Transcribed from a journal entry:
12/7/08, 3:30ish am, bed, home
Outside, everything is dressed in a thin mask of snow. It reminded me of that one Christmas we spent in Great Neck, where it started snowing a few hours after we got there. I stepped out the front door and stood, arms out, face and palms up, watching with the purest breed of joy. It was a miracle. Soft, fragile, enveloping. As though the sky were raining dreams. After a while I got cold, and went back inside. It was already night when the snow had started falling, so the scene I woke up to still held awezen*. I must have woken up early, because the streets were deserted. Or maybe people simply didn't want to be out in the cold. I don't know. But I remember the thick carpet of quiet bundled around everything, the trees, the pavement, the broken telephone cord calmly bisecting the street, as if it had every right to be there. The lampposts, the rooftops, but most of all the willow tree. Each tendril had its own delicate coat. The snow had preserved every perfect intricacy of the willow in pristine white. Like something out of a fairtytale. I remember explaining it to Nick last year, on that perfect afternoon where we sat at the window and watched the blizzard swirl, whirl, tumble, and flow about. Right after it snows, when everything is still carpeted in quiet - it looks like someone's face when they are sleeping.
*awezen - that which inspires awe
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Sunday, November 2, 2008
During the Wine-and-Cheese Party
Presenting: A text message written and sent by Carla while drunk to one Adam Bass.
If I were a day, I would contain every sort of weather, my clouds would flow though a myriad of forms, each more fantastic than the last. My winds would plays songs on leaves and lakes and would whisper a thousand inspirations into the ears of poets. My sky would end in flames, followed by a chorus of rain. All would sigh away in a starry night. How is your evening going?
I am a geek, and god do I enjoy it. Being a geek, I mean.
I also like wine. And boys named Adam. And conversations about secrets that break into song in the deep hours of the night.
I should get ready for bed.
If I were a day, I would contain every sort of weather, my clouds would flow though a myriad of forms, each more fantastic than the last. My winds would plays songs on leaves and lakes and would whisper a thousand inspirations into the ears of poets. My sky would end in flames, followed by a chorus of rain. All would sigh away in a starry night. How is your evening going?
I am a geek, and god do I enjoy it. Being a geek, I mean.
I also like wine. And boys named Adam. And conversations about secrets that break into song in the deep hours of the night.
I should get ready for bed.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Carla Loves Autumn
Written on the Yoko Ono, 10/14/08:
There was piano in the background this morning. I think it may have been coming from the Canon, but I'm not sure. The really impressive thing about it was how far it spread. All around main campus, people were cocking their heads at the sound of plinking keys. There was an actual piano. I know it, because the music was louder in some places than others. Unimportant.
What is important is that it was beautiful. No, it'd be more accurate to say that it made other things more beautiful. There is a difference, you know.
Today is one of those beautiful (a word I know I know I over-use) days one sometimes finds in September or November, but really belong to October. Just cold enough to feel awake and autumnal without being frigid. A tilting breeze caresses the trees, carrying away their leaves. As each of them falls, I imagine they are notes from the mysterious piano, gently plinking down.
The breeze swirls back around again, taking with it a whole new flurry of notes. Its melody teases my hair and explores the contours of my face. An ink-wash sky glows on my back, just for a moment, as I breathe in and take the music with me.
There. I've been meaning to transcribe that for a couple days now. The Octoberness of everything is almost making me dizzy. This is my favorite time of year. I can see the lovely, old, slightly eerie lamps that dot their light along the paths from my front window. The wind is even more talkative than usual, buzzing with the ghosts of a thousand leaves as it sweeps its way across my room. An enchanting trumpet tenders its way through my side window, the shyer of the two. I hear crunching footsteps from who-knows-where, and a series of curled, crinkly, little memories tumble against my screens during their descent.
There is a reason Halloween happens in October.
It's a good thing study-days have arrived, because Autumn is tugging at the running, beating core of me, and I really don't think I can sit still for much longer.
There was piano in the background this morning. I think it may have been coming from the Canon, but I'm not sure. The really impressive thing about it was how far it spread. All around main campus, people were cocking their heads at the sound of plinking keys. There was an actual piano. I know it, because the music was louder in some places than others. Unimportant.
What is important is that it was beautiful. No, it'd be more accurate to say that it made other things more beautiful. There is a difference, you know.
Today is one of those beautiful (a word I know I know I over-use) days one sometimes finds in September or November, but really belong to October. Just cold enough to feel awake and autumnal without being frigid. A tilting breeze caresses the trees, carrying away their leaves. As each of them falls, I imagine they are notes from the mysterious piano, gently plinking down.
The breeze swirls back around again, taking with it a whole new flurry of notes. Its melody teases my hair and explores the contours of my face. An ink-wash sky glows on my back, just for a moment, as I breathe in and take the music with me.
There. I've been meaning to transcribe that for a couple days now. The Octoberness of everything is almost making me dizzy. This is my favorite time of year. I can see the lovely, old, slightly eerie lamps that dot their light along the paths from my front window. The wind is even more talkative than usual, buzzing with the ghosts of a thousand leaves as it sweeps its way across my room. An enchanting trumpet tenders its way through my side window, the shyer of the two. I hear crunching footsteps from who-knows-where, and a series of curled, crinkly, little memories tumble against my screens during their descent.
There is a reason Halloween happens in October.
It's a good thing study-days have arrived, because Autumn is tugging at the running, beating core of me, and I really don't think I can sit still for much longer.
Monday, October 13, 2008
When I close my eyes, I am covered in tattoos. They are a mix of stylized images and tribal markings and odd symbols (some of them I know, others I do not) and it all comes together as one giant expression of me. I wish everyone was covered in tattoos, so that I could read them as they walk by. I have been on edge today and wish to calm down.
I wish I could get that damned Dr. Horrible song out of my head.
Meg did a tarot reading for me last night. It was cool. And highly positive. Apparently, I'm doing pretty well for myself. I guess that's true. It all felt true, which is kind of funny, but I guess that's why people believe in fortune-telling in the first place. It's interesting at any rate. She said something to me that meant a lot. She said, "Carla, you can't help but live a wonderful life. It would be against who your are." Actually, I don't remember if she said wonderful, or extraordinary, or what. Hm. But yeah. I wish I could remember exactly what word she used.
I think I should get out of my room.
I wish I could get that damned Dr. Horrible song out of my head.
Meg did a tarot reading for me last night. It was cool. And highly positive. Apparently, I'm doing pretty well for myself. I guess that's true. It all felt true, which is kind of funny, but I guess that's why people believe in fortune-telling in the first place. It's interesting at any rate. She said something to me that meant a lot. She said, "Carla, you can't help but live a wonderful life. It would be against who your are." Actually, I don't remember if she said wonderful, or extraordinary, or what. Hm. But yeah. I wish I could remember exactly what word she used.
I think I should get out of my room.
Friday, October 10, 2008
For the moment, this blog will remain a secret. I type faster than I write, and I don't feel like saving a bunch of silly rantings to my computer.
So, in reading past journals of my life, I have gotten frustrated with myself for being fixated on boys. They are not all I write about, but I really wish that they were a smaller percentage of it.
That being said, I'm going to talk about my current fixation with a boy. It started out as the teeniest of crushes, and now, like an untended stress fracture or an unpruned blackberry bush, has gotten out of hand. It is not an issue of taking up too much pen and paper, it is an issue of taking up far too much of my though time. I could be doing homework, or getting a brilliant idea for a story, or noticing the way the light in the theater building cause cloud patterns to be reflected on the tile floor in an unusual and mesmerizing manner. But no. I have to be thinking about him. And I mean, he's nice to think of to a certain extent... he makes me smile, and then hide my face in my jacket. But there is a such thing as too much. We are getting into pining territory here! I hate pining. Also, I'm out of alcohol.
Flahargablarg!
People are being all social-like outside my room. I think I will do that tomorrow. Maybe if Emily and I see a movie we can invite Taylor and Gowri, and if we invite Taylor and Gowri, maybe we can invite him.
Bah!
A sane person would just ask him out to coffee or something. Let me rephrase. A person who actually had some balls would ask him out to coffee or something.
Why is playwriting only once a week? Why?!
On a side note, I wish playwriting was more than once a week, regardless of the fact that we know have a patter of sitting together and making faces at each other. That class is just made of awesome. Stuart Spencer is my hero.
See, and what's scary is, this is a REAL crush. Like, I had a pretty bad crush on Calder I guess, but... in retrospect, I wonder if it was only because Calder seems like the sort of person who it would make sense for me to have a crush on.
Lukas on the other hand...
He took me on an adventure! What was I supposed to do? And he likes whimsy, and oral story-telling, and macabre stuff, and gets people to act like the children they are, and writes well, and sings well and often and without shame, and has eyes that flash a really bright green when the sun hits them right. And he smells nice.
He adventures!
I... see, I think it's bewildering because I think he might have been showing interest in me. BUT I DON'T KNOW BECAUSE I'M BAD AT THAT SORT OF THING.
Man, it's two in the morning, but I'm not really tired on account of the giant nap I took.
Everywhere I go, I keep looking for him, hoping we'll run into each other. That makes me feel like a creeper.
You know what? I'm probably just extra cranky cause I haven't eaten or done my homework. I think that having done both of those will make me feel better.
So, in reading past journals of my life, I have gotten frustrated with myself for being fixated on boys. They are not all I write about, but I really wish that they were a smaller percentage of it.
That being said, I'm going to talk about my current fixation with a boy. It started out as the teeniest of crushes, and now, like an untended stress fracture or an unpruned blackberry bush, has gotten out of hand. It is not an issue of taking up too much pen and paper, it is an issue of taking up far too much of my though time. I could be doing homework, or getting a brilliant idea for a story, or noticing the way the light in the theater building cause cloud patterns to be reflected on the tile floor in an unusual and mesmerizing manner. But no. I have to be thinking about him. And I mean, he's nice to think of to a certain extent... he makes me smile, and then hide my face in my jacket. But there is a such thing as too much. We are getting into pining territory here! I hate pining. Also, I'm out of alcohol.
Flahargablarg!
People are being all social-like outside my room. I think I will do that tomorrow. Maybe if Emily and I see a movie we can invite Taylor and Gowri, and if we invite Taylor and Gowri, maybe we can invite him.
Bah!
A sane person would just ask him out to coffee or something. Let me rephrase. A person who actually had some balls would ask him out to coffee or something.
Why is playwriting only once a week? Why?!
On a side note, I wish playwriting was more than once a week, regardless of the fact that we know have a patter of sitting together and making faces at each other. That class is just made of awesome. Stuart Spencer is my hero.
See, and what's scary is, this is a REAL crush. Like, I had a pretty bad crush on Calder I guess, but... in retrospect, I wonder if it was only because Calder seems like the sort of person who it would make sense for me to have a crush on.
Lukas on the other hand...
He took me on an adventure! What was I supposed to do? And he likes whimsy, and oral story-telling, and macabre stuff, and gets people to act like the children they are, and writes well, and sings well and often and without shame, and has eyes that flash a really bright green when the sun hits them right. And he smells nice.
He adventures!
I... see, I think it's bewildering because I think he might have been showing interest in me. BUT I DON'T KNOW BECAUSE I'M BAD AT THAT SORT OF THING.
Man, it's two in the morning, but I'm not really tired on account of the giant nap I took.
Everywhere I go, I keep looking for him, hoping we'll run into each other. That makes me feel like a creeper.
You know what? I'm probably just extra cranky cause I haven't eaten or done my homework. I think that having done both of those will make me feel better.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
All Eras End.
In searching through the odd, hodge-podge, treasure-house, wonderland of our grandparents house, Ilian and I came upon an old literary magazine. It appears to have been from a school of some sort, but it does not say where and none of our family members names are on it or in it anywhere. it has beautiful, dark illustrations, and the first poem in it was extremely striking and oddly appropriate for the whole situation. I transcribe it here, though I couldn't tell you why exactly, since I still haven't shared this with the public, but I feel compelled to do so. I transcribe as it is formatted in the book, knowing that phrases would fit differently on that page when they were more than one line than if I went by the standard of this blog, and wish to stay as close to the author's design as possible.
Without any further ado.
Be quiet now and still.
Be unafraid: that hiss and garden tinkle is the rain,
that face you saw breath on the window pane
was just my startled cat with eyes of jade--cats
worry in the rain, you know, and are afraid.
That nervous laugh that creeps into your room is throated
in a phonographic voice below the floor. We hear
it once and then no more, a distant echo tumbling
in its loom. Our time is measured in another room.
We know days pass because we're told.
We lie alone disputing actions on a crazy earth.
(You whisper in my ear it has some worth.)
And I lean near to keep you from the cold.
There are so many things that must be told.
I speak of lost regimes and distant times,
and moon-eyed children smiling in the womb,
and legless beggars prophesying doom,
and afternoons of rain spun into rhyme.
(The patter of the rainfall marks our time
As does the waning moon
or muted sun.
As do the nodding gods who ride the sea.)
For even now, alone and still with me,
you (as I) sense that bonds cannot be undone;
Our pulse is in the rain and moon and sun,
we take our breaths together and are one.
It feels beautiful when spoken out-loud.
I realized today that I will never see that house again.
One thing I have learned in the past year-and-a-half is that life is always hard, even when it's easy.
But I am, mostly, happy.
It is October. It is difficult to say, but October might be my favorite month of the year. Real October started last night. It was very beautiful, and very cold.
Without any further ado.
BE QUIET NOW AND STILL
Be quiet now and still.
Be unafraid: that hiss and garden tinkle is the rain,
that face you saw breath on the window pane
was just my startled cat with eyes of jade--cats
worry in the rain, you know, and are afraid.
That nervous laugh that creeps into your room is throated
in a phonographic voice below the floor. We hear
it once and then no more, a distant echo tumbling
in its loom. Our time is measured in another room.
We know days pass because we're told.
We lie alone disputing actions on a crazy earth.
(You whisper in my ear it has some worth.)
And I lean near to keep you from the cold.
There are so many things that must be told.
I speak of lost regimes and distant times,
and moon-eyed children smiling in the womb,
and legless beggars prophesying doom,
and afternoons of rain spun into rhyme.
(The patter of the rainfall marks our time
As does the waning moon
or muted sun.
As do the nodding gods who ride the sea.)
For even now, alone and still with me,
you (as I) sense that bonds cannot be undone;
Our pulse is in the rain and moon and sun,
we take our breaths together and are one.
GORDON KLAUBER
It feels beautiful when spoken out-loud.
I realized today that I will never see that house again.
One thing I have learned in the past year-and-a-half is that life is always hard, even when it's easy.
But I am, mostly, happy.
It is October. It is difficult to say, but October might be my favorite month of the year. Real October started last night. It was very beautiful, and very cold.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Word on the street
So, word on the street is, I'm a bit highstrung tonight. So, here I am, writing. I wish I had my own computer, since I've been in the mood for keyboard-style journaling the past few days, but hey, I'm here now, right?
A moment of honesty: my mind hadn't been as story and odd-J.D.-esque fantasy-vignettes as before in the past few years. It was still there, of course, but not as much as before, and it made me extremely uncomfortable, like I had lost something. Now it's back, full force, and I couldn't tell you why exactly, but I'm glad it's back.
There are so many reasons to be scared and angry and cynical, and I'm just not interested. Why do people do that? Why would anyone choose to carry that bitterness around with them? I've had moments of my own, where I felt that acrid knot of simmering-sobbing-sneering twisting up my torso, but I fight it. I try to let go of it. I came back.
I know this sounds childish, but why are people ever mean in the first place? I know that a lot of mean people are mean because they are sad, or because someone was mean to them. Why, the fuck, is anyone mean to someone who has not done anything to them? It just doesn't seem logical. If it's the whole unhappiness thing a la "misery loves company" I still have no sympathy for such people. Easy as my life has been relative to others, I would not wish my sorrow on anyone.
But do not despair, dear (imaginary) reader! I still hope! I know that there are other good people out there.
I just wish the fucktards would shut up or go away.
A moment of honesty: my mind hadn't been as story and odd-J.D.-esque fantasy-vignettes as before in the past few years. It was still there, of course, but not as much as before, and it made me extremely uncomfortable, like I had lost something. Now it's back, full force, and I couldn't tell you why exactly, but I'm glad it's back.
There are so many reasons to be scared and angry and cynical, and I'm just not interested. Why do people do that? Why would anyone choose to carry that bitterness around with them? I've had moments of my own, where I felt that acrid knot of simmering-sobbing-sneering twisting up my torso, but I fight it. I try to let go of it. I came back.
I know this sounds childish, but why are people ever mean in the first place? I know that a lot of mean people are mean because they are sad, or because someone was mean to them. Why, the fuck, is anyone mean to someone who has not done anything to them? It just doesn't seem logical. If it's the whole unhappiness thing a la "misery loves company" I still have no sympathy for such people. Easy as my life has been relative to others, I would not wish my sorrow on anyone.
But do not despair, dear (imaginary) reader! I still hope! I know that there are other good people out there.
I just wish the fucktards would shut up or go away.
Friday, August 29, 2008
A House
I have just arrived in New York with Ilian. We are in the house on Elmridge Road. Just the two of us. It is strange.
Smell is more connected to memory than any other sense, and I find that true here more than anywhere else. This place has a smell all its own, not only unique but very specific. You get used to it pretty quickly, to the point where it becomes almost undetectable. Almost. But that moment where you first step in to the house it is incredibly strong, thick with memories and permeating everything.
I have drunk. It is important to dream at times like these. I meant drink, but some typos are best left uncorrected.
Is it possible for a place to be on its deathbed?
More than people or things, the places that have been home to both deserve immortality.
Smell is more connected to memory than any other sense, and I find that true here more than anywhere else. This place has a smell all its own, not only unique but very specific. You get used to it pretty quickly, to the point where it becomes almost undetectable. Almost. But that moment where you first step in to the house it is incredibly strong, thick with memories and permeating everything.
I have drunk. It is important to dream at times like these. I meant drink, but some typos are best left uncorrected.
Is it possible for a place to be on its deathbed?
More than people or things, the places that have been home to both deserve immortality.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Bing Boom There Goes the Room
Iiiii. I.
I am writing under the influence of aaaaambien. It is a sleeping medication. Tahoe tomorrow. sunshine and mountains and lakes and stars, so many the they crowd and some crumble down getting caught under your eyelids where you'll be seeing starts for eternity an eternity of stars leave wishing scars when you cry them away, constellations on your face to trace a memory map or a floorplan for the future, which twinkles in the corner of everyones eyes, except for pregnant woman, they have twinkles in their tummies nummy tummies little worlds floating in water as the big bang circles they sleep, like monsters of the deep, a child's birth is it's mother's judgement day and father's too, what will you do with this universe? Do not be a tyrannous god and do not abandon them to doubt and complete chaos, or there will be no truth to emerge from these ashes, these floodgates, the deaf girl the deaf girl her song will soar above the rest pass the test of time and give us all our freedom to understand all these shifting patterns in the sand.
I am a maker, a thieving renovator. There will be a day where the colossal has happened and you'll sing me a song and I'll tell you a tale and we'll break down the wall, we'll wail on the wall, the cracks will look like lines of light the floodgates will open and our time of silence will end as we ascend to fulfillment of purpose, as we ride the current, look the world in the eye, laugh and laugh and laugh and
stop
the noise calms around and we are the most important in this moment this moment it the most important and
and we look out into the buzzing something-nothing
and begin.
I am writing under the influence of aaaaambien. It is a sleeping medication. Tahoe tomorrow. sunshine and mountains and lakes and stars, so many the they crowd and some crumble down getting caught under your eyelids where you'll be seeing starts for eternity an eternity of stars leave wishing scars when you cry them away, constellations on your face to trace a memory map or a floorplan for the future, which twinkles in the corner of everyones eyes, except for pregnant woman, they have twinkles in their tummies nummy tummies little worlds floating in water as the big bang circles they sleep, like monsters of the deep, a child's birth is it's mother's judgement day and father's too, what will you do with this universe? Do not be a tyrannous god and do not abandon them to doubt and complete chaos, or there will be no truth to emerge from these ashes, these floodgates, the deaf girl the deaf girl her song will soar above the rest pass the test of time and give us all our freedom to understand all these shifting patterns in the sand.
I am a maker, a thieving renovator. There will be a day where the colossal has happened and you'll sing me a song and I'll tell you a tale and we'll break down the wall, we'll wail on the wall, the cracks will look like lines of light the floodgates will open and our time of silence will end as we ascend to fulfillment of purpose, as we ride the current, look the world in the eye, laugh and laugh and laugh and
stop
the noise calms around and we are the most important in this moment this moment it the most important and
and we look out into the buzzing something-nothing
and begin.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Pericles
It's amazing how Calshakes, almost without fail, makes my heart rise. I cannot think of any better way to spend an evening than seeing a production in that amphitheater. The smell of the eucalyptus as you climb through the forest, the strings of lights, people bundled up holding steamy beverages, the rolling hills in the background, and the twilight sky that gradually fades into a starry ink. This is just added atmosphere. There is a magic on the stage itself, the potential of held breath, which could soar out as a sigh, scream, or song. I remember that night, after seeing Restoration Comedy, how perfect I felt. I walked around the theater, ran my hand along the edge of the stage, through the entire space, feeling the full emptiness of it, and laughing out of sheer joy.
Purpose is a wonderful thing. Knowledge of intention itself. For a moment, it can make you feel almost invincible. Especially, I think, when you're young. I can't say for sure though, as I've never been anything but young.
Tonight's performance was of Pericles. The center of the set involved a gnarled tree of an archway, with oriental sort of rugs and drapings to either side of it. The play was a Shakespearean fairytale, a tragicomical odyssey. What could be better than that? It's a later play, so the writing makes lifts you, even as William plays with the nature of storytelling in a time where surreality and the mixing of the tragic and comic were considered taboo by the established rules of theater (according to the program notes.)
I think part of what I love is how alive their theater is. There is such a sense of community there, you recognize the actors, and you know that they are children playing pretend, just like the rest of us. The sound and lighting design was incredible. It did not look like the ocean actually does, but it felt like the ocean, and that is what most film directors don't know how to do.
Pericles says to Marina, emphatically, "Tell thy story!" I think that sentiment is much of what lent the play so much power. For one thing, I've never seen a Shakespeare play with a narrator. I mean, he might bring one in for an introduction or epilogue in some cases, but this one was an integral part of the story. He was my favorite character.
Really, seeing plays there is rejuvenating. It reminds me of who I am, or rather, who I want to be, because it shows me what I aim to do. There is no other theater I have been to that embodies living story so well. I hope that someday I will be given the chance to act on that stage.
I want to spin fiction that is truer than life itself.
Purpose is a wonderful thing. Knowledge of intention itself. For a moment, it can make you feel almost invincible. Especially, I think, when you're young. I can't say for sure though, as I've never been anything but young.
Tonight's performance was of Pericles. The center of the set involved a gnarled tree of an archway, with oriental sort of rugs and drapings to either side of it. The play was a Shakespearean fairytale, a tragicomical odyssey. What could be better than that? It's a later play, so the writing makes lifts you, even as William plays with the nature of storytelling in a time where surreality and the mixing of the tragic and comic were considered taboo by the established rules of theater (according to the program notes.)
I think part of what I love is how alive their theater is. There is such a sense of community there, you recognize the actors, and you know that they are children playing pretend, just like the rest of us. The sound and lighting design was incredible. It did not look like the ocean actually does, but it felt like the ocean, and that is what most film directors don't know how to do.
Pericles says to Marina, emphatically, "Tell thy story!" I think that sentiment is much of what lent the play so much power. For one thing, I've never seen a Shakespeare play with a narrator. I mean, he might bring one in for an introduction or epilogue in some cases, but this one was an integral part of the story. He was my favorite character.
Really, seeing plays there is rejuvenating. It reminds me of who I am, or rather, who I want to be, because it shows me what I aim to do. There is no other theater I have been to that embodies living story so well. I hope that someday I will be given the chance to act on that stage.
I want to spin fiction that is truer than life itself.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Guess Who's Back?
It is a beautiful thing to come into one's own again after being away for so long. I have just come from a conversation that I think I would have found very distressing for a grand portion of this year and I don't really care. Hell, I was practically accused of rape, and I don't really care. I'm smiling. See, I've returned to my beautiful Zen of not giving a shit about what people think of me. There are always exceptions to this rule, but to be so is a privilege granted to few, and not entirely to anyone. I don't have to prove myself. I've been sick for so long, I'd forgotten what it was like to be me. I remember how much people would wonder at how happy I was most of the time, and usually I simply shrugged it off as there being no reason why I should be sad (though certainly many reasons for which I could be), but there is another part of it. When I am myself, truly and fully inhabiting and manifesting what it is to be myself, being me is a wonderful thing! Being sick for so long,I'd forgotten that I'm actually a highly capable human being. There is a lot I have to do, but I'm not stressed by it anymore, because my confidence in my ability to take care of what I have to do has been restored. I'm not distressed by this recent business with Yoshi because he really doesn't matter to me. I'm done. I have no need for someone who has treated me and regarded me in such a manner.
Lordy Lou, but Jane Austen is unhealthy for my writing. I've been reading Mansfield Park for my Early Novel lecture, and it's seeping in. Based on what I'd heard about the book before reading it, I thought that I would hate Fanny Price, but I don't. I just feel really bad for Fanny. Everyone is a dick to her.
Hee. That's another word I got condemned for using. Dick. Dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick. I'm a dick, you're a dick, she's a dick, he's a dick, they are dicks, together we are all dicks.
Mmm. I need to avoid going to bed so early. Hopefully I can sleep again now that I've faffed about for a few hours. If not, I'll get some work done.
Here is a philosophy: Do what you will, and the world will come to you.
So long as you are doing.
Hahaaaa!
Lordy Lou, but Jane Austen is unhealthy for my writing. I've been reading Mansfield Park for my Early Novel lecture, and it's seeping in. Based on what I'd heard about the book before reading it, I thought that I would hate Fanny Price, but I don't. I just feel really bad for Fanny. Everyone is a dick to her.
Hee. That's another word I got condemned for using. Dick. Dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick. I'm a dick, you're a dick, she's a dick, he's a dick, they are dicks, together we are all dicks.
Mmm. I need to avoid going to bed so early. Hopefully I can sleep again now that I've faffed about for a few hours. If not, I'll get some work done.
Here is a philosophy: Do what you will, and the world will come to you.
So long as you are doing.
Hahaaaa!
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Written during my early novel lecture this afternoon, and 0233!
There are places I never thought my mind would go that I live in now. It's not about trying to get attention from people, because if it was I'd tell someone. There are patterns in this world that are finally making me believe in God, and you'd think that'd make me more hopeful, but it doesn't really. My opinion of people falls a little lower every day. Perhaps this seems cliché to you, but it doesn't feel that way when you've spent your whole life thinking the best of people, forgiving them when they fuck up, and looking to your own heart and future with optimism and gusto. Things are only cliché when they happen to someone else.
Things here will come to a head soon, I will return home and heal. Either I'll come back in the fall, or I won't. I will push through the unpleasantness of the next two weeks to the sunshine on the other side. I will walk away from the errors of this year with my head held high and my eyes fully focused on the path stretched out in front of me, and I will let the weight of this unnecessary mass of humanity slip underneath the surface of my memory to dissolve into a blankness from which my freedom will emerge, I will breathe in deeply and step into the light.
Things here will come to a head soon, I will return home and heal. Either I'll come back in the fall, or I won't. I will push through the unpleasantness of the next two weeks to the sunshine on the other side. I will walk away from the errors of this year with my head held high and my eyes fully focused on the path stretched out in front of me, and I will let the weight of this unnecessary mass of humanity slip underneath the surface of my memory to dissolve into a blankness from which my freedom will emerge, I will breathe in deeply and step into the light.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Voo Doo Wall
Tessa is finger-painting on the wall.
Tessa: One, two, give me a rose
Three, four, I'll give you a kiss
Five, six, we'll promise eachother
Seven, eight, that nothing's remiss
One, two, give me the sun
Three, four, I'll give you the rain
Five, six, we'll trade in our hearts
Seven, eight, for a whole world of pain
Tessa puts the finishing touches on her painting, takes a moment to stand back and admire her handiwork. Her hands are still covered in paint. She studies them, smiles, and puts tribal marks on her face. They are simple and savage. She starts slowly turning in circles, studying her surroundings with a reverence that is almost religious, but still wild. She turn, oh, let's say, three times before her gaze goes straight up and becomes very still. She goes into a wolf howl and bolts to a mirror on the other side of the room, stops hardly an inch away from it, ceasing sound and motion as abruptly as she began. Gently, she leans forward and kisses her reflection. Tessa closes her eyes and steps through the mirror.
Tessa: One, two, give me a rose
Three, four, I'll give you a kiss
Five, six, we'll promise eachother
Seven, eight, that nothing's remiss
One, two, give me the sun
Three, four, I'll give you the rain
Five, six, we'll trade in our hearts
Seven, eight, for a whole world of pain
Tessa puts the finishing touches on her painting, takes a moment to stand back and admire her handiwork. Her hands are still covered in paint. She studies them, smiles, and puts tribal marks on her face. They are simple and savage. She starts slowly turning in circles, studying her surroundings with a reverence that is almost religious, but still wild. She turn, oh, let's say, three times before her gaze goes straight up and becomes very still. She goes into a wolf howl and bolts to a mirror on the other side of the room, stops hardly an inch away from it, ceasing sound and motion as abruptly as she began. Gently, she leans forward and kisses her reflection. Tessa closes her eyes and steps through the mirror.
Monday, April 28, 2008
She's so
HEEEAAAAAAAVVVVVYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!
I saw Across the Universe for the first time last night. I know that it isn't a great piece of storytelling or anything, but truth be told, I really enjoyed it. Also, I actually thought that they were decent Beatles covers.
I was actually pretty upset for a large portion of the day. Not that surprising I guess. I've spent a lot of this year being sick and sad, but I'm feeling a better. I really had the itch.
I'm developing more of an appreciation for drawing from life than I had before. There is something really satisfying about capturing what's before you through your self.
I'm starting to wonder whether it's possible for truly brilliant people to be happy.
No... I think they can... but I think it is much harder in a lot of cases.
I was talking to Ilian this weekend, about the doubts I've had about humanity in general, and I don't remember which part of me I was talking about, but I wondered to him whether maybe I would have been better off without it. He said, "There are a lot of things that would make you better off that wouldn't necessarily make you better."
There is no one who breaks my heart so easily simply by being sad. He doesn't say things that are super melodramatic or anything, but he has true eloquence and brilliance, and... he's been sad for so long. Of course, part of the effect comes from how much I love him, but I really believe he is a singular human being. He is the subject of someone's brilliant novel.
I had a moment yesterday, where I felt, more than anything, that all I wanted was for him to be really, really happy someday.
This is what it is to love someone.
I saw Across the Universe for the first time last night. I know that it isn't a great piece of storytelling or anything, but truth be told, I really enjoyed it. Also, I actually thought that they were decent Beatles covers.
I was actually pretty upset for a large portion of the day. Not that surprising I guess. I've spent a lot of this year being sick and sad, but I'm feeling a better. I really had the itch.
I'm developing more of an appreciation for drawing from life than I had before. There is something really satisfying about capturing what's before you through your self.
I'm starting to wonder whether it's possible for truly brilliant people to be happy.
No... I think they can... but I think it is much harder in a lot of cases.
I was talking to Ilian this weekend, about the doubts I've had about humanity in general, and I don't remember which part of me I was talking about, but I wondered to him whether maybe I would have been better off without it. He said, "There are a lot of things that would make you better off that wouldn't necessarily make you better."
There is no one who breaks my heart so easily simply by being sad. He doesn't say things that are super melodramatic or anything, but he has true eloquence and brilliance, and... he's been sad for so long. Of course, part of the effect comes from how much I love him, but I really believe he is a singular human being. He is the subject of someone's brilliant novel.
I had a moment yesterday, where I felt, more than anything, that all I wanted was for him to be really, really happy someday.
This is what it is to love someone.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Saturday, April 12, 2008
I had the instinct to write here, and I almost didn't because I didn't want to subject Kailyn to more angst. Then I realized that the point of making this thing and not sharing it with the world is that I can write whatever I want whenever I want without consideration of such things. The mood often comes upon me when I'm upset. That's not so illogical, really. Kailyn, if you don't want Carla-angst, stop now, before it's too late. You have been warned.
Lately, the past two night in particular, I have experienced a great deal of what can only be called self-loathing. This is silly. One of my pet peeves here has been that I am one of the only self confident people I know. Most are either insecure or arrogant and insecure. The best of us have our moments, and I certainly know I am not the best, because if I was I'm fairly certain I'd be doing something more important right now. I am good though. I know it, on some level, even if I really don't feel it at the moment.
Worthless. Void of any redeeming quality.
Also, I don't feel very good about people in general right now. Most people aren't nice. A lot of the people I know and care for, hell, a lot of the people I love aren't nice, not really. Everybody does nice things, everybody can be nice, if they wish to be, but not that many are. At least, not as many as I used to think. It wasn't even that I thought they were nice, so much as it didn't occur to me that they weren't. It's not even a question of mean, it's a question of not nice. It doesn't make them bad people.
My mind doesn't work like other people's. I sometimes forget or doubt this, but then something will happen, and it is slapped back in my face that I am not living in the same truth as other people.
There is depth to me, yes, and I can't possibly share my every waking thought with people, but at the end of the day, I pretty much display what I am honestly thinking and feeling all the time. This leads to a glitch in how I read others: I expect the same of them. But the fact is, people DON'T say what they mean, they smile and say I love you when they mean that you disgust them.
Everyone is a fucking coward. I know I cannot be wholly exempt from this particular censure of the human race, but the fact of the matter is, no one can be fully exempt from ANY censure on that scale, and in this particular case I think I stand well enough to censure without being hypocritical to the point of shame. To be human is to live with some level of hypocrisy every day.
I told a bulimic girl that she was a fat whore and she let me go a week without giving me flak for it. She gave me flak for it when I went up to her to commend her on her bravery in expressing her deepest pain to an audience of people she interacts with on a daily basis. There are, of course, extenuating circumstances. I was not calling her a fat whore, I was relating to her another time where I had thought of her so, when consumed by a great deal of bitterness. It was an incident we had talked about with perfect freedom before, and I mentioned to remark on the fact that i had never made any note of what she weighed until I had been wronged by her. Why is being "fat" one of the most insulting thing you can say to a girl for whom the word isn't wholly ridiculous (and sometimes, even then)? My point, ultimately, was that I didn't think it was true at all. Why would I tell her if she was? Ah, and there is our hypocrisy. Honestly though, if I did consider her a fat whore, I might not tell her, but if she asked me to contradict my first instinct would be to get out of having to respond rather than telling her so. (Assuming, of course, that she is someone I care about hurting. If I didn't care about hurting the fat whore I was talking to, I'd tell her she was a fat whore and have done with it).
The fact of the matter is, I avoided her when I thought that because I knew it came from anger, and I don't think there is anything in myself that I trust less than anger. If she had asked me what I thought of her when I was in that state, I would have told her that she was a fat whore, and that would giving up a certain level of power. If I'm going to tell someone off for what they do to me, I'm going to wait until I'm calm enough to do it with objective facts rather than mere insults, however justified they may be. (Incidentally, she had sex with my ex-boyfriend when we had not even been broken up a week, and is somewhat overweight, though still quite pretty).
Grah! I am tired of being sick! I've already fulfilled my sick quota this year. This is completely Karma for last weekend. In the future I will be more wary of both absinthe and ex-boyfriends, please, God, just let me be well and, if it's not to much, focused enough to get caught up in school.
Oooow, stupid head. I should sleep, but I'm not, because I know I'll just lay there forever with a million-and-one thoughts swirling around in my head, around and around and around and around, until I wonder if I'll ever be able to slip into dream like I used to. I can't at college. It was so easy, at home, slipping into that state. It's gotten so elusive.
I'm sick, and tired, and my stomach is complaining, and my head is complaining, and my back is complaining, and my feet are complaining, and my heart is complaining, and I'm complaining and I really don't think highly of myself right now.
I. Am. Unhappy.
I can be kind of bad at admitting that, at times.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!
I don't break down as completely as I used in front of the people I've met here. I think that's interesting.
Also, I hate how aware many black people insist on being about race. Start the revolution with yourself, asshole, and keep my skintone out of it, because you don't know me, and I honestly didn't make any note of yours until you insisted on it. I fucking hate reverse racism.
It's your game, oh world, but that doesn't mean I have to play.
I don't even know what I meant by that, really.
My phone is ringing.
I should answer.
Lately, the past two night in particular, I have experienced a great deal of what can only be called self-loathing. This is silly. One of my pet peeves here has been that I am one of the only self confident people I know. Most are either insecure or arrogant and insecure. The best of us have our moments, and I certainly know I am not the best, because if I was I'm fairly certain I'd be doing something more important right now. I am good though. I know it, on some level, even if I really don't feel it at the moment.
Worthless. Void of any redeeming quality.
Also, I don't feel very good about people in general right now. Most people aren't nice. A lot of the people I know and care for, hell, a lot of the people I love aren't nice, not really. Everybody does nice things, everybody can be nice, if they wish to be, but not that many are. At least, not as many as I used to think. It wasn't even that I thought they were nice, so much as it didn't occur to me that they weren't. It's not even a question of mean, it's a question of not nice. It doesn't make them bad people.
My mind doesn't work like other people's. I sometimes forget or doubt this, but then something will happen, and it is slapped back in my face that I am not living in the same truth as other people.
There is depth to me, yes, and I can't possibly share my every waking thought with people, but at the end of the day, I pretty much display what I am honestly thinking and feeling all the time. This leads to a glitch in how I read others: I expect the same of them. But the fact is, people DON'T say what they mean, they smile and say I love you when they mean that you disgust them.
Everyone is a fucking coward. I know I cannot be wholly exempt from this particular censure of the human race, but the fact of the matter is, no one can be fully exempt from ANY censure on that scale, and in this particular case I think I stand well enough to censure without being hypocritical to the point of shame. To be human is to live with some level of hypocrisy every day.
I told a bulimic girl that she was a fat whore and she let me go a week without giving me flak for it. She gave me flak for it when I went up to her to commend her on her bravery in expressing her deepest pain to an audience of people she interacts with on a daily basis. There are, of course, extenuating circumstances. I was not calling her a fat whore, I was relating to her another time where I had thought of her so, when consumed by a great deal of bitterness. It was an incident we had talked about with perfect freedom before, and I mentioned to remark on the fact that i had never made any note of what she weighed until I had been wronged by her. Why is being "fat" one of the most insulting thing you can say to a girl for whom the word isn't wholly ridiculous (and sometimes, even then)? My point, ultimately, was that I didn't think it was true at all. Why would I tell her if she was? Ah, and there is our hypocrisy. Honestly though, if I did consider her a fat whore, I might not tell her, but if she asked me to contradict my first instinct would be to get out of having to respond rather than telling her so. (Assuming, of course, that she is someone I care about hurting. If I didn't care about hurting the fat whore I was talking to, I'd tell her she was a fat whore and have done with it).
The fact of the matter is, I avoided her when I thought that because I knew it came from anger, and I don't think there is anything in myself that I trust less than anger. If she had asked me what I thought of her when I was in that state, I would have told her that she was a fat whore, and that would giving up a certain level of power. If I'm going to tell someone off for what they do to me, I'm going to wait until I'm calm enough to do it with objective facts rather than mere insults, however justified they may be. (Incidentally, she had sex with my ex-boyfriend when we had not even been broken up a week, and is somewhat overweight, though still quite pretty).
Grah! I am tired of being sick! I've already fulfilled my sick quota this year. This is completely Karma for last weekend. In the future I will be more wary of both absinthe and ex-boyfriends, please, God, just let me be well and, if it's not to much, focused enough to get caught up in school.
Oooow, stupid head. I should sleep, but I'm not, because I know I'll just lay there forever with a million-and-one thoughts swirling around in my head, around and around and around and around, until I wonder if I'll ever be able to slip into dream like I used to. I can't at college. It was so easy, at home, slipping into that state. It's gotten so elusive.
I'm sick, and tired, and my stomach is complaining, and my head is complaining, and my back is complaining, and my feet are complaining, and my heart is complaining, and I'm complaining and I really don't think highly of myself right now.
I. Am. Unhappy.
I can be kind of bad at admitting that, at times.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!
I don't break down as completely as I used in front of the people I've met here. I think that's interesting.
Also, I hate how aware many black people insist on being about race. Start the revolution with yourself, asshole, and keep my skintone out of it, because you don't know me, and I honestly didn't make any note of yours until you insisted on it. I fucking hate reverse racism.
It's your game, oh world, but that doesn't mean I have to play.
I don't even know what I meant by that, really.
My phone is ringing.
I should answer.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
College
Here was a saved aim conversation that should never have been saved. Thankfully, it is gone now. I have no regrets on this score.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Is it Spring yet? How 'bout now?
So, I tried to read Phédre last night and somehow ended up writing a 3 page letter to a friend instead. Hmm.
The Neo-Futurist thing we're doing with Cabaret this week is good. I like it. I can see what I want from my disappearing into a book sketch way clearly, and things aren't too bad I guess, but... I don't know. Sometimes, I can't eat. It isn't even always a matter of being hungry, it's... fear I guess. I think it's just the food here. I really don't feel like I can trust it.
I had a zombie dream recently. What the hell?
Last night was drifty though. I do that more than I used to. Sleep used to come so easily. I probably don't exercise enough. There are a lot of things that I don't do enough. There simply isn't time enough.
My new Venetian key chain makes me happy, it chinks well in my pocket, and it is good to have a mask around, even a tiny one, as they are about as close to literal magic as we find in this world.
My life has started doing that thing again, where it starts taking patterns and symbols and formatting itself like a film or novel. To some extent it always does it, but it was very intense for a lot of high school in a way that had faded a little until recently. Well, maybe not. Actually, I think I'm just aware of it again. I don't know.
I was gloomy this morning because the weather was and I've been having trouble dealing with the lack of sunlight when everything in me says it should be spring NOW, but I felt better later because it was warm at least and still beautiful. I think we get what we want once we are satisfied with what we have, a lot of the time, because, low and behold, the sky cleared up a bit before sunset to over me a shining, moving, masterpiece of a cloudscape for a couple hours.
I miss my family. I ran up to Sam Monaco today and thanked him for making someone I love happy and he seemed pleasantly surprised. I like him. He's much better than anyone else she's dated, and cuter and a better musician to boot. He reacts well to my weird. This speaks well of his open-mindedness. Also, in spite of being Ben's friend and roommate he agrees that he is an asshole especially in regards to me, and this is endearing. It was funny when Danielle was pretending not to like him. I mean, honestly, he wrote her a GOOD song, clearly there was nothing left but for her to be putty in his hands. That's just life.
The Neo-Futurist thing we're doing with Cabaret this week is good. I like it. I can see what I want from my disappearing into a book sketch way clearly, and things aren't too bad I guess, but... I don't know. Sometimes, I can't eat. It isn't even always a matter of being hungry, it's... fear I guess. I think it's just the food here. I really don't feel like I can trust it.
I had a zombie dream recently. What the hell?
Last night was drifty though. I do that more than I used to. Sleep used to come so easily. I probably don't exercise enough. There are a lot of things that I don't do enough. There simply isn't time enough.
My new Venetian key chain makes me happy, it chinks well in my pocket, and it is good to have a mask around, even a tiny one, as they are about as close to literal magic as we find in this world.
My life has started doing that thing again, where it starts taking patterns and symbols and formatting itself like a film or novel. To some extent it always does it, but it was very intense for a lot of high school in a way that had faded a little until recently. Well, maybe not. Actually, I think I'm just aware of it again. I don't know.
I was gloomy this morning because the weather was and I've been having trouble dealing with the lack of sunlight when everything in me says it should be spring NOW, but I felt better later because it was warm at least and still beautiful. I think we get what we want once we are satisfied with what we have, a lot of the time, because, low and behold, the sky cleared up a bit before sunset to over me a shining, moving, masterpiece of a cloudscape for a couple hours.
I miss my family. I ran up to Sam Monaco today and thanked him for making someone I love happy and he seemed pleasantly surprised. I like him. He's much better than anyone else she's dated, and cuter and a better musician to boot. He reacts well to my weird. This speaks well of his open-mindedness. Also, in spite of being Ben's friend and roommate he agrees that he is an asshole especially in regards to me, and this is endearing. It was funny when Danielle was pretending not to like him. I mean, honestly, he wrote her a GOOD song, clearly there was nothing left but for her to be putty in his hands. That's just life.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Stories
I would like to curl away into a book and never come back.
This place would be mad, musical, magical, and mine.
I want to dream forever.
This place would be mad, musical, magical, and mine.
I want to dream forever.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Late night in Park City
Fuck, Dad is gonna kill me for being up this late. Talked to Gowri and Nick. It was good. Had troubles with melancholy today, but am feeling better. Really miss said people, Matt, Emily, Ilian, Danielle, and Kailyn and feel that anyone of them will fill the companionship void in my Utah trip in a way that would make life a lot happier and bearable than it has been. I need one of my own, someone I can level with.
Well, right now what I really need is sleep.
Oh, and life is shifting into patterns again. Fancy that.
And I finished The Great Gatsby today, which left me a bit unsatisfied, but which I think was kind of the point. I'm glad I read it.
Dream time.
Well, right now what I really need is sleep.
Oh, and life is shifting into patterns again. Fancy that.
And I finished The Great Gatsby today, which left me a bit unsatisfied, but which I think was kind of the point. I'm glad I read it.
Dream time.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Alone in the Hotel Room, and Meant to be Working on French
Was having a dialogue with myself today, pacing, thinking furiously, and ended up composing a poem out loud. I workshopped the end when I put the whole thing to paper, but it was still a process heavily dependent on playing with the life the words took when spoken out loud. Hm.
As I pace I try to trace all that I am right now into this immortal moment. I don't have enough skin to live with, enough to feel and touch the world's width. I told him, "I don't want to die young." He replied, "I don't want to die old."
Doesn't want to leave with his memory faded and cold,
would rather burn out bright in a single spasm of light. He forgets that stars shine for eons before sighing away in their final phoenix song.
I would rather live long, like the sun,
spreading light over everything I look upon.
Shine
There are places where the wild time flows, moments scattered like shards of a crying sky that wraps itself around your heartbeat while you sleep. The soul of the soil sang to the Sandman who whispered in my ear of all there is to love and fear here in this tiny little infinite place. As I pace I try to trace all that I am right now into this immortal moment. I don't have enough skin to live with, enough to feel and touch the world's width. I told him, "I don't want to die young." He replied, "I don't want to die old."
Doesn't want to leave with his memory faded and cold,
would rather burn out bright in a single spasm of light. He forgets that stars shine for eons before sighing away in their final phoenix song.
I would rather live long, like the sun,
spreading light over everything I look upon.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Bushels of Books and Ballet
I am realizing more and more how amazing opera is. Saw a ballet with Sara today, and it wasn't just beautiful, it was entertaining. As in, it cracked me up, and yes, it was supposed too. I think it's better that way. It meant that the more sober, beautiful parts were more powerful than they would have been otherwise. Anyway, I mention opera, because that's what they were dancing to. Maybe you have to have an ear for it, I don't know, but the music was filled with story and feeling to me, and it improved the dancing.
I also bought about $40 worth of books from Bonanza, which is closing. This is highly upsetting, as Bonanza Books is one of my favorite book stores
...and I never did finish that post.
I also bought about $40 worth of books from Bonanza, which is closing. This is highly upsetting, as Bonanza Books is one of my favorite book stores
...and I never did finish that post.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Pride
This post has been deleted for my own sanity and, haha, pride. (that actually was the original tital)
You didn't want to see it. Either you had your heart broken or you will at some point later and then you have enough of that nonsense on your own time. I'd like to throw mine out with the trash, given the option.
You didn't want to see it. Either you had your heart broken or you will at some point later and then you have enough of that nonsense on your own time. I'd like to throw mine out with the trash, given the option.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Apparently...
| ENFP - "Journalist". Uncanny sense of the motivations of others. Life is an exciting drama. 8.1% of total population. |
It said:
Extroverted (E) 69.23% Introverted (I) 30.77%
Intuitive (N) 70.27% Sensing (S) 29.73%
Feeling (F) 52.78% Thinking (T) 47.22%
Perceiving (P) 84.38% Judging (J) 15.63%
So apparently I'm pretty even on the feeling/thinking front.
Also, this proves that Kelly was right, which makes sense, seeing as she's been trained in this since, um, birth. (which makes it really awkward when you think about the fact that her parent's mis-typed her for a long time, what with it being their profession and all. Sort of a tragic misunderstanding of there daughter. I think she figured out her actual type when she was, like, ten.)
Anyway: The ratios on the feeling thinking make it make more sense to me now.
Yarg. I slept through most of the day, to compensate I suppose for not sleeping at night. That was one of the most debaucherous nights I've had here, I think. Also, debaucherous should be a real word.
You know, I thought that making out with somebody was one of those things I wanted that wouldn't actually help me at all, but I actually feel a lot better now. Huh.
It's interesting knowing that you're reading this, Kailyn. I kind of enjoyed the total anonymity I felt before, but there is something about knowing that somebody does read and care about all these words that makes them a bit more satisfying too. Also, I have the sort of brain that is good at la-la-la-ing it's way along in the face of unexpected attention. Which is to say, I suppose, that I am good at ignoring it.
Still. Last night was interesting. It went through such different sequences. First the melancholy sort of aimless drifting after house managing, then the fun of the one-acts, and then Yoshi had his talk with me. It wasn't anything I hadn't already figured out for myself, but something about hearing him say that he was no longer in love with me made it real in a way that it hadn't been before. "In terms of the emotional distance between us, I find it annoying to be around you right now because you're my ex-girlfriend, and that's just going to take time. I'm usually fine, but it's when you latch onto my flaws that I have to leave the room. I do think you're a wonderful person though, and would like to close friends with you again eventually."
You think I'm a wonderful person. How nice. Ass. I don't know. Something about that particular phrase is just... ugh. Like when people ask if a girl is pretty and someone says "Well, she got a great personality."
It was hard I guess, because it made real for me the fact that I don't really matter. I don't think that he's not in love with me anymore, so much as he never was. It makes me feel a bit used and discarded, though I know it wasn't really like that or that it was never his intention at least.
What was interesting was how I dealt with it. I mean, Matt was with me for a bit, but I pretty much had to deal with this one on my own. I found myself in this tiny nowhere-room in Titsworth with some mats, a broken piano, and a mirror. I'd never been there before, I didn't even know it existed. I doubt that most people do.
It was such an awful feeling. I was alone, so I got to release myself to those all-consuming, body-shaking sort of tears. I used to do that in front of other people more, but I don't like to as much now. Maybe it's part of the whole "growing up" thing. I don't know. As much as I wear my heart on my sleeve, I rarely have allowed people here to see COMPLETE breakdown.
That's what I did though. I broke down every bit of myself and what had happened to me, examined all the parts, cleaned some, threw some out, and put it all back together. I got into this funny space where I was able to see the girl in the mirror as someone standing in front of me rather than a reflection of myself. I looked at her, saw her in the midst of my own overwhelming tumult of emotion, and saw potential. This would make me a better actor, artist, writer, storyteller. So I took my tears and started doing lines from the end of Lear. I was suddenly in control of a great storm, the words flowed out of me like power, like that certain breed of truth the feels like magic. It was probably one of the best performances of my life. By the end, I had finally stopped crying. The storm had subsided, and I felt strong, centered. I sat there with myself a while longer, singing until I felt fully transformed, and then I left the little room and sought the rest of my evening.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Taking Care of Business
It late, but not inordinately so. I have drugged myself a little bit, with valium, so hopefully I will fall asleep without too much difficulty. I received Agyar today in the mail, along with a lovely note from grandma with $50 birthday money. I'm falling behind, and it is beginning to become worrisome. I found myself unable to study tonight, so I did a shitload of laundry and cleaned my section of the room. This will make it easier to work in here tomorrow.
I'm excited for Traviata, especially as it is finally starting to lodge its way into my head. Also, I'm just really looking forward to having more Emily time. Thursdays are hard, so it will be a nice reward.
Rebbi just got home.
I'm excited for Traviata, especially as it is finally starting to lodge its way into my head. Also, I'm just really looking forward to having more Emily time. Thursdays are hard, so it will be a nice reward.
Rebbi just got home.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Chipper
I was chipper for most of today. Yesterday night I was awful, really heartbroken and such. Today, I couldn't have cared less. I hung out around him and Sadie and felt fine. I felt like myself again. It was fantastic. Unfortunately, I'm not doing so well right now, but so it goes.
It's gotten to the point where I really do type faster than I write, but there is definitely something captured in manually creating the shapes of the letters that simply cannot be recreated in typing. Still, there are certain ways in which typing allows for a much freer flow of words, especially when you aren't intending for anyone else to see what you are writing. Maybe I'll show all this to someone someday, but for now, I really like knowing that I'm not doing this for anyone but myself. It also is helping me translate my thoughts to words with greater ease. I mean, by sentences are actually beginning to resemble the structure of my thoughts. Maybe it doesn't have the poetry of other writing, but it sounds like me, and I like that. Then again, what "me" sounds like probably varies a lot depending on the person I'm talking with and the subject material, but I think this looks something like my actual inner narrative, in that if I actually slow my thoughts a little, my fingers are fast enough to type a thought as I am having it. This is new. I've never been able to write at the speed of thought before.
I didn't do my homework. I didn't do anything, really. Nothing worthwhile.
My dreams have been odd lately. More lucid at times, and I remember them more clearly. Two nights ago I had a horror dream á la Matt Chen. A set of siblings whose parents were dead went camping at this lake. One by one, there were all killed by something in the lake. A ghost-like something would pass through them, drawing them towards the water. They each died a different way, and they took on some pose of the sibling-death before their's before their own demise. Each one died differently, and each death was chilling in some way. Once they were all dead, it was revealed that thing in the lake was their parents. They'd killed their own children to reunite the family. It was sick. Then they were in this great room, with high ceilings and windows. Their mother was speaking to them, and one of the siblings accidentally knocked a window open, allowing a small flock of Red-Wing Black Birds the escape. The mother was furious, she berated them, "You idiots! Now the secret is out. They will tell God. The condition for such alternate realities as this to exist is that God does not know. God cannot know."
Which is odd and creepy.
Then comes a sequence of family time, though all I remember is the mother talking to one of the daughters (who, come to think of it, looked vaguely like me, though I was a third party observer in this dream) in a mirror, about school and stuff. It was actually kind of sweet.
Anyway, then people come looking for them, and they have to fool them into thinking that they're still alive. I don't remember whether or not these people are killed as well.
Last night I dreamed that I was way, way up in the evening sky, airplane-level high. The world was a mesh of dark purples and blues, and there were stars out. I was scared of how high I was at first, but then I simply let myself fall, my limbs spread eagle, my face towards the earth. I simply let myself fall, knew that I could trust myself to it. It was one of the freest sensations I've known. Eventually, I conjured up a pack and parachuted down (I did mention a certain level of lucidity, I believe.) At the end though, there were two people, one crashed, the other held the corpse in their arms, and wailing tumbled down, down a hill, until they hit a fence and their death. They must have been in love. I don't remember, exactly. What I do know is that it was gut-wrenchingly tragic, tragic in the way that makes you fold in on yourself. I looked on what happened, horrified and distraught, and I knew that I had to remember what had happened, that this was the most important thing in the world. I went to tell somebody in the dream about my dream, but they made it so I couldn't talk. I still don't remember what happened perfectly, and this bothers me, because I know it mattered. Whether it matters in this world, I don't know, but then and there I know that it really, truly mattered. How often do I find things in this world that really matter?
I must try to forget as little as possible.
It's gotten to the point where I really do type faster than I write, but there is definitely something captured in manually creating the shapes of the letters that simply cannot be recreated in typing. Still, there are certain ways in which typing allows for a much freer flow of words, especially when you aren't intending for anyone else to see what you are writing. Maybe I'll show all this to someone someday, but for now, I really like knowing that I'm not doing this for anyone but myself. It also is helping me translate my thoughts to words with greater ease. I mean, by sentences are actually beginning to resemble the structure of my thoughts. Maybe it doesn't have the poetry of other writing, but it sounds like me, and I like that. Then again, what "me" sounds like probably varies a lot depending on the person I'm talking with and the subject material, but I think this looks something like my actual inner narrative, in that if I actually slow my thoughts a little, my fingers are fast enough to type a thought as I am having it. This is new. I've never been able to write at the speed of thought before.
I didn't do my homework. I didn't do anything, really. Nothing worthwhile.
My dreams have been odd lately. More lucid at times, and I remember them more clearly. Two nights ago I had a horror dream á la Matt Chen. A set of siblings whose parents were dead went camping at this lake. One by one, there were all killed by something in the lake. A ghost-like something would pass through them, drawing them towards the water. They each died a different way, and they took on some pose of the sibling-death before their's before their own demise. Each one died differently, and each death was chilling in some way. Once they were all dead, it was revealed that thing in the lake was their parents. They'd killed their own children to reunite the family. It was sick. Then they were in this great room, with high ceilings and windows. Their mother was speaking to them, and one of the siblings accidentally knocked a window open, allowing a small flock of Red-Wing Black Birds the escape. The mother was furious, she berated them, "You idiots! Now the secret is out. They will tell God. The condition for such alternate realities as this to exist is that God does not know. God cannot know."
Which is odd and creepy.
Then comes a sequence of family time, though all I remember is the mother talking to one of the daughters (who, come to think of it, looked vaguely like me, though I was a third party observer in this dream) in a mirror, about school and stuff. It was actually kind of sweet.
Anyway, then people come looking for them, and they have to fool them into thinking that they're still alive. I don't remember whether or not these people are killed as well.
Last night I dreamed that I was way, way up in the evening sky, airplane-level high. The world was a mesh of dark purples and blues, and there were stars out. I was scared of how high I was at first, but then I simply let myself fall, my limbs spread eagle, my face towards the earth. I simply let myself fall, knew that I could trust myself to it. It was one of the freest sensations I've known. Eventually, I conjured up a pack and parachuted down (I did mention a certain level of lucidity, I believe.) At the end though, there were two people, one crashed, the other held the corpse in their arms, and wailing tumbled down, down a hill, until they hit a fence and their death. They must have been in love. I don't remember, exactly. What I do know is that it was gut-wrenchingly tragic, tragic in the way that makes you fold in on yourself. I looked on what happened, horrified and distraught, and I knew that I had to remember what had happened, that this was the most important thing in the world. I went to tell somebody in the dream about my dream, but they made it so I couldn't talk. I still don't remember what happened perfectly, and this bothers me, because I know it mattered. Whether it matters in this world, I don't know, but then and there I know that it really, truly mattered. How often do I find things in this world that really matter?
I must try to forget as little as possible.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Birthday.
Well, that was it. My first birthday away from home. It was good. I cried some. I think it was a catalyst for Zach and I fully mending our friendship, by which I mean, Zach made my birthday. None of my other friends really bothered themselves about it. If he hadn't, I don't think that anyone would have. I love my birthday. When I opened the package from home, it felt like I was examining the contents of a treasure chest.
Zach and Katie gave me a photography book of Venice that calls it the "City of Haunting Dreams." It was a perfect gift. Every photograph holds a certain awe and mystery to it, an entrancing, misty sort of half-light or gesture. They are all begging me to write their stories. I look at them and a feeling of calm washes over me.
I really enjoyed my birthday dinner. I only wish I could have shared my day with more of the people I love. Still, it was a beautiful birthday. I really do feel nineteen.
I love my birthday. I really do. I look forward to it every year. It's a new year of sorts, a perfect mix of ending and beginning.
Happy Birthday Carla Chantica Lita Lerner Lobato. Let's make this year a good one, hey.
Zach and Katie gave me a photography book of Venice that calls it the "City of Haunting Dreams." It was a perfect gift. Every photograph holds a certain awe and mystery to it, an entrancing, misty sort of half-light or gesture. They are all begging me to write their stories. I look at them and a feeling of calm washes over me.
I really enjoyed my birthday dinner. I only wish I could have shared my day with more of the people I love. Still, it was a beautiful birthday. I really do feel nineteen.
I love my birthday. I really do. I look forward to it every year. It's a new year of sorts, a perfect mix of ending and beginning.
Happy Birthday Carla Chantica Lita Lerner Lobato. Let's make this year a good one, hey.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
A Night at the Opera
...is what I have just returned from, with the lovely Ms. Emily Cowles. In the course of the evening it became clear that Othello is considered Verdi's master work for a very good reason and that much of what is good and beautiful in this world is summed up by the "steam punk" genre. Who knew?
Also, raspberries are a wonderful impulse-food purchase.
It was my third time at the Lincoln center. Sitting in a top box gave me a very different perspective on the place. Something about being at the top like that heightened my awareness of the... well, magic there. There is something rich and satisfying in the curve and color of things, and my attention was drawn to the way light sits in the building. As the compelling orchaestral music rose over and through me, I noted the plays of light and shadow around the theater, and was struck with a funny little though.
"Emily?" I whispered, leaning forward, "do you think music affects the way light moves?"
She didn't answer me right away, so I felt that I had stumbled upon something worth thinking about.
I don't know. Something about the Met was especially beautiful tonight. The rising chandelier...
Well, now it is the morning after, and my computer have very little battery. I still have the image in my head of the maestro's hand silhouetted by the light of his podium.
Also, raspberries are a wonderful impulse-food purchase.
It was my third time at the Lincoln center. Sitting in a top box gave me a very different perspective on the place. Something about being at the top like that heightened my awareness of the... well, magic there. There is something rich and satisfying in the curve and color of things, and my attention was drawn to the way light sits in the building. As the compelling orchaestral music rose over and through me, I noted the plays of light and shadow around the theater, and was struck with a funny little though.
"Emily?" I whispered, leaning forward, "do you think music affects the way light moves?"
She didn't answer me right away, so I felt that I had stumbled upon something worth thinking about.
I don't know. Something about the Met was especially beautiful tonight. The rising chandelier...
Well, now it is the morning after, and my computer have very little battery. I still have the image in my head of the maestro's hand silhouetted by the light of his podium.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
February
Fucking February. What the hell. It doesn't even have a logical spelling. February is not a logical month. Everybody is unhappy in February. Especially this February. Everyone around me is falling apart. I haven't hardly been able to leave Hill House for fear of an asthma attack, and everyone (myself included, of course) is heartbroken. Well. Not everyone, but a lot of people. Even those I know who haven't really been through any major trauma look drawn and pale, eyelids heavy, lips nervously twitching up at the corner as I pass them.
At the very least, my birthday is coming. My birthday has often been a sort of reward for living through February, but this may have been the worst February yet(though I do recall feeling pretty fucking dreary around this time last year).
There's snow outside. It's really beautiful. I was disappointed that I was too sick to go out and play in it when it fell a few days ago, but I still sat at my window and enjoyed it. It calmed me down some, I think, at the time. It made things feel benevolently important. I know I should be getting to work on my paper, but I find that I've been itching to come back to this place and write. I don't know why. I have a journal, and this isn't something that people will see, but I still feel the need to spill words in type. I don't know. Maybe it's the fact that, even though I haven't given the URL of this place to anyone I know (except Kailyn, very recently), there is something satisfying about knowing that my words are out there, floating in the giant ocean of information we call the internet, and that on some level they could be found. Like a message in a bottle. Also, the voice I write in here feels a bit different from my journaling voice, so a different part of me is expressed here that I wasn't even aware of before. Maybe it's the fact that words come out faster when you type them. Quien save?
The fact is: I am enjoying this more and more.
At the very least, my birthday is coming. My birthday has often been a sort of reward for living through February, but this may have been the worst February yet(though I do recall feeling pretty fucking dreary around this time last year).
There's snow outside. It's really beautiful. I was disappointed that I was too sick to go out and play in it when it fell a few days ago, but I still sat at my window and enjoyed it. It calmed me down some, I think, at the time. It made things feel benevolently important. I know I should be getting to work on my paper, but I find that I've been itching to come back to this place and write. I don't know why. I have a journal, and this isn't something that people will see, but I still feel the need to spill words in type. I don't know. Maybe it's the fact that, even though I haven't given the URL of this place to anyone I know (except Kailyn, very recently), there is something satisfying about knowing that my words are out there, floating in the giant ocean of information we call the internet, and that on some level they could be found. Like a message in a bottle. Also, the voice I write in here feels a bit different from my journaling voice, so a different part of me is expressed here that I wasn't even aware of before. Maybe it's the fact that words come out faster when you type them. Quien save?
The fact is: I am enjoying this more and more.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Words
It's funny, I wrote an odd little phrase of poetry on the fly maybe a week and a half ago which didn't really make sense to me at the time. I get it now. That's funny. It goes:
Last night I wrote something of a bit more substance which has been caught in my head and heart (haha!) ever since. I didn't give it a title. For now, I'll call it
Words sometimes need to be carved in before the cœur can care. The greatest moments of my life will always strive for cinema scope, and as the curtain falls on you and me I swear I can hear carnival music drifting in. I follow it out the window, close my eyes and float through people's hearts, trying to memorize all the words tattooed there by time. At last I become one of these blades, making tiny ink-cuts in your memory. All these scars I've seen are so beautiful, I dream of kissing everyone I meet. My heart will be such a work of art, such a conglomeration of instances ingraved into self, it will make you want to laugh or cry. Which of the two, I leave to your discretion.
I can't think of a good way to end this.
*
I can feel salt water kisses humming under the skin you haven't met yet, you being the possibility, potential energy fogging up the future.*
...and to most, I'd bet it still doesn't make sense, but that's okay because most don't matter.Last night I wrote something of a bit more substance which has been caught in my head and heart (haha!) ever since. I didn't give it a title. For now, I'll call it
*
Words.Words sometimes need to be carved in before the cœur can care. The greatest moments of my life will always strive for cinema scope, and as the curtain falls on you and me I swear I can hear carnival music drifting in. I follow it out the window, close my eyes and float through people's hearts, trying to memorize all the words tattooed there by time. At last I become one of these blades, making tiny ink-cuts in your memory. All these scars I've seen are so beautiful, I dream of kissing everyone I meet. My heart will be such a work of art, such a conglomeration of instances ingraved into self, it will make you want to laugh or cry. Which of the two, I leave to your discretion.
*
Rebbi said that heartbreak makes for wonderful art. How much richer then, will this have made me?I can't think of a good way to end this.
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