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  • Artist Info: I am known as Diana and I'm 20, almost 21 in May. I have been active since 9/11/03. My original account was/is: thelonebassist46. that's now my mule. I am very openminded and really hate shallow people. <br />
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    I'm into photography and don't really have much in terms of expertise but I have been trying to hone my skills. So I guess that counts right? <br />
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    I don't like those that incessantly beg for items. If you ask me to help you once, that's fine, but don't constantly beg for it. I'll donate if I see fit. And if I do donate, no matter how much, I'd like a thank you back. That's just common sense. <br />
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    I work as a manager at a fast food restaurant and really find that little teenagers annoy me on Friday and Saturday nights b/c it never fails that they come in and make a mess and don't know how to clean up after themselves. I mean really. You aren't leaving tips, so I don't see the point in making us clean up after you. We're not your parents for Christs sake...<br />
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    IF you need to know more, feel free to ask me.<br />
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    This is me normally. (Though an outdated picture. circa 1/07)<br />
    User Image - Blocked by "Display Image" Settings. Click to show.<br />
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    I am always questing for random items... Some worth alot in gold, some not so much.<br />
    But I am questing to get some of my old items back... need to know what they are, please ask.<br />
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    Yes, I like Pikachu too... you wanna fight about it?<br />
    User ImageUser Image<br />
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    I also love meeting new ppl and talking to ppl all around the US and other countries.<br />
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    A poem by JM Huscher... <br />
    <br />
    "Sparrow"<br />
    <br />
    The sparrow was perched<br />
    on the edge of the garage roof<br />
    standing tall on thin legs with his<br />
    white chest pushed out,<br />
    craning his small neck to look across the yard<br />
    I wonder if he saw me, 12 years old<br />
    holding my brother’s bb gun<br />
    tight against my shoulder, winking at him<br />
    from the other end of the barrel.<br />
    <br />
    There are things you must know<br />
    about killing a sparrow.<br />
    <br />
    The military recruiters had their offices<br />
    two blocks away from the high school—<br />
    would offer to buy us lunch if we would<br />
    spend an hour taking the aptitude test.<br />
    I was good in Math. They said<br />
    I could work on one of the nuclear subs,<br />
    make more money than<br />
    most of the other kids from my class who had enlisted.<br />
    Sometimes the other kids would catch me after school,<br />
    their eyes wide and their hands shaking while<br />
    they told me what they had signed up for.<br />
    I always want to say something perfect.<br />
    but instead<br />
    found myself the pen<br />
    resting on a stack of letters<br />
    that said nothing out loud<br />
    but spent all day<br />
    whispering<br />
    prayers for safety.<br />
    <br />
    The first thing you must know<br />
    about killing a sparrow<br />
    is the taste of salt<br />
    in your mouth and in your throat.<br />
    that leaves you sick to your stomach for days.<br />
    Well after you lift his body<br />
    from between the tulips<br />
    in your mother’s flowerbed<br />
    and hold it in your hands<br />
    so much lighter than the gun<br />
    you swear to yourself<br />
    you will never touch again<br />
    During college I got letters from them<br />
    with words like<br />
    “stationed” and “deployed” and “active duty.”<br />
    I prayed for snow where they were, hoping that<br />
    if winter came they would finally migrate home.<br />
    I imagined God,<br />
    with his head in his hands, crying his eyes out.<br />
    Sometimes I prayed<br />
    with my head in my hands, crying my eyes out.<br />
    Sometimes, I hear people saying things like<br />
    “war on terror” and “freedom” and “finish what we started.”<br />
    Sometimes, I didn’t say anything, and<br />
    it felt like swallowing a stick of dynamite.<br />
    <br />
    The second thing you must know<br />
    about killing a sparrow<br />
    is the sound of his wings<br />
    panicked and smacking against the garage roof,<br />
    so much louder than the gun itself.<br />
    It sings in your ears for days<br />
    well after you turn him over<br />
    to see his wing bent impossibly upwards,<br />
    the black in his eyes as dark as a night<br />
    on which the moon decided<br />
    it could not bear to watch anymore.<br />
    <br />
    Sometimes, there are no<br />
    phone calls or letters.<br />
    I don’t hear anything for months,<br />
    and the silence gets so thick<br />
    you could wrap yourself in it like a blanket<br />
    and sleep forever.<br />
    I still pray for snow, but<br />
    no one is listening.<br />
    I watch the news, but<br />
    don’t see anything.<br />
    The Pentagon won’t even let them show<br />
    caskets being unloaded<br />
    from the bellies of C-130s.<br />
    Won’t release footage of<br />
    soldiers being cut in half<br />
    by machine gun fire.<br />
    Won’t let us see<br />
    our sons and daughters<br />
    broken wings and<br />
    midnight black eyes.<br />
    Twisted bodies in the tulip garden.<br />
    We would not wage war so readily<br />
    or ask for peace so quietly.<br />
    <br />
    The last thing you must know<br />
    about killing a sparrow<br />
    is that no matter how hard you try<br />
    you cannot forget the smell of blood.     <br />
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