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.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
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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