dizty

THROUGH
THE
VALLEY

Each character a metaphor/figure of speech/symposium of artistic thoughts on life

Emily is pissed off by the fractured nature of life - she'll write out lines from the wasteland in the guts of bugs on her windshield - she'll adore ern mally poems and call the-boy-she-meets ern - he's a young brown-hair brown-eyed enigma with two guns and a poem for each scar. She falls in love but he's on his way out to meet HST - she doesn't know about this until the last day he spends with her (i'm not coming back, i'm giong to meet HST "who is HST?" "just somebody..." "who is he???" "WHO IS HE!!!!!" "hunt and you shall find...." so yeah she spends a week or two in different motels with him - eating, fucking, lying, loving, falling for love - falling in love. they always express their deepest darkest desires and thoughts. Then he leaves. She is distraught. She turns to go back home, broken and withered. As she is driving home she falls asleep and hits a tree. A young girl comes and helps her. A young catholic girl who shares all the values emily does (deep down tho, emily dont express it) - in the presence of this girl emily is at first in awe, then she protects herself and becomes awful to her - the young catholic girl has a book on her desk - fear and loathing in las vegas - emily steals it and steals the her uncle's car too (a nice red convertable) [ the uncle is hst ] - emily drives and drives in any direction and reads the book. As she is reading she starts to halucinate during driving and she thinks she sees her father in cars and at car stops and in the sunset. Eventually she finds herself (almost suddenly it seems) in NYC city. She drives around there but finds it dificult and so she gives her car to a balding man wearing big shades. As she does this a young man (ern) runs out from an alleyway and asks the man is he is HST (emiyl doesn't see or hear this she is walking down the street, she turns the corner) ern then runs down the street looking for her but she can't be found. He looks broken and distraught as he crunches his starbucks cup and whipes his dirty eyelid. Meanwhile emily, weak and exhausted, with only the clothes on her back, a bottle of water and the copy of fear and loathing in las vegas, stumbles over to the journo statue - now delirious, mumbles three words: hunger, satisfaction, truth and then passes out on the statue.

z parakeet was her pandemonium.
Z parakeet was a feeling, a thought, gargantuan.
An underlying paradox causing heaps of pain to flood through mootblox from her keyboard garden. Where nothing but herself could be her own guardian - the peering ventures of outerwordly things just looked banal in her eyes that were usually graced by memes.
She blogged all night and slept all day. Z parakeet was her pandemonium - but Z parakeet couldn't stay.

The door lurched into Emily's room as the wafting smell of a cat frying in the sun burnt her nostrils. Her eyes started to water as whoever it was that was in her room was making a racket - not like a conniving mobster - more like a two year old wearing bucket shoes stolen from Ditzy the clown that failed to do anything better except snort cocaine and cry through her facepaint. As the tears dried up Emily saw that it was Ditzy the clown in her room, once again, doing lines off of the dresser Emily's father made for her before he left town. Emily's Father was a Cassidy. A real rip-roaring zest-filled loverboy howling beautiful charmed songs to the moon and calling nature's bosom to wrap itself around him. He bounced between his own world and Emily's, rarely staying long - always looking for a better sunset to make love too, or a bigger moon to die under. Ditzy collapsed onto Emily's comfy bed. The christmas lights painted a sordid picture of the rabid clown's face. Lumps of cocaine seemed to rumble from one cheek, across the nose, to the other as the flickering lights performed an illuminating dance trying to breed a spark in the stained eyes of the sad one. Emily thought about saying something to Ditzy, that's what any good human would do - say something, kick them, spoon feed them baby food until they blabber spit and poor out their vehemence to the world. But this had all happened time and time again - and it seemed that anything Emily did had no purpose. Her actions lead to no good consequence and so this time Ditzy's little sister emily would be of no avail. Emily let her mind crawl back into the tubes of the internet and she found happiness in the Captchart tumblr. A hilarious little blog dedicated to artwork inspired by captchas. Emily had submitted art pieces a few times and had received many notes and followers from doing so. She loved and craved the attention, this is why she regularly steals cocaine from Ditzy and sells it for cheap on the streets of Brooklyn. This is why she fucked John and took his camera, leaving him in the middle of some dried up fucking desert with a blown mind and empty car, empty wallet, empty heart. Emily was not somebody to be fucked with. She grew up with a mother like a father - a father like a walking egyptian pharaoh preaching the most insanely beautiful things but running away to fight some other fight before he could see Emily's own beauty - and her older sister is a clown, fucking literally, always has been and always will be. Ditzy is a rampant clown. Emily, in her mind, and in my mind too, is going places. She big, she notorious. She got what it takes. She is the prometheus of the twenty first century - the new gods

are fucked.

Emily poked around for a bit until the car kicked into life. Pulling out from the dreary side walk she beat down on the gas and blasted a big thick smoke cloud as she grinded further into the outskirts of the city until she burst out into the wild open. The sun warmly stroked her neck as she cruised on like a missile seeking to destroy something big, something beautiful. Emily drove with the windows down even thought huge swarms of locusts were moving across the road like green wild fire. Splattering and digging into the car with their pokey little legs and gooey bodies. About an hour into the drive a healthy little infestation of locusts were buzzing around the dash - Emily quickly got pissed off by the droning sound so she grabbed her deoderant spray, lit herself a cig and then used her lighter and the deoderant to welcome those dirty little peasant-nibblers to Hell. The commotion awoke her pet Iguana, Latex and he crawled out from under the passenger seat. Emily forgot about putting him in the car and now she realized that he can eat up all the shit-eating buzz-fuckers not littered all over her dash. She placed him on the dash to gobble and munch like a swine as she herded her car deeper into the rainbow desert - a colourful world but filled with vitriol and vehemence. Like oil in the water - Emily can see a rainbow where others see dead birds with feathers matted together and lungs drowned in thick black liquid, Emily sees different.

Hours passed by in a blurred haze as she beat down the long stretches of highway. Tunes thumping through the speakers, no more locusts in sight now. About an hour earlier Emily had pulled over at a small rest stop on the side of the road. She hauled in with a storm of dust that covered a medium sized van full of what looked like donut boxes. A man leapt out from behind the van with wild eyes and yelled "harrrrrr penises!!!" and then stashed back away into some dank little cranny of his van.Emily walked past as wild-eyed man's vehichle started to rock back and forth and she thought she heard some ghastly soul-piercing wailing coming from inside, but it could have just been the wind blowing through the rank looking outhouse. It was a monument to the rude brutality of Western World Economics. Don't shit where you eat. Look left, look right and then write a sexually charged message on the dirty old green door that swings like a horny stripped on the hot zephyr reaching over the land like some great wind god. Emily pulled her pants down to her knees and perched on the crust toilet, hovering powerfully in ancient gargoyle styles. As she was peeing she inspected the pissed-on-toilet-paper and the little note written on possibly the only dry piece of toilet paper in 100 miles; the note said: "eh eh cabron, eh cabron, eh eh? you dont want to touch his tibula?(insert upside down question mark somewhere) eh eh eh" Emily scrunched it up and used it to dry herself off. She contemplated leaving a message on an empty spot on the door but before she could decide she found herself running back out to the carpark because she heard the revving of an engine and the churning of tires on dirt gravel. She thought somebody had taken her old junkheap. A beat up conglomeration of history, pain, hopes and dreams. The way it rattled as it gained speed was like a beautiful song to Emily. She calmed down and then went back into the toilet, scratching "Fuck your tibula, cabron." on the door and then leaving.

When she got back to the car she noticed a particularly large amount of bug-guts on the wind shield. The wind was howling intensely now and Emily found herself writing words in the goo with her finger:

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,

with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,

She didn't know where those words came from but she knew that had arrived in her life from somewhere, in a more solid and better form... But that was all she could remember for that moment and so it had to be. She opened up the car door and strong wind blew her into the car with a hot gust. She turned the key and the car burst into song, the bug-guts words slowly but surely being blown into oblivion as she once again cruised on down the highway.

The sun had begun to dip below the horizon and the sweat on Emily's forehead was going slowly cold in the shade, but still, there was a lingering heat around the area that Emily knew would last throughout the night - this area around her body. This was good because she wanted to continue driving through the burnt-out end of this day and into the witching hours. She was excited about the stars and the possibility of a midnight sun-shower or a ghost hurling back towards some ancient place where relics of vulcanic juggernaughts still roam the old world. The bullshit and ennui of homelife was dripping away with each consecutive mile that brought her further and further into the heart of the dark country - away from the vapid and cold extremities that are called cities but in reality are simply gargantuan cemetries of the future; wise menn preach this as they drive they hollywood hell.

Emily drove and drove as buzzing lights bounced, danced and raced past her and around her.
She was in corn country now. An alien in a place full of 'em. Ghoul-like lights hung and dazzled around her vision - they might have been her lack of sleep, her hunger, or the drugs/alcohol she had been consuming - or it might just have been some mother fucking aliens; it was never entirely clear as all the best things aren't.

When she woke she wondered why the narrator hadn't dressed in his best clothes - he smelt of hard liquor and cigarettes. Luckily for her he cooked her bacon and eggs for breakfast. When she was well fed and happy she was suitably content to continue the story.


Emily with Catholic Girl

Emily pondered the corrupted minds. Those that could insinuate and divide and the conspire to bring together the hate they embroidered in their mind. She found disgust in the ways that humans could be two-faced and fake and so she laced her hate into a positive guidance. She linked her fears and her hatred into an undying love and forgiveness that relinquished her of the pain she faced and allowed her to spread and to share positivity amongst her peers and the wider world. Welcome to the saving grace, there is a sunset on the road.



Weeping in NY on the plintch or statue or whatever the fuck the journo thing is.
“Because to influence a person is to give him one’s own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of some one else’s music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him. The aim of life is self-development. To realize one’s nature perfectly-that is what each of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty one owes to one’s self. Of course they are charitable. They feed the hungry and clothe the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone out of our race. Perhaps we never really had it.”
— Oscar Wilde ; The Picture of Dorian Gray


It was the Hunger.
The Satisfaction.
the truth


catch singlasses behind back

Nation To Nation
All The World
Must Come Together
Face The Problems
That We See
Then Maybe Somehow We Can Work It Out
I Asked My Neighbor
For A Favor
She Said Later
What Has Come Of
All The People
Have We Lost Love
Of What It's About

I Have To Find My Peace Cuz
No One Seems To Let Me Be
False Prophets Cry Of Doom
What Are The Possibilities
I Told My Brother
There'll Be Problems,
Times And Tears For Fears,
We Must Live Each Day
Like It's The Last

Go With It
Go With It
Jam
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't Too Much
It Ain't Too Much For Me To
Jam
It Ain't
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't
Don't You
It Ain't Too Much For Me To

The World Keeps Changing
Rearranging Minds
And Thoughts
Predictions Fly Of Doom
The Baby Boom
Has Come Of Age
We'll Work It Out

I Told My Brothers
Don't You Ask Me
For No Favors
I'm Conditioned By
The System
Don't You Talk To Me
Don't Scream And Shout

She Pray To God, To Buddha
Then She Sings A
Talmud Song
Confusions Contradict
The Self
Do We Know Right
From Wrong
I Just Want You To
Recognize Me
In The Temple
You Can't Hurt Me
I Found Peace
Within Myself

Go With It
Go With It
Jam
It Ain't
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't Too Much
It Ain't Too Much For Me To
Jam
It Ain't
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't
Don't You
It Ain't Too Much For Me To
Jam
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't Too Much
It Ain't Too Much For Me To
Jam
It Ain't
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't
Don't You
It Ain't Too Much For Me To

[Rap Performed By Heavy D]
Jam Jam
Here Comes The Man
Hot Damn
The Big Boy Stands
Movin' Up A Hand
Makin' Funky Tracks
With My Man
Michael Jackson
Smooth Criminal
That's The Man
Mike's So Relaxed
Mingle Mingle Jingle
In The Jungle
Bum Rushed The Door
3 And 4's In A Bundle
Execute The Plan
First I Cooled Like A Fan
Got With Janet
Then With Guy
Now With Michael
Cause It Ain't Hard To...

[Michael]
Jam
It Ain't
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't Too Much
It Ain't Too Much For Me To
Jam
Get On It
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't
Don't Stop
It Ain't Too Much For Me To
Jam
It Ain't
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't
Don't You
It Ain't Too Much For Me To
Jam
It Ain't
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't
Don't You
It Ain't Too Much For Me To

It Ain't Too Hard For Me
To Jam [9x]
Get On It
Jam
It Ain't
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't
Don't You
It Ain't Too Much For Me To
Jam
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't Too Much
It Ain't Too Much For Me To
Jam
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't Too Much
It Ain't Too Much For Me To
Jam
Too Much
It Ain't Too Much Stuff
It Ain't
Don't You
It Ain't Too Much For Me To

Get On It
Get On It
Give It Baby
Give It To Me
Come On
You Really Give It Too Me
Got To Give It
You Just Want To Give It


it was weird. He told her of some story about abandoned russian nuclear lighthouses that were loaded up with radioactivity and apparently there were

lighthouse out in the cane fields

she writes her own journal