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About the Author
Alister Flik grew up in a fundamentalist Christian home in the Midwest with a healthy variety of crazy available to her, and her middle child syndrome hardly affects her at all anymore. At 18, she moved to the West Coast, got a tattoo, and now lives happily as a quirky theist amidst the Portland heathens she so dearly loves. Her idols are Joan of Arc (crazy or not), Flannery O'Connor, and Daria. Her favorite superhero is the perfect superhuman combination of Joan of Arc, Flannery O'Connor, and Daria dressed in a cape, armor, boots, and armed with wit and a pen. She is currently looking for someone to illustrate this into a comic book.
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A Day's Mental Journey
PRE-CONSCIOUS

Strange dreams I reach to remember. Impressions stick more than specifics. But I search for a story-style telling; despite the reality that it isn't a story.

"The big bad evil is after me. I hide. No escape, I know. I choose to end it, ultimately, rather than give the evil the final move. My hand's motion runs the wrong way, I realize immediately. The cut is not nearly deep enough with my makeshift dream weapon. I stare in dismay at the pooling blood glistening like so many worthless tears. Failed attempt at suicide. The big bad evil is suddenly, subtly seated beside me. His body language suggests he feels my pain at this distressing failure. But he's smirking. He knows he's won. He now gets to kill me. I am under his control, and he has not yet moved toward me. 'A pity,' he seems to mock."

I wake up.

MORNING

Tomorrow hasn't come. Keeps me calm. "I'll fix it tomorrow." Worry in wait. "It's not likely to matter." I tell myself; though myself knows all too well, we will make it matter. Blown far out of proportion. Exaggerated matter for a belittled self. Myself doesn't make sense. Do I, we, do that intentionally? To keep us from realization of…what? Incomplete hypothesis. Better that way. Keeps us unknown.

INTERACTION

I slide smoothly into the speech of singular knowledge.

But I know not.

The tongue responds from muscle memory,
with once wanted words of wisdom.

The mind knows not.

Adrenaline courses at the discourse of dead disclosures.

But all for naught.

The heart feels naught.

Leave your lost codes, stupid girl.

They offer naught

To one who knows not.

WORK

Concentrate. Concentrate. Nothing.

Sick of what I am. Cycles of stupidity. I've about had enough. Can't or won't

Concentrate.

Fine line. Can't or Won't. Isn't it possible that if I won't, it means I can't. I don't know how to

Concentrate. Crap.

Distract! Distract! Don't move forward or back. Remain Nothing. That's a funny thought. How can Nothing do Anything? Remaining is an active inaction. So I must be Something

Doing Nothing.

RELATIONSHIPS

I am tired of these broken things:
Things so destined to fail from the start.
Life is not about success;
it is about balancing and patterning failure.

"Do I confine myself, to be with him,
or confront him and lose belonging?'

This is wrong.
All so wrong.

Why do we kill each other?
Everyday murder.
Every word, every action stabs.
We are bleeding dry,
and the sigh alone drains me:
The sigh of life escaping
through gaping wounds.

What use is there to fighting?
None of us will win.

If a blank,
a nothing like myself,
can no longer paint
the worlds and lives
around me as hopeful,
there again is the failure.

I will not pattern what engulfs me.
It is illogical to even try.

But oh, to see her cry!

I wish I could.
I would scream against all logic,
To see you happy.

PRAYER

Something spoke to me:
A voice whispering between dying and dead.

I didn't,
Couldn't,
Listen to what it said.

What could whispered words mean to me?
I am waiting for a scream.

Too many discounted,
Soft-spoken,
Lover's lyrics failed.
I no longer guess what they mean.

I push on now,
Pretending to be deaf,
But breaking away in the hush of deadly whispers.

Soon, no fragment will be left,
And my own silent screams will drift into sound;
Vibrating, "shhhhh,"
To the empty offer of a dead ear.

AFTERNOON MUSINGS

I remember inspiration.
As what?
As the smile that spread across my face while walking alone on a rainy afternoon.
Now after,
no knowing smirk swept from thoughts,
but a quickened pace from prickling avoidance,
which permeates the mind.
All energy focused on remaining empty.
No room this noon for inspiration.
And memory is a hassle, too, keeping me full of tension.
No more thought.
Suspension.

DUSK

and if I were to think, what about?

Self-threats?
"Dear Self, speak to me again, and you'll live to regret it."

Life.
Quite a threat.

But I take it.
Like medicine, for someone else's illness.

Still.
Bitter-sweet.
This sticky sick.
Slows me.
Still.

but, I'm not thinking.

That lie sinks its way deep into the soul-searching frequencies of the song I listen to.

"You are broken now, but faith can heal you. Just do everything I tell you to do."

The medicine clogs an artery.
My own muscles slip inside me.
Stop.

SLAM

My thoughts hit the concrete hard.
Why did our friendship die?
Wipe the blood from the brain.
Why does it all die?
Must it be me?

Escape.

The dismissal.
Float away from conceited hatred of self.
So many bigger problems than being loved or lacking.

Dismissed.

EVENING

Night's shadows deliver
Energetic shocks waking me
From my dazed memories.

They vibrate whispers to me,
Telling me, "Forget the old.
Make new! Get up! Go out."

And I listen as the dark charge
Travels to me.

I laugh.

Who do you think you're
Talking to?

I go back to dreaming.

GOODNIGHT


Last edited by Alister Flik on April 20, 2008, 12:31 am
"I do not think, therefore I am a mustache."
-Sartre *Nausea*
 
Francis Meyrick

Very interesting. Not quite a 'stream of consciousness', but rather a comment, a 'musing', ON the self awareness of that changing stream of consciousness... Kind of meditative, kind of philosophical, kind of searching, kind of very thoughtful. Kind of humorous. It ended up a very novel story-style telling... very readable... I liked it...)

PRE-CONSCIOUS

Strange dreams I reach to remember. Impressions stick more than specifics. But I search for a story-style telling;
(Yes, I sense that)
despite the reality that it isn't a story.

"The big bad evil is after me. I hide. No escape, I know. I choose to end it, ultimately, rather than give the evil the final move.
(reminds me of the ending of "Floater Me"?)
My hand's motion runs the wrong way, I realize immediately. The cut is not nearly deep enough with my makeshift dream weapon. I stare in dismay at the pooling blood glistening like so many worthless tears. Failed attempt at suicide. The big bad evil is suddenly, subtly seated beside me. His body language suggests he feels my pain at this distressing failure. But he's smirking. He knows he's won. He now gets to kill me. I am under his control, and he has not yet moved toward me. 'A pity,' he seems to mock."

I wake up. (I'm rather glad)

MORNING

Tomorrow hasn't come. Keeps me calm. "I'll fix it tomorrow." Worry in wait. (Worry in wait.... I like that)
"It's not likely to matter." I tell myself; though myself knows all too well, we will make it matter. Blown far out of proportion. Exaggerated matter for a belittled self. (A belittled self... I like that) Myself doesn't make sense. (see: "Exile") Do I, we, do that intentionally? (no, I don't think so) To keep us from realization of…what? (Ah, the search, the search...) Incomplete hypothesis. Better that way. Keeps us unknown.

INTERACTION

I slide smoothly into the speech of singular knowledge.

But I know not.

The tongue responds from muscle memory,
with once wanted words of wisdom. (once wanted words of wisdom... I like that)

The mind knows not.

Adrenaline courses at the discourse of dead disclosures.

But all for naught.

The heart feels naught.

Leave your lost codes, stupid girl.

They offer naught

To one who knows not.

WORK

Concentrate. Concentrate. Nothing.

Sick of what I am. Cycles of stupidity. I've about had enough. Can't or won't

Concentrate.

Fine line. Can't or Won't. Isn't it possible that if I won't, it means I can't. I don't know how to

Concentrate. Crap.

Distract! Distract! Don't move forward or back. Remain Nothing. That's a funny thought. How can Nothing do Anything? Remaining is an active inaction. So I must be Something

Doing Nothing.

RELATIONSHIPS

I am tired of these broken things:
Things so destined to fail from the start.
Life is not about success;
it is about balancing and patterning failure. (Interesting)

"Do I confine myself, to be with him, (nice)
or confront him and lose belonging?' (nice again)

This is wrong.
All so wrong.

Why do we kill each other?
Everyday murder.
Every word, every action stabs.
We are bleeding dry,
and the sigh alone drains me:
The sigh of life escaping
through gaping wounds. (nice)

What use is there to fighting?
None of us will win. (oh, but what an interesting day it makes for us)

If a blank,
a nothing like myself, (self judgment...harsh...not good... 'love of Self' needed, along with the two other loves, Love of man, Love of God)
can no longer paint
the worlds and lives
around me as hopeful,
there again is the failure.

I will not pattern what engulfs me. (nice)
It is illogical to even try.

But oh, to see her cry!

I wish I could.
I would scream against all logic,
To see you happy.

PRAYER

Something spoke to me:
A voice whispering between dying and dead.

I didn't,
Couldn't,
Listen to what it said. (nice)

What could whispered words mean to me?
I am waiting for a scream.

Too many discounted, (discounted... good word here)
Soft-spoken,
Lover's lyrics failed.
I no longer guess what they mean.

I push on now,
Pretending to be deaf,
But breaking away in the hush of deadly whispers.

Soon, no fragment will be left,
And my own silent screams will drift into sound;
Vibrating, "shhhhh,"
To the empty offer of a dead ear. (nice)

AFTERNOON MUSINGS

I remember inspiration.
As what?
As the smile that spread across my face while walking alone on a rainy afternoon.
Now after,
no knowing smirk swept from thoughts,
but a quickened pace from prickling avoidance,
which permeates the mind.
All energy focused on remaining empty.
No room this noon for inspiration.
And memory is a hassle, too, keeping me full of tension. (interesting line)
No more thought.
Suspension. (dramatic ending word, nice0

DUSK

and if I were to think, what about?

Self-threats?
"Dear Self, speak to me again, and you'll live to regret it."
(that's funny)
Life.
Quite a threat. (Um. 100% fatality rate)

But I take it.
Like medicine, for someone else's illness. (good line)

Still.
Bitter-sweet.
This sticky sick.
Slows me.
Still.

but, I'm not thinking.

That lie sinks its way deep into the soul-searching frequencies of the song I listen to.

"You are broken now, but faith can heal you. Just do everything I tell you to do." (that sounds like my Mother's faith... a generation passing... now we question everything, and feel guilty about it...but why?...questioning is fun)

The medicine clogs an artery.
My own muscles slip inside me.
Stop.

SLAM

My thoughts hit the concrete hard.
Why did our friendship die?
Wipe the blood from the brain.
Why does it all die?
Must it be me?

Escape.

The dismissal.
Float away from conceited hatred of self. (conceited... that's an interesting choice. I kind of agree, because there is this element of 'pride' at work inside us all... we SHOULD be bigger, better, wiser,etc... I'm thinking many of us are better at loving God and Man, than we are at loving little, humble, fallible, self...?)
So many bigger problems than being loved or lacking. (Um)

Dismissed.

EVENING

Night's shadows deliver
Energetic shocks waking me
From my dazed memories.

They vibrate whispers to me,
Telling me, "Forget the old.
Make new! Get up! Go out."

And I listen as the dark charge
Travels to me. (nice)

I laugh.

Who do you think you're
Talking to?

I go back to dreaming.

GOODNIGHT


Clapping


We little humans, hurtling through the Universe on our tiny, pale blue dot, will find few answers to Life's great mysteries. But we should at least find many of the questions. To write is to ask. To seek. To grope. With humility, and humor. Peace.
Posted on Monday, April 21, 2008 at 05:38:00

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