Since I’m graduating next Sunday, I’d thought that I should sum up the last few months:
–i was in a play; i played a lot of guitar; i met people; i got a boyfriend; i was kissed; i learned more about myself; i figured out the answers to several conundrums.

I hope you all are ok and aren’t feelin awful.
<3 B.

nightingale muses

you all have helped me through some rough times. maybe indirectly? maybe unintentionally? Still there. So thanks.

I owe a lot to the following: Lillian, Ryan, Wil/William, oddly enough Jake H, and The Poet (aka Nick Tonckens). Some of you hate me. Some of you love me. And some of you tolerate me, which is all I’m asking for.

XO.

–Blare Coughlin.

Pont Neuf, early Sunday morning. He is standing there in a long-sleeved T-shirt and ripped up brownish canvas jeans. He’s staring into the water as if something, something brilliant and boiling and wild, will come out, slap him in the face, and teach him all there is to know.
I’m descending the stairs, freshly sweaty from the heat in the Metro- six stops underground, packed with the hoi polloi like sardines- and weary. It’s been a long time since I returned here; the memories in my bones are growing restless. I want to let them out, to listen, but there are more important matters at hand. I clutch my jacket more tightly around my waist and step faster- the stairs underneath make a clip-clopping noise- until I’m on the Pont itself, just feet away from him.
“Monsieur!” I say. It comes out funny, seeing as the air in my lungs has suddenly frozen the rest of my body into tiny shards of conciousness.
He turns. “Madamoiselle? Qu’est-ce que vous voudrais– ah.”
There is a silence as our eyes meet. He recognises me, obviously- that drunken night in the Marais, confused and out of our minds on a million different hallucinogenics (mainly trust and blind love and lust) that sped us up the stairs to his apartment where we made a mess of his kitchen before organizing ourselves more efficiently and fufilling the duty we’d nearly started right there in the smoking area of the discotheque before being kicked out by the manager. But I digress- the important part, the reason I stopped feeling acid in my veins, was the recognisation.
“Je n’ai pas vous oublié,” he says. I didn’t forget you.
“Merci.”
Another strange silence. I don’t want to doubt myself, I can’t doubt myself, but there is a nagging feeling in my heart nonetheless. I want to run off and fling myself into the dirty water below, just to escape this conversation. I won’t, though, because he says:
“alors– qu’est-ce que vous faitez en Paris?” What are you doing in Paris?
I look at him. Still the same. Maybe wearier, maybe sadder, but the aquiline nose is still there, the dark eyes, the longish messy hair. The build- not too skinny, but not broad or
muscular- still there, though he’s getting older and you can tell it in his posture. I suddenly realize he’s asked me a question.
“Uh, pour visiter le cite, quoi autre raison?”
“Pas pour moi?”
I can’t answer him.

http://of-montreal.heroku.com/13

KTHX

So many memories. I can’t keep them from flooding my mind.
Wil visited Paris a few weeks ago, I am very jealous. I hope it’s treated him nicely. I hope he went to Rue Vavin and stood there, quiet and pensive. I hope he understands the changes it created in all of us. I hope he knows.

It is currently sixth period. I am supposed to be doing college prep, but instead I am writing this and dreading next period’s calc test. I might do well? Maybe? I understand part of it. Cameron just started dancing shirtless in Room 2. I fear for the worst.

Well, otherwise- the Poet dreams stopped, at least for now; I hope he still remembers that I exist, but eehhh. I do hope I see him again. Eventually.

ANYway, I’m getting super into a lot of the stuff Tobacco’s doing, it is rather nice sort of pseudo hip-hop. I dig the tracks involving Beck. I want to rap freestyle over them, but as I am 1. white and 2. a lady, that will not go over well. oh and 3. i cannot rap.

For some reason, also, this week is a week full of late-ass play practices. NOT SWELL. NO. I have a shitload of work (mainly due to US History, a class which I shirk and cut corners at every opportunity.) and it’s all essays and shit and aaahhh essays. I hate essays. I HATE THEM.

also now I have a skype, add me if you want, if i know you I will add you back. Yay! it is nannerspy and I look forward to talking to a million people all at once. A MILLION. A MILLLLLION.

will write later, daaahlings.

Confused.

Still moving forward. I only want some form of communication between the two of us– one he actually uses, for that matter–but I don’t want to creep him out.

Ah well. We’ll see.

////

I made this one day, sitting alone and waiting for time to pass. it is titled (hells of unoffically) “i dreamed and wondered but got nowhere in the summers of past lives:”

the french says “I would dream of happier times” and it is kind of deep

i ran out of paint halfway through, you can tell.

In any case, lately I’ve been super paranoid about having people hate me: it is almost a capital punishment. I cannot bear knowing that people I know and respect think so low of me.
Hence the freaking out I am doing over a Nameless, not that it will actually affect me, but I’d like to be on good standings with them because we had a sort of okay friendship that abruptly ceased due to events I was not aware of. And, incidentally, am not aware of even now.

But since it’s not really a problem now (and I don’t expect it to be one any time soon), I’m going to let sleeping dogs lie and deal with it when it becomes one.

Later.