i've been gone, i know.

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written by rodgers and hammerstein for the sound of music.

edelweiss, edelweiss,
every morning you greet me,
small and white,
clean and bright
you look happy to meet me..

blossoms of snow may you bloom and grow,
bloom and grow forever

edelweiss, edelweiss
bless my home land forever











captain von trapp and his maria








hello. how has everyone been.
since my last post (which was, admittedly, a while back)
i've gone to all-southern and come back,
had ridiculous fun with michael in long beach,
received my report card,
smoked 3 packs of parliaments, drank several liters of coffee,
wrote a satisfactory poem,
read more than a dozen of emily dickinson's works,
celebrated the birthday of a dear friend,
danced around the room singing edelweiss,
fell half into a crush over one of my teachers,
tore a painting in half,
learned that fuji apples are to my liking.

during the summer, the space in between days narrows and weakens, not allowing for great rest or healing. the moon is not lenient and the stars limited in their mercy.
but now it is winter. night is long and paradoxically warmer than that of summer.
there is more space in between the days.




i've been wearing so many scarves these days.



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meh-il

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long weekend:

seclusion... i spent three days in the desert, lounging in natural, mineral springs at the sandpiper inn/spas.
it was hot and cold and refreshing all at once; spent over 72 hours in a bikini and allowed myself to consume far more than i should-- way too much ice cream and chocolate, not enough cigarettes because i was with family. the water worked its magic, gave me peace, continued to flow while classical music rang from the speakers outside.
it was funny, though, because although most of the other people were koreans, there was a large jewish party that consisted entirely of senior citizens. the grandpas gave leering stares and the grandmas would read in the sun and tell us to turn the bubbles on in the jacuzzi before retiring after dark to their little conference room for some jewish ritual...
there was fake grass and little kids and a decent looking, lean korean boy, no internet access and a lot of coffee with my art history textbook and my journal.
showered with my swimming suit on in the little facility next to the steam sauna, enjoyed myself and the fact that the sounds of the freeway weren't drifting in through the window when i went to sleep.

then i came home, unpacked, watched in between days, which i recommend for everyone-- another great piece of cinematography, on ifc.

and now i am writing more of my short story and talking henry.
although, with henry it's never really just talking. not in the plain, bare sense of the word, anyway.

















the front where two worlds meet, thin glass that cracks with the sound of a vengeful violin.









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night designed for me.

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hours spent at mr. chang's: 13
time of departure: 4am
number keys to the rooms to the number of students: 1 to 5
number of cups of coffee: 4
number of energy drinks: 2
number of cups of black tea: 1
number of times i listened to rachmaninoff's concerto in c minor: 8
number of physics chapters reviewed: 17
number of cigarettes smoked: 15
number of hours of having been awake: 91

in the middle of it all, i complimented tenny's shirt, but he didn't hear me. then at some time i told andrew a story of electro the mouse and his darling squirrel. i shivered in raw wind for twenty minute intervals, passing through handfuls of smokes. i lusted and feared failure, yawned and could not fall asleep, moaned at the pointlessness of it all and the brilliance of wagner.
the room reeked of males and of cigarettes. formulas swam before my eyes and soft deep voices in fluttering korean, startling laughter...
pleasant night of studying.

then i went to school and it really did strike me, the utter lack of significance in all of this. utterly failed the physics final.

damn this. fuck me.












have you every felt the winter fade as you cling for light, felt the river in the past washing away everything but your sin. you are left with regret and all the things that weren't meant to be kept. looking up stars and no peace; scorn and condemn. but i will be with you. let yourself go. the world is precious if we are both in this. i will be with you.





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you run. i'll watch.

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i wore my father's old white basketball shirt. it looks like a loose dress on me. i wore black leggings and my naturalizer peep toe heels, a deep orange, long and fringed scarf that belongs to my mother and a red sweater that has an appealing dark blue and white diamond pattern on it that used to be my mothers but is now theoretically mine.

i was planning on wearing my bright teal fur jacket with a black minidress leggings heels tomorrow.
but i don't feel like it.

other notes:
took my french final, forgot what stockings were in french and whether the turks or arabs or english made an appearance in le bourgeoise gentillhomme.
tomorrow i will "audition" for pacific symphony youth winds, also have chair placement auditions. then spend 3rd listening to lecture and relaxing with chocolate and discussion on the art of the burgundian netherlands.
then i will choke on the words of ms chacon before wanting to drown myself in the presence of ms jensvold.

there's a great fly on the window in front of me. flies at night are terrifying. during the day the buzz is like a dirty feather tickling the skin behind your ear.

today i also spent several hours at dr. chang's and only got one practice test done. i realized that i'm very careless when it comes to checking my work for calc II and that i'm not stimulated at all. it didn't matter all that much since i had my music and an interesting korean chap to talk to.
chap is such an anglo-word. it looks odd next to an asian one.
korean chap.

i also tried to reorganize my book shelf a bit. i took all the books i've been saving for my sister when she's old enough and plopped them on her bed. she's old enough, i think. i finally made all the books fit the way i wanted them to and then i realized that about 15 of my best were on loan to various friends.
futile effort. a slight sheen of sweat and wasted thought process on alphabetizing.






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there's often tension when a pride gets too big.

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finals week.
makes me rethink some things.


today when i went someplace to finish finish my pack of cigarettes and
two calculus assignments,
i stayed still, working in the seat across michelle's,
conscious of every move this boy made.
this kid that i've half liked since middle school.
his laugh is so hollow and his gait sways
as if he wants to believe that he's strong.
his words are harsh like mine,
and he choked on his noodles when i talked about getting laid.

today i stared at myself in the mirror after taking a long, hot shower,
wiped the fog from the mirror and looked,
applied lotion and realized that my legs are sausages
and that there was a bruise on my hip
that looks like a square.





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this star, impending rupture

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you sir, are even more pitiful.
every patient is the same.
i would be a wrist.








earlier today
i decided to put lotion on my arms
then it made me remember some
girl telling me two years ago
that my skin was soft.
then i realized that i don't even talk to her now.
friends are transient.
i'm not close to those i have been a part of before,
and those that i'm close to now
i probably won't be speaking to
this time next year.
with relationships, what is constant--
i haven't known.

let's let this beat rush in.

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What did you do;

steal my spine and grey the bone,
laugh in the other direction,
sow seeds of weakness
into the gaping, fleshy furrow
running down my back,
sew the skin cruelly, leaving me

to flop
with old love
and fear where my roots used to be.











han-bok.
traditional korean dress.
and kittens.
from vogue korea.



maybe i'll get my hair cut like that.

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oh someone.

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what are you breaking for today? or are you whole?


current feeling: insecure and sad.
but everybody gets that way sometimes.
tomorrow i'll open my eyes and be happy.








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the most beautiful girl man, i dig her, we know time

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i want to hear all of your love stories.
what's made you feel that unmistakable ache, that stab in the mind, the sighs, the fear of approach and the reluctance to be vulnerable and the knowledge that you are bare and weak, strong and uncontrolled.
love is a contradiction?
i hate the feeling of it. no problem with love itself, just the way it feels.
my friend wonders why; she thinks that love is embodied in what i choose to say and think and feel.
i can't really explain it either.






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the mean reds.

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i am like nothing you've seen on the wall.
remember that.

let's create this religion
be our own gods
and remember not to glance when meeting
in a fabled restaurant
regardless of whether or not
we're happy to see each other.

and then let's
or we must
yes, we must
take what we wanted to say
but didn't in the restaurant,
look up from our beds
take those words out of our insides, untangle
and throw them to the floor.
hope bugs come in the night.

only way to get rid of them.



mine:


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sleeping is more realistic.

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last night was a frenzy of literature and paint and smudges of lead.



i will thread all of us together
and after time has passed
and we are done,
we will look at the thread and be grateful
for the fact that there is
at least
something holding us to one another.

but
where am i

and where are you?





my own:





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what the fuck is going on.

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tonight i will complete the short film i'm writing,
watch laberinto del fauno,
do my stretches/leg exercises,
finish the book i'm reading and start a new one.

the night is young and the wind and my hands are cold.
i am losing weight,
i have writer's block,
and i want a certain pair of raw denim jeans
but a.p.c.'s a little pricey.




i was cured alright.






















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Bonsoir.

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RHETT
Whatever happens in the end, I don't want to lose you as my friend.

JACK
I promise I will never be your friend, no matter what, ever.

Rhett stares at Jack with her lips parted. He stared back at her. Her voice cracks slightly as she says:

RHETT
If we fuck, I'm going to feel like shit tomorrow.

JACK
That's OK with me.

Jack lifts Rhett's blouse over her head. She is naked except for a pair of white socks.

RHETT
I love you. I never hurt you on purpose.

JACK
(pause)
I don't care.

Rhett hugs Jack tightly with tears on her face. Jack finally points to the window and says:

JACK
You want to see my view of Paris?

RHETT
OK.











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feeling more than I can understand.

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i was watching l'auberge espagnol the other night.
i kissed romain duris on the television screen and whispered
that he's my favorite french indie darling
and that i wanted to see
one of his more recent films-- dans paris
but i'm sorry
i can't drive and i'm underage;
i can't even buy my own cigarettes yet. but you're astounding
and inspiring.
and i think that romain nodded in consolation.
although i couldn't be sure.
then i started seeing everyone as foreign tourists,
with different habits, loves, ways of thought.

i hope everyone had a good new year.
i spend mine in a mall and a car,
drinking aloe vera juice and baccus
with headphones on and an overture blasting.




a still from la vie en rose-- marion cotillard was.. indescribably impressive. go see.



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little over ten hours later:

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resolutions?

-lose weight (a significant amount-- MY idea of significant).
-write, read, paint prolifically.
-finish my short story "thoughts on us" (which probably won't be all that short).
-study like maniacal nerdy fiend.
-get at least 2300 on sats.
-don't lose control, yet discover more of myself and make myself more vulnerable, thus find a deeper strain of strength in which i can ground myself.





blargh to you.







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fucktastic.

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current listen: even though i can't say-- second moon
current read: this side of paradise-- fitzgerald


it's the new year, babe--






bring it to me, 2008, as if you're fucking scared out of your wits.
(whatever "it" is.)


la poème:
*untitled, as of yet, and still not finalized--


I.
Unnatural rain and
thoughts of the edges
of a worn, blue book
rest between
you and
me
gathered up in the folds
of cheap grey cotton,
brushing against your skin
every time you move.
You're dreaming.

My heart isn't in this.

Is your body--
is my--
are our bodies
our bodies...

The view from my window back home
is not the view from yours--
the lights of the city are arranged differently
and lit by a different god.

II.
You're not like me;
you sleep deeply and move too much.
A breeze passed the gaping window
and slid across the nape of my neck
as I dressed,
rough fabric cold on my waist,
breathing harsh.

I didn't even spare you a look,

only bit my tongue, tasting
hard resolve and blood
and you.

III.
The light of the corridor,
the stench of the thin walls,
and the heartless pattern
of the carpet
condemned me
as the door clapped shut
with a small, pitiless noise.

I blinked once,
still fingering the cold doorknob.

IV.
Do you remember
the novel I gave you, how I explained why
it was my favorite book
and how I had felt you in its pages
when I read it
for the first time?

To me,
you were that book.
You were my name
and purpose.

But fire burns when
gripped too tightly,
and too much tension
breaks the string,
releases the music, stopping the song
and tainting the memory
of the musician.





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