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Majikblu's Journal of Rambling Madness

Warmth abounds in past caresses,
Fingers round her perfect tresses.
Transparent her white pallor seems,
Like ghosts' in half-remembered dreams.
She is not who she was before;
I love her shape and nothing more.
Her template my sad eyes adore,
I love her shape and nothing more.

Welcome and happy tidings! On this page you will find a handful of poems that have little or no hope of print publication. All original work by myself, Anne Page, the starving poet and writer behind the mysterious veneer of Majikblu. I have included a journal entry following each poem that sheds some light on what I was going through when I wrote it. This began as my own journaling in my notebooks, as I attempted to gain some perspective on different things I was going through and writing poems about, but now I'm in the process of foisting it upon cyberspace itself. We'll give the digerati some culture yet. Also here is information on my favorite conceptual theatre group, "The Break-In Players", so if you happen to be a theatre buff or you just like the disobedient overtones of the name, please check it out. I hope you enjoy my poetry and visit me as often as you like, or e-mail me via the link at the bottom of the page-it would be nice to have some good company in cyberspace!

Crystal Cup Every day she looks into her cup of coffee Wondering what the day will bring And if sheís only in a photograph Maybe thatís why sheís f***ing it all up Who would put that in the photograph? She doesnít like direction When itís someone elseís rooster on the weathervane She doesnít want to think about it She lights a prop cigarette for the sake of a cancer To take it all away in pain, in vain Can she see that there? Somewhere in the bottom of her crystal cup? That she thinks sheís a gypsy But sheís so far away from waking up
Sometimes I have fleeting perspective on my own lack of perspective. I fell into this habit where, rather than attend class or invest time in anything of actual value, I would skip class and stow away in whatever hole-in-the-wall coffee shop I could find. I think I fantasized that it was going to go on forever and there would be no repercussions. Itís not such a hard thing to do when youíre as miserable as I was at the time. And I was feeling quite intellectual and proud of my disobedience, convinced that reflection and poetry were a higher calling, which they may well be, but what I was really doing was using that to run from my inability to handle my situation. I didnít want to admit I was screwing things up, even to myself. And yet, I hurt myself over it again and again because I knew I was doing it, on some level. It was a vicious cycle. I was torturing myself over my failures and running from it to these little davenports that only insured that I would continue to fail for they were a waste of my time. I didnít write anything that wasnít laced with notes of self-destruction or think about anything besides past successes and fantasies. And then I had this moment of clarity where I saw myself as the coffee jerk did. You know, that guy behind the counter who sees just how often you come in and just how long you take up space? I saw myself through his eyes and mine, an unbiased take on my own little tableau, all the things I knew about myself through the spectacles of someone who had to work as a coffee jerk during the day so he could go to school at night, or support the kid, or whatever. So, instead of taking anything especially proactive from this, with the mood I was in, I just wrote something self-deprecating about it.

For Cricket, Wherever He Is Somethingís in the air and Iím aware Cricketís chirping outside my window I know itís Spring when I wish for him Every so often, Iím not sure why I remember Iím a woman Under a litany of responses To propriety and lies Under misdirection now and then I sometimes hear my heart again Like a story that never grows old or tiresome or hard to hear Like the sound of crickets in the springtime air Reminding me she has not died But waited long to be alive
My best friend in school (nicknamed Cricket) had the god given ability to remind me that, in spite of the worst things that had callused me, in spite of the anger that I sometimes lost control of, there was an original me inside who had a kinship to the rest of the world, in the nature of my simplest passions and hopes. His ability to remind me of this, and to articulate it in a way that I could understand, saved me time and again when I was feeling the most isolated. It was probably the first time anyone had related to me on that level, and it cleared my vision when it was blinded by unhealthy emotions. There was an interesting synchronism that prompted me to jot this down when I did. It was a warm Spring night and I had returned to my parents after a long and miserable semester of college where I became very nihilistic and bitter. Being at home was making it worse. I was falling into the same depression and self-destructiveness my role as the angry teenager had dictated in high school, only this time Cricket wasnít there to climb in my window and save me. But I had the window open as I was flipping through my journal, and I heard the heralds of Spring, the sound of chirping crickets. It was as if a thousand of his tiny familiars had come to serenade me, and it delivered me with a peace of mind that only he could inspire. And my anger broke for the first time in so long, and I wrote this poem.

Mermaid Dream, Rabbit Dream I dreamed I was chased to a high cliff By something I couldnít turn to see I ran so hard my body blazed and ripped through the branches of trees And when I stopped at the edge of the ocean so deep So the deeper I dug to make myself dive, die And I hit the water in a splash of light That left me alive to be grateful for the perfect blue where I was looking up at you Swimming so far away not to face but the back of my mind says tired legs drown And I look down to find theyíre not legs anymore And at sixteen I had dreamed my fins were found I saw them along the highway I think her name was Luisa Because she was plain and I plainly wanted to be her Stowed away in her perfect picture between a shack and an ancient Chevy Where she sat on the stairs And her beautiful man played the guitar so deep So deeply they didnít need to speak But they passed in a flash so fast I didnít really see Until later it wasnít what I wanted to be Rabbit was a she Stringing the beads of mystique And lived in a forest with her Dead-head boyfriend So deeply burrowed in the simplicity of trees She was hard to find to remember to see She wanted to be Rabbit And I wanted to be a she But more and more forest looks like it was painted by a scampering Monet The forest only looks a perfect picture when itís far away And you canít go there with phantoms They hunt Rabbits these days
This poem evolved from my wish as a child to be somewhere else. What I didnít realize at the time of the wishing was that what I really wanted to be someone else, and that going away wasnít really going to change anything. But I continually saw these images of greener grasses on the other side of the fence. The first image, the mermaid, is an actual dream I had when I was fifteen or sixteen, and in it I was running from an unseen pursuer that I feared intensely. I came to a cliff, jumped rather than being caught, and fell into a crashing ocean that should have drowned me as I swam its vastness. As I became lucid, the thought of drowning occurred to me, and I looked down only to find I had the fins and tail of a mermaid. I looked back up and saw who had been chasing me, and it no longer mattered because I had escaped. The second image is sort of a conglomerate. When I was a girl I wanted some sort of Romeo-and-Juliet romance where caution is thrown to the wind and you run away together. It was another sort of escape fantasy. It was about that time that I saw the musical The Fantasticks and developed this wish to be someone madly in love like the heroine, Luisa. I related to her vigor and the contrasting boredom of her life, punctuated only by her romance. Only I had no romance, and, ergo, no escape. Bummer. So I desperately wanted this for a long time, and it happened that I saw this fascinating scene one day on a long drive. We passed a shack in the middle of nowhere, and a pretty girl sat on the porch with a handsome young man, who played a guitar. I imagined them cast-out lovers who had found happiness in the solitude of this dump with a rusty Chevy on blocks. And I was envious. The last image is stolen directly from a quote from Tori Amos about her song ďCornflake GirlĒ. In the quote she explains the reference in the lyrics, ďRabbit, whereíd you put the keys, girl?Ē, saying that Rabbit was someone she had wanted to be. I could relate to that, too, having recently re-encountered the demons of the mermaid dream and Luisa. And I thought of myself trying to venture out and be a Rabbit, living in a shack and admiring my perfect fins while my boyfriend played guitar. And I even tried similar escapes for awhile. But they led me back to the problem of my unhappiness with myself, which a location or a lover cannot change. The title, ďMermaid Dream, Rabbit DreamĒ is reflective of this, as the mermaid dream was an actual dream, and the Rabbit wish, for me, was a sort of daydream, but equally abstract. The end of that phase, for me, was that realization. That whatís over there is abstract and what is here is important. Because, as the maps in the mall say, YOU ARE HERE. You donít get to be there, because the instant youíre there, it becomes here.

orb now and again my little spark against my eyes and against the dark here you come there you go and iím the only one who will ever know
my friends and i sometimes hang out at this state park that is very wild and untouched. itís even creepier at night, needless to say, and one time we went, after the bars closed, to try and scare the bejesus out of each other as was our weekly routine. so, weíre walking through this park and we hear whispers and assume there are other drunkards or mischievous folk lurking about and as they begin to taunt them, i look around the path and see that itís lined with these tiny, incandescent dots which i assume are fireflies. only they arenít, because i get close enough to one to see that it has no real body or substance, itís just light. meanwhile, my friends are concerned about my mental health because, for all they can see, i am examining the air itself. they couldnít see any of them. and granted, i could hardly believe my eyes, and i was drunk, but not the kind of liver-killing, hallucination-inspiring drunkenness that would cause one to see things that werenít there. so i wrote this little poem when i made a visit to the park some time later and saw the same thing. i was trying to encompass the feeling that something monumental appeared as something so tiny and seemingly insignificant, and that i was alone in the knowledge of it. itís become a metaphor for some of the people i secretly love. the existence of that love becomes the spark in the heart that dares not tell.

All works on this page c. Anne Page 1999.

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