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Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair
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| Regression corrected |
[May. 22nd, 2006|11:31 pm] |
I wish I had someone to talk to
About the weird dreams I've been having lately
And other assorted things.
I've been having dreams that a person will come visit and we'll sit in the same room and he'll chat with everyone else and ignore me completely. I'll ignore him too. As hard as I try I can't force the words out of my mouth. What is it I wanted to say?
It's the second dream I've had like that, but last time, as he was leaving, at the final moment, I called him back and said, "Why haven't you been paying attention to me?" I said, "It's making me feel bad." Maybe that's what I wanted to say, but I never got the answer. I just got a kiss.
Maybe that's why I couldn't say it again.
Sometimes I feel that there are so many people willing to kiss me and say nice things to me and apologize to me but none of them care about me, they don't care about me at all. There are a million people who will tell me they love me but if it comes to spending time with me or listening to me they're gone. When I think of that it makes me feel half alone; as if my outside is smiling and satisfied and my inside is empty.
But I know whose fault that is, don't I? Every time I feel bad it's me who's to blame more than anybody else.
And it's funny because I was dating this guy and I was thinking that maybe it wasn't such a good idea anymore, because he doesn't have much time for me and doesn't seem interested in seeing me. I realized that this describes more than one relationship in my life but I wondered how come I could never consider ending the second one.
I don't know why. It isn't because I like him better, even though I do. And I would be a fool to think he cared about me more. I still wish I had someone I could talk to about this.
Well I'm not being that ignored by anyone. But no one's going out of their way to tell me they enjoy my company either, and it must be because they don't. It must be because they don't and yet they say nice things and it's called not burning your bridges, but no one ever crosses those bridges permanently and comes to stay with me and no one glances at my little island with its potted plants and says, "Looks like a nice spot" unless they've never been there before. Despite my warm smiles and serene appearance I'm not a very hospitable place.
I'm a grey little girl sometimes who brought ten days of agonizing rain upon herself and then cried with every raindrop and longed for the warmth of the sun. I still couldn't make the rain go away. When I was with a certain person, I thought, I could always be happy; in the sunshine.
I always thought of myself first. |
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| Regression |
[May. 22nd, 2006|11:28 pm] |
I didn't even realize.
I regressed.
I didn't even see. I almost did it a second time.
(I wonder if I should move it?) |
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| Break him into components. Let's go scuba-diving with our kittens |
[Nov. 29th, 2005|09:57 pm] |
I am not a history student. I do not believe in history. I live for the moment.
I am not a student of war. I don't believe in war. I only believe in flowers at their peak and birds that smile and those flat red hearts that are so ubiquitous in the springtime. I don't want to see more corpses shining on a television screen. I don't believe in corpses. I only believe in particles of light, notes of music, different wavelengths. I don't believe in death or the fragility of the body. I only believe in young muscles and smooth, warm skin.
I am not a girl but a woman, and I don't believe in discipline or grading. I don't believe in judgement or prejudice. I only believe in love and acceptance! I only believe in unlimited truth and meaning! I believe in happiness and infinity!
I don't believe in deadlines. I believe in potential. I don't believe in time. I believe in the flowing waters that are one moment. All moments are one. This moment is another moment, and time is not linear, and writing this today is writing it tomorrow or handing in an assignment next week or a week ago.
I don't believe in assignments. I believe in free will. I believe in free choice.
I don't believe in the future. I believe in the unlimited possibilities that make up the future.
I don't believe in countries or nations. I believe in individuals. I believe in single emotions. Take me to the simplest parts of you! Take me to your most basic feelings!
Still, I believe in consequences, although I can ignore them for a while. I believe in unhappiness, although I know it doesn't exist. I believe in life, although I don't know anything else. |
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| A Dish of Peaches in Russia/A Green Apple in a White Room |
[Nov. 22nd, 2005|12:03 am] |
"With my body I taste these peaches,
I touch them and smell them. Who speaks?
I absorb them as the Angevine
Absorbs Anjou. I see them as a lover sees,
As a young lover sees the first buds of spring
And as the black Spaniard plays his guitar."
I waited this time until the passion began to fade, before I wrote, because at the height of it I thought there would be more to come. This is another flaw, always expecting and waiting for improvement on something that is already amazing. (Although, in truth, maybe I could make it better.)
I wanted to say that I was in love with a Slavic god, straight from the heavens. I wanted to say that I was in love with someone who seemed so powerful he could not be real. This is nothing ordinary because it is so ordinary. I didn't think for months that I could look at anyone else, but when I met him, I realized I had been thinking about him all along. He has all the qualities I wished for subversively, quietly, with lowered eyes, when I thought, "next time", even though I often pretended there wouldn't be a next time. It was weird then to be so eternal.
Looking back, "love" is a strong word. But there is a giddy exhilaration that accompanied me when we were together.
This is true romance, because it's not romantic, because I don't have to wish or hope, or wait, or take. This time, I know that I am tied forever, so everything must be happy and casual and understated. And this time, I promise myself, I won't make the same mistakes. Because looking back, even though I was happy before, I was never so evil as at those times, so seperated from myself. And I have never felt so helpless, the way I made myself feel helpless, denying every basic urge and yet indulging them in the worst way.
I am free! I am free! I choose to be free!
I can do anything, if I have to say this again. I can do anything when I am united. I am almost united. There are brighter patches in me, everywhere, spots on my chest, from the inside.
"Who speaks? But it must be that I,
That animal, that Russian, that exile, for whom
The bells of the chapel pullulate sounds at
Heart. The peaches are large and round,
Ah! and red; and they have peach fuzz, ah!
They are full of juice and the skin is soft.
They are full of the colours of my village
And of fair weather, summer, dew, peace."
I am no longer Eve in that garden. I was the incarnation of everything she stood for. She had a choice, and I had a choice, but she only had one. I have forever to choose and to keep choosing, and mistakes can be corrected and everything will be okay. Don't worry about me. Don't worry! I am a unit, a whole! I am almost together again!
"The room is quiet where they are.
The windows are open. The sunlight fills
The curtains. Even the drifting of the curtains,
Slight as it is, disturbs me. I did not know
That such ferocities could tear
One self from another, as these peaches do."
In keeping with the theme that I can improve anything, I think I can make this entry better. I'll be back. |
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| The Icy Black Hand of Death |
[Oct. 19th, 2005|10:57 pm] |
I have regressed back into angsty-teenager mode. This is the point where I only listen to bad music and only wear black clothes and think about dyeing my hair. This is the point where I think about death, but only poetically, and soon I will be writing poetry, and posting it online probably. What has gone wrong that I would act this way consciously?
Nothing. But I need attention.
Listen to my problems. I am a self-obsessed 17-something who absolutely cannot share anything with anyone. I am a crazy, unstable girl and no one even knows I exist. I am not on any class lists, even though I clearly attend the school. I am that person who is "just there".
Here is another thing. I have been completely alone for a very long time. And now I am starting to feel lonely.
And another thing. Last year, I learned that death really does exist, and I can't get over it.
I'm graduating this year and I have no idea what I want to do with my life, and I know that even if I did know what I wanted to do, I probably wouldn't be any good at it.
I really love someone, but only in theory, and I don't know why, and I'm pretty sure it's just vanity.
(He hates me, by the way; or anyway he acts like he can't remember I exist for more than five seconds. Despite the fact that very recently we were so close, or pretty much closer than I have ever been to anybody before.)
Finally, life is stretching out before me and it is meaningless and it terrifies me. I can't imagine that anything good could ever come out of it or that I oculd ever change. So have I lost all hope?
Sometimes, but not for real. I'm only just pretending. I need the attention, as I said. It's hard to be honest so I have to exaggerate and underestimate and be obtuse and ambiguous. I'm trying though! Sort of!
Things will probably get better, and then I can laugh at how weird I feel right now. But I don't see it. It is fucked up that I can't get over things that happened months ago or years ago. And the reason is that I'm having trouble finding positive things to replace them with.
By the way, I saw Joe the other day. That should be a good sign. Joe is my rainbow in the clouds. |
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| Frailty |
[Oct. 13th, 2005|10:55 pm] |
I am the god of creation. I am the master being of the universe, Spider-man, Superman, Jesus. All rolled into one. There has never been anyone stronger than me.
Like clockwork, I am here in times of need. I am alone again, oh no. But this time it should be great. Everyone leaves me for other people, other countries, other values. But this time I don't need anyone's love. I am alone and I should be thrilled. So why do I keep looking over my shoulder waiting for someone to care about me? I keep reminding myself that I should depend on my own love before I depend on that of others. So why am I making no steps towards self-love but sighing every night over people who couldn't care less?
Move on, darling, move on.
It is only the saddest thing to be alone in this world if I make it the saddest thing. Or if I let myself be alone. I am the best, because I have the potential to be the best. My own company could be worth that of thousands, but the company of thousands could be my own company. And I should remind myself now that the only thing that matters is me, and that I am everyone.
But how could I be everyone?
I had a dream that I was Spider-man, but I didn't do anything because I was too busy trying to get close to the Human Torch. I woke up and thought, this was all you ever wanted. And you threw away your chance, wasted it on an attractive guy.
I thought, I didn't know you were such an idiot.
The night before Thursday (or was it Wednesday?) I dreamt that a spider had gotten into my room, laid eggs everywhere. And I cried and said, take it away, kill it, kill it. I was ashamed of my own weakness but I had to end it; even though I knew it represented every hope I ever had, the biggest and best possibilities.
And the night before last my dreams were complicated tunnels of someone I wished I was. And last night I was so happy to be close to him and then he kissed me and all the anger and resentment came flooding back. Like always. I always knew I would be better off alone.
I am better off alone. I just have to remember how alone I really am.
I always was alone. Maybe life would be better with other people.
I am constantly forgetting how much control I really have, and I never let go of anything, and I can't give no matter how hard I try. Sometimes it seems that life is just cruel cruel torture. This is drama and I don't mean it. I can't give up hope in a life I created because that would be humiliating. An insult to my ego and I am only my vanity and self-image and there is nothing deeper than that. I'm selfish, absurdly selfish, and an egomaniac. And alone, because being with other people would mean admitting I'm not so wonderful, even if those people are myself. Especially if those people are myself. I will never need you.
[This is the fatalistic approach. I can change, I can change, maybe if I try I can change. And I need them now but only as a part of me. I can change, I can change, I am not so static and unknowable, I can change. And I would want to need you more than anyone else, but I am so conflicted between needing to need somebody and not wanting to need anybody as a question of pride. Let me change! If it kills me I will change.] |
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| Aliens are extraterrestrials too |
[Feb. 19th, 2005|12:13 pm] |
They brought me to their ship and showed me the control room, a wall covered in flashing lights, warning signs, safety manuals, photos of their homeland. In the center was a single button, labelled "ON". They had control, they said, but they didn't want too much control. The ship could do their thinking for them. The silence that followed was punctuated by the strange blips and whirrings of the music they played. The control room was a sham, and the weight of the farce pressed heavily on our spirits.
In space they wore metallic blue suits, every one the same. Inside the ship we were safe and warm, but the suits made them feel important. They were the elite, brilliant and lithe, and their fates were almost in their hands. Looking down on a silent planet, they smugly imagined the envy of a sprawling territory of unseen people.
The golden light of the sun was absent to us, and hidden in the cold shadows of the dance hall we watched distant, nameless stars. This was the time for contemplation, and the processed air was thick with nostalgic reverie. Pinpoints of regret spread unspoken through the room, pressing on our eyes, pinching our lungs. We were alone here, and our past was fixed forever. The cold walls of the ship felt like the enemy then.
Meals were elaborate but sad affairs, vaccum-packed gourmet menus, three course dinners in shredded cellophane. The members of the crew talked jovially amongst themselves, laughing about past voyages, relating old jokes to one another with enthusiasm. For the most part I was quiet and reserved. Their conversations interested me at first but I had little to add. I undertood my role as the outsider, though they were careful to give me every possible attention and treated me with the utmost cordiality.
I believed that they felt it too, the loneliness and isolation that was so heavy on the ship. In time their conversation ran dry, and their laughter felt too loud and forced. Soon they lapsed into complete silence, avoiding each other's glances, focussed on the table in front of them. They no longer spoke of home, nor could they imagine their triumphant return to a planet now so far away. We all sensed the hopelessness and desperation of the mission. The smooth, unyielding interior of the ship seemed unaffected by our pain, and we hurtled silently onwards to an unknown destination. |
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 4th, 2005|06:01 pm] |
I sink into the snow and scream to the world that this is the end. I am fed up and tired of interpersonal communications and the pain that is associated with being a human being. But the snow doesn't swallow me whole as I planned it would, and my ears are wet and my skin soaked through my sweater so with another announcement: "but the other way is too COLD": I arise and walk home, head bowed, clothes soggy and dripping. This is not the ultimate defeat, rather humiliation upon humiliation.
I have had the journal for over a year. How many times did I write about love requited? Probably never.
Imagine, a person who enjoys her own misery so much she is willing to exaggerate it, poke it, prod it, redden its lips and brighten its eyes, push it cruelly onto a stage for the world to laugh at its awkward motions. I am not a miserable person. I merely enjoy the entertainment misery provides.
This time everything is different, so we have to try harder to keep it all the same. The intolerance of solitude and the sadness of being unloved are such good friends that perhaps I would be worse off without them. Interesting thought, isn't it?
If there are chances of success, now is the right time to stop talking. If there are people who are too great-
then obviously they cannot be real.
And obviously none of them care about me at all. Just to be sure, we should sever all ties.
This is the real story: I am experiencing sporadic bursts of affection for persons remaining unnamed. I am deluded into thinking that not all romantic relationships have to be one-sided. |
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| Stop it. |
[Dec. 20th, 2004|05:00 pm] |
I have things to complain about but every time I start it seems like everyone else knows better than I do.
So? People of the world, you are wonderful, and I am lacking something, and I just thought you should know.
Winter break is fast approaching, like a high-speed train. Like a high-speed train loaded with winter break. And the winter break, packed in crates, is like a high-speed train. And that train is loaded with... you guessed it.
Winter Break.
Thursday.
Before winter break, and after winter break, is a vast expanse of non-winter break shaped vaguely like a year. And so time marches on, like a high-speed train. Like a high-speed train with small crates of winter break at regular intervals.
The other crates are filled with time.
The other crates are filled of other days, funny days and empty days and thick hot soup and crusts of bread and missed looks and yawns and plastic cases. Leaves falling on your head and bicycles in the sun and people who don't bother to smile back and people who are late and people who never show up at all. Boys with long hair that they push back off their eyes and sometimes they laugh but when they don't the world is sad. But crates are forgotten and trains are derailed and the accumulated snow of a thousand years buries them forever.
Where does this leave me? Winter break is hurtling towards me at breakneck speeds, and a crate is opened, and enjoyed, and discarded, and left behind to its own fate.
Left behind to memories, fading away with the sound of the train? Crates of memories stacked high on this high-speed train with no destination?
No.
I think about a year ago I started this journal. It was a long time. Since that year, there has been one winter break in a small crate.
I remember some things from that break.
Would I be lying if I said things are better now than then? They seem simpler. They seem more complicated. They are different. I can't relate to last year.
It changes like a high-speed train. A high-speed train filled with boxes of change.
Boxes of change like plasma, on fire, and burning and dripping and sweet-smelling and intoxicating.
And in the smoke is high-speed trains? |
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| I know you're wondering |
[Dec. 9th, 2004|04:25 pm] |
So the Pixies were amazing. But that was a long time ago!
And in the gap between then and now: many things happened, mainly good. Entirely good, with hindsight. Some extraordinary? One might guess that my life's aim has always been unity. But yesterday, something was achieved that is just as good, it seems, or quite possibly even better. Yesterday, I found harmony. And all the voices in my head, all the seperate opinions, all the parts of my body, reached together and recognized each other, and loved each other. An end to this discord! An end to unrest! Not one force, driving myself; but many seperate voices, jumbled together, with the best interest of the whole at heart. Isn't harmony practically unity anyway? In any case, congratulate me. I am on the path towards my life's goal.
What else? There was someone I thought was awesome, then not so awesome, and now he has a girlfriend anyway. You should see him with his arm draped around her, not protective or posessive but friendly and practically loving, or demonstrative- who knows? Anyway, it is disgusting. But now I am emancipated from him too, so there are good sides, and my anger is exhiliarting, righteous indignation, although I have no right to indignation at all.
Anything else wonderful? Well, there is this: everyone I know is still alive, although some are not feeling happy.
Enjoy yourself, please. No one can hurt you, not properly, love is not as important as we imagined, and the universe improves and is improved from your previous ideas of it. |
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| Break my body, hold my bones |
[Nov. 27th, 2004|12:25 pm] |
Today is November 27th.
What is today?
Today is the end of years of waiting. Today is the beginning of a new era. Today is the last page in a book full of hope and longing.
Today is the day of the Pixies show.
(EEE!)
How long have I been waiting for this? To answer your question:
1) I have been waiting for this since May, when I bought the tickets, even though I realized it was seven months too early, even though I doubted I would ever go.
2) I have been waiting for this since December, 2003, when it was confirmed that they were reuniting. Remember that day? That was the day of the French exam, which was so wonderful and easy, and that was the day when I saw Joe, which was so happy and crazy, and that was the day when I found that article in the paper about that unbelievable animation festival with the Charles Bukowski short which I went to the next day. Remember?
3) I have been waiting for this day since September, or maybe October, 2003, when the rumours started. Where was I then? Why was I at home listening to the bald man, harbringer of good fortune? I remember how everyone else was at school.
4) I have been waiting for this day for years, since probably December 2002, when I heard my first Pixies song, Is She Weird, and wasn't sure, and then saw the music video on TV, Monkey Gone to Heaven, and then was finally convinced by Where Is My Mind and cemented by Hey.
Is this boring, my entire history with the Pixies? How could it be? It means so much to me. Though obviously I am dramatizing. I am excited for the PIxies show, but not as excited as all that.
Still. I have been waiting a long time. |
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| Heartbeats/ Beet Hearts |
[Nov. 25th, 2004|04:25 pm] |
ONE
They are complaining about the increase in fat, it is up fourty-four percent next Friday, products boasting the addition on their labels, and in the streets the carrot-eaters, undernourished, parade around with angry signs. The president of the universe calls them by name, and tells them to be thankful they do not have to store this fat in their garage. Imagine, he says, this white goopy mess, and when the door rolled open it would all spill out. Imagine how hard it would be to park your car. Imagine slipping down the streets for two, three blocks, greased and gruesome. The carrot-eaters remind him that if it gets hot enough for the fat to melt, they can just make soap. They think of how their car would gleam, blindingly clean, and imagine the fun the children would have in the bubbles, an increase of soaped-pig or soaped-watermelon contests, and the basic equivalent of pure bliss. The president reconsiders his choices, and decrees that instead, fourty-four percent more soap should be stored in garages.
TWO
Sad and alone, he is looking on the internet personals for someone with long, sharp talons who will carve a hole in his chest and savour his still-beating heart while he watches with dimming eyes. He imagines her, sharpened metal fingernails, the hollow, the cavity in his chest, the conspicuous absence of thudding blood in his veins, and his heart beating madly, madly, but losing ground. He imagines her gleaming teeth penetrating the only thing he could depend on, crimson blood dripping slowly, seductively down her chin. He will lift his hand to stop her, but his blood is turning black on the bedroom floor, everything is turning black...
He gets a call from someone wanting to eat his kidney, but it is not nearly the same thing. He pays a vile and painted woman on the street to devour a beet for him. It's only half-satisfying. A rocketship out of control crashes into his duplex, and he is sweetly licked to death by gentle flames as he sleeps.
THREE
The image I have in my mind, you see, and the person who you really are, they are entirely incongruous. Or how would I know? We have never spoken, besides half-imagined mutterings of love. Once, you sat next to me and I thought I would explode. I was shaking, that day. Whisper to me!
-I love you as the earth loves the sun.
-I love you as a carrot loves the soil.
We are careful, in these fictitious conversations, to use only the most truthful of similies. The earth loves the sun, it is true! The earth deifies the sun, it dances in its light. But the earth loves the sun from a distance, only, and is careful to maintain that distance. And does not the earth love the shadow as much as it loves the light that casts it? The carrot loves the soil, which gives it life, but does not the soil also bind it? Is it not the soil that anchors it to the ground, and robs it of its independence? Is it the soil that muffles its tortured screams?
And we, slowly, I think, begin to realise that we cannot love each other in this way anymore. Someone has to do something. |
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| No, really. |
[Nov. 13th, 2004|11:43 pm] |
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I have been painting for a whole week and so am immersed in the paint fumes, in the heightening colour, in the crimson that can be found only in blues. Paint accumulates under my fingernails like blood, and accusers stare and point out my crimes of purple, my indecencies in green, my murderous stains of mixed blues. Delirious and weakened by the bristles of the brush and the hard, cold surface of my walls, I drown in seas of dyes and pigments, opening my mouth to scream and choking on the torrents of dreaded aquamarine that floods my lungs. A storm rages, people running for cover, buckets and pails of violet crashing down from the opened sky. And people watch, breathless, fascinated, from their bedroom windows as their streets and then their houses are engulfed, wrenched from their foundations, floating downwards towards their purest shades. Is there no end to multitudinous seas? Are we all united in common battle, a useless pursuit, an endless struggle with light and darkness, a desperate effort for intense and unyielding azure? I feel the pain of the roller squeezing out its final breaths of paint; I understand the desperate struggle of the brush, bristles flailing, as it is pushed down again with fabulous squelch to suffocating, unyielding colour; I am in awe of the glistening primer, spreading itself thinly and without humour onto discoloured walls. I am those dyes, that pound against my ears, press against my eyes, and seep through porous skin to flow freely through my veins. There is no end save madness, though we claw at our faces with failing breath, our bodies dropping uselessly to distant floor, and with a resounding crack, sweet-smelling paint escapes from underneath us. |
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| Murky waters probed, existential questions answered, get your volubility here |
[Nov. 13th, 2004|11:13 pm] |
Attack Dragon: I live in a submarine, oh the waters are purple and green, I'm aquamarine. Praise be!
(Passive, Darling, Bow-tied hair, Affixes Us With a Pointed Stare.)
Fallen Soldier, Fortune Lost: I'll get it back, whatever the cost. We cannot learn, in seas of green,/ To float to the bottom with the aquamarine.
(And so the Fallen Soldier sinks, with buoyant hair struggling upwards; but Fallen Soldier, dull, pale green, is lost in an ocean of aquamarine.)
Passionate Widow, Teary-eyed: I could not think, but heard his cries. And so the waves may swallow me whole; For I cannot live, 'neath skies so clean,/ With true love consumed by aquamarine.
(Widowed now of own existence, she's pulled beneath without resistance. Quiet bubbles escape unseen from densest waters of aquamarine.)
The Sky's Own Voice, So Far Removed: So nothing's gained, and nothing's proved. And pressing down on all who've seen,/ My own weight bears witness to the aquamarine.
(So crossing boundaries never breached, the sky finds deepest ocean reached. And dragging with it Earth's pale green, they sink below to aquamarine, to heavy, heavy aquamarine.) |
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| But people always interrupt when I am in the middle of AWESOME |
[Nov. 7th, 2004|11:30 pm] |
I am made of some kind of bright red flame, I never need to turn on the heating but sometimes I singe important documents. They told me I could never be a file cabinet. Is this a problem?
No, seriously. Where have I been?
I have not been in a tree, no indeed, my feet were rarely off the ground.
("But I just want to Stand on Land!")
I have not been in the earth, I'm sure, I'm luckily remaining uninterred.
So have I ran my fingers across a length of wood? Have I felt cement beneath my feet? Have I pressed hot eyes to cooling liquid? I have done these things, it's true. I have done the impossible, and the impossible was the very very ordinary, the mundane.
How do I feel? Does anybody know?
Or does it matter? I think not.
I have few things of interest to say, or many things of interest to say, but few things which I want to share, so we will be obscure
obtuse
emotional and
distanced.
With a finger that guiltily indulges in the pressing of the Return button.
Okay. Point form:
-Well, something bad happened, and maybe you can guess, but I do not want to write it down.
-And then, for distraction, someone caught my eye, then broke my heart with subtle reasons,
-and I woke up in an unfamiliar place,
-and maybe I felt alone, or maybe just self-pitying,
-but then everything was okay, besides the fragmented bits of heart poking into my spleen, and an overwhelming feeling of something,
-and of course, we were not eternal, or united, just ambiguous shadows fading into darkening horizon, and so we sink into oblivion.
And if you are reading this journal I do beg you to tell me of how your own past month has been, and don't hesitate to exaggerate, or estimate, or prevaricate, as I would just like to listen.
And please remember to ROCK ON, though there may be more important things to do,
And never forget to display interest in others. |
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| Vacation |
[Aug. 29th, 2004|11:22 am] |
Vacation, the Prelude: "He Has No Shame"
So my grandparent's divorce is pretty much official. They've put the house up for sale and started telling people. We went out for dinner with my grandmother and Orly and Victor right before we left.
Orly: "No really! It's great! Really, it's great. Let me tell you something. This is great thing."
Seriously, that's how she talks.
"Let me tell you something! I go to Costco and I buy juice for five dollars! I buy juice! From Costco! For five dollars! Let me tell you!"
Although I didn't really speak to her at this dinner.
Vacation, Part One: Feeling Flaccid in Lake Placid
The first twenty-four hours of our trip were spent eating, really. Lake Placid, however, is not a town where you can get good food. Then we did some other stuff. We went kayaking, and rowboating, and pedal-boating, and canoeing... and swimming, briefly. Before we went we watched the movie "Lake Placid". That is a really stupid movie. None of us worried about crocodiles during the whole trip.
Vacation, Part Two: The View
Before we left, we climbed Whiteface Mountain. That was great. We were something like 3,500 feet high, and you could see everything. It was impressive.
Epilogue
So, that was a fun vacation. Yeah, I would say it was pretty good. School starts on Wednesday.
I'm absolutely terrified. |
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| Remember what the dormouse said? |
[Aug. 18th, 2004|10:21 am] |
I think the reason I never have anything to say is because not a lot of things bother me or make me angry, and therefore I have nothing to complain about. At the same time, mostly I don't think that things are particularly wonderful either. That's why my journal is so boring.
So here are some things I think are great:
1) Spider webs, after it's been raining
2) Spider webs, just in general
3) Rooms entirely full of spaghetti
4) Clone High (I`m really starting to miss that show)
5) This song I'm listening to (White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane)
6) AIRPLANES
7) (This one, I think, is the most obvious:) REALLY FLUFFY SHEEP
I wish I could enclose a picture to illustrate this fluffy sheep idea but I really am not sure how.
And here are some things that make me really angry:
1) The other day, I lost my eraser. I couldn't find it anywhere. I looked for it for an hour. Then after I'd finally given up (you would think I would have more than one eraser, wouldn't you?) I went back and found my paper was gone. Actually, my first thought was that this stuff was being pulled to the ceiling, but it wasn't. I found the paper on the floor, and I found the eraser the next day in some stupid unrelated place.
2) I actually can't think of anything else right now.
I actually don't think that was very interesting. Maybe I did it wrong. |
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| "Clearly, the naked ape is the sexiest primate alive." |
[Aug. 13th, 2004|07:51 pm] |
I'm reading a book and I like it. Also, I am nervous. I am guilty (Why? Who knows.) I am... sad? No, not really. I am moving my foot rhythmically. (The motion, says Desmond Morris, reminds us of the feeling of security we had in the womb, listening to our mother's heartbeat.) I am in a closed space. I am in a dark room. I am in a previously dark room, now garishly lit with fluorescent lights. I am near a washing machine (I can hear the washing noise. Desmond Morris says we wash often to rid ourselves of the sexual odours we emit, so that we won't be considered attractive to a third party, thus strengthening the pair-bond.) I am relieved. No, that's a lie. I feel really terrible about something. And dark, I feel as though there's a layer of black covering everything I see. And I'm thinking about colourful fish, the kind that are alive. Or drawings. Like that shiny one, you know? From the TV show? But not like that exactly. I like reading books about physics, or evolution, because it is just such a smart idea. If you are a solipsist you will feel great, for having invented all this stuff. It almost makes up for the fact that the weight of the world is on your shoulders. And when the world is dark like this, it is sometimes easier to believe that there is nothing else. When the world is dark like this everything becomes your responsibility, or someone else's responsibility, or the product of your own carelessness...
Meanwhile, maybe someone is disappointing you. Probably you are disappointing yourself. Or someone else. Or a whole idea. Or the future. I am disappointed too, because I am alone... or not alone enough... or just exactly the right amount of alone. It's hard to be satisfied, but it's even harder to figure out what you're unsatisfied about. I think I'm happy though. Do I? Maybe? Is anyone happy, or is nobody sad? Or are we slaves to society, or instinct, or intellect? Or are all three the same thing? Or... or am I the only one?
More importantly, does it make a difference? |
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| Some more talk about myself |
[Aug. 11th, 2004|09:34 pm] |
Here is something. I went to a photo shoot with my dad today, and we saw some cameras, and some models, and a lot of fur coats. It was very cool. These weird models would pose, and when they weren't posing, they were dancing by themselves on the sidelines. And they would turn around from behind and smile as if they were dazzled. They all had these business cards, covered with pictures of themselves. What a job! To smile for a camera, and look pretty all day, and get paid for it- it can't be fulfilling. A few weeks ago I saw some models running. They had huge muscles and hairless bodies and wore teensy shorts. They also had girlfriends, who were too short to be models, wearing dresses. They were talking about how they quit smoking. They didn't sound unhappy, but they weren't having a very deep conversation either. I guess someone has to do it, but how boring!
But I am not talking about myself now, I am talking about models. It's probably more interesting that way.
I saw a guy in an orange shirt who told me I was pretty. He was probably on drugs but it was a nice thing to say. People should compliment other people more often, I think. I never compliment people I don't know.
I went out for lunch with my dad and out for dinner with the rest of my family, and it was great to see them too. Today was a really nice day. Today was a sunny day, too. Summer is such a lovely season. |
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unityawakens's journal