.Randomscape.

the little place I made to give those little thoughts a place to live

[sexualsivan-deactivated20150102]

Im setting my suicide date as January 13 2015 (my birthday)

Since my friend doesnt have a tumblr account, she says for every like (note) and reblog this gets i have to extend it a day. Please i know nobody is going to reblog or like this.

[herestotaylor-deactivated201807]

Never stop reblogging ever

[omocat]

FINALLY!! OMOCAT SHOP HAS RESTOCKED!!

now it’s time for the annual OMOCAT holiday giveaway! i’m holding FOUR this year on facebook, twitter, tumblr, and instagram!!

to enter the tumblr giveaway, just reblog this post (once only! likes won’t count… sorry) you can enter all 4 giveaways, but you can only win once

the prize is ANY 1 item ($50 or under) from OMOCAT SHOP, which will be shipped to the address you provide. (if you’re international, you can still enter and i will cover the extra shipping costs)

i’ll be randomly choosing a winner on december 15th, so very soon…! the winner must respond to my message through tumblr within 24 hours or else i will choose another, so please keep your messages open!

—

it’s been a super eventful year… some great things happened!!… the reaching the 3DS goal for the OMORI kickstarter and seeing my stuff being sold in san francisco and japan!! we had an insane convention season during the summer too and the PRETTY BOY anti-bullying campaign was an AMAZING success!! through your help, OMOCAT has grown from a little artist-owned online shop to a full-blown artist-owned company!! i’m incredibly grateful and could not thank you enough. (maybe i can with more giveaways…)

anyway, i hope to keep growing and being able to make things for as long as i can!! i got a lot of ideas coming so i’m not stopping any time soon… :^) 

stay tuned and stay happy! also HAPPY HOLIDAYS and good luck with the giveaways!!

[randomscape]

Dogs bark from their graves

when the grave-robbers come 

for the corpses of men

[randomscape]

Home, Sweet Home

There’s no place like home,

where nostalgia breathes warmth down your back

until you shiver with longing–

and race around that corner

to soak in that wondrous familiarity.

[randomscape]

Alone I sit, among the bowers of the bamboo trees, My zither I pluck, loud and long I sing. Deep in the forest, none know I exist, None but the moonlight, to me, solace you bring.

Wang Wei, House in the Bamboo Grove

[randomscape]

Autumn

You’ve walked and walked on aching feet

so long and far, for far too long.

Summer’s dying ember-heat

is fading

as you grow sluggish and slow and thirsty.

“Take a seat,” the cool wind whispers

and cascades peace in rolling waves and crests

“Summer is past. Gather your calm

take up your thoughts; and please–

take a seat, a spot of rest.”

[randomscape]

I rarely dislike people for things they can't change, they usually give me sufficient cause to dislike them for other reasons.

Devil in Winter, Lisa Kleypas

[randomscape]

Drab, drab, drab.

Mother flicks her fingers at the soft curtains,

spraying shadows like dark water

up the pipes to drown the itsy-bitsy spider.

Move aside, dear. Let Mother through.

She floats by, smelling like Macy's department store

smelling like sharp vanilla and

a glass of red wine.

She sighs a breath of perfume--

plumes of gray and purple, bruises in the air

paste jewels and faux-violets wilting in her hair--

I didn't mean it, I didn't mean to

One day, her child will wake up

and discover the eggshell he had to claw to pieces

just to enter this drab, drab, world.

[randomscape]

Grandparents go first.

Then, after long, fruitful decades of marriage and births and pages flipping in the family record, the impossible happens, and the parents go. By then you are supposed to be older, more resigned. Maybe jaded and bitter, after politicians and solicitation and coffee have taken their toll.

And you are going to have those days when you sigh to the one laying in bed next to you, bodies colder but feelings still lukewarm, and wonder where the time has gone. 

[randomscape]

There is a pile of smoking ruin on the side of road. I slow down the car, engaging in that stranger-mode curiosity, turning down the volume of the pop song playing on the radio. I don't want to come off tactless.

I see a couple. The woman has her face buried in her hands, and I think she is crying. But I don't know, because there is too much smoke and greyness and I decide to turn the song off completely. Her husband stands next to her, one hand clenched at his side, the other on the woman's shoulder. His grip is white.

At first, I'm not sure what is going on. Then I see the tuft of blonde hair hanging out of the crushed, jagged window, and the hand, scraped and bloody, still holding a blinking cell phone. Rigor mortis, I remember.

Ah, now I know what happened. I pull over onto the shoulder of the road and take out my phone. The pop singer's voice and accompanying autotune still ring in my ears, a strange aftereffect, I suppose, of witnessing tragedy. I never have before.

Strangely, my fingers are shaking as they dial 911.

[randomscape]

Sometimes I forget. I forget such obvious yet elusive things, like the fact that my grandparents had lives beyond being my grandparents; they were young and reckless and spirited and very much people.

But their presence in the house is muted, quiet. I've never once wondered, before the age of twelve, what grandpa was like when he was young, or whether grandma wore lipstick at her wedding. They were just grandma and grandpa, two gray-haired souls who were the parents of my parents. 

[randomscape]

there is a boy by the door, mother

he looks so sad and lost, I wish--

I wish I could ease his head onto my lap

and give him creature comforts

like the ones you gave me, mother.

[randomscape]

The Imagination is my Battlefield

Underneath a watercolor sky, I sit with my weapons,

making ready for war.

I smear on my face the acrylics that are my warpaint,

brandish the palettes that are my shields,

the canvas that is my armor,

and paper forms my bow, the grip of charcoal blackening

my palms.

I wield the brushes that are my arrows,

the broken pencil ends, and likewise the sharp ones

that act as bullets, shot from tubes of tempura.

Boxes of chalk are the caskets for the dead, 

covered in pale, white dust;

and erasers pound the beat of drums, colored by pastels.

Inspiration is my cannon, ideas the dust that flies

into my blinded eyes.

Silence is my sharpest knife,

loneliness is the ground beneath my feet, and I love it.

I am a scatterbrained artist, but I am not without

an arsenal of my own.

[randomscape]

"We are Doddies, smooth as eggs,

we’ve got bodies on our legs.

We’ve got heads with tiny brains,

we play leapfrog when it rains.

We are Doddies, often wet,

we don’t know what we forget

we are warmest when it’s hot,

we are coldest when it’s not.

We are Doddies, small and round,

we’re not missing when we’re found.

We are closest when we’re near,

we’re not there when we are here.

We are Doddies, we don’t mind,

if we leave ourselves behind.

So we never make a fuss,

we are Doddies, look for us.”

—“We are Doddies” Jack Prelutzky

[randomscape]

Letter of Retribution

To Whom It May Concern,

You should have done it that day if there was any hesitation, like those dying embers in your fireplace (you know, the one with red bricks and fingerprints you couldn’t hide). It is sad. You cannot hide from us.

And yet again we regret to inform you that you are nothing, that the world around you is nothing, nothing at all (to worry about). We can assure you, however, that you were loved, but it was your fault your debts have piled up and now, our love for you has grown too deep to measure.

                  You have refused to pay what we desired, what would have benefited you, and we are so, so sincerely sorry to say that the world loves us indeed, more than you. Those mirrors of yours are now in our possession.

We, as the humble servants of this generation, know that it was unevitable, because you were

             [are]

weak, and we are strong. Voice is not good enough. Blood pays us well.

We are not apathetic, for we shed tears. Just for you, although your absence from our lives means little at most. (Please do not take this to heart).

It is a shame to notify you, such a fine sir or madam (we’re sure) that we have uprooted your trees and mowed down your walls and spilled oil over the mess which—unfortunately—set your home

                                                                                                                      [heart]

                on fire. As of now we are beginning new construction from the charred remains.

We are also sorry about the loss of your files within our offices. Our secretary seems to have lost them in too many lies (and that was your fault, too).

                                                                       May you Rest Long and Happy

[randomscape]

He was a traveler,

a strayer,

a wanderer.

He knew no costs and played with fire,

sly and smooth and a silver-tongued liar.

[randomscape]

Blue Is...

The path of tears down ruby cheeks,

the rain that seeps through rooftop leaks;

vast, vast oceans and their silvery fish,

elaborate scrawls on a china dish.

A flash of lightning on a stormy night,

the dome that encircles the world of flight;

old and weary, worn-down jeans,

pockets bursting at the seams.

The waves that crash up along the Nile,

that rare moon we see once in a while.