exactly my point.

.



i apologize for not posting for so long-- i've been swamped.

this weekend, i plan on posting some of my artwork-- i have so much new stuff to share, but i don't want to scan all of it-- i think i may just take photos of the pages.. but either way, tomorrow...

but for tonight i leave you with a pretty little thing. i haven't slept since tuesday except when i dosed off in french and in physics a couple times...
but like i said. either tomorrow or the day after will bring new things.











.

l'atterrissage

.












"do you believe in God? that's the wrong question. does God believe in us?"















in relation to the recent holiday that just passed:
albeit the impossibility of listing everything that i take for granted, i would say that the most significant people to whom i do not express sufficient gratitude are my younger sister and my father.
in the past, i've discussed my disassociation with both family members with my friends, and i've also written in my journals on the subject at length; i've found that with my sister, it is very easy for me to take her for granted and to mistreat her because of my own internal conflicts that frequently evoke a compulsion to act in a negative manner. my mother once explained to me that the reason my father finds it difficult at times to treat her with the affection that one might expect from a happily married spouse is that he himself has unresolved personal matters that he has yet to untangle; they have not yet released him, or he has not yet found a way in which to escape them and thus with the pejoration that such distress breeds, it becomes frighteningly easy to hurt some of the people closest to him. i mirror my father’s occasionally antagonism towards my mother in that with my self-implemented afflictions, my emotions make me incapable of nurturing an amiable relationship with her.
the fact that i take my father for granted is more simple in its roots in that it is a matter of minimal interaction—we don’t engage in discourse that is unnecessary, and although I remember us being relatively close when I was a younger age, in my recent adolescent life I have never felt close to him. However, the acknowledgement of his sacrifices for my family, and, more specifically, for me, are undeniable and thus at times the guilt of not expressing enough thanks is gripping.







.

so that she will remain unaware

.







current listen: human after all-- daft punk.






today, the grass smelled sharp and it forced a recollection of other, stronger smells; thus i found myself remembering him. and how i had been so familiar with his scent that i could have recognized whether or not he had entered the room. i had buried my nose in that smell, breathed in deep and fostered its merging with my own aroma. sometimes it was muted by a blanket or soapy water. sometimes it was even more aggressive as it lapped my skin and covered me inside and out.
but now it has begun to fade. and i still can't decide whether or not that is a good thing.










.

what do you do when you think someone may be ashamed of you

.







one day i will be part of the sea, and then i will be somewhat good enough to expect the waters to forgive me of my sins.










Psalm 28:1
To you I call, O Lord my Rock;
do not turn a deaf ear to me.
For if you remain silent,
I will be like those who have gone down to the pit.




.

in the world in which we will be born again, i expect the sky to forgive us for this love we can't atone for

.




current listen: forgive me-- "the legend" official soundtrack.

yesterday was arcadia for band.



i'm rather exhausted; my mind feels dampened with the fact that i'll never speak to him again and that after eight months he'll be completely gone from my life.i have to start sweeping him out before then. i have to begin to heal before then. i need to unravel the fabric of my elements and unweave them so that they are loose enough to remove particular threads; i need to lace my fingers into those strands and feel their texture, relive certain memories. then i need to pull them out, slowly. i need to slip them out of the whole and discard them in an unreachable place so that i can be safe from returning to them, so that i can restitch without remorse or regret, sadness or hurt.
















.

claire&james.

.









at times it feels as though this work is for nothing, that the expense of the self is being completely and entirely thrown away, made useless and foolish.




one of my new favorites:
http://stellaimhultberg.com/







as she pressed her forehead against her locker door, registering the coolness of the thin metal, she could not help but feel so dirty in her skin. so tainted and abused. he had said it with such ease, such nonchalance and assurance that, of course, it must have been true. biting her bottom lip and closing her eyes tight, as though to will the words away, she clenched her fists and let anger wash over her, fury with him for being so effortlessly typical, fury with herself for being vulnerable enough, degrading enough, to allow him to take her through her bed. she had followed with a sweet smile. a scornful curl of hair escaped her bun and swayed near the locker door.
"she’s nothing. just a girl. you know, those girls you fool around with now and then. a toy.”
he had not seen her around the corner, within earshot and delicately standing against the wall, very open to hurt. her face crumpled like a façade of a hand-built house collapsing to the ground, such a beautiful thing constructed with good intention and love suddenly destroyed. she did not know she had slid to the floor until her knees touched a hard coldness; exhaling unevenly, her eyes refused to see, regardless of being open. there was only the perpetuated, dull repetition of his words in the crook of her ear, a soft and mocking echo. she felt so weak.
but he had closed his fists when he said it. she was unable to see him as well, unable to trace her eyes along the lines of tension in his forearm, the stiff stance of his shoulders and the rigidity rimming his eyes. she did not see the way his mouth moved, as though it was an instrument apart from his face, an evil and traitorous frame that bended around hateful words that perhaps even he could not believe he was saying. small things that she would have caught, minor tones of his skin and voice, certain movements—things that only she could have discerned, for she knew his skin and his touch, the tones of his muscles and the attitudes of his body.
she did not see them and was thus unable to know that his words lacked any meaning whatsoever, and that it was to keep appearance in order to preserve their relationship. she did not want to reveal themselves any less than he did, but how could she know that what he said was for them, for her?
it had passed. she had already misunderstood and he already felt the weight of guilt, of self-hatred. how unbelievably wounded she would be if she had heard, he thought, licking his lips and hating the taste there.
but she had heard. she had listened closely and subsequently felt a great chasm of polluted blood and regret erupt within her chest as her heart contracted, delivering physical pain. the window of the cabin was open, and various birds sung out their discourse. neither of them heard, however; she, her body stressed with emotional injury and his with repentance, were oblivious to the melodious sounds.
and so the relationship began to crack. doubts seeded themselves within her heart and the destructive quality of apologizing without being forgiven began to pain his hands. they began to break, here.
her feet were cold. he suddenly remembered the way the curve of her lower back had felt against his palm; such warmth.







.

a rather important post, i think. or at least a very emotional one.

.





i... just got back from the harvard/princeton/university of virginia conference.
there's so much i would say about it were it not for other, more pressing matters that i'm compelled to discuss:

i swear, i knew that i should have told my mother not to come. not because of what happened at the hyatt regency, but because she and i.. we can't be exposed to each other for that long without getting in an argument, usually with tears on my side and anger on both; we get so angry and frustrated, so discouraged and so afraid, and, at least for me, guilty. misunderstandings culminate in a desperate grappling towards understanding each other, and then a sadness that comes with knowing that it isn't possible, even though we try so hard. we comprehend each other's feelings and reasons to a certain extent but we can't justify each other. we can't come to terms. we can't atone ourselves.it's me knowing that i've hurt her through hurting myself and that i wasn't thinking about what she'd think because i was too occupied with personal relief, a very despairing need to mitigate the weight on my chest. it's her feeling guilty about it and recognizing the mistakes she's made with her first child. it's me understanding that there's no other way she can talk to me other than as though she were talking to an impertinent adolescent because i'm her daughter. it's her also knowing that i'm not just a sixteen year old. it's her talking to my teachers and listening to them tell her that her daughter seems older than they are, that i was born middle aged and that i have that ambiguous nature of an "old soul". it's me knowing that there is no possible way for her to comprehend my beliefs because our mentalities are born of entirely different roots. it's me knowing that i could in no way repay her or forgive myself. it's me knowing what she wants and what she hopes for me. it's her knowing that i know. it's her thinking-- hell, it's everyone thinking-- that i'm something to reckon with and someone that can't be stopped by anything but myself. it's me having grown up with everyone around me telling me that i'll rule the world if i want to and that i'm intelligent enough to deserve being cynical. and please don't think me arrogant, but i'm not going to be timidly modest and say that i'm not that smart. it's my mother knowing that at sixteen i've experienced and witnessed and learned of things that every mother never wants her child exposed to. it's her feeling guilty about that and it's her knowing that she couldn't have stopped me even if she had known. it's me knowing that i just went and did it anyway. it's an unclear mess of anger, resentment and love. it's a battleground upon which both parties fight halfheartedly, attacking themselves more than each other. it's me and it's her living under one roof. it's me hurting her more than anyone else in the world because i love her most. it's her hurting me more than anyone else can hurt me because she loves me more than anyone.
and every single time it ends with my nose pathetically running and my face itching from the lines of salt water than have begun to dry on my face.
















.

the loudest man in the room is also the weakest man in the room

.







today:
~made flour/salt dough christmas ornament based off of barbara kruger's "your body is a battleground."
~went to see american gangster. it was excellent-- denzel washington. oh. m'lord.

















LOVE’S NOT THE WAY TO TREAT A FRIEND

Love’s not the way to treat a friend.
I wouldn’t wish that on you. I don’t
want to see your eyes forgotten
on a rainy day, lost in the endless purse
of those who can remember nothing.

Love’s not the way to treat a friend.
I don’t want to see you end up that way
with your body being poured like wounded
marble into the architecture of those who make
bridges out of crippled birds.

Love’s not the way to treat a friend.
There are so many better things for you
than to see your feelings sold
as magic lanterns to somebody whose body
casts no light.

--Brautigan


.

of new

.





it was a very heavy shake of the head, weighed down with either thoughts or exhaustion, she couldn't tell, but the force of it motivated the muted movement--his head swung as would a pendulum from side to side, lolling in an apparently relaxed fashion, although the stance of his hands communicated tension wrapped in an apology, or a need to escape.
the way he shook his head was too close to nonchalance that she fled first, unable to face so vulnerably the possibility that her affection, those years of caring so much, had been reduced, such that it did not even merit a proper vocal reply; only a tired forfeit; only his exasperation.
she turned away, hands clenched in her pockets and a thousand incoherent words lodged in the swell of her throat. she turned away with a not yet formed hope of being able to forget and an irreducible need to turn around, run to him and fit her body into his with what might resemble one of their old embraces.
but as far as she knew, for she had not looked back for fear of losing any measure of control, of giving yet another part of herself to him that would be rendered useless and wasted, he had already begun quite some time ago to release her, to forget, allowing even the earliest, sweetest memories to fog and become obsolete.
and as this thought passed behind her eyes, she blinked and pushed deeper into the warmth of her coat pockets. an acidic taste seemed to seep into her mouth, and the blood hurrying in and out of her heart seemed to thin as the organ contracted, delivering a rather virulent variant of an ache.
cold air breeded on the other side of the door. somewhere a swallow shook the dew from a branch and the morning light had not yet pervaded the mist.
the door closed with an indifferent click.
she let herself close her eyes, here with her fingers against the chilled metal handle.
inside, he still stood, unmoving and breathing slow.






.




.

how black is your rooftop

.













god, i love good films. damn.

yesterday i went to mtsac to see la haine, a rather well-reputed movie from the mid nineties that i've been dying to watch since i heard about it, particularly because one of my favorite, favorite, favorite actors-- vincent cassel-- is in it. he also plays monica belluci's lover in irreversible, if you've heard me talk about that film...
hmm. yes. cassel tends to play major roles in those punch you in the gut and leave you emotionally wrangled sort of films.i mean, irreversible is one of the most emotionally torturous films i've ever seen in my life, if not the most. it's... agonizing. incredibly difficult to watch. i don't recommend it to anyone at all; i had seen a lot of explicit and violent films before, but i've always been able to stand it. i was retching after this one and i had nightmares for weeks.
but, back to cassel: in la haine, he's absolutely brilliant. just.. the way he moves his face, his tone of voice, his gait... god. it was interesting because after the film there was a very brief discussion period during which almost everyone spoke about how it was hard for them to watch and how they weren't used to the violence.
pardon, but shouldn't people at that age be acquainted with the hardships of life by now? it didn't shock me at all. granted, not everyone willingly sees irreversible as a 16 year old, and that is a much, much more violent and emotive film than la haine. but still, you'd think that human cruelty is no longer a surprise...

i do recommend la haine for anyone who thinks that they have a relatively high level of tolerance for outrightly malicious violence and language, if you can get a hold of it. it's really too bad that foreign films are so difficult to access in america. or at least it's difficult for me at the moment.
wait until im 18, though.









.

mix a gin

.









he acted childish, sometimes. having been precocious, having never sunken his teeth into naivety and innocence, he became adult so quickly. and all adults are aware of the near perfect joy of childhood, how precious it is and how irreplaceable. he knew, and he knew that he had never really touched it, smelled it, or breathed in the way children do. so he acted childish, sometimes when he was with me, when he knew that i understood that he was floundering in an attempt to grasp at a feeling that he never understood, trying to fill himself so desperately with something foreign and fragile. he awkwardly reverted to an intentional immaturity in order to graze, simply, with his fingertips something that should have been his, for at least a short while. he reached with shaking fingers and a crooked grin.
but it escaped him, like stubborn fireflies on a cold night.












.

third, you won't cry and you won't ask for daddy.

.












i think that at some point in time there was a failing on my part to realize that my intensity was, for others, too much to handle, that the passion that most admire in me from afar would, upon close contact, bestow too strong an impact to bear.
but it doesn't change the fact that i gave so much of myself to him, so much that is still in him. so much of me is... in him.
and that's it. i'm never seeing that part of me again.
somehow i'm going to have to come to terms with that. on my own and with a smile on my face.










.

the more we give the less we become.

.






thoreau, walden pond, and me:

I left the woods for as good a reason as I went there. Perhaps it seemed to me that I had several more live to live, and could not spare any more time fore that one.

This passage struck me in perhaps a different way than the author intended. It reminded me rather forcefully of the impermanence of life—just as Thoreau may have had several more lives to live, I too want to do so much. I want to grow indefinitely and cultivate my intellect without limitations of age and the fear of passing on to death. Instead, I am destined to grow for a considerable amount of time before once again wilting, shriveling and crawling closer and closer to the end of my life. I know that I will never be able to experience all that I want to and that one life is not enough; perhaps I feel so strongly about this because of my age—I am so young and thus it appears to others that I have time in order to accomplish what I aspire to. However, I am painfully aware of my youth and therefore acutely perceptive to the passage of it, the fact that it is slowly slipping out of my grasp and that far too soon it will be over. As Thoreau stated, there is not time enough to spare on only one aspect of life. If I could I would live over a dozen lives; this world, albeit corrupt and sinful in so many ways, holds too much to discover in only one lifetime. Being mortality is very cruel to keep us from obtaining as much experience and knowledge as we wish—the mind has endless potential; the only hindrance that I can perceive is time, the lack of it and the speed with which it escapes us.







wearing the scarf that an old love gave to me, i breathed in cold mist and wondered how such affection fades, what compels someone to let go and allow what meant so much to fade.



.