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3 Nov

I dreamt of the Poet last night.
This is beginning to worry me- this tendency. I don’t want to lose contact with him.
It was in first person, the dream–at the end I started hearing “Wake Up” and my mom shook me awake.


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.

our powerless fathers

28 Oct

It is strange, this situation. Strange and somehow wrong, intrinsically, but it is the only thing keeping me from falling into some sort of half-despair. Or something: you catch my drift, yes?

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.



18 Oct

I don’t know a lot about things.
One thing that has given me much consternation in the past and will continue to give me consternation in the future is my total and utter inability to understand people. To read people. To figure out their emotions toward you, toward inanimate objects, towards other people.
It is for this reason that I am tormented by the idea of someone hating me, mainly because I will constantly ask myself what I could be doing wrong and trying not to bother the person and so on and so on. Usually this just makes the friendship I am trying so desperately to cultivate unravel. So frustrating.
Currently wondering the very question above about a few people. I am scared and I am hoping my assumption is false because I would in all honesty like to be these people’s friend and little else. Maybe someone with which to exchange words, perhaps. Or something. It is difficult and it is annoying and it makes me want to try and forget about people and just go to some out-of-the-way island somewhere in the Azores and play Smiths records all day, alone, letting Morrissey sing me to sleep and not caring a whit about any other human activity and/or judgementalness.

long island sound

11 Sep

(three days before False Priest!)

Firstly, I want to get something out of the way: it’s 9/11. Every blogger is mentioning this fact, this is what I have to say about it: to those who were personally affected by it, I am very sorry. To those who weren’t, well that really sucked. And to those responsible, I hope you suffer from a mindcrushing amount of guilt, possibly more. That’s all I’ve got, back to me writing about me.

Senior year, besides being a little ridiculous, is also freaking me the fuck out. For once in my life I have no one around me who I really need to impress. For once in my life I have no one near me to angst about. It is kind of a ridiculously foreign feeling. It is liberating, true, but it is mostly strange.
Especially because I find myself thinking of The Poet whenever I let my thoughts stray to possible angstworthy personages. In my warped little mind, he is somewhat like a rock I can cling to in my indecision. If that makes any sense.

Iiiin other news, cooked basically all day today, I want to die, my feet are screaming like a motherfucker, I may or may not have started my English project, I drew a bunch of crap for my next print in Art.
Yeah, you read that right.
It’ll look cool, though. I’ll take a picture when I’m done.


alter ego

11 Sep

Fucking exhausted.
Movie night tonight, made risotto and celery and jello for everyone, general consensus was “yay,” which makes this successful.
Now I just want to sink into my bed, like the one in Trainspotting when whatsisface overdoses- deeper and deeper and hopefully not waking up in hospital.
Talked to The Poet today; I miss him. I wish we could have a more concrete form of correspondance but for now a few minutes of back-and-forth will have to suffice. It’s a little distancing, but I can deal with it.
Anyway: “distance has a way of making love understandable,” which was a Wilco quote and describes why my neutrality is so strong these days.

Will write more tomorrow.

forever heavy

4 Sep

i couldn’t breathe in the silence
from the echoes of radarless machines
so i flagellated and writhed
with the effort of it
trying and trying
to control the wild flickers of pain
but it never worked, at least not
when you were
around, the silence
soaring into cacophonies that confused
and at the same time,
at least liberated me

it took time and space
but suddenly i found myself
drifting away, no longer
with any need to swim
against the current
trapped in another gravitational pull
and made boneless
by another’s influence

i never thought anything of it
looking back that was probably
the best thing: somehow
a clean but jagged break,
it cauterized the wound
and let new growth go forth
and let me breathe again
and let me love
and walk into that peach light

recounting & counting

23 Aug

MKAY, I’ve been wanting to do this for a while, let’s see how well I can.
Basically,  I want to write down all I remember from Paris in one convenient place so I can read over it in my old age and  think “man I used to be so ridiculous, what happened?”



The first day, as far as I can remember, consisted of me getting up at like nine and then waiting for my mom to get ready (an hour-long process that involves hairdryers and six different outfits meticulously chosen), then hoicked my backpack and suitcase down the stairs of the rented apartment and out onto the street. We walk to the metro and I’m bursting with excitement, all “oh dang, what if I meet someone who speaks Swedish, and then we’ll be friends, and then aaahhhh!!!” My parents are barely putting up with me. My sister is feeling left out.

We finally emerge from the metro and get lost for about five minutes, go to a store and buy me a towel (yay!) then walk down the Amorino road (Rue d’Assas? Something like that.) and onward to the hallowed Lycee De Notre Dame de Sion. By this time I’m jumping around, excited as fuck and eager to meet the people I see in the front office. I get my key. I take the sketchy elevator up to my room. My roommate isn’t there yet, so I kind of unpack and then run back down to say goodbye to my parents and then rejoice in their absence.

And then I try to make friends.

The first group of people I talk to, waiting for the neighborhood tour to begin, involve Cam and Graydon and Chris and some other fabulous folks whose names I don’t remember that well. (I’m sorry.) We start talking, I introduce myself (“I’m Blare! I live in the Caribbean. I’m going to be a senior.” “You’re tall!” “I know.”) and in a few minutes we leave to explore and find out where we are, exactly.

I find out the main facts about Graydon (lives in LA, going to be a junior) and Cam (lives in Boston, also a senior, half Canadian) as we walk, and laugh way too loudly and piss off Lea and Alex a little, who are currently being our momma hens. We live by Monoprix! And Amorino’s! And a little boulangerie! SWELL. We all are pretty googly-eyed by this point, and traipse back to the Lycee chatting.

Then, lounging in Graydon’s room, we meet his roommate Billy, and we talk for a while before going downstairs to “mingle.” I meet Kyna and Giselle and some other people. Say hi to Wil, Will, and Josh, kind of look askance at all the other people who seem like they’ve known each other for years. Go to eat. Explore a little bit. Come home with ice cream and then go up to Graydon and Billy’s room. I meet my roommate, she turns out to be named Jordan and seems like an okay person, which is good. Go back down to G&B’s room and talk more before midnight, when I go back to my room, talk to Jordan for half an hour, then try to fitfully sleep.

(now, the narrative becomes much more simplified.)

Day 2: Wake up around six, shake the sleep out of my eyes, go and take a shower. I’m the only one chipper enough to be awake at this hour, so I’m alone: go back, get dressed, look through our Welcome Packet and write in my Yellow Book. Wake Jordan up at 7:45ish, go downstairs and use one of the computers.
Go up to see if Billy and Graydon are ready yet, they are, we go downstairs and eat. First day of classes, honorary welcome-here assembly. The lot of us meet Richard, who immediately commands every ounce of my respect, though with good reason. Our teachers are on the stage and lead us to the classrooms. I am led off by Luc, my Psych teacher, who is nothing like I’d expected and is  short and bespectacled and about twenty-odd years old. The classroom is on the third floor. I rediscover my hatred for stairs.
He tells us the main syllabus, we nod and smile obligingly, and then after who knows how long it’s time for lunch. I go down to the Winter Palace, meet the dwarves and Weed Brownie (long story), and we go to the boulangerie on the corner. We eat in the Luxembourg Gardens and then wander back for minors.

My Art teacher is Paul Laufer, a bit of a legend in the program because he’d taught his class for 8 years and every other year his wife is having a baby. We are on a baby year. Paul is very excited about his baby. I meet Sophia, who is short, Bulgarian, and absolutely hilarious; Ofelia, who is Spanish and amazing; and Mary Liza, who is from Tennessee and makes me think of the epitome of a Southern Belle, though probably the mental twin of Sophia. We go out to the Lux Gardens and do a draw/paint of some fountains, just so Paul can gauge our skills. I feel proud of my little doodles.

Go back to the Lycee, the Dwarves assemble, we take the metro to Les Halles because all the Dwarves (except me) need phones. (in this case, “Dwarves” includes me and Kyna as well.)  We sit and wait for Giselle to negotiate with the employees in english, then surface from the halls into the Tuileries. There is a carnival going on. Graydon and Billy insist on riding a ridiculous spinny ride called Rainbow, one that we become very, very familiar with. Very, very familiar. They disembark all smiley, then we check the time and decide to mosey on home.

We eat dinner somewhere. I can’t remember.

Talking, talking, back to my room, sleep.

DAY THREE (and now I start really simplifying things)

Wake up, shower, dress, downstairs and breakfast. Go to class, listen to Luc, learn about personality types and read some case studies which are actually fairly interesting, though at the moment I am one of the only ones awake enough to care. Class ends, only major today so go down to meet the dwarves.

Dwarves assemble! We leave to go…uh, somewhere? I think Collette. I’m not sure. This day is kind of loopy for me. We do something, we come home and Billy goes “Is there a piano? I wanna play a piano. Real  Rull bad.”

We find a piano downstairs in the Teachers’ Room, though there are no teachers at the moment, and so Billy sits down and everyone’s jaws drop. The boy can play. (I have a video of it somewhere, but I’m far too lazy to upload it right now, so one of these days look out for it. Mkay?)

Then, upstairs, dinner, talking, watching the movie Billy made of his grandma talking about ghosts (“GOATS?!”) and laughing. Back upstairs, sleep.


DON’T REMEMBER MUCH except the hand-holding incident, and subsequent mental freeeeek-ouuuuuttt.




Saturday! Still had classes. I think I went to the Swatch store in Les Halles and bought a new band. The peeps who want to go to the Morning Benders concert.


and then dinner at La Coupole, I think. I order tripe. Ew.

DAY EIGHT– okay, I don’t remember much else on specific days, except the last two. So I suppose I’ll just write the little scenes, feel free to mix & match with the order.
=====MISC. DAYS=====

At some point, there was a Sushi Class sign-up thingy that I decided to join in on, spur-of-the-moment like. This led to meeting Nick, talking to Nick, going into the most awesome candy store I’d ever seen and buying three lollipops, walking across the street with Nick and watching him trying to open one of said lollipops and failing, me trying to help him but also failing, culminating in him dropping the damn thing in the middle of the street and looking absolutely heartbroken for a few seconds. I asked him if he wanted one of mine, and he said “naw, I at least held the greatness of it in my hand for a few minutes. That’s about enough.” Then we followed Lea to get bubble tea, which no matter how stridently I try to enjoy is just too fucking gross- and walked to a park and sat and talked and drank bubble tea for about three hours until we looked up, noticed no one was there, looked at our watches, and realized it was kind of time to get home. Thus initiated a magnificent Metro ride back, and more chatting as we walked back to the Lycee.
I was pretty happy.

You know what, I’ll finish this in a separate post, okay? It’s getting kinda long.


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.

Do you know what that means?

Will write later.

going on seventeen

15 Aug

Tomorrow is my birthday.

I am turning 17, which is an age that Younger Me couldn’t really wrap her head around, mainly because the seventeen-year-olds around her scared the ever-loving shit out of her. So that kind of makes me afraid of inadvertently scaring small children.

Urr, I’m happy at this moment. Actually happy, not some cheap imitation of emotion I put on like a mask. No. This is real: this is marvellous.

I have realized that all the links I had have been sliced.
Do you understand this?

I sure as hell do. You remember when I was writing about Taschen/Bortglomt and Tweed and Hove/Agætis? I no longer feel for any of them. I no longer feel for Guillame.
I do feel for The Poet, though I will never see him again. I understand this fact, I’ve acknowledged it, and I am happy to stay with my memories and float on.
I have a lot of happy memories from that trip.
This cutting of all these ties- it’s like I’ve been freed. I never realized how much I wanted their approval, their okay with the things I did, and now that I’m free to do whatever I want, judging put to the wayside, it feels beautiful.

Though the Poet didn’t ask for approval, he just accepted me without my needing to act. So did Guillame, in the beginning. But. Those times are over, I am moving on.

Happy Birthday Kyna! Happy Birthday, Leah B! Happy Birthday all those other nameless millions who share my/our birthday! I hope you are doing swell!

Will write again, maybe in the near future?