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yeah, yeah//

7 Sep

dude college essays are really fucking difficult.

What do I even do? I mean, besides Quiz and Science Bowl, and going to France, and sometimes petsitting for people and aauuughhh why does nothing I do lend itself to essaying?

maybe I should just write some crappy poetry and be done with the damn thing. Honestly.

WILL WRITE MORE WHEN MY BRAIN IS REPAIRED

(———->)

31 Aug

Well: tomorrow is the real First Day Of Senior Year.
I am not sure how to feel about this.
One side of my brain is rejoicing because I kind of (truth be told) like school and the busywork and the socializing. The other half is cursing and raving because goddammit, I have to deal with college prep. Fucking college prep. I hate Mrs. N with all my heart, I wish our school had a better and more understanding college counselor, but no. We’re stuck with her.
I’m not going to think about that now. I have to be up at 6 AM tomorrow, so I’m going to stop writing and go to sleep already.
Will write more later detailing important stuff.

maybe sometimes

22 Aug

I hate, hate, hate Facebook drama.
So far, in the last month, I’ve been nearly brought to tears twice: once because the main people I hung out with in Paris all defriended me over the course of two days, with no prior explanation, leaving me with no way to contact them whatsoever and stuck in the proverbial dust.
Second one happened about five seconds ago, when I realized that Kyna no longer showed up as anything but “Facebook User.” Cue freak out, as I went to a bunch of people’s profiles making sure that it wasn’t just me, wasn’t a bug. She deleted her account, I think, which makes me feel a little better because I understand the whole business now (but I won’t be able to see her pictures! DANG). I also still have ways to contact her! Yay! Friendship will go on!

But now my inner peace has been skewed and I no longer feel quite so great. I must think of peach light and zeppelins. I need to take a few deep breaths and try to let this whole business roll off like water on a duck’s back.

I think that as the year rolls on, the defriendings and other random acts of cruelty will disappear and vanish. Maybe. In any case, I won’t feel them as much. My memories will suffice.
I know which ones will still hurt, though.

((((((wading out of the caverns))))))

revel in slumber

20 Aug

Aah: the world.
Something about the days slipping by has left me feeling both hopeful and downtrodden, a strange mix of cynicism and idealism. These dog days are smashing the jars inside my chest that previously held everything nicely compartementalized, my sadness partitoned away from my anger, happiness away from disappointment. That was then: now is now, a soup swimming away with my thoughts and swirling down the drain, off to other uncharted regions.

Yesterday’s post, besides being long as fuck, also was a way for me to expel a lot of the pissed-offedness that I’d been feeling since I got home. There were a lot of unanswered questions that I left in Paris, and well writing that seemed to sort of conjure up answers that satisfied me, at least for now.
At the moment, though: listening to gratuitous amounts of CocoRosie and Warpaint and Tame Impalas (a psychadelic garagey band that I saw someone post on Facebook and dug immensely, I may do more research) and thinking about maybe writing another screenplay, though the current one needs rewriting. I was never good at that sort of thing, fixing my words.

I also want to paint, to make some art, but all the ideas I have come out funny on paper, more distorted and wrong than I intended. I think I’m going to make more prints this year, send them to people. Hum. We’ll see.

When it gets to this time of year, the moments before school begins and I am swept up in that ridiculous giddy business, I start proposing great projects that I never get around to. It’s kind of a disappointment, really, but a disappointment I think I can at least live with.

Going to write some poetry, maybe.
Will write tomorrow.

he was born with the same blue eyes

19 Aug

Listening to CocoRosie, I am digging their stuff a lot more than I thought I would. The nostalgic effects of hearing Werewolf swirling its hesitant way into my ears are kind of screwing my thoughts up and turning them to mush, wavering and curling to illegible scribbles of things I felt–
I love their lyrics. Seriously, I haven’t heard a single sentiment I didn’t like. They need to compile their poetry and publish it somewhere: I would buy it, read it. I’m sure I wouldn’t be alone.
I suppose now, while the memories are fresh, is the best time to come clean about Guillame.
I don’t think I loved him, that’s for sure. I felt something strong for him, but I can’t figure out what it might’ve been: a deep friendship? Lust? Anger and jealousy?
Well, whatever it may have been, he set the tinder ablaze and created something he didn’t know how to control. Guillame was used to being able to control people through his words, and he outlined the technique for me near the final days: how he enjoyed it, it was like chess-
I told him I was terrible at chess and he laughed.

But I’m skirting it again. Let me come back to the reason: the first night he had me put on his jacket for no apparent reason, and I asked “why?,” puzzled; he only replied “just, could you?,” so I shrugged to the voices in my chest protesting and slid the fabric over my arms, zipping the silver tab up over myself, encasing. Warm and suddenly sleepy, we talked with the others until the curfew, when I took the jacket up to my dorm and draped it gently over a chair.
The second day I gave it back and he looked at me with a question in his eyes I couldn’t understand.
That night, lying/sitting on the bottom bunk (my head ducked because the bunk above was far too low for any neckroom) watching his videos that he’d made, laughing and offering ancedotes that invariably fell flat (I am bad at telling stories but significantly better at writing them), I realized our hips were touching, shoulders too– and how warm–
the third night it all went to hell. well, it didn’t seem as such from the start, but I look back and pinpoint this moment (or series of moments) as the start of the things that broke me down a bit by bit. But I can’t change it. It’s the way the moment was structured, and so it goes:
Three people talking on the bottom bunk, Guillame and I on the top, lying/sitting with our legs hanging over the edge of the bed, me trying not to get my feet in the way of the conversation downstairs.
We are listening to music. Andrew Bird, to be specific (I only remember him, and CocoRosie, but no one else): I am being lulled into a deep calm by the violins and decide to crack Guillame’s knuckles for him. I do so, him smiling and almost laughing, and then our wrists twist around each others’ and we lay our hands between us on the bed.
A moment passes. Tense. You can feel it in the air.
I gently, so carefully, decide to strain or break that tension and cup his hand in mine.
Another moment passes. Sparks begin to slowly drip down my spine, molasses.
He slowly opens his fingers, moving my hand, and threads them between mine: the webbing of our hands touch and we cross our thumbs over each others’.
The sparks fly like bats from hell.
A few moments pass before he slowly separates our hands, then runs his fingertips down my palm, feeling every line and scar and callous, memorizing the hills and valleys of my knuckles, turning my rings and touching the hard tips of my fingers, worn from guitar strings and stained from that afternoon’s art class. He stops, waits, and I carefully run my thumb over his, feeling the delicate bones of the back of his hand: pianist’s hands, I remind myself, and they are: big, slender, flexible. His palm is soft and unmarred. His fingertips are like velvet and I wonder how he’d ever take to playing a stringed instrument, marring the softness and creating something new, maybe specialized, out of his digits.
Then another moment passes and my thoughts swirl on.
We clasp hands again, thumbs gently rubbing against each other, CocoRosie’s hesitant poetry poking and prodding at strange parts of my conciousness, creating momentary poetry that vanishes in a blink.

We sit there for a while. I couldn’t tell you how long.
Curfew comes and I wearily, unwillingly extract myself, but I look at his eyes and he seems to be saying “je sais, je sais” so I take it as I see it and leave.

Two days later in the Chapel underneath the winter palace he says “I don’t feel the same way, I’m sorry,”
and there is utter silence for a few minutes as my mind searches for the words that I had thought I had, forgets them, slips them around, and eventually makes do with an “that’s okay, I understand,” suprisingly without a cracked voice or something else that would give away how I have my heart deeply embedded somewhere around my stomach and sinking quickly.
He proceeds to outline all the reasons and I want to shut him up, say “you don’t need to prove your feelings, I don’t care,” but I sit and wait until he’s finished before I take a breath (it shudders–there–) and try to explain the long and ridiculous battle I’d had with this foe called requited love, and he listens silently until I’m done.
Now I’m sniffling. He says “you can talk to me about whatever you want, I’m sorry–”
I wish he would stop apologising, we’ve got that sorted already and I wouldn’t mind if he’d just get the fuck away from me.

He doesn’t.
We go up to get food and I wipe my eyes on my sleeves and paste on a smile, hoping no one will notice the crack in my façade.

Then a week later I met The Poet and talked for three hours and I realized that the world hadn’t quite ended but just taken a breather.

That’s all I’ve got for now.
Later? Maybe.

how far, how long

18 Aug

I tried to make some art today.
It didn’t work.

I have days when this happens, it is frustrating and makes me want to throw my papers and pencils at the walls. If you’re not a creative person you might not know the feeling: so, imagine the best, most amazing idea you’ve ever had. It will change the world, it will cure diseases, etc. But as soon as you try to tell someone else, all the words that come out of your mouth sound like birdsong and are utterly incomprehensible.
Hopefully that doesn’t happen to anyone, it would drive me crazier than the current creation-block.

Anyway, I decided to try to paint and it didn’t really work out all that well. I am a lot better at drawing than I am at painting, but for some reason the watercolors that I got in Paris love me and make the things I create with them look gorgeous even when they’re super messed-up.

I also wanted to write some poetry, and I scribbled down a few stanzas in my Yellow Book before realizing that they all shared a single thread:
The Poet.
“Fuck,” I thought.

I try nowadays to keep people from sticking too deeply in my thoughts, after what I went through with Wil, and I’m not very good at keeping them out but I try. I tried very hard with The Poet. I recognised the potential and tried to keep my conciousness guarded.
That was a joke and I didn’t catch it until I realized on my 8-hour transAtlantic Flight From Hell that he’d burrowed into some ventricle of my soul/heart and camped out there from the moment he opened his mouth and the words “Hi, nice to meet you,” poured forth.

The fact that I clung to that like a safety blanket is a little frightening.

But the thing that gave it sticking power was that night in the auditorium, my legs beginning to turn to jelly in anticipation of my act: he carefully uttered two words, the same two words twice in different poems- “peach light”- and that sank a steel pick into my spine and ran obsidian fingernails down my ribs, creating sparks I’d thought could never reappear.
Five minutes later I found myself singing for him and who knows how many other people, and my mind meanwhile chewed over and digested the things he’d said before settling on keeping that spike embedded in my bones and relishing those unheimlich-feeling sparks.

Unheimlich.
Do you know what that means?

((((((((un-canny))))))))
—-
Will write later.

you met me at such a dismal point on the arc

18 Aug

I wish I’d done something different with this blog.
And I’ll explain, thusly:

By unloading every single bit of anger/hatred/obsession/-ness onto this virtual friend, I’ve created a way to not only look through my past conciousnesses, but for people to forget all that I do outside of angsting. Because I write about things other than my sad excuse of a lovelife. I write a helluvafreakinglot else, and though I might not write for any real purpose I still write.  I hope that makes sense. This is something I’ve tried to explain to people before, but they usually start asking, “well, what do you write about, you know, besides your pathetic excuses for not having a significant other?”

To which I give a dirty look, sigh, and explain:

oh god, how do I answer that?

Let’s start. I write about what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling. I write about what I think others are thinking and/or feeling. I write about people who I’ve just made up thinking/feeling/doing things. I write about objects. I occasionally write about the food I’ve made. I write poetry (though mediocre poetry at best: The Poet may or may not help me with that, but I’m not going to pressure him because I’ve asked enough of him as it is). I am trying to write more screenplays, because the one that I’ve done is actually rather good and with some revision may become really fucking good. With any luck. Anyway: I write other people’s song lyrics.

I also write about myself a lot, which leads into writing about the people I think about a lot, which follows the predictable end into having me write about my terrible aaaangst. (Which, all else aside, is not that terrible.)

So my question, more to myself than to you, my readers (unless you have very creative ideas and are willing to share) is: what the fuck do I do with all this other writing? Where do I put it, besides my little doodlebooks? Do I scrunch it into this blog? Do I write it and shove it away? –I can’t decide, and sure it might not be very important, but god I want to share different stuff, I want people to read my words and feel something from them. Besides pity and derision and the sort of glee that comes from watching soap-operas.

That’s the hardest part.

so, I’ve been doing more blabbering, more free-association writing, on my Tumblr, and I feel kind of like I’m dethroning this venerable institution of my thoughts and words but if I don’t throw that blabbering somewhere else it’ll end up here and confuse the hell out of everyone.

Maybe I’ll post them in one big ol’ clump and let you find your way out, like a verbal labyrinth.

We’ll see.

—will write later.

(((in the belly of the beast)))