old journal entry

19 August 2006

At fifteen, you’re thinking you’re terribly mature, glassy-eyed and wracked with sins, but the confessions spilling like fluid from your gaping mouth are insufficient. You need penance for absolution, but that’s fucking scary, so you try and control yourself.
The end of summer is here, you can smell the heat in your blood, can’t remember what’s happened these past few months save snippets of feelings and sounds; the weight of someboy’s body on yours and that stench in his breath, the scraping of razors on tables, how terrified you were when you realized how lazily the days were melting into one another, like sick, bubbling butter, oily and far too rich. You can remember bits and pieces. The grass of your boyfriend’s unkempt lawn trying to scratch the skin from your back and the look in the eyes of his lover when you met her and asked her if she gave decent head, at least. The sigh you were surprised to hear escape your lips that one day when you were at the beach, looking out into the carefree waves, wishing you could be a mermaid. The softness of the French cigarettes that an acquaintance brought from Europe, the smoke curling itself into your lungs. The madness intertwined into every fiber of your being as you’re dropping, dropping, and dropping. The smell of vodka you love and the rum some idiot spilled on the aging carpet in the living room of the boy you just fucked.
You’ve never liked rum. It tastes too sweet.
You remember nosebleeds and soft kisses from a person that you shouldn’t have dared to touch. But you dare to do anything and everything. You remember playing the piano in the afternoon with the windows wide open and thinking about “wasted potential” before shying away from the topic. What, do you want to feel even more miserable? No. I didn’t think so. So don’t think about it. You can’t remember whole events, and you wonder why.
Tonight you’re going to sneak out of the house, using the front door because it creaks less, walk through the suburbia, scream for Jesus, and think, fuck, in Southern California, summer nights are too hot. They burn. As if they’re trying to push you back, or punish you, or something.
You’re going to casually slip into a bus, wink at the driver, and keep going, going, going until you look outside the window and think the city looks trashed enough. You’re going to get off the bus and walk until someone whistles, approach, and have a short conversation; Hey/Hey/Got anything I could buy?/With money?/Or with skin, whatever/Okay.
And this dumbshit will take you to where all his friends are getting high, dangle a packet in front of your face, and you’ll tug him to the back of the building where you’ll think, Hurry up. Hurry up already before I feel empty again. He’ll murmur something about smooth skin, and you’ll find it kind of hard to breathe. He’ll say, Amazing. What’s amazing? Nothing’s amazing to you anymore.
You’ll eventually stumble you’re way back home—Do you know how to get to blah blah blah/Yeah, sure. Need a lift?/Thanks, yeah/It don’t come free though—you’ll get sick and tired of men in that way you always do after a night like this, glide back inside your house at five in the morning, using the back door because you forgot about the creaking, pray&swear, fuck, please don’t let that wake anyone up.
You’ll fall into bed and try to sleep but wake up two hours later anyway, shaken with some half-nightmare, remember that you’re still dressed like a slut, change, wipe your face, reach behind your dresser and add the night’s earning to your little bag of magic tricks. You’ll wait for your parents to stir, then go downstairs and act like you just woke up. You’re a fantastic liar.
The morning will be misty and condemning, and you’ll be asked, Do you want breakfast? No. Not Hungry. Food is evil; a slip of control. I have control. You’ll drink black coffee and say, I’m going for a walk, wander around the streets until you find a little cul-de-sac that looks like it’s still asleep. You’ll reach into your bra and take out a cig and a lighter and sit on a curb, thinking.
You’ll think about random things, remember, realize, and try not to cry, ask yourself what the hell you’re doing. You’ll go on with your day and at some point have a thought fly across your mind, fleeting, you’ll remember that you turned fifteen three months ago.
The sun will fall, you’ll smell the air and think of the hurt, repeat the entire cycle over again, continue to fall, laugh, and laugh, and laugh. And you’ll go back to school; a friend you haven’t seen all summer will ask you When did you get so sad? And you’ll say A long time ago. Damnit, a long time ago.

take take take

there's this.. this swelling.. no, this vacillating tide of history and hurt and hoping and fears just begging to be articulated.

but i can not find the words. there is a disconnect. and it's ruining me.

wash

at some point i had said something along the lines of I miss you, I think i could hold you, but by the time the words fell to your ears, something broke; it was much too late, much too late

why because

didn't go to school today.

the start of it shows

... a family that has high expectations of achievement... ; a child who is prone to excessive self-imposed pressure; a child who exhibits unusual levels of academic ability and intelligence. The combination often result in mental paralysis. The child may defect from expectations--her own above all--and take refuge in an entirely antirational set of behaviors that have, in fact, a highly organized structure.

-- Marya Hornbacher

sober for 5 months. i knew i couldn't take it anymore...

i had a glass of whiskey today.

sleep don't weep

this burden of life.

i'm feeling incredibly sad.
and it's such a long story.
my work, degraded and thought petty.
my intentions deemed malicious
and i've hurt someone.
the school administration is getting involved.
i might no longer be permitted to stay as her student.
and i won't even get to finish what i meant to say.



do these things even account to much? i'm starting to doubt that they do...

realize the paraphraser

today was the last day for all-southern.
during our break between rehearsal and performance, Eric, E-Man, Lauren, Aaron, and i went to starbucks, islands, and barnes&nobles.
the performance was decent. meh. Eric drove me home, and when i said to Mike King "i'll see you february" he goes
"wait i wanted to tell you something"
"you better make that first chair next year. you better make it"
"hahaha"
"no really. this is further incentive. you better make it so i can come see you perform and bring you a thing of roses and stuff."
"you're going to be in college, you won't have time."
"i'll probably go here, actually"
^ CSLB. the place where hs all southern is every year.
cool beans.
he's a sweet guy.
he has a girlfriend, though.
i think he's babying me.

weeee woooo

a minstrel and a kell

another of my favorites :

http://www.daviddownton.com/index.htm

my own damn

on and on

just got back from working on impact with Angela and Daniel / going to Red Mango.
the cute waiter wasn't there. but i had an espresso shot and good conversation. the people who sat behind us were loud.

People that are really very weird can get into sensitive positions and have a tremendous impact on history.
-- Dan Quayle

no school for me tomorrow. well, i guess it's technically today. i have rehearsals at cal state long beach. woot. yay for all-southern and nine hours of rehearsals...

i'm feelin' pretty good. i'm lovin' it. lovin' it. sacrificing so much, but it's not like love's gone away...

we'll stay

deadlineeeee

oh to be white and skinny -_-

yummmmy

the couture shows are out. and on a sad note. there's a rumor that valentino might be retiring from fashion. the rumor started at his own couture show, so...
if it's true, then a part of me just died. really.

from across the room

Lieu

Doors, dying every time they are opened& closed& opened& closed, wishing to be still, hinges speak softly, allow us to be left untortured. They cry they cry they cry. I am alone at home, the pink speckled granite tiles of the kitchen floor know me too well. I feel foreign; there are twelve steps in the flight of stairs, the floor near my mother’s dresser creaks, the wallpaper in the back corner of the living room is half-slightly peeling, the sliding glass window makes a gasping sound when it’s opened, the garage takes approximately four second to close, but I do not know this place. The light of the setting sun reflected off the giant mirror in the room with the grand piano is absolutely breathtaking, but my skin feels cold here; it’s difficult to sleep, and I’m always thirsty. This place only pretends to know me. My face in its reflective surfaces—the TV& computer screens, the microwave door, a shiny, partially brass door knob—it seems kind of scared, vaguely ill-suited and awkward. I have touched these walls for the past ten years; I do not know this place. Doors, dying every time they are opened& closed, opened& closed& slammed, wishing to be still, hinges speak softly, allow us to be left alone. They cry like nothing’s left. I am at home, in this place, alone.

diplomacy

late start today. grawwwwr.



the only thing they did was grow that garden, grow that garden, flowers of transparent desires and leaves dripping, dipped in half-porned urgency& histories brimming with backseat sex and the ghost of sin, eerie sensual humor, things you aren't really supposed to laugh at. they needed nothing more.

sometimes i wish i didn't feel

goodbye

winter dies faster in southern california. i can already feel that imminent expiration... it blows against my face as i walk to class, the wind cold and the sun bright...

barely

Whilst trying to explain my current emotions and the brokenness that seems to have been flung upon me, i came across this

If I bore you, then that it that. If I am clumsy, that may indicate partly the difficulty of my subject, and the seriousness with which I am trying to take what hold I can of it; more certainly, it will indicate my youth, my lack of mastery of my so-called art or craft, my lack perhaps of talent . . .
--James Agee

i heart svedka

my heart was like a curse today. i felt like i was in love nine times before crashing down, like the downside of an energy drink.

my ambition is like a vague patchworked quilt of contradictions.

gloire

and that would make it the sixth time i've been labeled as an acquired taste. hmm. interesting.

i like how that came out. it's a plant in my living room.

when i'm older i'm going to have nothing in my fridge except water and beer. grawrgrawrgrawr.

run it's coming back

i've got almost 4 weeks to lose at least 20 pounds.

Name: Gina
Age: 15
Height: 5'7.5
CW: ---
HW: 150
STWG: 115
LTWG: not sure...

or at least mine

the thing is that the heart paints these windows so prettily. it can't see much through them. how can it bring itself to search farther, when it has made for it self something that is easier to stare at. easier to love. and can you blame it, really ?



i confess to the thick, half- creamy lines of deceptive eyeliner behind the rims of those glasses that she threw away and replaced with contacts when, after unwillingly waking up on a particularly gloomy day, she was in that odd mood for change.

www.tinaberning.com

she's one of my favorites. check it/her out.

i scramble to hide these dreams

speak

even the best fall down

was it you who spoke the words

product of being bored at my calc tutor's. it's for Dominique. i hope i'm able to catch her tomorrow-- 0,1,6 finals. no classes with her and such...

and right now i must study some more. but i'll post some pretty little things later on tonight...

fast

i wrote this poem a while ago-- one of the few things i've written while under the influence of a drug. so excuse me if it's not exactly fantastic, and realize that i wasn't exactly thinking straight.

I.
the favor that she asked from him
really would have killed her mother
but when you're young, your mother
is invincible and so are you.
that's kind of why you sort of
try to die without stopping or
thinking or giving a damn.

II.
but you do die, and so does
your mother. everybody fucking dies.
but when you're young you don't know
anything at all. nothing. except maybe
how to live right.
so he went and did that favor
not realizing that two bodies
could transmit death, more deceitfully
and painfully than cut, dying daisies.

III.
because she asked real sweet
standing 'neath the street light
on the corner of Fern Street &
Danbury. she looked pretty and sincere.
just sad. and a little bit scared.
so he said "okay,
i'm game." "let's go," she said.

IV.
her mother was home that night
cleaning up the table and
wonderin' where her daughter
was & not knowing that her
baby girl knew how to ask a
boy to lend her his body.
her mother's kitchen was painted
the same color as his room.
everything that night hurt
for the passing of time.

V.
time ends for some people.
he died the following summer
from something inside of him
that was hers in the beginning
ans she stopped and thought and
gave a damn. and she wasn't young
because she was not invincible









she had angry fists. clenched & quivering, and he wouldn't look at her face. but he took that fist into his hands. grazed the smooth slopes of her knuckles with his lips; closed his eyes; let that softness over come him opened his mouth a little & whispered into the lines between her fingers; "i made a mistake."

global warming scares me.

so... i'm working on a verbal self-portrait.
so far, all i've got is
"my eyes are destroyed paintings."
it's difficult. the words won't come, and i can't go to them-- you see, my feet are frozen to the ground.





that's L.A. at night. view from griffith park. cool beans yeah? the city is beautiful, really.

that's all...

Hugh Laurie won the golden globe !
yes. i'm so proud :]






hahahahaha.



tread softly, for the ground has become like ice since he made it so...



and the world never stops to let you jump safely... you might as well take the risk

present yourself

there is nothing left but the act of leaving. there is nothing left that requires much exertion. nothing except that. because goodness knows that not looking back will be all too easy.

puahahaha . hee .

Cameron: I'm the only one who's always stood behind you when you've screwed up.
House: Why? Why would you support someone who screws up?
Cameron: Because I'm not insanely insecure, and because I can actually trust in another human being, and I am not an angry, misanthropic son of a bitch.
House: I'm sorry. You said you weren't angry.

Cameron: Why did you hire me?
House: Does it matter?
Cameron: Kind of hard to work for a guy who doesn't respect you.
House: Why?
Cameron: Is that rhetorical?
House: No, it just seems that way because you can't think of an answer. Does it make a difference what I think? I'm a jerk. The only thing that matters is what you think. Can you do the job?
Cameron: You hired a black guy because he had a juvenile record.
House: No, it wasn't a racial thing. I didn't see a black guy, I just saw a doctor with a juvenile record. I hired Chase 'cause his dad made a phone call. And I hired you because you are extremely pretty.
Cameron: You hired me to get into my pants?
House: I can't believe that that would shock you. It's also not what I said. No, I hired you because you look good. It's like having a nice piece of art in the lobby.
Cameron: I was at the top of my class!
House: But not *the* top.
Cameron: I did an internship at the Mayo Clinic!
House: You were a very good applicant.
Cameron: But not the best.
House: Would that upset you, really, to think that you were hired for some genetic gift of beauty instead of some genetic gift of intelligence?
Cameron: I worked very hard to get where I am!
House: You didn't have to. People choose the paths that gain them the greatest rewards for the least amount of effort. That's a law of nature, and you defied it. That's why I hired you. You could've married rich, you could've been a model, you could've just shown up and people would've given you stuff - lots of stuff - but you didn't. You worked your stunning little ass off.
Cameron: Am I supposed to be flattered?
House: Gorgeous women do not go to medical school... unless they are as damaged as they are beautiful. Were you abused by a family member?
Cameron: No!
House: Sexually assaulted?
Cameron: No!
House: But you are damaged, aren't you?

chose not to change

every year i watch for awards season, every year i feel that the wrong people win, every year it ends up being a waste of my time.
but the golden globes are tomorrow, my friend. and the half-plastic, beautiful, red-carpet walkers are so, so manipulating.




i can't shake the feelin'
i can't shake the feelin'
i can't shake the feelin'






the people are afraid.
but you don't need to explain the situation.
i understand. i understand. i understand.

now that's cynical.

Hugh Laurie is incredibly attractive.

and there was

i just got back from spending time with Angela.

he aged to fifteen
in a way that
made him feel unwell.
and as the white wine
slightly swam

across the surface
of his bottom lip,
like the smooth trail
of wet feathers,

he realized this
and coughed a little
before inhaling
and catching the scent
of wasted

time

doll face doll eyes if only her heart was

gah! i just had to post this before i went out:

the first of Lindsay Lohan's campaign for Miu Miu s/s 07 has sprung up!

it's surprisingly nice. i love the contrast, the linking of the navy and the red with the plum, and how it really reminds me of Guy Bourdin's work.

and the doll-ish pose is nice too.

imagine this and that and me

erm... tonight... going out at 9 to meet Angela. i think we're working on impact before going for coffee, or something.

earlier today i watched the new episodes of that one korean drama that i watch. it got me thinking about how fast people in america grow up, but they don't really grow up. yeah, we have sex and do drugs, but we don't have discipline and such. in korea it's still a big thing to hold hands, and an even bigger thing to just embrace.

which really makes it so, so dramatic and heartbreaking when they do. you get what i'm saying? i mean, in american tv, people have sex and it's not that big of a thing, and if they cheat it's stereotypical. but with korean dramas, sex... doesn't happen all that much. and cheating is a huge deal. but you know, i realllly like korean dramas... muahahahahahahahaha.

at least the good ones.

and the morning has yet to come, but i am warm. don't worry.

i have several obsession. two of them being Damien Rice and Brautigan's poetry. observe:

fuck me like fried potatoes

Fuck me like fried potatoes

on the most beautifully hungry

morning of my God-damn life.

-Brautigan

mmm yes that's pretty.

my life is falling out but it's okay i think because the other side of it is tucked right in tucked right safe into the little ruffle of my sleeve.

merciful, merciful, merciful

oh today!

two trashcans full of wood were outside the band room, and i stole a couple pieces. then during journalism, Dominique and I went back to get some more. except all the trashcans were gone, but the woodshop door was open, so we ventured in and asked some dude with a vacuum. he said there was more, so he let us take come. i now have a number of nice, thin slabs of wood to paint on.

yessir. then! in the band room, there also was a tremendously fucked up violin inside one of the side rooms. i saw it a while ago and i wanted to take it because it was so pretty, but i didn't know if i could, and today i finally remembered to ask. i couldn't find every single piece, but it's enough. and if i find more, then that'll be nice. i now have a fucked up violin to paint on. see:

and! to make the day even more gorgeous-- i got accepted for all-southern in addition to all-state.

no i don't photoshop my pictures. i don't even have photoshop.

i dare you to jump.

is this alright with you

i never thought that the simple observation of bare branches swaying back and forth in the wind would be so engaging. but i spent the past half hour doing just that.

the sunset from my garden:

and a different part of the sky:

and it's times like that when i can tolerate this city. get what i mean?

oh. and the christmas tree in my living room is finally disposed of. my mother and i had to take it out just now. here are the lovely results, i kind of like it:

and my baby sister saw me with the camera and wanted to model