May 14th,
2009
| This goes on, and on, and on, and on |
08:09 pm |
Why does Trent Reznor always break little tiny pieces off of my heart?
I applied at both of the nearby districts. The third nearby district isn't looking for English teachers. I feel hopeless--it happens whenever I submit an application because it's out of my hands. I don't know how I come off on paper--I doubt it's as convincing as a conversation, although I make horrible first impressions (or at least I feel like I do).
So much easier to just flip a finger and be a writer. Not sure that'd be good for my heart or my sanity or my relationship.
Tired of being broke. Tired of stressing out about money. Tired of stressing out about everything.
Miss bass in my belly (with teeth).
I also watched a small clip of Manson in concert and it isn't the same thing. I mean... it sounds awesome and I'm sure it'd feel great. But he looks too old to be doing what he's doing. He looks like he's impersonating himself and it makes me feel awkward. It isn't sexy anymore--not the full get up. And I don't think it's just a matter of "Well clearly you've just grown out of that phase of your life"... Maybe a bit of it is, but he doesn't have the power he used to. The magic is gone.
Reznor ages better. He looks older, and I don't think that whole bondage Closer stuff would fly, but he's still got that plaintive heart breaking cry in his voice. Still has the power left in him.
This concert, by the way, is nothing compared to the one I went to.
I just figured it out. It's because Reznor isn't front and center--I mean, he is, but he doesn't make himself the spectacle at the center of the ring, the main focus, the be all and end all. He's more subtle so the aging doesn't steal as much from him as it does Manson.
Pointless entry because I'm bored and lonely and there's only so much spider solitaire a person can play on a given day before they go completely insane.
Only... only... only...
|
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November 3rd,
2007
| |
05:01 pm |
If your life was a movie, what would the soundtrack be?
1. Open your mp3 library
2. Put it on shuffle.
3. Press Play.
4. For every question, type the song that's playing.
5. When you go to a new question, press the Next button.
6. Don't lie and try to pretend you're cool.
7. Don't skip songs.
My Soundtrack:
1. Opening credits: Goo Goo Dolls - Name
2. Waking up: Gorillaz - November Has Come
3. First day of school: Live - Selling the Drama
4. Fight song: Nine Inch Nails - Hand that Feeds
5. Breaking up: Live - Shit Towne
6. Happiness: Jamie Cullum - Twentysomething
7. Life's okay: Gym Class Heroes - Sloppy Live Jingle pt 1
8. Mental breakdown: Nine Inch Nails - The Beginning of the End
9. Driving: Poe & Mark D. - Hey Pretty Remix w/ House of Leaves
10. Flashback: Nelly Furtado - Showtime
11. Getting back together: Killers - Somebody Told Me
12. Wedding song: Depeche Mode - Stranglove (You can't make shit like that up :op)
13. Birth of first child: Nelly Furtado - Wait for You
14. Final battle scene: Strokes - 12:51
15. Death scene: Berlin - Metro
16. Funeral song: Kurt Vonnegut - How to get a job like mine (Dude. It's like my favorite author giving my eulogy. How fun.)
17. End credits: Smashing Pumpkins - 33
Based on the soundtrack, my movie should be pretty interesting.
Und das ist alles.
I've been cleaning all day. It must continue. :)
Enjoy November.
(And listen to the Fratellis if you haven't yet. They're my current aural obsession. There's no way to be in a bad mood and listen to Costello Music. -- So I guess if you want to be sad or grumpy, it's best not to. But if you want to smile and tap your fingers/feet, give it a shot.)
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October 27th,
2007
| "So afraid of what people might say" |
09:43 am |
Haven't properly been on a computer for a week, so when I checked dj, I clicked the links to the right and visited bash. Came back and thought "I haven't looked at my da account in a long time" -- I don't log on. Just skim through my own things once in a very very great while. And then I decided to check on a name I remembered from that era. A woman I never knew but who had a strength in her voice that reminds me of my voice now when it's strong enough--we both write like men. But she's gone. Left apparently. And it's funny because the only thing of mine she ever commented on was my goodbye to writing. So I reread the only piece that connected two complete strangers.
And at the end of that dear john I expressed a wish to learn to write without losing myself. And now I question whether I've been successful in my endeavor. Sure, I'm not the way I was then... I don't do the drink, smoke, sleep, write--no time for showers or love or life. Occasionally crave the life of a literary lion, but not to the point of complete self-destruction (and that's the gear I was stalling in at that time in my life).
And then I wonder how my writing has changed. Most of the stuff on my da account is really naive and not good--you can kind of get a feeling of little sparks that would later become the fire burning beneath my words, but the cadence is off a lot of the time. Strength lost in a messy rhythm and an ignorance born of stubborn mind.
But am I any less stubborn now?
John would definitely disagree.
I'd agree with John. (Irony?)
Checking da, like reading old journal entries, is an experiment in growing up. It's a comparison test to see how I've changed. Standing against a wall and looking for the last pencil mark to prove how much I've changed. Unfortunately for me, for any person I guess, the marks are all faded and smudged and I can't tell if I've grown up or just merely grown away.
I like to think that these days, the days when the writing is good, the voice is strong, and the heart feels that pitch of inspiration that lets words go instead of choking them down, I like to think that these days my voice mirrors that of the strong woman I remember not knowing on da. The one who wasn't afraid to write like a man. That I could earn a mutual appreciation in return.
But what does it mean that she's abandoned it now too?
Failure inevitable proven? Rimbaud's end?
Or is it caught up in that clique mentality that ensures I may long for literary community but will never step foot in a place like that again?
(And then the honesty in me pushes out the confession that, like a 14 year old girl, I really DO want to be part of the in crowd.. Always have and always will)
Sometimes it's easier to measure the progress of my life by examining the progress of my writing. Maturity measured in the ability to construct sexy sounding sentences that have nothing to do with romance or fucking.
But why is it I've been writing all this time anyway? (John's question never asked?)
If no one ever reads it, what purpose does it serve beyond creative masturbation?
Who am I trying to prove something to?
Why do I assume I'm trying to prove anything to anyone?
Someone else's assumptions floating around in my mind? Falling out of my mouth via nervously typing fingertips?
And what of the wish deep inside of me to copy and paste this dj into my more frequently viewed journal? The one that all the strangers view? Vanity revealed?
All the talk of writing, of the man's voice in the woman's body, of the sexy sounding sentences--it makes me want a cigarette. But new resolutions have us turn away from self-destruction no matter how good it tastes on the edge of my lip.
Long for a new distraction because this is turning obsession again.
And maybe I've just answered that initial question. Maybe it'll never be possible to love writing and love myself in a healthy way. Maybe it'll always turn me toward self-destruct no matter how subtle or how piss poor the attempt.
But it's like a Fall Out Boy lyric: "I only keep myself this sick in the head cause I know how the words get you."
The truth that lingers beneath the words of a little boy band keep me feeling kindred. Familial familiarity.
But we won't even start on my latest feelings regarding procreation.
We'll cut the song short here and seek out less demanding distractions.
|
|
July 13th,
2007
| silence |
06:51 pm |
i crave it like a junkie, so i curl up my tail, do a little dance, and lay down in the dark corner that spawned a large portion of it all.
do you know how i got here?
random coincidence and the desire to be someone that would impress me.
i don't know what's going on. that's exactly what i said on myspace, and it's exactly what i've just said here. not what i wanted to happen. no room for repeat performance. this should be an encore not a rehash. i want to purge.
i want to purge.
(that means more than it says but not in some "i've got an eating disorder" way)
i've got a lot in me to get out. a lot of fear. a lot of feelings of inadequacy. a lot of desires and dreams and demands for myself and my world. i've got a lot in me to get out. i've already said that.
i don't know. reading writers write about writing always makes me feel a little sketchy. i realize now that somewhere deep inside of me i really do want to be a writer. i don't know exactly what that means. i don't know if it means i just want to be grown up published. i don't know if it means i want a stranger to know my name and appreciate my specific brand of diction. i don't know if it means i just want to complete all of this nonsense that i endlessly begin. i don't know if it means purpose or just practice.
but i'm lost in a tangent. i the writers thing... see. a lot of the writers i love, or maybe a better word is respect. a lot of the writers i respect relate to writing in some heady way. that is to say they say things like "this story is really about the blah of the blahblah dealing with their issues of blahness" or some such nonsense. and i'm not like that. i mean, maybe somewhere underneath it all, i could analyze what i've created and come up with those theories. madness and Creativity... it's about demons, it's about finding yourself, it's about the lengths someone will go to in an effort to find out who they are? something like that? it's a stupid girl story? it's a writer story? it's a watered down fuck poem?
the point is, i don't think "hey.. I'd really like to write a story that highlights the blah of the blahblah dealing with their issues of blahness". i'm not psychological in creation. that's not to say that there isn't a good bit of psychology involved in what comes out--i'm kind of schizophrenic when it comes to my ability to become the inner dialogue of a stranger...
but..
i don't know. the disjunct between my creation and the creation of the writers who are writing about writing makes me think i'm not serious. (not that i'm not serious about creation but that i'm always going to be a writer and never a Writer--i've got the voice but i'm never going to do anything serious enough to make it worth anyone's while)
and what does this have to do with the price of beer in china? well nothing really except that it was a recent regurgitation and i can still taste the bile in my mouth.
i know i have stories in me.
and i know i could write them all if i would only so choose.
but i don't know how to make it worth the while--i don't know how to out myself or how to leave the closet of creative masturbation. (cause when no one ever reads all the shit you're writing, that's kind of all you're doing. fucking yourself.)
other topics of interest...
time moving to quickly. it happens when i get back to regular work hours. even if i've got fridays off. inevitable. the trap of playing grown up. i don't have enough time to do everything i want to do and still get the sleep that makes me feel like i'm in control of what's happening.
and my eyes are really going to shit.
all my nails are breaking.
it's hot today because i wasn't as careful as i've been all week.
this wasn't just about writing, but everything else always dissolves when i start there--and that's always the easiest place to start. i think it's just that purge=write and right now write=big thinking/serious talk.
i do want to teach... but do i want to teach more than i want to write?
there's another whole issue of me wondering if i'm even old enough to teach. i mean... yeah. i do not come off as old enough to teach--at least not in my own mind. but then i just realized that all of my 19 year old friends look to me for guidance. i guess that's some sort of endorsement.
i really want to be a good teacher. i mean, i want to give kids mad grammar skills, but i also want to reassure them and encourage them and push them. i want them to see that life is more than just a series of schools. high school is not just about preparing for college which is just about preparing for career... they don't need to get lost in a sea of tomorrows. i don't want kids living for their future. yeah, keep it in mind, strive for the best, but don't sacrifice today in the name of tomorrow. and don't lose your education in a struggle to pass a test to get in somewhere else. education should be about more than tests. it should be about intellectual growth. and yes, maybe i sound overly idealistic. that's never going to change--school systems may beat me down and kill my resolve to change, but i'll always believe that there should be more. hopefully i'll always believe hard enough to keep trying...
blah.
i just want to read and relax and kiss my boyfriend.
i don't know what's going on.
at my lit nerd party months ago one of the profs was having a different conversation and said something about not being able to write anything worth reading while they were teaching. i can see how that might be true, but it doesn't ring right with me. (add it to the list of things that make me question whether or not i'm really a writer). i can see wanting to give 100% to students. they deserve nothing less. but giving 100% to students does not necessitate a death to creation. i guess for me, the more experiences i'm having--the more people i interact with, etc--the more the writing just kind of floods out of me.
i guess that's what's going on...
i don't know what kind of writer i am, and until i figure it out, it's just going to be a big pile of "i don't know what's going on"
but john's going outside
i'm inclined to join him.
more on this later
(or never. we all know how lazy i am.)
|
|
May 21st,
2007
| meh--I just want to keep this for myself. |
05:56 pm |
SUPPOSEDLY if you've seen over 85 movies, you have no life. Mark the ones you've seen. There are 240 movies on this list. Copy this list, go to your own MySpace account, and paste this as a bulletin. Then put an X next to the movies you've seen, add them up, change the header adding your number, and click "Post" at the bottom.
Have fun!
(x) Grease
(x) Pirates of the Caribbean
(x) Pirates of the Caribbean 2: Dead Man's Chest
( ) Boondock Saints
(x) Fight Club
(x) Starsky and Hutch
(x) Neverending Story
( ) Blazing Saddles
(x) Airplane
Total So Far:7
(x) The Princess Bride
( ) Anchorman: The Legend Of Ron Burgundy
(x) Napoleon Dynamite
(x) Labyrinth
(x) Saw
(x) Saw II
() White Noise
(x) White Oleander
(x) 50 First Dates
(x) The Princess Diaries
( ) The Princess Diaries 2: Royal Engagement
Total all together: 15
(x) Scream
(x) Scream 2
(x) Scream 3
(x) Scary Movie
(x) Scary Movie 2
() Scary Movie 3
() Scary Movie 4
(x) American Pie
(x) American Pie 2
(x) American Wedding
(x) American Pie Band Camp
( ) American Pie Naked Mile
Total all together: 24
(x) Harry Potter 1
(x ) Harry Potter 2
(x) Harry Potter 3
(x) Harry Potter 4
(x) Resident Evil 1
(x) Resident Evil 2
(x) The Wedding Singer
(x) Little Black Book
(x) The Village
() Lilo & Stitch
Total all together: 32
(x) Finding Nemo
( ) Finding Neverland
(x) Signs
(x) The Grinch
(x) Texas Chainsaw Massacre
( ) Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning
(x) White Chicks
(x) Butterfly Effect
( ) 13 Going on 30
(x) I, Robot
( ) Robots
Total all together: 39
(x) Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story
( ) Universal Soldier
( ) Lemony Snicket: A Series Of Unfortunate Events
(x) Along Came Polly
(x) Deep Impact
(x) KingPin
(x) Never Been Kissed
(x) Meet The Parents
(x) Meet the Fockers
( ) Eight Crazy Nights
(x) Joe Dirt
(x) King Kong
Total all together: 48
( ) A Cinderella Story
( ) The Terminal
( ) The Lizzie McGuire Movie
( ) Passport to Paris
(x) Dumb & Dumber
( ) Dumber & Dumberer
(x) Final Destination
(x) Final Destination 2
(x) Final Destination 3
(x) Halloween
(x) The Ring
(x) The Ring 2
( ) Surviving Christmas
( ) Flubber
Total all together: 55
(x) Harold & Kumar Go To White Castle
(x) Practical Magic
( ) Chicago
(x) Ghost Ship
(x) From Hell
(x) Hellboy
(x) Secret Window
( ) I Am Sam
(x) The Whole Nine Yards
(x) The Whole Ten Yards
Total all together: 63
(x) The Day After Tomorrow
(x) Child's Play
( ) Seed of Chucky
(x) Bride of Chucky
(x) Ten Things I Hate About You
(x) Just Married
(x) Gothika
(x) Nightmare on Elm Street
(x) Sixteen Candles
(x) Remember the Titans
() Coach Carter
(x) The Longest Yard
( ) Gridiron Gang
(x) The Grudge
( ) The Grudge 2
(x) The Mask
() Son Of The Mask
Total all together: 75
(x) Bad Boys
(x) Bad Boys 2
(x) Joy Ride
(x) Lucky Number Seven (lucky number slevin?)
(x) Ocean's Eleven
( ) Ocean's Twelve
(x) Bourne Identity
( ) Bourne Supremecy
() Lone Star
(x) Bedazzled
( ) Predator I
( ) Predator II
(x) Alien vs. Predator
(x) The Fog
(x) Ice Age
( ) Ice Age 2: The Meltdown
( ) Curious George
Total all together: 85 (well I guess I already lost.)
(x) Independence Day
(x) Cujo
( ) A Bronx Tale
(x) Darkness Falls
(x) Christine
(x) ET
(x) Children of the Corn
( ) My Bosses Daughter
( ) Maid in Manhattan
(x) War of the Worlds
(x) Rush Hour
(x) Rush Hour 2
Total all together: 94
(x) Swimfan
(x) Miracle on 34th street
(x) Old School
( ) The Notebook
( ) K-Pax
(x) Krippendorf's Tribe
( ) A Walk to Remember
( ) Ice Castles
( ) Boogeyman
( ) The 40-year-old-virgin
Total all together: 98
(x)BASEketball
(x) Hostel
() Waiting for Guffman
(X) House of 1000 Corpses
(X) Devils Rejects
( ) Elf
(x) Highlander
(x) Mothman Prophecies
(x) American History X
() Threesome
Total all together: 105
( ) The Jackal
( ) Kung Fu Hustle
(x) Full Metal Jacket (MY FAVORITE MOVIE IS ON THIS LIST!!)
( ) Shaolin Soccer
(x) Night Watch
(x) Monsters Inc.
(x) Titanic
(x) Monty Python and the Holy Grail
(x) Shaun Of the Dead
( ) Willard
Total all together: 111
( ) High Tension
(X) Club Dread
(x) Hulk
(x) Dawn Of the Dead
(x) Hook
( ) Chronicle Of Narnia The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe
(x) 28 days Later
(x) Orgazmo (haha. Yay for cinemax.)
( )Phantasm
(x) Waterworld
total all together: 118
(x ) Kill Bill vol 1
(x ) Kill Bill vol 2
(x) Mortal Kombat
( ) Wolf Creek
(x) Kingdom of Heaven (I saw this with Becca!)
(x) The Hills Have Eyes
( ) I Spit on Your Grave (this is obscure horror)
( ) The Last House on the Left (as is this)
( ) Re-Animator
(x) Army of Darkness (Yeah, baby! -- I agree, Becca)
Total all together: 124
(x) Star Wars Ep. I The Phantom Menace
(x) Star Wars Ep. II Attack of the Clones
(x) Star Wars Ep. III Revenge of the Sith
(x) Star Wars A New Hope
(x) Star Wars The Empire Strikes Back
(x) Star Wars Return of the Jedi
( ) Ewoks the caravan of courage
( ) Ewoks The Battle For Endor
Total all together: 130
(x) The Matrix
(x) The Matrix Reloaded
(x) The Matrix Revolutions
(x) Animatrix
(x) Evil Dead
(x) Evil Dead 2
( ) Team America: World Police
(x) Silence of the Lambs
(x) Hannibal
(x) Red Dragon
(x) Anger Management
total all together: 140
repost as
I saw _____ movies out of 240.
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May 14th,
2007
| For the Ladies :op |
07:19 pm |
This is some sort of sexy noir (the second part *unposted* is so fucking dirty, I blush everytime I read it. It is the stuff meant for sleepovers--giggling girls and the phrase "I can't believe I wrote this" with responses like "You're telling me")
It's one of my favorite groups and someday I'll write them all. (They're from awhile back and since I wrote the first ones, they've remained a source of amusing distraction.)
But here's the first.
Enjoy ;o)
...
He’s just sitting there. That smug grin on his face. His shirt lost halfway across the room, laying exactly where it landed after he pulled it off and tossed it carelessly. His gun laying across his leg. And his eyes are slowly roaming up and down the body that’s laying on the bed. My body.
Dixon’s rubbing his hand back thru his hair and then slowly down his chest as he forces a sigh and fakes a stretch. He’s still sporting that grin and now it’s accompanied by that devilish glint that I’ve never seen in anyone else. When his lips part his voice comes thru as half growl. The tone of it is enough to cause my eyes to close and my head to turn in pleasure. I could listen to him talk for hours.
“I need a shower.”
My teeth are scraping across my lips as my fingers clench a little fist and the thoughts of it run thru my mind. His hair’s crushed under the weight of the cool water as he rests his arm on the wall beneath the head. His eyes are closed and water’s pouring down over it. Like the rock cliff of some exotic waterfall. Never moving. It’s moistening his bottom lip and if I just slip around in front of him, I could reach up and grab it between my own. Playfully bite and shoot him the same depraved look he’s only half giving me now.
He’s laughing quietly cause when I open my eyes slowly and look over at him, he knows. He’s still sitting there, not making any move. His gun still laying across his leg and his chest still waiting for nails to scratch down it. I haven’t said a word but he’s seen every picture that passed thru my mind as though I’d dictated each thought to him directly. I give my head half a shake and turn away eyes open.
My eyes are looking towards the window but they’re caught up in the fuzzy reflection the light creates against the night sky beyond. Dixon’s looking at me directly and his tongue is edging out and wetting his lips. Pictures are floating thru his mind. I can’t see a single one so I make up my own in his style. My sheet’s coming down and he’s crawling on top. His hands are holding down wrists that haven’t even attempted to move free. My body’s reacting to the close encounter despite my will to remain reserved. But nothing gets me more than the face that’s only a breath away from my own. His face, his lips, traveling up and down the side of my face slowly and deliberately and careful not to touch me for even a second. Sport expressed in a pause and drawn in breath of me that’s followed by a low guttural laugh that vibrates my own body.
Whatever he’s thinking must be getting to be too much. Dixon’s leaning forward. Hands picking up his gun and pressing the barrel to his head. Pointed at the sky. Cold hard metal held right between his eyes. Trying to find his center so he doesn’t blow it all. And now I’m laughing from the unintended pun. His eyes are slow to raise their gaze to me and when they do the corner of his mouth turns up in a smile. He gets the joke without ever having heard it. I want him out of my head and inside my body.
Dixon’s leaning back and rubbing the back of his head as he smiles onward. Plans are forming in his mind and he’s got every intention of playing them out to the very last detail. I’m already well aware that I’m not going to make it even halfway thru whatever it is he’s going to do to me tonight.
My arms falling off the side of the bed, as my finger stands erect pointing toward the bathroom door a few feet to his side. I want to sound strong and untouched by the thick and unmistakable air of sex pressing in all around us. My voice is nothing more than breathy and desperate.
“There are clean towels in the closet.”
|
|
| Yeah |
07:11 pm |
My stomach kind of hurts and maybe it was a sign of frustrations left to come. I AM SO FUCKING FRUSTRATED. roar. A pathetic and truly horrible "roar."
But that's not so much the point. So much the point is that I really miss my DJ. I'm all hanging out on myspace and whateverthefuck, but this is really my dark little corner. This is home. This has existed longer than Oregon (not literally, just in relation to me), and for that it is the winner.
That and this is so much more fucking private. Random people I've never met are less likely to wander through here and if they are, they aren't going to associate anything they read with a portrait of a girl I thought I could be (or was, or really am). (That sentence made little sense, but I know what I mean and that's all that ever matters in my DJ).
I don't know what's going on.
I think I should ban the words "I don't know" from my vocabulary. I use it like "um." It's my space filler--or it lets me shove off the responsibility of finding real words to express sentiment.
Either way it's not good.
But I don't know :op
I was so fucking high this afternoon. I think it's the sun. Too much sun and I get crazy manic. Unfortunately no one can really stand the manic me--well some people can, but they're rarely around when it happens... And so now I have to deal with the pent up energy that's not being expended all by myself. All by myself for the rest of the night. All by myself for the rest of the night when I'm not going to want to go to bed ever but I'm really going to have to because I have an 8 hour work day tomorrow (yay for working both my jobs).
Oh.
That's what I was going to write about. My fucking temper.
I get mad real easy. That's not entirely true. I get pissed real easy. I get bitchy real easy when the conditions are right--which is basically any time that I'm super happy (super sad doesn't really give a shit one way or the other). I suck at disappointment (which is why I'm generally content with depression--nowhere to go but up). But disappointment when I'm happy goes straight to the red--I get pissed. And honestly, when I'm pissed, I'm not someone I would want to be around. I get resentful and angry and vengeful. I'm not a happy person.
But I know it's all reactionary and not entirely real so the past two days I've been trying to swallow the shit.
It's not easy.
I've got a temper.
It's not easy to ignore it.
But I'll make the effort anyway.
Acid indigestion may be the ultimate result.
I guess they make pills for that.
What I really need to do is start exercising again. I get way more mellow. It's really what I should do tonight (no, what I should do is clean the kitchen, but like I said--I get pissy and angry and vengeful. there's no way that'll happen).
On the upside-I'm getting a hell of a lot more comfortable with my body. I'm not sure why that's happening--maybe part of getting older whothefuckknows--but it's happening. Sure I wish I were a little skinner, and sure not that long ago I was about ten pounds less on the bathroom scale, but really... I'm not the monster I've always made myself out to be. So I guess there's finally a difference for be in being satisfied and being comfortable. I never used to realize that you could be comfortable without being satisfied.
I'm not sure that paragraph was worth the energy it took to type it. Years from now I'll probably be glad I did, though. Here's to you, kid.
Really
Honest
Confession
3
2
1
I just want to feel like a body right now. I want physicality and sweat and a big feeling of physical exhaustion and that all important word in my world-Touch. I need to be grounded because I've been too high all afternoon.
I have to make a list of books I'm going to read when I'm done with school. It'll be long but then I can check them off and feel good about reading for reading's sake.
Semi
Unimportant
Confession
3
2
1
I handed in three papers today that by my standards were really hardcore mediocre and it only scares me a tiny bit (and it only scares me because I love my teachers and want to impress them as some sort of thank you for teaching me so much).
Oh.
And I'm graduating Summa Cum Laude. Which is really rather impressive, and even impresses me a little, but is not my way of saying "You should love me because I'm so fucking smart." It's just the culmination of not having a life for the past four years. An idiot could get summa if they dedicated as much time to school as I do. It's sick. It's good I'm getting out.
Really I think leaving college is going to be the healthiest thing I've done in a long time. It'll be sad to not have my mind constantly fucked by amazing people. But think about all the crazy things I can explore by myself... That almost makes it worth it.
And I realized that I can still attend public lectures when I really want to stretch it out again.
My stomach is killing me.
I miss my dog.
I really miss my dog. I can't believe it's been ... Eight months.
I miss my dog. Honestly not sure how I'm ever going to stop.
But that's an entry I'm never going to make.
Nothing to go into when I'm so full of frustration..
It leads to a bad place.
My stomach is killing me.
And I really missed my DJ.
Gimme a minute and I'll post again.
Something juicy and creative.
Something I won't have to think twice about posting because this is home, and everyone on my friends' list has already read my most embarrassing creative endeavors. ;o)
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May 13th,
2007
| "I'll wait for you" |
10:06 am |
U2 on a Sunday morning is like a drug that strengthens your heart while turning your brain to mush. How I wish to lose myself in the physical emotions...
But this isn't about U2. It's about progress. It's about evolution. It's about writing (when do I ever post anything anymore that isn't about writing?).
So I was working on the three papers I have due tomorrow. Listening to music on winamp with the inherited headphones that make everything sound so fucking delicious and I didn't want to leave yet. Who would? So I think "let's read some crap." Unfortunately I've reread all of the crap in the documents folder very recently and so it's no incentive to sit still. Instead I mosey over to DA and read the first things I submitted. Some I don't have to read--Just looking at the preview I remember perfectly and get the taste that I was hungry for.
The younger years. The crazy bad. The experimentation with authorial identity. It's simultaneously interesting and embarrassing all at once. I'm not sure how I ever manage to get past it.
But then I start thinking about who I am now. I look at one of the people I, back then, thought of as a real Writer. Someone who impressed my young impressionable mind and intimidated me in a creative way. And for a moment I regress. I become the insecure self-demeaning little girl that I, in some ways, will always be.
Shake it off. Read a little. Realize that it's not so different after all.
[have we just sprung the little green shoots of an ego? soon to turn ravenous vine and strangle the parts of me we all hold so dear?]
Sure. I sucked. And sure. I probably still do more often than not.
But now I'm capable. Capable of playing on the same field. Capable of drawing those feelings from myself--I don't have to run off to someone else's prose to feel that wicked power of creation. I can do it right at home with nothing more than a notebook and a sexy black pen.
So yeah. I'm a writer. I'm a writer and fuck you if you think it's pretentious of me to say so--it's not an easy thing to submit in a journal entry even when the only people who read it already consider me such. I write. And that, in itself with no other qualifications makes me a writer. I love it. That, truly, is what makes me a Writer. I revel in it like Dionysus. Drunk on creation that reminds me of every typed word that I have ever fallen in love with. I giggle. I moan. I mourn. The relationship finally consummated with my admission of guilt. I am a writer.
Listening to the sexiest song I'll ever hear (Physical-NIN), I'm tempted to go on to my voice and the voices that I love. To get into the parts that get me off in a non-sexual way. To talk about the physicality of writing that I really love. The way I can feel it in my mouth when I'm reading silently on a bus. The way it tickles up my side and makes me feel full.
Honesty and all that lust you're after.
I once was blind but now I see---something like that? I was weak and still have weakness but the fact of the matter, the one thing we'll remember at the end of today, is the fact that my writing has grown strong (and maybe a little subversive because of all the resent I've been pouring over it for the last seven years). I've carved a little niche for my writing to fester in and it glories in the dark corner. Poetry has soaked into prose and given me a style that I can finally recognize as no small anomaly--they were right to talk about it when I was crying WTF.
More fun than that is my ability now to look back on piles of mediocre bullshit (not by their standards but solely my own) and see little pieces of it sticking out. The strokes that fell outside of the lines. The notes that fucked up the sappy melody. The beast.
hehe.
The beast.
Yeah. So. That's that, I guess. Really I think the heart of all of this ... all of this return to past versions of myself, concentration on writing, failure to fear the future ... I think at it's heart all that's really happening is I'm finally growing sick of my inferiority complex. Or maybe not the inferiority complex so much as the self-depreciation. I am who I am. Why should I waste my life lamenting that fact? The people I love most love me for the person who drowns under the self-hatred. Argue for her rescue. Don't understand why I'd bare my teeth and snarl at such an unworthy target.
So I'm me.
And I think I'm finally starting to accept that fact. (Maybe this is part of growing up that I've never sufficiently mastered)
I'm a hell of a lot easier when I'm not shitting on myself all the time and we all know how much I love to be the easier version--the one who's carelessly happy and easily forgiving.
And I can feel the difference.
Maybe that's all that matters.
I can really fucking feel the difference.
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April 26th,
2007
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07:39 pm |
Casey's Random Movie Quote:
'It's a great thing when you realize you still have the ability to surprise yourself.'
- Lester Burnham, American Beauty
Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com |
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January 15th,
2007
| What you gonna do with your life? |
03:21 pm |
My stomach is not entirely happy. Too much soup. That and I'm detoxing from last week when everything was bad for me or covered in cheese. :( So comforting. So bad for me.
Anyway. I don't really have anything to record right now. Cept that I'm proud of myself for finally taking my car to Oil Can Henry's and taking care of my car. It's still big with turning on the "Check Engine" light, but I think it's just tired. At least he's full now... full and sleepy.
I think I'm going to go to Walmart shortly. John wants cigarettes and I want the trip. Today was goodish. Got a lot of homework done, made soup, did some marginal cleaning. I've realized that the key to being happy is sometimes as simple as opening the blinds and doing my homework in natural light instead of the shadowy flourescent leaking in from the kitchen. Real light always helps. Especially when there's so much left that I don't want to do...
I should really write about life. About getting married. About being in love. About writing. About school. About anything that means something even if it's only a temporary memory of how it was those few minutes that I opened the deadjournal window...
I am in love, but not getting married. And I feel guilty because I've brought it up an ungodly amount in the last two weeks. I know... I dunno... I'm just getting old and it's hard to remember that most of the time because I'm largely surrounded by little people, by people who aren't really ever going to grow up, people who are students first--and being a student stunts your growth. I can't wait to be done but I don't know what happens after that--more school? find a job? jump off another cliff? I'm in the mood for the cliff right now--desiring some sort of excitement, some adventure. It feels like so long since I've gone exploring with John. I think that's why I loved this summer so much--for awhile we went exploring every weekend. I need the travel. I need the riding in a car for a few hours. I need the new visual stimuli. I need the curiousity and the stepping out of my comfort zone in a manner that is all comfort. I miss the movies, but I think my favorite John entertainment is the travelling, the hiking, the exploring anything. I've been craving new streets and I keep thinking that one afternoon I'm just going to get in my car and go all the opposite ways that I normally drive. Find out what happens if I turn left instead of going straight. This place is home, whether I like it or not, and the chances of me getting lost with no way back are pretty impossible at this point.
But the home thing is another topic. Inspired by natural light. This apartment is home, I realized that the other week when I realized that I never think about driving in the parking lot, walking up to the door, unlocking, closing. All of the "coming home" is as natural as it was when I used to drive home from John's at 10pm and not remember any of the drive until I was standing in the living room. Habit makes a home sometimes.
And inside it's not so bad either. Lately I've been realizing how "nice" our apartment really is. It is. I always bitch about how much we (John) pay for rent, but the place is pretty posh compared to the other apartments I've visited in Eugene. And until today/yesterday I kind of hated that. I don't like nice so much as I like warm and lived in. But we've lived here for almost four or five years now... It IS lived in. And part of this nearing excursion to Walmart is an attempt to make it more home and less temporary (the temporary feeling results in piles of boxes and stuff just sitting around, waiting for a home in a place that IS home).
But we do need a new livingroom clock (which makes me sadder than sad because the now dead one is my favorite clock ever... all the way from Bloomsburg. It needs a home in a kitchen above a doorway. Maybe it'll revive itself in time... Or I'll find a cure for the old-clock-curse.)
Meh. It feels good to have taken care of my car. Even if I did spend money that I don't have. I'll get paid next week and hopefully a lot of this stress about money running out too fast will feel a little less like an anxiety attack.
Classes are starting fine. I already know which class is my favorite to sit through, I know which class is my favorite to read for and think about, and I know which class is bareable and capable of surprising me once the term really gets going.
It was good to have today off. Especially after crap week.
I've decided to enter the quiet phase--a hard decision to uphold since I'm not at the natural entrance to that phase. But I'm saying too much of nothing lately. It's time to channel my inner Silent Bob--to make my words count.
Now I'm tempted to ramble about John. It's the comfort theme... It's just weird how much relationships change over time. And at the same time it's weird how at the core they're still the same. It's strange to have an Aries-Aries relationship--they're always doomed to fail. And here we are almost 8 years later. There's just so much comfort and danger... The polarity... The dichotomy of man is really the dichotomy of my romantic relationship. But there's some comfort in that. I know we're good right now. I also know that before the end of the term we'll probably have a knock-down-drag-out (although it has been quite a while since the last one). Cycles. Everything in my life is a big circle and whenever I think I'm growing up I say something about getting to know how the wind up works... And then they shift half a degree and I'm all stirred up again. Another transformation in the same vein. No wonder I always have dejavu.
There was lots of snow last weekend. It was nice. Nice because I needed the comfort. The biting cold. The feeling of home in a place that always falls short in that arena. It's probably why daylight is so easily fixing me right now. Nature helped me out during crap week. Made it all a little easier--so right now she's one of the few allies.
But I should probably get going to Walmart sooner rather than later.
Just know that I love you all (even the ones who haven't written in years) and I think of you all a lot more often than you'd probably suspect.
And know that I'm surviving. Because as good as I am at falling and freaking out, the one skill I have is my unfailing ability to survive whether I want to or not.
Take care.
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December 17th,
2006
| Biology |
10:10 am |
So. Last night I had this dream.. well I had more than one dream, but this morning I had a really... strange one. Well they were both strange.
ANYWAY.
So the one this morning, I don't remember the whole thing, the context or whatever. All I know is that I was with this group of vaguely familiar people who I can't identify now. We were all on the side of this mountain in this rainforest city which I guess might have been in Africa? We were all in this building and there was war not far away. Something was happening and at some point some guy said that they were going to break a damn, and as a result, everyone was going to move uphill and we'd be flooded with these refugees (who I'm not sure you could even call refugees since the war/violence was just going to follow them uphill to the place we all were).
I guess a few of us weren't that afraid because we stayed.
Then the dream swung in a different direction and suddenly we're all sitting on this porch outside amid all of this war noise insanity and we're talking about books. Actually what we're doing is talking about analysis of books. It goes something like the leader brings up someone's paper and the other people talk about it and then the person talks about it. And I didn't get to talk about my paper. But the conversations continued and when a similiar thing came around I raised my hand and the person was all "You wrote about this" (meaning, You already spoke to this topic), and I explained that we kind of skimmed over me. And then I continued.
And this is what I said.
"I think it's really interesting... or really important rather to realize that he's a writer writing about a writer. I think it really sets up the whole question of language and the inability to effectively communicate---to really peg down a meaning" *which, past the word "language" is all a vague summation of some point I was making that I can't remember now*
and I continued
"I think the part where the little boy" (who is African--or from whatever country this story/dream takes place in) "asks the woman" (who is some kind of white foreigner--so there's a color difference to be seen) "if she is his mother... I think it really speaks to the constructed reality of race and nationality and expresses the innocence of the basic human need to connect and feel loved. The child doesn't see what we would think are obvious hints to the contrary... all he sees is a woman and a possibility for a family that he hasn't ever really known." (He doesn't know anything about race OR family, but the knowledge of mother is instinct... or something... that trumps race/nationality)
Which is why I'm writing this entry. Cause that sounds so... moving. And... Big. And ... important. And I really wish the book were real cause it sounds good :( But it's all just some made up nonsense in my head and I'm not the kind of writer who can write something like that.
So I guess that's all I have to say.
That and my stomach hurts and I'm hungry, but I'm afraid eating will make it worse.
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November 23rd,
2006
| Turkey and Tragedy |
05:28 pm |
Man that sounds melodramatic. C'est la vie. Show goes on.
I'm so meh lately. It's crap and I don't know why it's happening. I'm just lost. I feel an incredible lack of feeling... Which is probably what bothers me so much. I feel like I can't feel. Can't be happy, can't be sad, just can't be anything.
Less important: I made Thanksgiving dinner. It went relatively well. I was somewhat impressed but am very tired and avoiding the dishes. I've successfully avoided them for three hours now. We'll see how much longer I can hold out.
More important: I graduate in June and I don't know what happens after. If I'm doing grad school/teacher school I need to take tests so I can apply to said programs. If I'm not, I need to figure out what the fuck I am doing. The editing thing has been coming back (but maybe that's just way to distance myself from meaningful pursuits), and that's probably doable without the grad school, but I should try to get an internship before I go look for a real job.
I don't know what to do with my life and no one is ever any help in figuring it out. I wish someone would tell me what to do. I know that no one can. But it would be helpful if someone could just help me figure out what I want to do... what I CAN do... what I should do. It's no help to hear that I could do anything I want to do. I don't want to do everything I want to do (there's a great sentence). Whenever things are serious, whenever we have THAT talk, it always falls back to writing and maybe somewhere I know that I should pursue the shit, but personally I don't know if I can. I don't know if I want to. I don't know if I'm up to it... There's just. If you're going to be a writer, if you're going to make it as a writer, you have GOT to believe in what you're doing, in what you're making. And I have my periods of writer-ness. I have my bouts of confidence and perfection. But it doesn't last... And I think it has to last. I don't know. I hate thinking about writing. I hate having these little bouts of "Should I really be a writer" because so often I feel like I come off to everyone as really saying "Do you think I'm good" -- Which, honestly, is PART of the question, but not in a way that's fishing for compliments. It's a rational "Am I really good enough to make it as a writer or are we just bullshitting because I'm entertaining."
Fuck it.
Somewhat Important: I had this argument with Victor at Sy's the other day about him being smarter than me (which he flat out denies, and I'm not even going to start into right now). And the bottom line has to do with me retaining information. Because I don't. I don't know anything about anything and I'm really close to being done with my undergraduate work. Yes, BA's mean nothing. But I've been in enough really good classes, I've read so many fucking books/novels/plays/poems that I should know something about anything. And I don't. I'm not saying that I'm not smart, because I am (there was an unexpected admission). I'm good at the time. I can read and I can theorize and I can pull shit out of nothing that holds up to close scrutiny. I can write a kickass analysis of a piece of literature. I can get A's. But it doesn't mean that I know anything. I lack long-term intelligence. And this all sounds like a downer (and it really is because I feel like a fraud and it's the main reason I get resentful and anti-social), but the point of this is that upon further thought I arrived upon a bit of a revelation. I think the problem isn't me so much as where I put myself. I got into English because of my love of literature and my love of thinking about literature. But I really think it's the wrong major. (A great revelation to have when I'm two terms from being done). I think I should have stuck with Philosophy. I think that if I'd dedicated my time to thinking about theories of thinking everything would have stuck. I would be able to have that intelligent conversation that majors of all sorts have about their chosen subject. Then again, it might not have and I might be having the same feeling right now with a different major. It just sucks and just now when I went outside with John I was trying to remember why I switched and I got a really kind of sick feeling because it was the stupidest reason ever. I dropped Philosophy when I moved to Eugene because before that, the plan was to go to grad school and get a PhD in philosophy. The problem? I thought I was switching schools too much and it would keep me from getting in. So I switched to Journalism (and aren't we all glad I didn't follow that poor plan). I gave up philosophy because I didn't think I'd be able to get into grad school because I'd be going to a total of four schools before I got my BA.
That. Sucks.
Meh.
Conclusion:
There is none. I'm lost. I'm lonely. I'm loved but it doesn't matter a whole hell of a lot when I can't love myself. And why can't I love myself? Beyond all of the bullshit reasons, because I don't know who the fuck I am. And how can you ever really love a stranger?
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October 29th,
2006
| I just need somewhere to put this right now... |
07:17 am |
W. B. YEATS
NO SECOND TROY
WHY should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the lithe streets upon the great,
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?
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August 5th,
2006
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11:25 am |
Infatuation has a name and it is Rosaline
Nay Romeo
But never Juliet
Who in my youth I hated
But now lament abuse of innocence
Mercutio dead
Benvolio waits next
Can we ever cry for Tybalt
Or even feel for Friar Lawrence
Who benevolent seems but
Seeks holy self-gratification
Infatuation has a name and it is comfort
And distraction
Haste and fascination with a childhood
Long gone
And left behind
Patience is an angel
That we see only when it’s too late
And we’re already dead
Like William Shakespeare
Who I know so well and
Never well enough
To keep surprise from moving tears
To eyes who have witnessed
This same story
Several times before.
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August 2nd,
2006
| Let's DJ it up. |
10:20 pm |
Somedays I feel old in bad ways. Right now I'm feeling old in that somewhat pleasant buzz of nostalgia way. Where I can listen to 1979 and think fondly on nights at the Hearth but not lament my inability to go back. Because I like my short hair and my grown up boyfriend and my own yellow couch in my own Oregon apartment.
Sometimes I don't need to go back.
I dunno what's been going on lately. A whole lot of nothing with a big undercurrent of everything. Trying to grow up is hard when you're such a kid inside. Remembering you're a grown woman when you still dress like a little boy and occassionally swear more than the average sailor. Not so easy, but I think it would be good for me. Have to keep reminding myself, because as scary as it is, it's also incredibly powerful. It's a good deal of boosting me to equal status instead of the constant lesser I feel. And if I could remember that I'm equal I could be a lot less nervous about what people think of me... Because if I'm equal, it doesn't really fucking matter, now does it. ;o)
But that's not really why I'm on here. (Honestly, why I'm on here is because I just reloaded my mp3 player and I want to listen to it for awhile before I pass out which will remain somewhat impossible for awhile because of how hard I crashed this afternoon.)
I'm so tempted to go read my initial LJ entries. I mean the first ones. Pause while I investigate. Well initial amusement. The first one is subject: "Viddy well little brother, viddy well." Maybe I'll screw writing and go read Clockwork. It's been awhile.
But. Seriously. You must read the whole day. The First Journal Entries Ever.
It's really kind of creepy and kind of reassuring. There are a lot of differences and so many fucking similarities. Always with the missing who I really am. Which is reassuring because maybe I've always just been wiggling around looking for it. Creepy because what if I never really was it. Reassuring because I didn't realize I'd known the wiggling toes back then. Creepy because I keep "(smirk)"ing. I dunno. It's just weird. And full of crappy ellipsis-laden poetry. But all of my LJ is like that. DJ missed a lot of the ellipsis writing. LJ was hit hard.
Revelation from the next day (which reads much more interesting):
"is a wish from the heart or the mind?
(and which part of me is more diseased and dillusional)"
I dig on that pair of lines. It's good to have the safety of time to give the illusion of greater perspective. To evaluate past confessions based on the poetry of the words. And I think that's why I write at all. Because six months from now I'll look back on all the entries (who are we kidding, there aren't many on here anymore) and not remember how lost and confused and sick I was but think, "That sounds so fucking sexy when I say it in my head."
But. Right now. When I'm in the warm (despite the overwhelming cool) place of mid-twenties content, when I'm secure in my love, when I'm almost happy with my body, when I'm enjoying good music... It seems to provide me with this weird ass-backwards reassurance. That I've not really been getting crazier (which is always my fear). That I may be somewhat screwed up mentally/emotionally but that I'm not really spiralling downward.
The story should have a better moral but that's all I can muster for now. And right now it's enough because I'm in the good place and I don't need all that much to be happy.
This content, I think, has just as much to do with the napping with John as it does with the good music in my ears. Vielleicht more. I'm kind of simple that way.
".... it's somewhat infuriating to not know what other people think.. and to never really be able to know....
-i'm being whiny now, i'm sorry-
(but don't you ever wonder what people think when you're walking away from them?)"
I'm so the same creature I always have been.
It is amusingly cute when I'm stable :op
"i love talking to john, but we've talked about so much in five years, and even when there's something new to talk about, we tend to agree with each other A LOT..."
and some things are so different. haha.
But. I'm going to quit (although probably not) which means we've got to end this crap entry somehow and what better way than with classic Casey wisdom?
love bites and stings sweetly for days [22 Jul 2001|05:10pm]
[ mood | content ]
sometimes it's the days that you wish would go away forever, that turn into the days you wish would never end (smile)
post comment
Und das ist alles.
Loveandallthatrot.
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July 27th,
2006
| Biology |
08:15 pm |
my gut hurts
and i'm going to go with john to get burgers because when i'm sick, i'm allowed to eat whatever whenever i want.
it's the new diet rule :op
and
i keep forgetting to tell everyone i know
last week i cut most of my hair off.
das ist alles
happy burger time
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June 16th,
2006
| Biology |
01:22 pm |
First time I've ever had to leave work early.
Meh. I thought I was going to pass out while I was driving home.
Hope it's not something huge.
Time to go to bed.
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June 6th,
2006
| :( |
07:07 am |
I have horrible dreams. Last night worse than normal. Last night John broke up with me. That is sad, but what breaks my heart is that he already had someone else to be in love with. Leaving me was no bit thing for him. That... I dunno. I know it's stupid. I just can't shake it when it happens. Now I'm all wanting to cry even though nothing happened. Couldn't go tell John even if he was awake cause he doesn't get how dreams can affect me like that.
I just feel broken now.
But the upside is there's an absolutely stupid bitch on TV who got to write a book and doesn't know when to shut up.
Wait. That doesn't make me happier. It makes me sad that she gets paid to write that bullshit.
BAH.
I need to not go to school today. I need to stay home and hang out with John. I need to shake off my dreams.
:(
poop.
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May 28th,
2006
| meh |
04:06 pm |
I'm so sick of doing scholastic work it's ridiculi. Tired from the boredom of thinking. Jealous of all parts of my family because they're all enjoying the weekend while I'm sitting it out and trying to get things done. Thinking about how much I have left makes my head feel swimmy. Almost that "I'm about to cry" sensation.
Exhaustion.
I don't know what to do with myself when I don't want to do anything and I can't sleep. Normally I'd bother John but he's off enjoying the weekend.
I miss friends.
And I'm getting someone else's mail and I don't know what to do about it. I obviously can't email her cause I'm the one getting her mail.
roar.
It's 4.
I should do something.
What to do, what to do...
ROAR!
:(
Stupid geography. Everyone is far away.
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May 10th,
2006
| biologie |
01:43 pm |
You know what's cool about getting older?
Getting to know your body like your car. This means this. That means that. You can tell when you're about to breakdown and how far you're going to get before you do.
I feel nicht so gut.
I have papers to be working on and other crap to be doing as well.
Hopefully tomorrow will be better. I might actually not go to school if it's not. That'll be the first time ever, really. Meh.
pain.
work.
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satisfied
annoyed