only think of one person that I respect, and that's Rasool. Not because he's my boyfriend, because anybody with a penis who would have sex with me and deal with my neurotic crap and un-beautifulness could be my boyfriend, but because he's intelligent and thoughtful, and he has ideas, and a code of honor, and he sincerely tries to live by those things, without hypocrisy, while keeping an open-mind about the way that other people live. He grew up in the ghetto. He never really knew his father. His mother's family is full of convicts and drug-addicts, and he's managed to stay pretty much vice-free except for a hard-core need to play a lot of video games. I respect and admire that, especially in light of my own failings. Except for the video games part, because they take his attention away from me.

If I'd had better parents, I'd probably be a different person today, and I'd probably respect my elders and authority figures and parents and neighborhood crossing-guards. Still, I'm fairly glad that I ended up thinking that my respect is a privilege to award to someone rather than an obligation to give to any number of people just because they insist that they deserve it.

Note: I think I'll post this to my blog, too, since I put so much effort (15 minutes!) into writing it.



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Lost in the Flood
12/17/2003 01:00 a.m.
Hardly any people have read my new poem. I have several theories as to why this may be.

Theory #1 - No one likes me, and, really, who can blame them?

Theory #2 - Maybe a few people like me but they are tired of reading about the same thing over and over, and, really, who can blame them?

Theory #3 - I got lost in the flood that was Aaron Howard's (to my understanding) archiving day. People saw the name Aaron in the recent activity list and thought to themselves, look, another Aaron poem, wow, he's posted a lot of poems today. Then they passed my poem by without realizing that it was, in fact, me, and, really, who can blame them?

Personally, Theory #3 is my favorite, though the laws of Suckonomics, or, if you will, Suckum's Razor, say that one of the other theories is probably the correct one.
I am currently Feisty

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I'm right, You're wrong, etc, etc...
12/15/2003 08:15 p.m.
I'm wandering around, reading the journal entries and comments going up over Saddam's capture. It's funny, kind of like watching Jerry Springer, except, instead of flashing breasts, people are showing off their political opinions. There goes a verbal chair! The funniest part is, the center of the uproar seems to be a eighteen-year-old boy from Canada who likes frickin' Dashboard. Oh, Jeebus, deliver us from Eville Teenage Mutant Canadian Dashboard Fans who can't spell their insults against America! Please. Personally, I agree with about 75 percent of what he says, or, I would, if he spelled it right, but unlike him, I know that trying to argue your political opinions with people who will never, ever agree with you is useless. Still, I'm glad he's doing it, and I'm glad people are reacting to it, because, if nothing else, I'm entertained, and I don't feel well, so I need all of the joy in my life that I can get. *grin*
I am currently Sarcastic

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From Angels in America:
12/15/2003 03:46 a.m.
"The white cracker who wrote the national anthem knew what he was doing. He set the word `free' to a note so high nobody can reach it. That was deliberate. Nothing on Earth sounds less like freedom to me.''

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A Poem About Me!
12/11/2003 08:20 p.m.
The Last Temptation of Aaron by Kristine Briese

I feel so special now.

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They're all gonna laugh at you!
12/11/2003 05:24 a.m.
People who don't like listening to Adam Sandler cds will not get that.

I think if I had a dollar for every poem I posted with the word death or one of its variants in the title, then I would have many dollars, and could go and buy myself a milkshake, which would taste much better than yours. Damn right.

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Explicit?
12/09/2003 06:04 a.m.
I am having a bit of trouble with explicit. Deciding what is and should be marked that way. I had (boy teeth) marked as such, because it's a poem that's about sex, but I've read several poems about the same subject, with somewhat similar language, that weren't tagged with the explicit marker. So, now I'm thinking, maybe I should just reserve explicit for the more graphic sexual descriptions and curse words. That's the plan, unless someone tells me otherwise. I changed the tag on (boy teeth) because it's not that graphic and it doesn't have any curse words in it, and it's a fairly new poem, but everything else that I have already tagged, I probably will let be.

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I love snow.
12/06/2003 11:03 p.m.
I like to lay down in it, spread my arms, and pretend to be something that I'm not.

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