"If they give you ruled paper, write the other way." -Juan Ramon Jiminez

Monday, August 30, 2004

The First of the Lasts


Because, as he said, this may never happen again. This could be the last. We don't know where we will be in one year, and not in the usual sense. This is with a sense of finality- Wildwood 2004 marks the first definitive event that we can lay to rest and say honestly (and, not in any negative sense) that it may never happen again.

Maybe I should blog happy, because too frequently I post unhappily. I think that this first tremor warrants it, because soon our whole world will crumble before us.

But actually, that's not wholly an unhappy thing. Some people look forwards to ends when they don't like where they are, and some people dislike them because of where they are. Very few look to just enjoy and make the most of whatever they have (and who they are) and can both respect the need for ends, and still look forwards to the beginnings that await them.

Sunday, August 29, 2004

Stream of Consciousness.

Once I'm gone I'm never coming back.
Once I'm gone I'm never coming back.
Once I'm gone I'm never coming back.
Once I'm gone I'm never coming back.
Once I'm gone I'm never coming back.
Once I'm gone I'm never coming back.
Once I'm gone I'm never coming back.
Once I'm gone I'm never coming back.

Friday, August 27, 2004

A Comfortable Penitentiary

She sits, head propped against the wall, staring blankly at the screen. Thoughts unrelated to what she sees in front of her runs through her head, the monster of sleep-deprivation helping her case none whatsoever. She wonders, aloud at times, why she can’t have what everyone else has. Rather, she does, but it’s restricted from her access, minus approval from the guardians after countless times of nagging, achieved not through understanding of her need, but after unbearable annoyance. She supposedly abuses her privileges; privileges to her, common and everyday to everyone else. She can’t focus, her own monitor is collecting dust from two floors up, and, for all she cares, Jefferson could go play under Sally Hemings’s apron again.

I can’t wait for school to start, so that she might have some freedom back.

Saturday, August 21, 2004


Shit, that's a crappy title. Oh well. Not every headline in the New York Times is a gem. Although, this is hardly the New York Times. We do have a shitload more people writing (2). Whether this is good or bad remains to be seen. Or maybe some of the faceless people reading this have already formed their opinions. Mike told me I sound like I have a tendency to sound suicidal or depressed when I write. That's all, I'm just letting everyone know.


I like... jazz. I haven't done anything productive in the past week. It's been a fun week, so far. I saw a lot of people and I did a lot of things, at least for me. I need to finish some stuff up this week I guess. I'm not going to say it, but you're all thinking it. My advice: stop. It rained today. Rain is nice. It makes everything deliciously gloomy, and I like that. Shit I did it again. Fuck. If I was a rapper, I'd spit onto the crowd. But only if I was there to rap. If there was a crowd and I was given the opportunity to spit, but was not at that point a rapper or the crowd was not gathered to see me rap, I wouldn't spit on them. I think I'm funny. But... I am.

ohhohohohohoh smiley with a tongue sticking out to succcccccckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk

Friday, August 20, 2004

Swept my hair up, hitched my skirt, and ran like a Galapagos.

Cross country, had my first practice today in the gorgeous sunshine with humidity high enough to kill anyone. I suck, considering I haven’t done much over the summer; exercise was limited to walking to the bus stop for summer classes. Coach feels what I think is pity for me; I’m the genius who enters junior year, late by 5 practices, and has no confidence in running whatsoever. It's a sport that doesn’t involve much skill, I believe…you run, and just make sure you don’t get hit by a car, as far as coordination goes. It’s the endurance, however, that tests a true runner.

The only true confidence I’ve ever had in life was violin, starting from an age when humility wasn’t an issue. After spending more than half of my current life on it, and almost all my childhood on practicing, there was nothing to be shy about. I had my rankings, had my good share of pride in the instrument, a greater deal of expectations from the teachers and peers; some random kid running by me asked me, “You’re that violin girl, aren’t you?”

Hah. No name anymore, just “violin girl.”

Thursday, August 19, 2004

if i told you i loved you, would you write me a song?

I have never been very good at keeping things alive. Goldfish: they're hearty... they can take anything. Apparently not. Cacti: they don't need to be watered all too often... even a memory-challenged person like you can keep that alive. False. These examples, among others, have given me reason to believe that I may wind up killing Amaranth. I don't know how, but who can tell with these things? Amaranth. Born, before Chicas. Died, when Chicas came. Cause of death, Chicas. Inscription, Never Saw It Coming.

This summer has been crappy-ish. It's been mostly work, and I haven't spent time with half of the people I wanted to. The time I did spend with some people was too short. I need a vacation from this summer. I need a vacation from the calendar. From time. From Earth, and people. Sometimes I wish I could be invisible. Then I could sit and watch people without interruption. I could draw them without them being self conscious. I could write about them without having them hover over my shoulder, analyzing every syllable I write.

I wish I was the girl in the photograph I love so much. She looks so happy, her sweater looks comfy, I like her lip, and I want a good portrait like that of me.

Also, sometimes I wish people didn't care about my feelings as much as they say they do.

don't let me be misunderstood,

null essence of words

I suppose if it hadn’t been for them, I would’ve never become the way I am now. I can’t express the written language. Everything seems so much easier with symbols, with shapes, with concepts. You simply cannot express thoughts with 26 letters; let’s mix and match a billion ways for the sake of communicating.

You ever stare at a gun pointed at you?…this fear beyond all fears, when you know what is bound to happen and what will happen when the trigger is pulled? Forget the gun, let’s put you in a nice tank with piranhas swimming around you. One second to express the terrible beauty your eyes will never behold again, another second to watch in breathtaking fear as you’re torn apart. We’re confined in our imaginations; physically contained in a safe room where chances of meeting any scaly ocean-dweller, much less a man-eating one, is soundly none. So how can anything be expressed? And with words? You don’t see it, feel it, sense it, hear it…you READ it.

Just like how I never really liked writing to express. To me, you just can’t. It’s about being there and feeling it. Maybe it’s the musician in me? What are notes to me, but black ink on a processed tree? Abstract as all hell, but think about it.

This could become addictive.


"take some risks," you said. well, I've never taken a risk in my fucking life. it's not something I do. I'm not prudish or scared, but maybe I'm too fucking pragmatic for my own good. too reserved, too...well. that was a lie. I have never taken an uncalculated risk. don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. guess we'll see.

so here goes nothing. (look there it goes! run, maybe you'll catch it. wonder if catching nothing would be like the odyssey. "look mom, I've caught nothing." who's on first totally ripped off the odyssey, man. whole kit and kaboodle.)

Wednesday, August 18, 2004

An Ode to Burial

What does it mean to be loved?
I wish I didn't know, at times like these.

It's a lot to be hit with, when people carry heavy hearts. These are certainly heavy times, so I can't resent them. Life and death and love and loss, the epic things that happen every day in not-so-epic surroundings, weave the stories of our lives. Maybe your volume will end early, maybe your volume will weigh too much for you alone to bear. Maybe if it's too much to be borne, you can be born again, somewhere new.

Death and ends make us cry, but we forget about the new beginnings that lie below, or perhaps, are just, as everything, solely a matter of perspective. You're looking down at me, man, but I'm looking up at you. And like a runaway nuclear core, let your heavy heart burn with a passion right through your chest, and join me here in the earth.

Tuesday, August 17, 2004

Well, I was going to write something long and boring, but I'll sum it up. Given the hype, today wasn't all that eventful, but I ended up seeing a shitload of people I hadn't had a chance to, and that was pretty cool. I'm going for a high word/information ratio, in order to make this as efficient as possible. blablablablabla fuck.

Saturday, August 07, 2004


I guess everything has changed. Time to recognize the ends and the beginnings, time to shut it all down and know I can only start it up, and that it can in fact only be started up one more time, and just one more time.

If everyone's a casualty
Then take your time there ain't no trouble
The weather's fine and we're feeling crazy
There's always drinks and dancing in the rubble
I'm spinning
and you're spinning
The world's spinning
and we're laughing
And I'm charming
The devil's charming
And we're ruined but we're still building
And I'm selling and you're counting
The world's stopping but we keep going
And we're ruthless and we're cunning
And I'm heir to it all

And I come back and it's cold.

Thursday, August 05, 2004

A way to pass the time, a time to pass the way today on my younger sister's birthday. Can't go out, I'd feel guilty, I'd be guilty of going out. I need to stay in. At least I thinkyes I do. Ever read a book? I'll die without ever having understood it. Why that title? No one named; There's Bloom and Dedalus but no...
Last night, late night, Conan O'Brien, Myles Ma. Arrogance at its highest point, assisted by brouhahangered me. Recalling problems, hiding in my summerscreen, SPF nothing; end metaphor. Sounds of pipes filled with poisonous flowers burned by plumbers called by prankcallers. No, he's not here right now. Take us too seriously. This is a joke to write, of writing; my thoughts, my thinks, my kinks in the machine. I've given up trying to fix it I guess. I'll just use it as it is I guess. I love the 80's that was?ornot?ithinkitwas. This is not serious, it's only passing the time, like the first sentence says when I read it, and sometimes when I don't read it. No, only when I read it, because Einstein quantumly told me 'twas true. Finished with English, in a final way, now I German do must. Now I'm at the bottom, and the bottom is the end, and the end is accompanied by this:.