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In many ways, the death of Aikatsu reminds me of the death of Geauga Lake.

We all just kind of assumed Geauga Lake was going to be there. I mean, the park had been around since 1872 in one way, shape, or form. It was a staple of the community. That's where your dad went as a kid, and your grandfather went as a kid, and your great-grandfather went as a kid. You had these memories that lasted for generations, shared things. Remember when your first roller coaster was the Big Dipper? Or when you ate too much cotton candy and you got sick? That was "something special," all right. Those shared memories of things like the Kitaouji Theater, having your blood "sucked" by Yurika, every performance of Idol Activities.

Much like Aikatsu, Geauga stuck with the formula that worked. It thought it was safer from a flashier alternative. It was right, for the most part. Given enough brands and enough fashion style changes, Starlight Academy could last forever under the same system, just like Geauga did for decades. And then an amusement park sixty minutes away built the first roller coaster over 200 feet, and we all know where the summer of 1989 was spent.

Geauga had its fans, the people who still continued to go every year. But the Prism Paradise on the shore of Lake Erie had it solidly beat, fair and square. Its big thrills (and its ability to "snap and trade" tickets) were something Geauga would never have. So Geauga sold out, in order to stay alive. It tried to be something it wasn't in order to become big and popular again. Gone was Geuaga Lake, hello to "Six Flags Worlds of Adventure." It spread itself thin between too many new roller coasters, all of them pretty and none of them too particularly exciting to talk about.

Geauga was sold by Six Flags in 2004 and became Geauga again, but by that time it was too late. Six Flags had interrupted the flow of memories with its boisterous claims of fame and glory. Geauga was a shadow of what it once was. There were lots of quiet goings-on behind the scenes, and some of their roller coasters were transferred away from the park -- most notably Firehawk now at Kings Island. Looking back now, that's the difference between the fate of Geauga and, say, Dorney Park in Pennsylvania -- Dorney has stuck to its roots for 130 years. Perhaps we can all learn from that lesson.

Nobody from Geauga ever stood up in May of 2007 and said, "This is our last operating season. Get your final rides in." And that's exactly what Aikatsu never did as well. We all knew that Akari would probably become Starlight Queen and there would be changes in order, but we all assumed we'd ride it out until season 5 hit in October. But we never received notification that Ichigo and the others, and Akari and their generation, would have their stories done in a matter of weeks. Finito. With a messily wrapped bow.

We all had signs that make more sense as warning signs in retrospect -- the manga ending, Ciao not giving out new Aikatsu cards, the most recent fanbook having an All-Stars poster and less promotional cards being given out, the "All-Brand" promo they ran this wave, even the Parade Coords and Kanna sticking around. We all thought those things would stay for another year, and I held out hope that a new girl would be introduced in April and we'd get to hear her story, just like we heard Akari's, and the baton would be passed once again.

With no notice whatsoever, Geauga Lake closed its doors forever in late September of 2007. We all knew things were low, but some of us had held out hope that things would turn around. But Geauga's owners knew. The ride operators knew. We were all just kept in the dark about it, unable to see the signs of a dying generation until it was too late.

So now, we are here again. In four or five episodes, the rumors say, Ichigo and Akari's entire school will be gone. Aikatsu itself will live on, but in what reiteration we have no clue. It could be awesome. It could suck. It will probably suck, at least at first. We are losing the connections we had to these characters they built up, and no amount of movies or episodes or mobile rhythm games can do that justice. We will have to choose how to keep these characters alive, and it will be different for each of us.

For me? Perhaps I'll go to Dorney. Perhaps I'll stop in my favorite spot of Dorney, just under their oldest roller coaster, and remember the oldest roller coaster of Geauga Lake. And then I'll wander further down that midway to a new portion of the park. A more modern, compact roller coaster sits there -- one of the roller coasters that was once at Geauga Lake, back when it was Six Flags and trying to look pretty and popular. Maybe I'll go to that roller coaster, pick some daisies or Queen Anne's Lace or whatever I can without pissing off the groundspeople, and I'll lay some flowers at the station entrance.

For Geauga.

And for Aikatsu.

021016

Feb. 10th, 2016 11:39 am
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Haven't posted here in a short bit. Got sick a week ago and had to go to the urgent care center -- wanted to make sure this sinus issue I had was actually a sinus infection and get treated for it. It wasn't ^^;; but they gave me some options. I have learned that Claritin either makes me loopy with Flonase attached, or makes me want to kill everything in sight. Monday was not fun.

I moved on Sunday! It was a good move except all of my stuff is still in boxes because I've been at work 24/7 basically. I'm fairly certain these pants have been worn for five days in a row. I want to work on my fanfiction for part of today, and might actually do so right now before the shit hits the fan/while I'm working on background stuff. Not too much I can do while the potential for being interrupted is high.

The boss is out of the office on Monday and Tuesday and I have some ideas as to what to do those days. I'll probably have to still work at the gym, but piano is fun :)
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Writing again because I inherited the laptop at work and I have a chance to think. I'd be writing in the records, but at least this way I can work and make phone calls at the same time.

It occurred to me last night again that I take everything too seriously. Even something I guess as fun as karaoke has to be a performance, and I should be ashamed if I don't do my best in it. After waking up like a mess this morning, I gave myself a hard time about it until I realized what I didn't know until last night: that letting yourself off the hook is the key to being human.

I'm not fully here. I feel like I'm in the longest (though thankfully not most severe) panic attack ever. I'm a little ghosty. I'm disocciating but I'm going in and out. I called in and said I was sick, which is true but more from a mental health standpoint than a physical health standpoint. I feel like all of my strength has been sapped. But thankfully my spirit is okay. I refuse to be the victim in this situation. I'm not going to beat myself up, but I'm not going to go super soft on myself as well.

They're helping me out today. I feel like I'm getting more done. Then I'm gonna stop by MJ's and then go home and work on the jeans I'm currently wearing. And I'll be okay. I'll always be okay.
memorialrainbow: (bell what's out there)
So I figured I'd write.

A long time ago, when I was going through some rough times, I wrote in here a lot. I wrote about the things that were going on in my life, and I used this journal as a place to promote my work. People read along, for a good couple of years. I came out with an album, and then I came out with a book that grew into a series.

I'd post on here every once in a while after that, and my entries got more cryptic as they went on. And who knows how often I'll write now? But this time, I'm writing less for you and more for myself. Tumblr is too PC, Twitter not enough characters, Facebook too perfect. And yeah, maybe I'm writing from work at the moment, while I'm putting in information and being a database.

But nobody's really reading this yet, are they?

Here's the thing: I've been in New York City over four years now. Do you know how many albums I've produced in that time? Do you know how many songs I've written, how many times I've gone out there to promote myself? I actually made a habit out of it a long time ago, before places closed and I had to work instead.

There was a boy. It always starts out that way, there was a boy. We promised we wouldn't get too far in deep, that we'd be honest with one another. He supported my art. I was able to find temporary work, go to open mics. When I was let go from that job, he ensured I wouldn't have to worry, took a new job himself to make sure he could support both of us, moved in because living in New York is crazy. We were both crazy, we both had our faults, but at the end of the day, we were honest with each other. We didn't go to bed mad.

That was the most creative period of my life in NYC. I got a new job, one that enabled me to grow up from the crazy that I had been accustomed to. I found an open mic I could go to and even got my own show. I went to Comic-Con and we performed, and I created an album, and everything was perfect -- until it wasn't. I don't want to say my anxiety got in the way, but having all of your belongings in trash bags in your kitchen is more than a little rough. We grated on one another. Somewhere in the shuffle, my flash drive with my Comic-Con stuff was thrown out. I blamed him way more than I should have. I started blaming him for everything. He let me.

I went through a depression for the first part of 2015. Nothing happened. I woke up, went to work, came home. I wrote a little bit, but I was out of it. I was in survival mode all over again. The old-school methods I had used a long time ago woke up again: God hates that you were being creative, so He sent bedbugs to stop you. You might think I'm crazy, but that was the way my brain was operating.

I wasted a year. I wasted an entire year. At least he was around, right? At least he was being productive, starting his YouTube channel. I stayed off the computer. I let him have it. I was just in the way, right? I didn't want to take the computer and waste time while he could be recording his shows. For what it's worth, I did try. I lost sleep composing music for a friend's cabaret and now she's not talking to me because I wanted to be paid for a future one. I choreographed a dance and performed it in front of others, and then a fight broke out and my boyfriend escorted me into the nearest Mickey D's before the cops could show up. It was supposed to be a competition, and nobody won.

Things like that wouldn't knock old Emily down. I'm not sure he ever properly knew old Emily. Old Emily existed before January 5, 2012.

And you're still here in black and gold
Your inner core the only change
So how much of the girl I fell for still remains?


You know what I should have done on January 5? I should have quit the city. I should have called my dad, said "this isn't working out, I'm coming home." And yeah, I signed a year lease, but those things are just numbers in this city, anyway. I would have gone home, maybe gotten yelled at a bit, but hey, I would have gotten what I wanted out of the city, right?

But in the end, I'm glad I stayed. I've learned a lot about myself, about the way I process things. I've learned that it doesn't matter where you are, as long as the people you love are around you. And I've learned what that actually means. I know now what New York City is, for better or for worse. I know it's not a be all, end all. I know people romanticize it, and even those who live in the city romanticize it. It's our bubble. We live here, and if anybody threatens it, we act like it's 9/11 all over again. (Ted Cruz just made some interesting comments on this.)

Because we make it, right? Because we all struggle in this city. It's a shared struggle that we romanticize so much. We talk about how hard it is to find a dollar coffee, how we're squished like sardines in the subway car, the number of homeless people and pigeons and piles of puke we walk right past on our way to work, where we must dress exactly how they want and act exactly how they want in those high rises lest we go back to working at Mickey D's. (And they probably make more money, at this point.) Everything is always our fault, but that's okay, because we're making it in the real world. We have our shoebox apartment and we wouldn't have it any other way. We can't afford to go out because we're too busy working two jobs, but we certainly have it better than anybody at home, right? We blow through our bonds and have no money left in our savings accounts, no future, but we're living like the starving artists on Broadway. You know, just like Jonathan Larson. God bless Jonathan Larson.

We pick up and we scrape by, and we're nice to those near us as long as that niceness doesn't actually hurt us any. We put on our headphones and ignore the beggars on the train, the people sitting with cardboard signs as we go to work in our elite sports clubs. We oversleep because we don't want to get up in the morning, but hey, it's what "real people" do. And I don't doubt that anywhere. But I used to talk about the Oxford bubble, and now I'm talking about the New York City bubble, and I'm wondering just what is real. Is real life what we make of it? If so, then everybody in New York City automatically gives too much control to everybody else. We have to, in order to make this city work. If you deviate too much, you're left behind. If you don't move at supersonic speed -- and that's saying something, considering this city must be moving faster than Top Thrill Dragster -- then you have no time or energy or money to write or music or create or anything. And it's even worse for those of us who deal with mental problems, who were bullied as kids, whose fathers' words echo in our heads even when our mothers tell us they no longer matter. New York City is okay -- but it's not for everybody. To pretend it is for everybody is to shame the world we live in, to shame every place that isn't New York, to ultimately shame New York and the individuals who might be creatively trapped here.

And I know what everybody in NYC might be reading. You don't like it, then leave?

Maybe I will.

I go to Jersey for a jaunt and I plan my life, knowing that when I'm back in NYC, I'll be moving too fast for me to properly think. I go to Albany for my yearly jaunt to the convention and I feel tired the entire time, unsure if I should return back to the city. I go to Cedar Point, because maybe racing for the sky and racing underneath the sky are two separate things. Maybe I can't fly in NYC. But maybe that doesn't mean I can't fly at all. Maybe it just means the buildings are too tall here for my liking. Maybe the skies are too crowded. Maybe it's more hopeful for me to leave.

There's only so much you can learn in one place
The more that you wait, the more time that you waste


In July, I went outside of the city to have the most successful gig of the year. We made it all the way through and my client was so happy, and I'll never forget the look on his face and I learned we might actually be making something here. While I was in Charlotte for the gig, my boyfriend was busy being in somebody else.

He told me in October. I should have chased him out, burned his things, but I was stunned enough that I let him stay another month. I still haven't gotten rid of some of his things.

But I dealt with the stress of that, and I've dealt with the stress of it, and I need to toss those things out. I've tossed out memories before, and I'll do it again. I say that I remember everything, and it's true -- but just because I remember something doesn't mean I don't want to remember. The past means nothing. The past doesn't help me out. The past doesn't pay the bills. It only holds me back.

I'm furious.

That may be the best thing to be right now.

For now, though, I work. And I plan, in the little bits that I can. I get outside the city to think. I take the ferry. I fix music. And hopefully, this summer, I'll go back to the place where I had my successful gig, and lightning will strike twice.

And the thunder will follow afterward.
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Five and a half hours is a long time to be stuck in LaGuardia. Read more... )
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I don't know why I'm getting really depressed in light of the upcoming summer season.

I think part of it is the fact that last year completely, unequivocally SUCKED. Balls. Every time I listen to music from last year, I get sad. Every time I look at pictures, I get sad again. Naturally, how can you make summer not suck? Simple: by doing things with the people you love. A little harder when your schedules don't coordinate the way you want them to. (Perhaps Jesse was onto something?)

I'm trying to keep busy. I think it's when I stop and think about it that I really get sad, that I miss what could have been. But it's precisely that at this point: what could have been. There's no sense in wishing for all of that to come back. That will cause more trouble than it's worth.

I turn on some happy music that reminds me of happy times. If this didn't remind me so much of the winter, I'd play it all summer. As it stands, maybe the winter is happier right now, and I'm okay with that. I need to find a way to rewrite the summer so it won't replay the last one. And I wish I was more secure in doing so.

I thought I was. And then I woke up alone.

I'll do my best to look at the sky instead of the nearby Metro-North tracks and wonder... why won't it leave me alone?

050813

May. 8th, 2013 01:50 pm
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I know the exact moment I grew up.

It wasn’t in New York City -- quite the opposite. It was midnight, and it was in Zanesville, Ohio. It was the twenty sixth of April and I was tired, but I had an application I really wanted to get done and I was forcing myself through it. I also really needed to print off the lyrics to the song I had written for the funeral the next day.

The entire time I told myself that I was getting all of this ready for the Grand Master List -- and somewhere along the line I broke down and said, “screw the Master List” (I’m at work). And I didn’t care at the moment. I could care less about that stupid list. And that’s when I grew up. Read more... )
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I think that happiness is overrated.

Now, I’ve spoken on this subject many times before, but this is another time that I am discovering this. The Bible touches on it a lot, how we are supposed to suffer with a smile on our faces. Society tells us that we have to strive to be happy and do what we want. But in reality, what does that lead to? We always keep wishing for something more.

I don’t think it’s about suffering on purpose -- I think that makes you a martyr. But if things are bad you have to know that God is the one orchestrating everything, He’s in charge, and He’s always got your back. So you shouldn’t insist “God is the one doing all these bad things to me,” but you should be able to find peace in the storm and the strength to keep walking in it.

I think I originally got that wrong; always thinking that I had to suffer if I wanted anything good out of life. That it was my destiny to suffer. I can think of any number of verses that distort this. And yeah it goes back to that argument of society’s commercialization versus the path of righteousness, but I think there’s a middle ground there. I also don’t think that you should stay with someone who is clearly hurting you, or a situation where you are being hurt; I think that God wouldn’t give you anything you’re not able to handle -- and that for 100% sure is biblical. The question then is who gives us our troubles? God doesn’t, although He sometimes lets the devil tests us (Job). The rest of troubles are brought about by us, and the sin that happens when we divert from God’s track; take the Dyre Avenue Line, to give an example. That doesn’t mean there’s a direct 100% right way or you die and you’re a (words I can’t type because I’m at work).

The bottom line is: if you lose control, if you’re floating all guru guru and spinning in circles and not really going anywhere, it’s your responsibility to break out of that, to face forward and start going on the right track again. God lets us walk away in order to ultimately bring us closer to Him, in one way, shape, form, or another.

And as I write this, I think I fully understand the meaning of what He wrote. And I think He’s ultimately in charge of this. Not the most conventional way I’d go about the entire thing, but it seems to work. And as we both walk forward on the White Plains Line, I think God will use that link to strengthen both of us; it’s my prayer that He does, at least. I finally realize that I did not choose this; those are powerful words.

So it’s not happiness that I’m an opponent of. It’s the worthless pursuit of making things happen just to make them happen; it’s lethargy, in all its forms (you know who I’m looking at, let the reader understand); it’s the comfort zone of knowing where you want to stay and not striving for more; it’s staying with the person you love because it’s safe, even though they are no longer connected to you. “Why would we rather put ourselves through (heck) than sleep alone at night?” It’s contentness, in all its forms; it’s civil war for the purpose of fighting and fighting alone to cause drama and to shake up the world; it’s trying to solve a problem with registrations and installations you yourself create; it’s waking up earlier than God intended you to.

I always wondered how God could let “that” happen. And yeah, I know I’m here in the city because of it, I know that if everything hadn’t happened the way it did I might not be here. But I might. He knew I loved the city, and even though he was against it, I’m positive he would have embraced it for my sake; but now I’m thinking it was God’s divine intervention to keep him in the place where his heart desired and ultimately has thrived (let the reader understand). And in doing so, He began the path that would ultimately lead me here.

So now what am I doing? Trying to patch together a solution by running wires and manipulating ties? Those who are loudest and push for their own agendas are farthest from God. It’s the quiet ones, the submissive ones, who get it. And I think we could all take a page from that in a way that does make male and female equal. Yes, God created us different, but somewhere along the line people started viewing one skillset as more important than the other, causing the problems we have today. And I have to wonder if this is another example of pushing one’s agenda (furthering a career or traveling around the world or what have you) over God’s. I’m not saying God’s will is the only thing you need to be doing (as that desensitizes the entire situation and makes women objects!) and I’m also not saying that every person on Earth has to become a mindless slave to the system of furthering on our process. Rather, far from it: the process should be as unconventional and as specialized to each person, each area, each country as possible, whether America or Japan, whether Indiana or Arizona or Ohio or wherever.

But I digress. If God calls you to corporate, go corporate. If God calls you home, go home. If God calls you to be a roller coaster, then for goodness sake, be the most awesome roller coaster you can be. One must be flexible and always listening for His voice, steady in their dedication to the track but always willing to move along that clothoid loop, that batwing, that bunny hill or overbanked turn.

But you can’t be content. You can’t sit on your butt and eat ramen for the rest of your life and guru guru. You can’t work at the same restaurant that frustrates you. You can’t refuse something just because you’re scared. And you cannot fail to rise to the occasion to claim what is rightfully yours by birthright, lest you trade it for the soup of contentness and forever fall out of favor.

You can’t fall to your hormones somewhere between Canal and Spring on the N line. No matter how you may protest, subway trains don’t go backwards. To make it work, you have to take the N to 42nd, transfer to the 2, up to 149th Street Grand Concourse where the White Plains Line begins. And once you accept that, once you turn and you don’t look back and you embrace what God has put right in front of you -- instead of trashing it or ignoring it or treating it horrible -- God’s will is made clear, in the form of a mirrored parallel and two hearts becoming one. For what God has brought together, let no man -- or angel -- tear apart.

(stamp) Destiny.

It’s not what you think it is, Oginome.

I guess I can use this as a suitable analogy. One of my favorite anime, Mawaru Penguindrum, features a school girl by the name of Ringo Oginome (her name is Ringo for the same reason that my computer’s name is Ringo). Her older sister, Momoka, died a long time ago before she was born, leaving behind an eerie diary that foretells events that happen. Momoka’s death tore apart her family and those Ringo has come to love, and she senses something’s not right. The way she tries to fix this is by becoming Momoka in her place, recreating the curry her family used to make and trying to get in good with Momoka’s old love interest, to the point where it obsesses her (my associate keeps saying she’s ‘psycho’ but I prefer ‘misunderstood’). See, the problem is that nobody can properly replace Momoka. In order to really make destiny happen, Ringo just needs to be herself and to let those around her (read: Shoma) lead her to that place with sunshine and flowers where she can be truly joyful.

Of course, this IS Penguindrum we’re talking about, let the reader understand. Destiny starts to spin, and until Kanba and Shoma make everything right and bring the truth to light again, it will continue to guru guru for them as well. The theme song even makes reference to this: “destiny begins to spin.”

As it does now.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the reason why the six train is too late.

031813

Mar. 18th, 2013 04:45 pm
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It still makes me want to roll over and play dead.

At some point in the entire process, I stop existing. I roll over and play dead, as I said. I am invisible, and I am meant to be invisible so that others will not see me. This is what I have been taught from a young age, reinforced by the one who taught me that I am alone.

And yet, I am not alone. That has already been proven by my relocation to the City. So why do I still live like I am underneath someone’s foot?

I think part of this phenomenon is that there is still someone I am scared of. You would think that after I sorted everything out emotionally at Christmas, I’d be good, right? Wrong. There’s still a small thread of the fear, holding onto me, insisting that this person will never give up and I should just roll over and play dead, go back to the horror I was living in all last year, where my pain was silenced and disregarded. It was one of the rare instances in my life where I actually turned to writing as an outlet for a time -- Blue Impulse came from that.

I’ve ran. I’ve protected myself in every way I know how, reaching forward into both sides. But it’s still not enough. It will never be enough. I feel almost like a victim of abuse running away from her abuser. That’s not what it is -- mostly. I do not do this because of him. I do this because of myself. This weekend was rough enough as it was; my chest still tightens and I get dizzy thinking about what could have, should have happened but didn’t because I got lucky (let the reader understand).

But I’m still putting myself down in one way or another. I call myself a mutt. Does that say anything about how I view myself?

This has to stop -- not only for me, but for people everywhere. I don’t just mean women, although we have a nasty habit of doing this to ourselves. And it’s not just us, either. It always starts with an external source, which the internal source then multiplies and amplifies until the tapes running in our heads cannot be silenced, save for an obvious but horrid answer.

Who is able to help you when you can’t help yourself? Some turn to religion. Others turn to science. The answer is different for everybody, so there’s no real way to fix the problem. Except we continuously know that it must, at all costs, be fixed lest we continue this way. Maybe we should start at the beginning, which we all know, is a very good place to start.

In which case, perhaps we should start with Cedar Point.

Kind of an odd place to be, right? As far as a start. For me, it makes sense, as amusement parks and roller coasters have found their way into who I am. But I was going to Kings Island long before the Point itself. And there are so many things at the Point that connect me to who I want to be -- but it’s also a reminder of where it all began.

And it’s possible to start over. It’s always possible to start over.

Until then, I apologize to anybody I may have offended the past two and a half years with my actions, or possibly my inaction. I do not reserve the right to be perfect, though my other half may insist on complete and total Jesus-ness. I am one hundred percent human, and I reserve the right to be so. If you finally want to speak with me again, I would love to hear from you.

It’s kind of like coming out from underneath a tunnel, reaching that point at 96th and Park where the trains meet the sky, heading out toward a bright and glorious future and whatever may lay ahead on the Hudson line.

I’m not perfect. But someone here is. And that someone gave New York City to me, and I’ll be darned if I’m not going to use it.
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I am a neon manic pixie dream girl.

If I could only be paid for this job. My want ad would look something like this: "wanted: girl with no ambitions of her own to drive others to do their best." Although, to be honest, I'm rather good at this. I've only been trained in it my entire life.

A neon manic pixie dream girl is like a regular manic pixie dream girl, except with magical powers. For I just wave my staff and say, "Look at me! I'm wonderful and fantastic and you want to be with me! But enough about me and my wonderful (insert event that brought us together) here. Let's talk about your dying self esteem and how to make it better."

Somewhere between becoming a pixie and today, I forgot how to properly love.

Instead, I fly by the seat of my pants with dream girl duties, knowing that if I receive love, it's okay if I don't properly know how to love back. I give of my time and my energy and my money and my cranes, to whomever needs it. And if I'm lucky -- if I'm REALLY lucky, which wasn't the case last year -- then I'll get at least something back.

The night grows dark, dim. An angel with one wing sits alone in the window, staring at the calendar full of penguins.

You see it happening, don't you? You know exactly what I'm talking about. You don't know why you like me. You just do. You've come into contact with my writing, or with my music, or with something else that has got you completely and inexplicably attracted to me. And because I am the neon manic pixie dream girl, because attention is what I thrive off of, I save you, time and time again. I always save you. Your name may change, your physical form may differ from person to person, but as long as I thrive off this energy I will never die.

I keep trying to stop it, now that I've realized what's going on. And yet, you keep coming back, clinging to my arm, wanting to hang out, to be with me, to ANYTHING. And since I'm so used to it, I can't break anything off. I keep 'loving' you, no matter how it hurts.

A nap would be ideal. But I can't sleep this off.

I continue to manipulate the system, to make everybody blissfully, unaware, happy. It's what I've always done. I am everybody's neon manic pixie dream girl. But as long as I am this pixie girl, I will never properly be Emily.

But if I'm the pixie girl, if it's my job to save everybody -- then who will properly save me?

I dream in black and white because there is no color left. I no longer notice my surroundings. You tried -- once -- to save me, but I stood in my kitchen and tried to run as your words made me into perfectly cut sushi rolls. And yet, I still invite you over to spend the night. All last year, I insisted that God no longer loved me, that my destiny was to be unhappy and unwanted, and part of that was because of the nightmare I was lost in.

I was your neon manic pixie dream girl. A role that you try to force upon me time and time again. You tell me to get off the train, and I am lost in my usual indecision -- I live for your dreams. Part of me knows you never wanted it this way, but you suffocate me too hard to remind me.

There's only one reminder that I'm not a neon manic pixie dream girl -- and that's because I know in my heart that I'm someone's sweet girl.

I'm so busy going downtown that I don't even notice the five train at 96th Street until it rolls into the station. "This is a Brooklyn-bound 5 express train, via the 7th Avenue Line. The next stop is 72nd Street."

My sweet girl.

I've been the dream girl for two and a half years, and it got me nowhere. And yet, simply by existing, I have found love. What about you? Do you live your life for someone else, wanting it to mean something, forgoing all of your dreams for this one person? I want someone real, not a manic pixie dream guy who only saves me when it's convenient.

This WORLD is real. With its problems, and its flaws, and its buildings and mountains and seas and electrified subway tracks.

And this time, I'll ride the 5 train to Flatbush Avenue, to the end of the world, because I know my destiny as something more than a neon manic pixie dream girl awaits me there.

And I won't look back.
memorialrainbow: (Default)
Insanity.

How do you define it? Is it the loss of your senses? The inability to remember who you are, who your loved ones are? Or is it when you try to redefine the parameters to what they were previously defined to be, only to have the plan fail time and time again? To stand at the crossroads and declare, "This is how it should be."

And to be turned away.

"We're sorry that you're not qualified for your own job."

"I love you, but this just isn't going to work out."

Expectations are shattered, and I shiver in the heat of my room, stifling and suffocating and can it all just end now? But I'm not an idiot, and everybody knows by this point I'm not an idiot. But it hurts. It hurts so much, like I'm falling in the sky and I can't stop.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

But it never is. It always comes out of left field, a whisper of "what are you doing here?" and then it hurts like a broken promise and you're not there, you don't care. And it all shatters, and it collapses, and I pick up the pieces and I become normal again and everything is perfect and pretty and I add one more color to the collection.

And the voice echoes out from the train tracks, "it's over." And everybody is happy.

But somewhere in the back room, she sits with her long purple hair and regalia, praying for a corrected timeframe, praying for patience and alignment and knowing God doesn't do anything foolishly. Maybe she knows the truth. Maybe nobody does. Maybe I'm just making things up as I go along. But maybe this is real. Maybe I really am an expert at this.

Maybe God doesn't play tricks.

What are you fighting for? If you lose that, that's when you hit insanity. You stop being yourself. You start being somebody else. For me, I've discovered that it's my writing. To stray from that dream is to pursue insanity, to follow a blind path of the wolf. Yes, I still have my music, but my dream to be a writer should always be right there, in front of me, something I should chase.

If I take a six train, I'll be too late
Don't be afraid; take me with you!
Just snatch your questions out of midair.


It's not that simple, although it is. It's messed up, but it's all right. Everybody gets happy endings but me. I'm the one with the misaligned destiny, who wants to be a writer but should be a musician but is neither so shame on her. And in the end, I'm used as a friend and nothing means anything and I'm just playing but I'm not. I'm honest, but nobody cares, and I get nowhere, and I can't perform, and you lose your patience. I become a friend. Just a friend. And the door is closed, and I lose my worth, and I fade away. A doll. A tool. And the five train arrives at Flatbush Avenue, right on time.

I have a message for the world: everything gets better. If you're caught in a tough situation, just believe it will be fine. And that's great. Because I can give advice about these types of things, but I know that it'll never happen to me. Not even the dropped bass can save me now.

It's okay. It will all go away.

You will go away.

As it always happens.
memorialrainbow: (Default)
I dreamed that I was happy in your arms.
Then I woke up and noticed I was alone.
I started to cry.
I'll get rid of the faded sofa, the two cup set, the too-wide bed.

I didn't love you because I wanted you to love me back.
Even though I knew what was coming,
even though I slept alone...
I still anticipated the song we liked, the movie we saw.
I won't forget.

I called you, and the woman who answered had a nice voice.
The voice that calls your name,
the fingers that stroke my hair,
your clear eyes --
all are far away.

We laughed together, we ran into one another, we believed together.
Now, I'm alone.
I want to meet you one more time. I can't meet you twice.
I get it -- I can't anticipate anymore.

I didn't love you because I wanted you to love me back.
Even though I knew what was coming,
even though I slept alone...
I will no longer anticipate the song we liked, the movie we saw.
I'll forget.

--浜崎あゆみ
memorialrainbow: (Default)
It's June. Hello, June! I haven't blogged yet for June or yet for this summer, so it's comforting to know I'm having a bit of fun here. I literally have sat in this chair ALL DAY. Nice to know that my butt likes it here.

To the sky high, toberu hazu )

Everyday I'm shufflin! )

So now I have moved from the chair. Have a good night, ya'll.
memorialrainbow: (Default)
I'm happy to be alive. I'm happy to be here.

Runaway, here to stay
Could you be scared of me?


When bad memories from the past resurface themselves, you can be nervous about that. You can run away from those memories, though. You can put bad memories in the past, and keep the memories you want. The love. The dreams.

What's to hide? Just my pride
A few words in any key


When I still catch my breath when someone mentions his name, and then I remember...he's never speaking to me again. But isn't that what you said, over a similar misunderstanding?

Can't be seen by day
I've locked myself away
But close your eyes, hear me inside


This is one of my favorite songs. I wrote it for you, you see. I wrote a *lot* of songs for you, actually. Even when you left, I couldn't get you off my mind. I knew you couldn't hear my voice, so I wrote you this song.

Can't escape
Only wake
From a good dream gone wrong


I wrote Dual about you, too. In the original press, it features Jesse and me in a car, talking with a police officer about all the songs we have stored in the trunk of our car. We're told that we can't take them into the next country, and I insist we keep the musical pieces, the ones I don't sing on. "Now what?" "I don't know, got any ideas?" And that's when I start playing.

Haven't you forgotten we're all ordinary men?
Though you've had enough, I won't give up


I also wrote Memory Eraser about you. And Fantoccino. And Encore, where the D.V.Crew raps *specifically* for you. And I'm sure there are a good few songs I am forgetting. I even tried on purpose to write an album for you, just so I could ship it all the way to New York City. In 2008, when I came here, I half-expected to see you on the street corner. When I moved here, I kept looking for you. I'm *STILL* looking for you, even though you're more than likely long gone.

I wish that you could hear my song
When did distance make the words go wrong


And now you're here.

But now I know this much is true
When the sun fades I will find you


"More than anything...I wanted to hear you sing."

More than anything...I wanted to see your smiling face again. I wanted to know you had forgiven me. And in one way or another, you have. That smile, those brown eyes turned blue, the hat. You haven't given up who you are, and you've only become some thing more. I can't explain it. I gave up explaining it a long time ago. But I know better now.

My days of roaming are done...because I found you.

You'll hear me in your dreams.

When the bad memories come for me, I turn and I run into your arms. And then, I sing for you. I'll always sing for you.

תודה רבה
ありがとう
memorialrainbow: (rin)
I dream, I wake up, I go through my day, I dream, I wake up. This is my life these days.
I dreamed that I was on stage, behind the Korg, as you stood in front playing your guitar and singing out loud. I hit every note the way I needed to, in perfect unison, with the crowd cheering and praising until the power went out and when I opened my eyes, you weren't there.
I dreamed that you brought pizza into the radio station and almost dropped it when you saw me. We talked for hours, catching up, talking about old times and trading stories. But when I opened my eyes, my boss was standing outside the van, cell phone in hands and a blank look on his face.
I dreamed that we were dancing together, and you took my hand and whirled me around to the music. I dreamed that I took your last name, that we strung the red thread of fate around our fingers, and swore we would never be apart. Until you said you were sorry and I stared at the ceiling, praying for you to come back.
I dreamed that I was back on your couch, Diet Sunkist in hand, as we watched the movie. I closed my eyes and felt the sugar high and you led me through that night, and when I woke up, the can was gone and my mother was scolding me for being a bad girl.
I dreamed that you were still talking to me again. I dreamed that you put your arm around me and kissed me like you used to, and I stole that hat off of your head and you let me keep it. I dreamed that you weren't critical of me, like you once used to be, and that you never, ever lied to me. I still wish you hadn't.
I dreamed of Tuesday mornings and late nights, of Christmas lights and penguins and trust that was broken, of a reality that wasn't a dream. I dreamed that, when we talked on the Eiffel Tower, that you changed your mind. I woke up and we both cried.
I dreamed that I stopped losing people. I dreamed that you came back and decided that you were going to love me, and me alone. I dreamed that I met you at the altar and we swore we would love each other forever. But that's just a dream. That could never happen.
I had another dream recently. I was riding the one train home from Washington Heights, and you texted me saying you were in Times Square. I wasn't sure how you had gotten all the way from the edge of the world to Times Square. All I knew was that I could catch an express train at 96th Street to get to you quicker. I woke up, and I wasn't even in New York City, but I could still feel your smile on my lips.
This time, when I'm awake, I will go to Times Square and become your knight in shining armor, because some dreams deserve to come true.

Those of you who read TTR might want to go there too.
memorialrainbow: (Default)
Raise your hand if you don't remember The Lion King. Read more... )
memorialrainbow: (Default)
Forgive my long entry. Read more... )
memorialrainbow: (Default)
Watching Bolt in the living room. I give it five minutes before my dad comes in and turns on something else. Five bucks if it's golf-related. Ten dollars if both Dad and Luke come in here wanting to watch something. And fifteen if it's Friday Night Lights.

Speaking of which, Steph and Luke took a great picture while they were out this weekend...



Yeah. I still have a fear of that statue.

I am obsessed with SHINee again. While I'm sitting here I might just go find their Lucifer album to make myself happy. It's weirdly hot in this living room. I want a ponytail holder. What was I going to do tonight? Oh, right, design the Maristar cover, since I found my pen. I'll cross post the link for Maristar when

I still want wedges. Dangit, Steph, can we go shopping?

I took Mangos in Tahiti off of Almond Dust. I really like the lyrics, but it wasn't sounding good on the album at all. I did finish the Garageband version of Pondicherry; I'll probably master that tonight in my off-time.

Back to writing Maristar, I suppose.

052311

May. 23rd, 2011 03:49 pm
memorialrainbow: (Thunderbolt)
This still kind of bites. I woke up this morning and it was silent. Gosh darn you Dylan for leaving me here. You're supposed to be cleaning my house or something when I wake up at three, not gone. How am I going to survive this summer? I suppose I'll live with it. I always have.

I need a shower.

I suppose I should start packing up some random things in my apartment. I don't know what I'm going to do after Dylan gets out of Jersey. I feel like I should be making my own plans, going to Charlotte like I wanted to. It's so pretty outside. I want to go out there. There's a pool in Newark that I really want to go to, not today, obviously, but sometimes over the summer. It'll probably cost $10 a day, but it's got the works, so I'm not complaining. I mean, come on, you'd pay $10 to go on water slides and a lazy river. This place is hooked up.

Perhaps I will go outside and relax, have some fun...and then do the thing that I also wanted to do today. I don't know, I wish I could take painting to work again...I did once, but the fumes got to me.

Made a new icon last night; that's the Coney Island Thunderbolt, OFF/Track version.

Why is life so wonderful?

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