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i'm considering leaving blogger and reverting to tumblr

what are you thoughts?




so, i find joseph gordon-levitt incredibly, undeniably, and absolutely sexy. i don't know why, but it may be because of his quiet, but probing roles and because of that blasted movie, 10 things i hate about you. he slightly resembles heath ledger, which i noticed when i first saw them both in that film, although, to be honest, i've yet to see the talent in gordon-levitt that we've all seen...saw... in ledger, god bless.

anent to this affection for gordon-levitt, i really want to see 500 days of summer. it looks absolutely heartwarming :] not to mention, zooey deschanel is just... fucking hot.









i'm suspended. as if the crux of a reversing gait is collapsing, as if the sun has not yet decided to fall, as if a potent realization is trembling with anticipation. i'm suspended. in wait.

ERIC (4)

it strikes me that i truly care about a person when their being angry with me truly affects me.

for instance. chris' anger scares me half to death. this shouldn't really be the case. he's not necessarily a big person, and i could probably hurt him if i tried. i'm also more articulate and more of a bitch than he is. but when he's angry i get quiet and avoid him and feel abnormally scared. i used to think that this was a unique case with chris because of his subtle violence. i don't mean this in a negative way, it's just that this guy has a lot of... energy, for lack of a better word, inside him that translates either into passion or violence; violence as in intense, uncontrolled emotion, or small bursts of complete indifference that flare with a stringent light behind his eyes. it's a quality that i love and hate in him that i haven't found in anyone else.

so, i used to think that only his anger affected me this way.
but then there's eric. i think he's only been really mad at me once, and i still have no idea why. he may have been annoyed with me at other times, since i think that i've given him enough reasons to just run in the other direction, but really getting mad? doesn't happen often.
but when he did get mad, just that once, and let me know it, some fragile strand of equal footing snapped and i found myself wondering why the hell i cared so much. i wanted both to hug him and walk away from him, kiss him and slap him, slap myself, run away, yell at someone, anyone... and at the root of it was the same emotion that i feel toward chris when he's angry...i hate it. it makes me feel like i am not enough for my body to contain. it makes me insecure with my understanding of where our relationship stands. it makes me want to take showers and rip pages out of my journals.

sounds rather histrionic.

there aren't many people who make me feel that way. my father. chris. eric. rick, maybe... and i guess that's pretty much it.

this isn't to say that i don't care about other people i my life, its just that these people affect me in a certain way.









http://www.ymdphoto.com/maxwellst/index.html

zombie movies?

tonight i went out with domo to mcclain's for coffee; we caught up on things while she sipped on a snapple and i on an espresso. some guy bummed a cig and said it was gnarly that i smoke unfiltered cigarettes... who uses the word gnarly these days? i guess this guy does. it was nice to talk to domo again; it's always nice to talk to her.

the thing is, i hang out with so much testosterone that when i get to have a nice conversation with a fellow female, it's.. relaxing, in a way.

on the drive home we were discussing the differences between friendships with males and females. i think both of us agree that it's so much.. simpler and easier to have a friendship with a guy. there's much less complication involved, fewer layers of tension and emotion to work through in order to solidify a relationship. but that trait can also be a negative. i have many guy friends, but very few to whom i can really open up. maybe because they're less complicated, they can't understand my complexities. but with the certain girls that i'm friends with, i'm able to talk about subjects of various depth, things that bother and enlighten me both on the surface and in the deepest reaches of my mind. you can't do that with a lot of guys... not to put any guys down. not at all, but even when i hear two boys talking about serious subjects, they don't discuss it with the same explorative and revealing nature that females talk in...



or maybe everything i just said is bullshit.
*shrug*

i look around and think "this is everything i know."

but i learn rather quickly.


we went to any place we could find that was off limits, climbing fences, skirting barbed wire and cursing all along. we drove ourselves nearly mad in the half-black light, trying to move, trying not to shiver. finally we ended up in a dirty corner of a neighborhood that smelled like crude waste and sweat. we stopped and leaned against each other, catching up with time, slowing our breaths. he said, don't let anyone catch a glimpse of you when you're not thinking--the void will be apparent in your eyes. i looked back at him, grimaced with the pain in my sides from running, and spit on the floor. both of us should stop smoking, we could have gotten further if only we could run faster. yeah, he said, but the distance doesn't matter--as long as it's dark.











i was watching Atonement the other day--another one of those beautiful joe wright movies that always distract me from the writing by forcing gorgeous, irresistible images into my mind. there's a line that briony uses to explain the ease of writing: "...if you write a story, you only have to say the word ‘castle’ and you can see the towers and the woods and the village below..."
maybe because she's just a little girl at the time, and thus her thoughts must be simpler, but i completely disagree with her. yes, if i write the word "castle," you see all these things, but it's up to the writer to add the layers of emotion and significance that can't be visually perceived through reading. and that's what makes writing so hard. i say "bruise," but it takes me several sentences more to explain why the bruise truly hurts, and what receiving it has done to me. i say "song," and the depth of feeling i allot to that song can't be immediately absorbed...

writing is frustratingly difficult for me these days. and i guess that's one of the reasons why...

miss me?

damn, it's been a while.
i still haven't unpacked *sheepish*
back from korea & ny & edc. i can't even begin to describe everything that happened. korea and new york were absolutely amazing; definitely the most amazing start to any summer i've had. and edc was just... O_O rolled my ass off and had the time of my life.

for the rest of the summer, i want to go to hard in august, and somehow make a trip to santa barbara... should be fun :]

i need new heels& i need to lose weight.
let's start the day off with a few lines...

for lack of words

I look like this today:






This morning at 3, I looked like this:






I've been feeling like this since yesterday:







I can't wait to go to Korea. I need a change of pace. -__-

ERIC (3). Fireworks. Nothing.

It's 230am; I stumble into the house, clean up, and continue with Eric's entries...





Here's another thing about me that I find paradoxical:

Usually when someone has caught my attention, I will tell him so. I'll be direct and say, "I like you/I'm attracted to you." For the longest time I was under the assumption that I did this in order to allow my emotions room to breathe, give me the satisfaction of having at least let the person know. To achieve some form of satisfaction within myself.
BUT
Perhaps because I've only said "I like you" to one other guy, and all the other times it's been "I'm attracted to you," or perhaps because I've been oblivious to myself all along, or, even better, perhaps because my feelings are not reciprocated, I've discovered that, at least with Eric, the opposite is really the truth.
There is no unburdening of emotion. There is no satisfaction, just the undying push and pull of wanting and fearing hope.

I can't help myself.

He says things that push the wave of affection to its crest: "I could picture myself dating you," "You will see me again..." and I'm forced to devote all my energy into trying to dampen the seemingly inevitable rise of simple, unadulterated wishfulness, the kind that whispers words like "maybe" while instilling sudden, unanticipated urges to feel his hair, or place a light touch on his elbow.

so glad i found:

http://www.appendix-mag.com/



Very much worth a look.







Morning:
>Went to the last graduation rehearsal, scared the shit out of the fob sitting next to me, and read two stories in the short story collection I'm currently reading.

Afternoon:
>Bought black flats for graduation (I now have a personal vendetta against astroturf)& also purchased a great t-shirt
>Received an entirely unexpected call from George, who picked me up shortly after
>Ate at Mr. G's Pizza with George; Mayur eventually joined &eventually crossed the parking lot for coffee.
>Hung out with those two until Joann came; Mayur and George left a bit after when the former had to go to class

Evening:
>Stayed at Starbucks with Joann, talking, until about 9
>Now currently chilling at home until Eric comes to take me to the beach.



It was so, so nice to talk to Joann again. I loved hearing about her classes at MIT and her experiences there. And her boyfriend~!
I missed her so much throughout this entire school year; soon I'll be on the same coast as her again, though...

While she and I were at Starbucks, talking on the plushy chairs, a group of about 5 people came in together and sat down near us. At first I thought it was a little strange I didn't hear them greet each other, but it was then apparent that they were all deaf.
While Joann and I discussed our separate lives, the people next to us moved their hands, communicating with as much as we did. Once in a while, I glanced at them to watch their hands move. Eventually, I spoke to Joann, "You know, what these people are doing is amazing. I've never seen a group of deaf people communicating in public like this." She and I talked about communication and the wonders of being able to speak to another individual, deeply and surely, without really saying anything at all.
It completed the evening, I think, sitting their with an old friend, in slight awe of something so simple, yet so complex as communication. It really was beautiful, how expressive the emotions were, and how their entire bodies seemed to compensate for lack of speech: the angles of their bodies, the inward leaning of postures, and the intensity of their gazes.
I wanted to tell them that they were all inspiring, but I realized that they wouldn't be able to hear me.

I was reminded of this

it depends on what you value.

.


Mr G, just because I don't go to the beach doesn't necessarily mean that I won't take my bag elsewhere, or that "bad things" won't "ensue."
Location isn't necessarily a factor.
Unless, of course, you were thinking about the increased possibility of danger, imagining that I'd throw myself into the ocean while under the influence, or something...

I guess.




I was a good girl and video chatted with Todd instead of going out to the beach.
But.. I'm leaving soon to go somewhere else and I'm going to the beach tomorrow.

Mwahaha.

ERIC (2)

This boy and his demands, I swear.


It is now 4:40am, and no, I still have not slept.


I've never actually told him that I've had feelings for him. Those words were never directly stated, in fact, knowing me, I may not even be capable of saying them.
We've skirted around the issue, though, often enough for him to get the point, I think. I remember once he told me that once he saw a girl... choosing certain lifestyle habits, he could never be interested in them romantically. I remember cringing inwardly as soon as he told me that, the weight of possibility disappearing without a backward glance and leaving behind a heaviness greater than that of possibility itself.
I was foolish, though, to expect in the first place. It's just that he's so nice at times that I can't help myself.
Sometimes, when I'm out late, or early, depending on how you look at it, I'll think of him and what he said, and how he never really pressures me to quit anything, but sometimes he'll tell me that I shouldn't, that I mustn't. Like when I'm racking lines on CD cases, or sitting on railroad tracks, smoking, walking through streets slightly buzzed.
But to be honest, such thoughts have the unfortunate effect of pushing me closer to recklessness; I think about him, then rack another line, take another drag, take another swig. Maybe to forget or to avoid; knowing me, probably a bit of both.
Not that it really matters, anyway.

To be honest, there's still a slight tugging. When he says he'll take me to the beach, when he calls me funny, when he mentions fireworks. I try and ignore it, always, but I've never been one to completely deny things; I have to admit that it's there, tugging...

mission. blow.

And success.




It is 3am. I can not sleep. Fairly blown, if you know what I mean.



A this point that's kind of all I have to say. I need to write, pen to paper. Typing just doesn't cut it at times. I don't particularly have anything to write, but whenever I feel this need to project outwards, to be outside of myself, to purge, to rid the excess...

you make my need to explode overpower my need to implode.

I fall victim to this need.
is this treason?





Do you remember that one time I took a Sharpie while you were half-sleeping on my bed, and right underneath your belly button, I wrote "MINE" with an arrow pointing downward?
You opened your eyes, looked down to read it and laughed before catching my eyes and murmuring, "Okay."
I smiled back and told myself that it may not necessarily be a good thing. I think you knew that already, though, so I said nothing and tossed the Sharpie on my desk before crawling over the length of your body as I grinned, almost frightened by the emotions I felt as I watched you close your eyes and lean back, a lazy smile on your face. I kissed your chin, you nose, and the space between your eyes before putting my head on your chest and pressing my body close, lying on top of you. Your arms enclose me, and I think we sighed together as we relaxed, ready to fall asleep but knowing that we never would.


I once taught myself what worth was.
This implies that I once knew.
(Yet
so often the mind wakes and unravels at once, losing beats and phrases, leaving the body and consciousness to falter with what's left--
halves of emotions and the empty memory of having once been satiated--
leaving the rest of me to fall under the weight of my own palm.
So often the mind works like a swelling tide against the direction of what one desires.)
But now
I feel as though I've left myself: my better half has decided that I no longer deserve attention. I'm worthless.

it is entirely possible to desire too much

Journal entry. Monday, 25 May.


Every day I'm preoccupied with the struggle of producing something new--a defining moment, a voice, an action--to mark me as unique to constitute an answer to the question of "who are you?" or, more often "who were you?"
Every day I'm faced with the same question and I wonder if I'm destined to be remembered for refusing to answer. But still, my "answers" are no longer answers--no single solution could possibly gather up all the loose ends and frayed arguments that result from my human presence in this world.
So instead of answering I end up producing an enormous supply of commentaries and ramblings on questions of myself, but the nagging insistent thought that remains is how long this pathetic commentary could stay useful, or even entertaining.
Am I worthwhile? Do I make sense?
So I continue to look to seek while suffering at the hand of my own self-awareness, even as this suffering unfolds a kind of existence that makes such awareness increasingly impersonal and difficult to reconcile with the self. I don't know if I should thus abandon awareness to live solely for the self or pursue awareness to replace the self.
It becomes so difficult, therefore, to imagine me.
It becomes so difficult, I mean, to reduce my life to a single, allegorical truth.
I am both the narrator and the spectator of my experiences, although I desire to be neither.

ERIC

happy now?

this guy's one of the two people in my life i've ever called "oppa," so i will acquiesce to a blog entry, at least.


what's odd is that we don't necessarily talk all that often. ever since i've stopped technically being his student, the majority of our conversations take place online, but when we do talk, for some reason i end up wanting to transfer bits of our discussions into my personal journal. even though most of what he says is just.. half-witty commentary.
he makes me think, is what i mean.

i really hope he doesn't buy me that book for graduation. i can't help getting slightly emotional when people buy me books and journals. call me a nerd, but that will never change.
i suppose he won't, though, since it's rather difficult to get.
self-preservation, really. that's all. i don't like feeling emotional weight with people i can't afford to have such a connection with, and as i told lily earlier, i'm somewhat of an expert at cutting off any burgeoning emotional ties. but i usually accomplish that through distance, harsh honesty, and intentional wrongdoing, and i don't want to do that with him.

i react to him as i would a natural event. like rain, or the crevices of light in between dark clouds. or a moving tide. he reacts to himself as a realization waiting to happen. at least that's what it seems like from the time i've known him.
i could be wrong. see, he's another one of those people i know who always seem as if they're waiting for something, but sometimes it turns out that those people already found what they were looking for, they just didn't like what they found.
if he is waiting, though, he waits more patiently than others, not faltering before the spectacle of life like a lot of people do.

to be honest, sometimes i feel small around him. particularly when we come into physical contact. yes, i realize that that's rather contradictory to my nature; when i see a boy i like all i want to do is touch and feel. but with eric, even a accidental brush of the body as he passes by makes me want to lean, not necessarily away from him, but further into myself. this could be for a lot of reasons. i'm not sure of any of them, so i won't take the time here to talk about them.
last time we saw each other, he gave me this half-hug, and it's not like i saw stars and felt explosions, but it was too surprising for me to actually register until after the fact.

but i think i've gone through a lot of quiet little discoveries like that around him.


During moments like these I faltered. I tricked myself out of desolation; I could not tell if I was moving or moved. And such feelings seemed to contradict me, the way love seemed to contradict itself and its lovers with a sweeping gesture that traveled as much as it trapped.
--pamela lu

the boys i've kissed

Today I went to school at in the middle of 5th period. I was walking down my block, smoking a cig, then off in the distance I saw a car coming up that looked suspiciously like my father's Audi TT. No one ever drives that car, so I was fairly confused. I hid my cigarette behind the clipboard I was carrying anyway. The car came closer and pulled over to my side of the sidewalk, and I thought, Holy FUCK that's my mother.
I slipped the cig in between the pages of my agenda and put it out as I waved hello to her.
Dammit.







When the earth was still flat, I met a lovely boy named Pascal. I told him that I'd be whatever he wanted me to be, just because he was beautiful enough to listen to without feeling guilty about it.
And then I think I did become what he wanted me to be. I spent a few weeks that way, moving this way and that, dancing with him. I don't know how it happened. Suddenly we were one.
My steps were his. His steps were mine.
It's wonderful. It's all kinds of amazing. But I'm only who we wants me to be, not who I was before. Had to lose myself in order to clear out my insides for his wills and dreams for the two of us. You give and take and end up here. The view's great, but sometimes the way the clouds lift makes you think of nostalgia and the person you were before.

entertainment rather than salvation

After we were done, I went to the bathroom and tried to vomit. It didn't work, unfortunately.



I was flipping through Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close today, reading over my highlighted sections, the little phrases I've marked, and I noticed this one:

Being with him made my brain quiet. I didn't have to invent a thing.

I immediately thought of C. I called him today, but he seemed so tired that I just told him we could talk later. The other night, I found an old picture of him in my room, from when he was in eighth grade and I was in sixth. We had gone to New York, and we were sitting in Hard Rock Cafe. He looks so different, so young. I remember he said that I was such a tease on that trip...





Dear Neil,

I've reached a definite standstill. The only directions that are open to me are the ones I'm sick and tired of. The only way I want to go is still closed to me, as of yet.
And what can I do? Stand still? Turn in circles? The pause of time, its laziness and intolerable quiet, ebbs at the edge of my bones... It's tiring in the worst way possible: I'm drenched in an exhaustion that results from doing noting. Doing nothing and waiting.
There's no cure for this.

service

I get home at 5:20am. I still can't sleep.










I am the inside of an oil drum--black, thick, resistant sludge drips the length of my bones like soiled perspiration, like the rotting sap of a tree riddled with the carcasses of chewed insects, like spoiled honey, and like saliva from the lips of someone who has just vomited.
I am this empty.
I am this dirty.
On the inside, I accumulate mold and bacteria, dirt and body fluids. The scum reaches outward, seeping out every orifice--I'm blinded, muted, deafened, immobilized...
This is suffocation, and this is my life.

reformatted poem from ages ago

metro centre parking lot

He called her anyway.
The air outside the car was cold enough to make her conscious of her body as she stepped out of the back seat, pulling her cardigan back on.
“Go ahead and call her. It’s okay.”
During moments like this she let herself give in to the stereotypes of her gender, saying things that she didn’t mean and always expecting the man to understand her true intentions. He didn’t; he never does. But she understood that he didn’t know and left her thoughts unsaid for the moment because she was tired of her saying what was on her mind when he could only meet her halfway, even when trying his best to understand.
He walked away as he dialed and faintly heard him say hello over the sound of her feet dragging on the cement. The street light cast a heavy shadow as she walked toward the nearby gas station. The sounds of car engines and people talking grew as she got near, and the sudden presence of strangers made her feel isolated. She had gotten used to the quiet and the stillness, the voices of two people, the intimacy, and the softness.
“Could I get the keys to the restroom, please?” The cashier pointed to the counter where the key lay, strung onto a rusty piece of metal that looked like it had been chewed on and dropped into the toilet too many times. The inside of the restroom had the same air of soiled indifference. The soap smelled too harsh and mold sat comfortably in the crease where the sink meets the wall. After washing her hands she leaned against the empty paper towel dispenser, wiping her palms on her jeans. She didn’t want to go back yet.
They had too deep a history to be rid of each other, even if they wanted to. She had moments when she wanted to forget his presence in her life, when she needed to create some distance. Even when they didn’t speak for a year because of all his betrayals and the layers of tension he refused to resolve, he still had some presence in her life. She always wrote about him, and so much of her creative energy stemmed from their relationship. When she painted, she could tell that he was, in some way, her muse. And she supposed it was the same with him; she never apologized to anyone as sincerely as he did to her, and no one made him feel more ashamed for his past actions. Although, she had to admit, he had never done anything so shameful to anyone else either.
Now they were at a point in their relationship where familiarity transcended intimacy and anger, where they still didn’t understand each other, and sometimes they didn’t want to, but ignorance was just accepted as another aspect of their closeness. They had gone through so much that whatever was to come couldn’t be significant enough to pry them apart.
Constantly, she asked herself if she wanted this. What did he think about their relationship? She never knew, and any serious talk about it couldn’t avoid the mention of the past, the history that was the ever threatening ghost, drifting in and out of their relationship, sparking anger and mistrust at awkward intervals.
Earlier in the day, she had told him, “I hate it when the guys I fuck talk with their ex-girlfriends or some other girl in their lives right after sex. I hate it. I don’t know why—it’s not like I even care about the emotion in sex or its sacredness and shit, but it makes me feel like nothing more than a whore when that happens. It’s so fucking… disrespectful. And dirty.”
That was less than seven hours ago.
The fact that he called her anyway made her question so many things; did he remember, or was he just insensitive; did he feel sorry again, and was he planning on apologizing. But this was one of those nights when she couldn’t think about questions like that. The handle of the restroom door was cold, and as she walked to the car, she slowed down when she saw that he was still on the phone. She hadn’t waited long enough. She lingered underneath the street light, watching that shadow of hers.
When he hung up he started to walk over to her, but she turned around and reached him before he came underneath the light. She didn’t want to see his face. In the car it still smelled of him and of her, of sweat and of sweetness, and the hint of warmth reminded her of home, for some reason.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry about calling her.”
“It’s okay. I told you to.”
“I know.”
She lit a cigarette; the flame cast her face in a strange orange glow, and he thought that she looked beautiful, but that she had lied when she said she was feeling okay. But that was alright, since both of them told small lies to each other, leaving truth for bigger things because in the past, big lies had bled them dry.

unlikely at this point.

want is too complicated. i wish i was free of it, and i wish i really could travel to the edge of the earth and jump, without holding anyone's hand, without screaming, without thinking, just falling and feeling the weight of the world drift upwards, off my shoulders.
i wish i could be so free, just for a moment or two.



maybe because of my deteriorating relationship with my mother, or maybe because i'm so ready to leave, or maybe because i've been trying to quit smoking, i've been kind of down these days. i was walking to school and i passed large outgrowth of honeysuckles; i smelled them before i saw them, and i almost smiled. i love that scent. i was about to light a cigarette, but i felt bad about ruining the smell with the stench of tobacco, so i walked to the other side of the street and lit it before turning around to watch the little yellow and white flowers, softly dancing in the morning breeze. the sun hadn't shed its clouds yet, and i felt this small spark of uninhibited bliss. i realized that i haven't felt that way in a weeks.

whenever i feel like this, i make an effort to find out what the problem is and fix it, get back to my fast-paced self again, but it's not working.

the fact that i need adderall feel halfway decent when taking my AP tests doesn't help. the fact that the season finale of house ended so sadly didn't help.

as of now, i just want to stand in front of a Rothko and lose myself.

current read: valley of the dolls, jacqueline susann (don't judge me)
current listen: lykke li



stretched on the floor with our underwear on, we looked up at the sky, the night's wind drifting in from the window to lift our hair. we didn't touch, flattened against the white carpet, silent and eyes wide open. we burned the roof with our eyes, blood pumping and thoughts flatlined. i didn't know what to say, and you didn't know how to feel. it was cold and it was dark. the city wasn't brimming in the same way it used to--it was teeming.
but it was quiet and still inside. i wanted to tell you that eventually, this endlessness would go away, but i wasn't sure enough to say anything.

i don't care what you say.. i like love story.

i say that proudly, too.





and who can pass up coldplay?

red cactus

.


my eyes hurt.

the weather's been so off these days.

i've realized that if i don't want people to judge me, i should stop telling them things. i hate feeling as though i've disappointed people; someone will judge my character negatively based on very superficial things, without truly knowing who i am, and i'll feel as though i have some obligation towards them, as if i've done something wrong, when i shouldn't. they're the one's being judgemental. i don't owe them anything. i shouldn't feel remorseful in the slightest.
but for some reason, i do.
and i kind of hate it.



another one of mine, using sheet music:









i heard that a covenant was made using my blood, without my knowing; the earth split as the words were spoken, the birds flew higher than they should in awe, and the sun repealed its efforts, leaving the cities empty with only the vague echo of light.

tell me what you see

i have this urge to look into his face and find something that will come nearer to me without my beckoning. i want to touch the bridge of his nose and feel the slope that rests in between the eyes; i want to brush a nail against his eyebrows and trace a line from his lower eyelashes to his chin; i want to crook my finger and fit my knuckle vertically along the dip above his lip; i want to run the pads of my fingers slowly across his mouth.

i want to do this all without wondering what he's thinking--i want it to be that familiar, that close, that intimate.





one of mine. inspired by kaoss/chaos pads:

digging illegal meat

.


April was a month of seduction and cocaine and loss.
I'm not sure what May will be, but I'm graduating in less than a month, so I'm sure there will be plenty of happiness and fucking up.

I've realized that sometimes, all I want to do is play free cell with my Shakespeare playing cards, sitting on the sidewalk with my legs folded, staring at the face of Mr. Bill Shakespeare with a cig in between my teeth. Other times I want to run until I collapse from the duress. Other times I want to wrap presents for people whom I've never met, so I can imagine faceless beings filled with joy when they open gifts sent only with the best of intentions.




Covenant
This is a recent sculpture of mine; inspired by the covenant Moses and his people made with God after receiving the Ten Commandments.

i want a subwoofer system on my time machine. boom.

.






moshi moshi everyone !

i haven't been around lately. sorry. i just haven't been on my computer lately, or home lately, or quiet enough to actually sit down and write a blog entry.

i still love you, though.

so, since the last post, i went to coachella for all three days and back, went to the railroad tracks and back, went to half falling in love and back, and called mary and chris and tried to tell them in my own way, how much i love them both.

since the last post, my throat has been fucked up from the sudden increase of cigarettes, my mind has been wired from adderall and other lovely delicious things that go boom inside, and my journal has been sitting all by it's lonesome; it's hard to write these days.

how have all of you been, though ?










you'll go home. you'll find that home is not home anymore; then the sky will break... but as long as you stay here, you can always think to yourself: one day, i'll go home... no?
fantastic logic, love--so i have a home to go to as long as i don't go there.
exactly; you don't really have a home until you leave it, and then, when you've left it, getting back is impossible.

Message from the dirt floor. Message from the E crazed and the fucked face.

It has been a while, my friends.

How is everyone?




So, haven't been home in a while. I called Jon yesterday and he was rude. I had a cream puff today and I had lemon sorbet today and I had a drunk boy today.

Alright.
I feel so shitfaced and fucked, but who's keeping track?
I miss Mary, and I want to see Lily. And I want to go to San Francisco so that I can see Domo.
I need to start finding some girlfriends that I can actually hang out with often. Damn. All this testosterone is really getting to me.





Love. Me.



The thing is, he encounters. He ENCOUNTERS. At times only witnessing, but always moving through events that can not be, as they are with others, separated from his life so that he is constantly carrying several lives with him at once that can only be perceived as a collection of partial narratives too bright and complex to be absorbed and understood in one lifetime--except that he has, is, carries, only exactly one life at all times.
It's too much. Really. Sometimes it's too much.

He's leaving me to falter before a spectacle whose mystery and unbelievable beauty is distanced, fading precisely because I keep backing away from it, thinking with every step that it might pull me back with a question in his eyes: Where are you going? Why are you leaving me?
But I falter, and he is ever the spectacle.

"home"

.




I'm going to NYU :]

no crash. no bang.

Love letter, No. 2

In defense, I never thought this day would come. I never understood that we might be able to know each other, and never thought that the languages that give us speech and heart would be understood. I knew you and you knew me. In the beginning, both of us thought it an impossibility.



J

You and your exuberant, symphonic self. Shit, everything you can’t keep within yourself you allow to spill out, like music, like a performer losing control on stage. You perform for this beloved audience, belonging to the world, although the world never reciprocates and belongs to you. I’m always catching up to you, aren’t I. You became yourself so long ago, but here I am, becoming more and more like myself everyday, falling behind with the new ideas that expire before I can reach them.

Not that it matters.

See, for the longest time I found it difficult to talk to you, thinking that we’d forever be untranslatable to each other and thus the possibility of conversation would always escape us. Your self-assurance and your easy, breezy sublimation of daily anxieties that belied your so apparent yet all too easily forgettable fragility made me want to kiss you and hurt you and uncover you and bury you all at once. But then I think we found that, a fait accompli, we became a “we,” without any choice in the matter. People used to tell me that I have too much spirit for my circumstances. And your spirit was never ending, unseen like the wind and the most forceful gale to ever sway me.

So nothing else mattered.

You convinced me that I existed. Disregarding our masochistic need (everyone’s masochistic need) to be conflicted and stay that way, we held mirrors for each other and peeled the second faces off so that the heat emanating from the first, true ones could finally be released. We mingled. We borrowed languages from each other to add more to our names. Nothing else mattered. You always acted like the war reporter who was born after the negotiating of peace, unable to understand the news around you or comprehend the terms of peace. By those terms, I’m forever acting like the war-stricken veteran, inanely rambling a steady stream of dialogue that consists of questions constantly answering itself and never arriving anywhere, too sarcastic and ironic to sound like any language. At least not one you could discern. Too much emotion there; not knowing what to do with them all, we involuntarily let them escape, revealing them so we could live beside each other.

You
mattered.

You still matter; you’re the fragile extension of myself that I keep closer to me than anything, like utopia and like memory, to assure myself that I am, indeed me. I am the darker half of you. I yearned to be nostalgic for childhood even when I was a child, and then we met and there was no such thing as growing up, so remembering and childhood and youth became one and nothing mattered. Everything was everywhere all at once: we were everything and everywhere all at once. We were, we are, the raw and trembling energy, music, motion that can only be boiled down to “feeling,” forever moving and dancing, speaking in tongues and meeting halfway to grant peace and comprehension, forever living like so, forever loving.

We’re assaulted and overwhelmed by memories that always seem as though they’re not ours, but nonetheless feel like they’ve happened to us. We own them, just as we own each other.

loose

.


Reading: Closer, Patrick Marber; Diary, Chuck Palahniuk
Listening: Soulwax; Fleet Foxes
Watching: Skins




I think back to my childhood and I remember barbecued chicken and fruit pie, never getting along with my younger sister, and reading because real-life people were generally much less interesting than those I met in books. I remember going to the bookstore a lot. I remember fighting with my mother a lot. My mother’s the kind of mother who doesn’t see/know a difference between “doing this to her” and “doing this for me.” But really, I grew up on Kerouac and Kesey, Palahniuk and Bukowski, Vonnegut and Heller. I never had anything that I could call a relationship with my father, but I was raised by men. In spite of all my mother’s Presbyterian teaching/preaching, I was raised by men. Of the beatnik/post-war/nihilist type.

I think back to my adolescence now and mostly remember only the feelings; numbness and provocation, feeling lusty and wanting to be close to the next boy, and eventually girl, that I came across and found attractive. Feeling wonderful. Feeling high. Feeling attractive. My friend theorized that a “social buzz” scale existed—the higher the number, the more fucking awesome you felt. I don’t clearly remember ever reaching that ten, but I’m sure I have several times. That’s basically how I remember adolescence, at least, that’s how I remember the parts of it that I want to remember.

The parts that I don’t want to remember come to me in emotions too. Feeling like I want to run away from home. Feeling like drinking myself to death. Feeling like the scum of the earth underneath my parents’ noses, making them sneer. Feeling judged, wanting to say that it takes one to fucking know one, so don’t judge me because I’m sure that if we were to lay out our honest opinions of each other, I’d figuratively cut your pretty little throat and bleed you dry. I remember miscommunication and fat culture gaps that made me ashamed of who I wanted to be, confused and unaware and frightened of who I wanted to be. I still want the same things, but I haven’t quite gotten rid of the feelings yet. My vision for the future is relatively the same, it’s just the present that I live differently.

Bless your body, bless your soul

pray for peace and self-control...


This is the world we live in
-- The Killers

Explain to me how Franz Ferdinand rocks my world.
Like sex and lucid dreams.

Today, I feel a little lighter inside. I had some herbal tonic from Arizona, which was nice. I also went to school in the middle of second period after having written a ten page essay the night before. Had two cigs while walking to school and felt productive with my nice shades on and a thermos of coffee in my hand and cig& iPod in the other. It was nice.

I want to lose more weight.



I don't have a simple answer, but I think I can answer with something better. I can at least take your hands and tell you that I don't care if they're clammy. I can at least touch your denim covered knee and trail my hand upwards. I can at least make you think of nothing else but the physical sensation of two bodies touching... that's more than a lot of people can say.
And I can give you freedom if you are willing enough to be vulnerable enough to let me in. I can teach you to fly if you'll look my way and touch my wings. I can give you small spurts of joy, intensity, sadness, growth, and an irrevocable sense of peace.
If you let me.

domoneeek is back!

Since my last post...


Thurs: MOCA meeting, then went to Pasadena with R and tried to find coffee.

Fri: Deadline night; I had a very long, very candid conversation with A, which was enlightening at least and entertaining at most. Afterwards, went to Guppy House with D for food; I didn't know that the Guppy House was open until the early hours of the morning, but it's nice to know.

Sat: Oy vey. Had 2 hours of sleep and did some work before going to MOCA... Once there, set up for TEEN NIGHT. Bwahahaha. Which was absolutely delicious...
left MOCA with R, then went to C&J's and had... well, fun, I'll say. then there was a fight, the house shook and Q and I sat in disbelief in the back room of the house. J stumbled in with blood everywhere. The cops eventually came, we scrambled to hide things, and after interrogating everyone, R asked the police if he could take his girlfriend home, and the two of us left...
A rather frightening night.
Came home and tried to sleep, to no avail.

Sun: Went to an anti-homophobia/gay rights youth rally in LA... marched and marched and yelled and yelled. Also went for dim sum for lunch and La Golondrina for dindin.
Came home and had a phone/text conversation with C that made me want to cry. Tutored someone from Walnut before trying to sleep.
To no avail. At least until 5 in the morning or so.

I'm tired.





He's very beautiful.

He was trying to put a poster on his wall. I was sitting on his airbed when he asked me if it looked straight,and I said no. The right side's a little lower. He asked me to get him a piece of tape, telling me that there are scissors on the shelf next to me. Before he finished his sentence I had already ripped it with my teeth. "Or, I guess you could resort to animalistic behavior."
"What if I happen to enjoy animalistic behavior."
"I figured. You seem like the type."
"Why?"
He never answered.

The fight was scary. Halfway, he walked in with a knife in his hand and said "shit" before hiding the knife and leaving again.

When he came back home, he asked me how I was doing, and I looked at him once before looking away again. "Ah. It's one of those days, huh." He then asked me if I wanted to share a bowl, but I said no.
"Weed fucks me up."
"..Like I said, want half?"

We were walking to the living room, and he let me go in front of him, saying "Ladies first."
"Bullshit."
"Chivalry is dead?"
"Yep."
"Damn, so I can't play that card."
"I wasn't aware that you were trying to play any cards."

His voice is... throaty, in a sense. Not in a raspy manner, but when he speaks, there's a slight crackle to his 'r' and his vowels. I can imagine that against my ear. That's not a good thing, but I can't help but smile whenever I hear his voice close to me.

He asked me to hold the chair while he was taping that poster. After he was done, I pushed the chair with my foot and made him go round and round.

When all of use were outside, waiting for the police to talk to each one of us, I was shivering in a chair as he stood next to me.
"It's cold."
"There's a difference..."
"Difference between what?"
"There's a difference between cold and..."
"..Hmmm?"
"Nevermind. Just remind me to explain to you later."

But I never got to ask because R took me home so soon after we were cleared. I'm afraid that he won't remember what he was going to say next time I see him.

tell me why i can't wake up and start the day over again

classical greek mythology says that humans were originally combined with four arms, four legs, and a single head made of two faces.
zeus feared their powers and split them all in half, condemning them to spend the rest of their lives searching for their other half to complete them.

one cigarette left

i feel like i'm connected to him by a bridge of memory, a tenuous and ever-present stream of fleeting images, thoughts, words, emotions, that remind us forcefully of each other... we don't speak to each other yet we ... do in a way. in our minds, by reliving conversations, taking joy in those recollections.
it's as though...we've transcended the physical?
and we've always been able to connect more with silence than with conversation, i suppose. our relationship is... felt out, not talked out. talking it out leads to disaster and misunderstanding, which causes tension, angry glances, deep resentment. and now that we're so far removed from each other, i feel more connected to him in my thoughts as though i'm maintaining a relationship with the memory of him, and not him... is this a step backwards?
i don't really know what i'd say to him if i saw him. i think i'd just want to hold him close to me and breath him, kiss him, and sigh... it's odd, being away but still feeling.

c'est assez pour maintenant.

e & i would never work.

i would love him & maybe he would love me. but, nonetheless, i'd give myself to him in a way i've never given myself to anyone, like a timidly and carefully wrapped gift. and he'd open me up & discover that i'm not the gift he expected, but he'd smile and nod and say thank you all the same, because he's kind like that, then that fragile falsehood of appreciation and those callously let down expectations would eat us apart.

which makes me a little sad. because i really think i could love him. i could love myself for him, even.

but its okay, because he still listens to me and puts up with my oddities when i need someone to simply accept and tolerate.

he's good at that.






he's just one of those guys i know whose presence in my life is heavy with possibility, and maybe desire too. because i can think of him when i'm happy and when i'm sad. because i want to know what he thinks of me and of the beach. because i want to be able to know, even only once, exactly how he kisses girls he really likes, and because i want to be able to matter enough to him to be able to see him years from now with a wide grin on my face.

because i want to dance and sleep and yell and scream in front of him, and have that be a natural thing.

i guess what i'm trying to say is that it would be nice for a guy like him to be familiar to me. i think familiarity with a guy like him would be a very peaceful, and beautiful thing.

with insomnia, you're never really asleep. you're never really awake.

friday night/saturday morning... i revisited an old habit while at c&j's. it was a very, very entertaining night if i may say so myself. not necessarily all that great for my health, but too fun for me to care, if you get my gist.
so much for my resolution to stay clean.
then on saturday i went in for work @ moca for 6 hours... which was actually a lot more stressful than anticipated. then met with ana to finish the editor-in-chief app for next year...


life has been very hectic and full.

"je pense donc je suis." i think therefore i am.
and with the amount of thinking that i do, i must be a fucking god.
i "am" too much. everywhere.



listening: machine slublime --vive la fete
reading: one flew over the cuckoo's nest --ken kesey
watching: shakespeare in love


the world is bright.


oh yes. in other news: i got accepted into nyu, which is very heartening. r took me out for coffee tonight as a little "celebration." he really is a darling. i like that he's in my life, and i like even more that i'm in his.





when i'm alone, i like to listen to songs from every facet of the music spectrum-- give me wagner and puccini, daft punk and justice, the doors and queen--and sway, gentle, or shake and tremble to the quiet, urgent, soothing, brilliant beats. just so i can feel. just so i can be, in a sense, affected by music song dance melody rhythm.


...ah .

to snort or not to snort

that is the question.



i want to have fun tonight. i want to laugh and not have sex and be close with others tonight. i want to be really cheerful tonight, and i want to be free tonight.

no one stops me, so i might as well.

what do i always say?
icarus, take me with you.

my mother

is an absolutely amazing person.
the best Christian
i know.
one of those give all types
of mothers
who always say
why are you doing this to me.

i used to say that
i never want to be like her,
a shackled domestic
engineer
who never votes.
so i did everything she wouldn't do
thinking that i could
figure something out
that way
through the smoke
and twisted branches.

and i will never be
an absolutely amazing person
or
the best Christian
you know
and i won't ever
give all

because i could never be like my mother
even after
the smoke clears
and the branches
straighten out

because she always asked
why are you doing this to me
and i found
that there's no difference

between doing this to her
and doing this
for me.

la vie? c'est un jeu--un jeu d'enfants. et moi?

je suis toujours un enfant.



i went out for a smoke just now; the sun was bright and the sky was clean, and as a gentle breeze brushed against my temple, i wanted to look at my reflection and say, clearly, "don't fuck this up. do not fuck this up."

this is a restless night we face, isn't it.

damn straight, but we're young& we've got fire on our side,
so fuck all and run.



my eyes have been blood red all day, which has led to A thinking that i'm completely faded, and J looking at me funny.



this is going to be another long post.



today (which is now yesterday, since it's now past 2am):
told my mother that i was sicker than i really am, crawled back to bed& woke up around noon. turned off the stove that my mother forgot to check on. the rice cake didn't burn, though--it oddly turned to mush.
@ around 6pm, i went out with R.
i never really know where i'll end up when i go out with R.
we ended up in venice. he needed to go to the municipal court around there to clear something up for a ticket, and so we went to the beach at night, which is something we need to do more often.
got a pair of shades in black and gold. R got two white ones. that boy is always a stickler for white sunglasses.
we trekked down the boardwalk, hoods up and cigarettes clamped in our mouths. i convinced him to get closer to the water, so we walked across the sand barefooted and sat down to watch the tide. the sun was almost done for the day; we watched the sky fade, slowly and with excruciatingly beautiful colors.
the water looked silver. it was so violent and i couldn't hear anything but the waves crashing and the sound of the wind.
i was at peace, with the wind so cold and R's arm around me, hand tucked against the crook of my neck to keep his fingers from going numb.
we stayed until the sun was completely gone, lying down eventually, getting sand in our hair, and talking about things that i can't recall.
when we walked back, we saw the moon. "do you see the rabbit in the moon?" "yeah, i can see it's little ears."
we got back to the car, discovered that he got another parking ticket, cursed the police and damned the fucking po-po's to hell and then attempted to find unurban for half an hour, driving along pico. we were too caffeine starved to care that we couldn't find it, though, so we just drove back to db and hit starbucks before going to fullerton to C and J's house.
they were all smoking weed, or, M was smoking weed. and watching south park.
i pet the cat.
when we went out with C and A to for a cig, we talked... about something concerning profanity on the radio. "i don't get why you can't say shit on the radio when you can say bitch or ass." ""because bitch and ass have technical definitions." "there you go. see, G you're too smart to hang."
I know that's just A being A, but it ... alienates me... when he says things like that. earlier we were discussing my schedule. he asked me what time i get out this year. i said i go 0-6 with 6 APs. "you're a strong girl, G."
fuck, man. that's just the way i run.
they all played rock band, and i crawled on the couch, found a blanket that i decided to steal as soon as i unfolded it, wrapped it around my neck and went in search of J.
when i found him, i asked him, "do you guys have any tea?" "no. i actually don't believe in drinking tea." he tripped out the cat by spinning him on a chair until i told him to stop. poor Lenny.
i uncovered J's yearbook. we spent a good deal of time looking though it, even though he told me not to. R joined us eventually. and M. i laid down on M and R laid down on me and J got up and started kind of ranting about cleaning, or something...shit, i don't know.
J is beautiful. you have to understand that. he's the boy who can't forget about the girl who got away, who wants to be a playwright, who's more close than open, even though a lot of people see him as a window they can jump out of.
R had a cig in J's room before everyone went out to smoke. we were standing around in a circle; some guy who had joined us an hour before named Mo found out i'm still in high school; we talked about museums& acid trips; some people drifted to look at the cat in the window, and i realized that... maybe these guys need to hang out with girls more often. even though they're so fun the way they are. i'm the only girl whenever i see them, and they need more estrogen around them... and i'm not really one to do that.
R and i left shortly after. i held out both hands to J as i was leaving and he gave me double high fives before he turned his hands to me and i hit them both. he winced and said "i sliced my fingers open today," and showed me his two hello kitty bandages.
i told R that when he goes for his morning walk with J tomorrow, he should tell him that i like him.
"he's so cute."
"oh, G."