"I was working on a--I was working on a moment. Can't you see that moment?"
"I'm seeing a minute if that counts."
"No. Just a moment. Just a moment."
"What do you want?"
"More of them. I'm telling you, I want more of them."

I love the way life plays out. I prayed for a Friend. I wished for a Friend. And I got it. I got it this time. And I got two. One stronger in the first place, but the other isn't too far behind.

I also love the way I always stressed the fact that the love I speak of is never romantic. Up until now, I never believed that anyone else could really feel like that. But it's true. If someone can care about me this much and love me this much without being in love, that's way fucking wicked amazing. So much I can't really describe it in words. Because I know that it's the closest thing I'll have to forever.

We don't speak of forever because that's illogical. Nothing lasts forever for one reason or another. People die and illusion with it or people change and the feeling fades. This won't fade, I don't think. Maybe it'll have its ups and downs and I'll cry like it's fading but I won't really think so underneath.

This has been a good trial. But it proved something to me that I would never give up for anything. Not for anything. I would die to save it and you know that I wouldn't die for anything. Because I love living and if you can find something to live for instead of dying for, then you've really got a handle on it all. But I live for this and I'll take it with me to heaven or hell or oblivion...wherever it is we all end up.

The great storm is over. At least for now. (I don't think I want the big storm to be over yet. Not yet. It's too good for that.)

Perhaps things won't be so bad. I can't say I'm not disappointed, but I can say that I believe I can trust them to not abandon me. I guess that's all I really care about. I don't want them to leave me. I think, maybe, sincerely, that they won't.

Today it's been a year since I last saw Anthony. I guess it's a good date for an anniversary because it'll also be the day I decided I'm done with all of their bullshit.

I thought about it. I really did. And I thought about it again and thought I could accept it and be happy and be happy for them. But I can't. I can't be happy. Sure, I'll be happy for them. But I can't be happy myself. Because he lied.

Because he led me on.
Because he lied just like they did.
So now I'm done with it. Never, never, never again.
Never again.
See me build my walls?
See me getting harder?
It's easy.
It's easy.
It's easy.
Build a wall around my heart and the pain can't get through. It's easy. Just just like this.

This is the part where I disappear. Because a year-and-a-half is up. Because history repeats itself. Because I can never keep anything I love.

Despite what they say, I know how it goes. I know this game. I know this review.

The bottom line is, I'm alone again. Like I'll always be. Like I've always been.

But it doesn't matter. Concentrate on finals and papers, I suppose. And then...something else mundane.

"What do you want?" asks the traveller.
And the sibyl replied: "I want to die."

If I jump from 100 feet up, will it feel like flying? No. Probably more like vertigo and I get enough of that without being so high off the ground.

I've got to get out of this. That's what that was referring to. Get out of this, so I'm talking to people and taking action, although only James has an idea about it. He says it's the best thing I can do. Because any way I choose, I'll feel guilty. This is the one where I'll end up feeling the least. Maybe it's selfish. He says no, he'd do the same. But I guess that's because we're both sick of carrying everyone else's burdens as if they're our own. We will, nevertheless, just not as much.

Speaking of vertigo, we went on an adventure last night and climbed to the top of the library. We found a door left open, probably inadvertently by some maintenance guys, and climbed up. The view was spectacular. We could see the whole city from way up there. I couldn't go near the edge unless I was crawling, though. He, of course, was all over the ledges. But the drop was straight down ridiculous 60 feet or more. I think it's more. He thinks it's 60. I climbed a ladder to a tower on the roof to get higher. I was shaking but the view was worth it. I held onto him and then it was all right.

The accomplishment was climbing down. I climbed down. I almost froze, but I climbed down and lookie, lookie. I'm still alive.

Everything looks so small and you feel so big from up there. The water was frozen up there but it wasn't on the ground, so just imagine how high we were. It makes me think of God. God is cold and omniscient and...lonely. What else could it be but lonely?

Now I don't feel as bad. But it's the same thing. We're all alone together and lonely apart.

Figures, don't it?

I lost all hope in humanity a while ago. I kept pretending I didn't. But I'm through with that now. I'm through with that because I'm sick of all the lies. I'm sick of all the people saying they'll be there forever and dropping off the face of the earth.

So fuck all of you. I'm done with that shit.

Go back to your good life.

Now I wonder why I bother writing this piece of crap. It doesn't matter anyway and you'll all forget me a second later. I'm used to your lies so don't try to protest. Don't try to protest. It makes me puke.

If I jump from over 100 feet up, do you think it'll feel like flying? No, but I'll get over the acrophobia and then life, too. That's where we all end up, so what's the difference?

Decision

It's torture to watch her sobbing like this, partly because I semi-know how it feels, partly because I feel it projected onto myself. I feel the walls go up around my emotion saying "It is not worth all the pain to discover true, human emotion." It is not worth this.

I'm used to loneliness and the walls around it are steadfast. Because happiness is an illusion and I won't believe a lie no matter how much it smacks of and acts in truth.

Thus I am disillusioned. Of course I only speak of friends because that hurts enough as it is--but to open myself up to more than that, that's self-mutilation of a sort. And what? To lose something great, because in the end I'll lose. So yes, I prevent myself from gaining.

I sacrifice momentary happiness for myself, and perhaps for another, to save us from this. In this case, I'm not just watching her lose a lover, but her best friend in the world.

I've already done that thrice and none of them were lovers. Just imagine if one had been...I remember the one that hurt the most; I remember what I did. I doubled over on the floor under the bed, my knees tucked under me, my forehead pressed to the floor rocking, rocking, rocking for hours until I'd cried six years in three hours and destroyed myself back to a ghost.

I never got him back, really, even though he still hangs around.

Then I tried and trusted again--another lie.

So now I run away from the moment.

Do you understand? I can't take this pain anymore, this trickery of bliss for a solitary kiss.

So I run away from the moment so that I'm in control.

It's time to be alone again. I'm sorry. I've learned my lesson too many times and I still tried trusting again. But I won't get back up after this one, so I'm leaving before I fall at all.

I'm sorry. I'm a solitary soul. I content myself with make-believe and it keeps me surviving. But the real is not just real happiness for a second--it's torture, perpetual.

I will stand by the constant, dull throb of loneliness in place of this.

Because I know what I'm in for.

Take your moment back. There's someone beautiful out there for you and you deserve her.

You deserve her.

Can't you see that you deserve that beautiful girl, whoever she happens to be? She's the one who make syou laugh and cry, who gives you sight when you need it and blindness when you need it, who you feel separate from and a part of no matter what--inextricably intertwined.

You deserve her, that one there, that beautiful girl.

But it hurts too much for me, so I run away from the moment. It's too late to let somebody love me, so I turn my face unto the wall and it all comes together.

The angel's there, my loyal companion of fantasy.

I gave it all up tonight listening to her weeping, mourning the end of the best friendship she ever had.

Maybe I would've liked to know the taste of it. But I got the aftertaste beforehand and the virgin sip is never worth the consequence.

"Better Than Stars" it reads. He says it's the trees. But I think there's double meaning there.

The truth is, I'm a coward. I'm a coward and I couldn't speak. At least not the right words. It was as if a hand had clenched my stomach and my throat. Physically impossible. Because I'm a coward. But I have to bring it up. I have to face it.

In the end, I won't lose anything. I'll gain knowledge. In the least.

"What do you want from me?" she asked.
He flicked his eyes up to hers for a moment before turning them down again and heaved a great sigh.
"I want your heart," he said. "I want your body...I want your soul."
"You sound like the devil," she said.
He turned his eyes to hers again and held them there.
"Maybe I am."

The world doesn't care about you. The world doesn't care about anything. The world just exists. It's not even society because that's pittance, too against the backdrop of eternity. So what would an individual matter? Why do I work so hard? It's not really for anything but self-gratification no matter how hard I try to deny it. You, too. You more than me, probably, because you stands for everyone. But where does this drive come from? From where is this ambition? I think it's from within me. I think I can't stop it. I think I'll never give up despite the disappointments, despite the let-downs, despite the spite that stabs me and encases me in its cruel bubble. In spite of it.

So here is a moral dilemma:
Lie to myself and regret that. Or tell the truth and let it all crash.
But this is the truth. This is the truth and I can't deny it anymore. The world is smaller than you think, sometimes too small, sometimes not enough.

It's just the right size right now. And even though it hurts when it comes to distance and even though I know it always will, I build a wall around myself to block out all that pain. But now it's different because I can't build a wall when it comes to certain people and sometimes, they break them all down so I begin again without any defenses. It's better this way because it's worth all the pain to discover true human emotion.

But this is my life. This is my life and I own it for the first time. I can't let anyone take that away. Not for anything. Not for gratification or guilt or any of that because I'm not selling out. I wouldn't ask anyone else to do that for me even if deep down inside I wished they would.

It's good now, though. Because I've always lived for other people. I've always been the self-cop out. The moment I made up my mind to own myself, the world began to change and so did I. For the better. Because that's what made it happy. That's what makes it good. That's what makes it great. Even when it's horrible. I live for myself, not for anyone else. Not for a future date, not for the past and not for selfish motivation, but just for the chance to see my whole picture. Otherwise, I'd wilt and let everyone down in trying to help them.

I live for myself. And that makes all the difference.

Today's showing is a memory and the memory came as a dream, but I know it really happened. I woke up this morning with the premonition of death and soon found out that a friend was experiencing it. It always comes like this, whether it's for my life or for someone else's. I suppose I intertwine myself too much, or maybe we all are intertwined but most can't pick up on it.

It was a cold Saturday morning just like this one, only it was in December and I was six years old. I ran into my parents' room and jumped on the bed between them. I remember I was smiling and looked over at the pattern of the light coming through window shade. "Toothbrush," I used to call it, because it reminded me of the brush.

I leaned over and kissed my mother's belly twice: once on the left for the baby that would be Noah and once on the right for the baby that would be Sam. I did this every morning until she sentenced to the hospital about a week before they were born.

Something wasn't right this day, though. My mother's stomach growled and my father wasn't smiling. They glanced at each other in a way I didn't recognize.

"Why's your tummy so noisy?" I asked.
"Because I'm nervous," my mother replied.
"How come?"
That's when she looked at my father and took a deep breath.
"Remember last night when the phone rang really late and woke you up?"
"Yeah."
"It was Grandma. Grandpa couldn't breathe. Daddy went over to their house and Aunt Linda and Sharen were there, too. He was in the middle of giving himself his nebulizer treatment and he called out to Grandma that he couldn't breathe and he fell on the floor. The paramedics did everything they could. But he died."

I sat there still for a long moment. My mother started crying and so did my father. I had never seen him cry before.

Up until that point "death" had only been something in a story or on the news. I didn't really know it. And Grandpa had been my best friend. He used to take me to the park and let me run in the sprinklers. He'd hide Chuckles in his socks drawer for me to find. After he died, I'd go there to look but Grandma never took the time. He'd take me downstairs to play with train set and I'd watch it go around and around. I never saw it again. He gave it to my cousin.

After the funeral, when we were back in their house, I curled up and dug my face into his special chair. It was the kind that spun and rocked at the same time and we'd go on rides. Only this time he wasn't there, so I sat in it alone, and I let it sink in that he'd never hold me on his lap and sit in that chair with me again.

Up until now, I think I always thought my childhood ended when I was eight. But it didn't. It ended when I was six and realized that life comes to an end and some people never come back.

A boy asks how the story should be told. I tell him I don't know but as it keeps on going, we'd both figure it out.
"Who are you?" I ask.
"A friend."
A smile cracked on my face.
"No name?" I ask.
"Do I need one?"
"I guess not."
"Good, then."
"Why are you here?"
" To learn you."
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything!" He jumps into a pirhouette and I laugh in surprise.
"That's too much, I think," I say.
"Aah, no. You let some know."
"I don't let them. They jsut get into me. What do you think of me?"
"I think you're simple."
"Really? Most people would tend to disagree. They think I'm too complex. So they run away. I never get it. But that's why you're here, isn't it?"
He smiles and twirls around.
"Is that a 'yes'" I ask.
He bows.
"You're Daniel, aren't you?" I ask.
"God is judge," he says.
"You're so happy."
"So are you."
I smile.
"Do you know Ithaca," I ask.
"I know you."
"And what do you know about me?"
"You're complex," he says, a mock-serious expression on his face.
I laughed.
"Then I guess I'm an oxy-moron, huh?"
"Most people are," he says.
"You're not real," I say.
"No," he says.
"They're real," I say and point ahead of me. "You know the funny thing? The real people say more of what I want than the ones like you."
"Then we've really got a problem don't we?"
"No. You do."
My real friend held the door for me as we walked inside.
Daniel vanished.
I was judge tonight.

Last night, I didn't make it back to my bed, but I didn't sleep alone and that's what made it home.
'Home' has had to be redefined.
I told my friend after thinking on it for a while that I really haven't felt a place called 'home' in eleven years. He looked at me for a second before saying "That's almost your whole life."
"I know," I said.
We stood in the doorway for a moment and then I shrugged and sighed.
"Maybe one day I'll have it again...Home, I mean."
He smiled out of the corner of his mouth.
"We'll find it," he said.
He left then and even though I went to sleep alone just like every night before it, I went to sleep smiling.
It's cold in my room at night, so it gives me more of an excuse to wrap myself up in layers of blankets (that I pretend are arms) and to box myself in with pillows (that I pretend are someone).
So now the hours tick by just like the days and the months and the years but for once there's a glimmer of real hope that it won't always be this way. Because this morning someone was there when I woke up and smiled at me and said in a loud whisper "Good-morning."
I woke up with him looking at me from the other bed and it was nice to feel that comfort of finally having that person not only giving me happiness but to whom I give it back.
In the back of my mind there's always the knowledge that this will end one day for one reason or another. But to be honest with myself, like he said to be, this is the one thing I can't ever let myself lose. This is the one thing I must keep if I lose everything else.
And I know I'll lose because I'm already losing because I'm going against the expectation and the grain.
So in spite of them will I do this? No. Not at all. I'll do it for one reason: because it makes me happy and I know it's right.
"Be honest with yourself. Think about it."
I did already. And you already know the answer.
I'm making my own grain now, my own expectation--my own home, my own familiy. Because I can choose. And I know it's right.

Early Night Angel

Thought a lot about making us over
Thought a lot about what that means
I remembered us in the clover
And I acknowledged that it's only a dream

Now my provocation's winning
I'm thinking about your hands
running over, learning the patterns of my skin
But the night ends early
So we never begin

I want to feel you whole upon me
learning the ins and outs of
who I was, who I am, and who I wanna be
I want that mutual feeling
But I'm dealing with a man who just
can't makes sense of what he's all about

But I think it helps that there's an angel above me
But I think it helps that there's an angel beside me
I think it helps that thee's an angel inside me
I'll send him with love from me to you

Really, I'm tired of sleeping alone
I'm tired of sleeping alone
So I'm going crazy in the moment
For your patience and your time

And now I want to feel you inside me
The way you'll discover me as you climb
I need that holding-me assurance
'Cause feigning innocence is getting old
and the winter's coming on

You're my resting place, my secret
And I think it helps that there's an angel above me
I think it helps that there's an angel beside me
I think it helps that there's an angel inside me

I think it helps that there's an angel above me
I think it helps that there's an angel beside me
I think it helps that there's an angel inside me

He was there the first time when our bodies didn't rhyme
But now emotion's in the potion and my provocation's winning
I'm thinking about your hands
running over, learning the patterns of my skin
But the night ends early
and we never begin
We never begin
We never begin

Lucid Dream

Lone footsteps echoed across the spreading marble of the spacious hall. The light was dim and reminded the girl of flickering candle light, but the constant glow of a full, silvery moon loomed greater in the back of her mind. She laughed softly to herself, amused by the fact that her internal eye set the mood of her external being.

But then she remembered that it was all internal tonight, so she supposed she'd open both sets of eyes and stop thinking too much.

A voice approached from behind, so the girl turned to see a friend coming towards her, followed by many more. She smiled in greeting and felt the relief of companionship wash over her and as it did, she forgot the moon and the flichering candle light as the room filled with light.

The girl looked around admiringly at the milling companions, then turned toward the door and busied herself with hanging the coats.

When the coats were hung, the girl paused before opening the door and returning to the room. There was no more light coming from under the door. She crossed her arms and shivered, then reached out tentatively and pulled upon the door.

Darkness met her when she entered the room, adulterated only by the external light of the moon.

She shuddered again and hit something that seemed to be drifting in mid-air and thought how quickly things change.

Her eyes focused and the room became clear to her sight. The floor had been reversed and where feet had once touched bottom, they now hung from the top.

Nothing floated in the air but the absence of life.

The girl looked upon rows and rows of black-garbed bodies hanging sack-like from their feet from the ceiling. They seemd to swing together, in rhythm with the time they'd lost, like a waltz that no one more could play.

How quickly things change, the girl thought. How quickly things end.

She wove her way through the rows of swaying sacks of bodies, running blindly--

Until she found herself on the water.

It was the shore, waves inky black in the blinding sun. From the waves protruded a mermaid who beckoned to the girl.

Come! Follow me, she said. There are revelations beneath the water.

The girl took her hand and let herself be led below to a world of eery light. Seaweed caught between her limbs.

Soon they came to a cavern.

A muse, said the mermaid, a seer, to make things clearer for you.

Around the table made of a flat rock protruding from the ocean floor sat the muse, the seer, garbed in seaweed and darkness. Three friends sat in rock seats beside her.

They were the bodies swaying, the girl thought. Are they back from the dead?

The friends motioned for her, their smiles eerily inviting.

The muse nodded her head to the mermaid and she turned, exiting the cavern.

To the first friend she said: You will be promised good fortune, so there is no worry for you.

To the second friend: The sky will never fall on you, but beware of the ground rising up.

To the third: Keep to the path you are on and you will find that which you seek.

Then all faces turned to the girl who felt a shudder begin deep inside her.

The seer leaned forward so the girl could see every vein of her eyes.

Aah, the seer breathed. You are the unfortunate one. For you are trapped inside yourself. This is your Fate for you are too scared to change it: All that you wish for and all that you seek will never be attained. yo uare too content with dreaming and it is the World you cannot grasp. Foolish girl. You are the only one here for whom Fate is a choice and you choose Misery instead of bliss! I have no pity for you.

The girl shrank back and saw the bodies swaying behind her eyes. She swayed in time with them, her feet bound together in death by stubborn time just as her soul was fettered in life by cowardice.

She opened her eyes and the bed was warm.

It had been nothing but a silly notion, and nothing but a dream.

Unsent

I really don’t know what to do right now. Of course, my first instinct would be to say I’m sorry. But I’m really sick of saying that. I guess I just don’t know what to do with any of this because I don’t understand it. I don’t understand why this isn’t ending or why you don’t want it to or why you care so much. And I know that none of that matters because what this is is good. It’s really good. But I don’t know how to react to “good” because it’s what I’ve always longed for but never had and now that it’s here…I’m drowning in it.

So you’re right. I think too much. I take the world too seriously. But you don’t let me take it as seriously as I normally would, and that’s good, too. I really don’t know why I’m always mad at you lately. I don’t want to be. But I meant it when I said I hated you, only not in the hostile kind of way. It’s the way you make me reevaluate everything I’ve believed I am. I call into question everything—Everything. And all around me are things that you can’t see, that no one else can see and I ask them to fly away so I don’t have to look after them anymore because I know you don’t want it to be like that. I know it hurts you when I slip between the lines of this world and the one inside my head. To give that up means giving up something very precious to me, something I’ve never lived without, something that has defined me as a person, that has saved my sanity while stealing it away.

But for you, I’d give up all those words. I’d give up all those worlds and focus only on this one. I don’t understand that, either, but like I said before, whatever this is, whatever it is that I don’t understand that causes all these changes and upheavals, is something to do completely with you and I don’t want to lose it. I don’t want to lose it although my whole being struggles against it. And I never admit anything to myself. Especially things that confuse me and rewrite the code of my life, but this time the feeling’s too strong and time really is precious and flying by and I don’t want to waste it, although that’s all I ever seem to do. So I admit this: what makes me happy? You do. You make me happier than anything ever has. You make me happier than I’ve ever thought possible, more than I ever imagined possible. You do.

What do I do with that? Instinct says to run away. But the greater picture says something better. It says ‘stay.’ It tells me to stay. And I like that picture better than any other. I love that picture more than anything else. So do I hang it on a wall? Do I put it on a shelf and lock it up? Or do I live it? I want to live it. I want to live it. Because I keep asking myself that same question again and again about what makes me happy and the answer keeps coming back as you you you.

It's all gone to hell. And I don't really know what to do now.

"I'm sorry...I get like this when the family's around. It just gets me in this mindset," I said. (Long pause) "I have to get out of it...And I feel bad because I hate being like this and making you go through it too."

"Someone has to go through it."

"Not you. I have to go through it."

"So?"

"Do you do it because you feel bad for me going through it alone or because you care about it?"

"Care about what?"

"Me."

"YES."

"Sorry."

"Maybe you should keep doubting so you can be grounded in something. It's healthier for you that way. So keep doubting all of this."

I give him a look. He gives it back to me.

"If you ask stupid questions, I'll give you stupid answers."

He stands up and I stay in my seat.

"Come on," he says.

So I follow him.

A few days away is a good thing. No more fighting. No animosity. No awkwardness.

Hung out with Kate and Adam at Kat's house last night and played Scrabble until I got 42 points for the word DAZE on a triple word score. James still beat me by eleven points or something. Oh well. I'm still proud of DAZE. Then Kate got drunk on Time, I suppose, because she'd been up so long so she and Adam left and James and Kat and I talked until about 1am. Then I was falling asleep so we left and said good-bye to Kat and James walked me home. The moon last night was incredible when it was low on the horizon. Huge, orange. Beautiful.

Just took a shower. Good to wash away the filth of New York City and all that baggage. Family isn't healthy for me so I'm going to stay away for as long as possible. I'll come home for the B'nai Mitzvah in February. But Kat asked me to come to Florida and stay with her over winter break. I'm going to try and sublet an apartment here for the summer and get a job and/or internship which should be good.

Family just reminds me of the past and plants the past right down in front of me with the past uprooted, spraying dirt all over my head. It's the kind of dirt that never really goes away so I can't escape no matter how much I try to scrub. So I got back and had another episode. Uriel was there but Kat and James took me away and talked to me so I could look away from him. Then I started doubting if they're my friends because they feel bad for me or if they really care. Of course they'll never tell the truth if it's the former. That means I have to trust them and I will.

I'm sorry I'm becoming a ghost to you now by spreading the distance and time. But if I don't I'll become a ghost for real and I'm not ready to give up any of this world quite yet.

Perpetual fighting seems to be the menu for now. It's very frustrating and I can't stand it. I suggested a two week break from each other but that was rejected. So I'll do it myself. I did it with Mark. I'm doing it with Anthony that fuck.

James decided he's not coming with me to NY/NJ. Which is fine. It's just the way it happened that ticked me off. All his "let's talk about it" shit doesn't get us anywhere. And why does he continue to work at it when it's so frustrating? I'm so frustrated I can't stand it. Yes, I'm happy. But I'm upset and frustrated. And right now the frustration is winning over everything else.

At least I started that stinking paper for Short Story.

So starting NOW: let's see if I can make it until Wednesday next week. So until break is over.

A minute left and I'd still be smiling.

If you wait long enough, wishes really do come true. They come so true all doubt vanishes and you're left with nothing but that absolutely unadulterated bliss.

I never really believed that this could happen. That there really is someone out there for everyone that's a perfect fit. And maybe that's not even it. Maybe it's more I never really believed there was someone out there who was a perfect fit for me. And perfection isn't necessarily perfect, but the way you work towards it in every moment because whatever you have is too wonderful to ever let go.

For the first time in my life, I really trust something. I trust it more than anything. I would give up everything for it. Everything. I can turn off the words because they're too selfish for this. I can lower the volume on the voices because they're too loud for this and I can't stand it when I'm the cause of greatest horror or absolute grief in this case. Because they circle around and hit me with more guilt than ever so I STOP. I STOP.

Turn in a new direction and it's beautiful. Whatever this is, it's beautiful. Like the perfect bond. That indestructable bond. That's beautiful. And you know I live for beauty. You know I live for those brief instances of beauty that make up for all the pain. Only this moment, this instant isn't a moment or an instant. It's always. And I can hardly contain it. I don't know what to do with it.

Smile and nod and go with it. Because I can't run away. And I don't want to anymore. I can't entice myself to run away. So I radiate and I stay. And I look in the mirror and for the first time in my life I know I'm part of something beautiful. Because it's not just that I'm making someone smile for a moment. I'm changing them. I'm making them happy, too, in the same way they're making me.

Sometimes in September before the seasons set, while they play hopscotch around the grounds meandering between summer and autumn while the leaves fall all around, life begins to take its place. This is a turning point. We'll soar or fall.

They're right that love is different every time. Somehow I never seem to get it, though. I never seem to get it.

Staring up at the ceiling and there's a red balloon above me. It reminds me of the odd one out against the white paint, its ribbon hanging down.

It's not that I gave it all up. It's more something that I lost. Something that I lost...

I never meant to lose the feeling that moves the people that never dies. I never meant to fall in love. I never meant to feel that it was all wrong or that I was losing something so precious to so many but that left me empty in spite of all of it.

When I woke up yesterday morning with the clasp of my chai broken and the little Life strewn somewhere on the floor, the first thing that flashed through my mind was "This is the last year I have to live." It's not really a good omen, the chai falling off on the first day of the New Year. I tried to pray. I tried to get back into that rhythm. I tried to hold onto it. But I couldn't. And I can't. And even though I said "I don't know" and continue to be indecisive when someone asks me "What makes you happy?" I knew the answer was "You, you, you."

It's not the last year of my life, I hope. I can't really say that it's not because who knows what the year will bring? I do know that last year was the last year that I was Jewish. And being a Jew and being Jewish are two different things for me now. I'll always be a Jew. I can't change that. But losing Judaism means losing a lot more than that. It means losing my family. It means losing everything I was brought up to be, all the expectation. It means being the greatest disappointment and the greatest object of scorn to some of the most important people in my entire life.

Today is Rosh Hashanah and I didn't go to shul and pound on my heart or listen to the Torah being read or to the shofar blow. I walked miles out of the way and went to a Quaker meeting and I couldn't help but cry because I know I died to my father.

I know they won't put any stones on my grave because there'll be no grave. It will be as if I never existed.

So I lied when James asked me if I was ok and said "Yeah," and I lied again when he asked me if I was sure. Then I walked up to my room and held myself and cried and cried and cried because I'm going to take what makes me happy. Even if it means giving up everything else. Even if it means breaking everyone else's heart. Even if it means going in a completely new direction where there is no direction I can sense, but somehow I know is right.

They love the principle more than they love me. Which defeats the purpose of the principle itself. I'll be a locked up memory they'll pretend not to have, growing dusty on a shelf they hide in the back of their minds. For this, I will not say S'lach li, forgive me. For this, I will not pound on my heart. But I will say this:

L'shana tova, v'm'tuka.
Have a sweet and good new year.

Once upon a time a little girl made a friend. The first time it happened, the friend ran away. The second it happened, the girl couldn't stay. The third time it happened, the friend insisted on remaining there forever. On wasting his time (as she put it) investing their time.

The little girl doesn't understand.

I am happy.
I am happy.
I am happy.

I must be trapped in this.

Everywhere I look twice and blink to rid myself of visions of the dead.

This isn't healthy, this chasing of the dead, this haunting. But someone follows me when I run and when I lie about why. Maybe one day, I'll join all of them. Then, I wouldn't have to chase anymore but rest along with.

That would be nice, wouldn't it?

My Tin Soldier showed up again. He'd cut his hair shorter than ever and it looked incredible. We played a game, using his house as our territory, climbing in and out of windows, using the pool, climbing up the walls and onto the roof.

His sister was there, too. She's never been in the dreams before, so now I'm wondering if she was one of those unlucky in Northern Israel.

I'm thinking of going again really soon if I'm able. Maybe next summer instead of Ireland. Maybe I'll apply to staff seminar or something. And it's weird. I suddenly feel the calling. To do something active about all of the shit there. The only downside is that I'll have to go in the army. Well, my heart and lungs might keep me out in which case they're a blessing. But perhaps Aliya is near for me. I never thought that would actually happen for me, but maybe it's time.

I'll see how it goes. You know I'll continue to look in every soldier's face. Every guy's face, probably, just to make sure. I'll probably run into El-Ad at the Kotel. Haha. It's true. All Jewish roads lead to Jerusalem and all Jerusalem roads lead to the Wall. Maybe I'm on one already.

New light shined from the morning's opalescent sky.

I hid in the scaffolding, molding my limbs to the contours of the platform, waiting, waiting for him to come.

I saw him enter, a brief deviance in the background. He scanned the room, the ceilings, the floors, the corners. The scaffolding. But I didn't move.

He walked to a spot directly under me. I took it as my cue to jump.

He sensed me a moment before I hit him, his hand drawing back to retrieve his sword. Mine, already drawn caught his hand with the tip and I felt him scream inwardly.

We fought swiftly, smoothly, invisible to the untrained human eye and to most of the trained. We were nothing but a background, chameleons. Onlookers would make nothing of us but for a slight blur of the air if they were so inclined to catch even that. Our sounds, however, would ricochet off their minds, sending them in the direction of ghosts and they would scatter.

I pinned him up against a wall, reached out my hand and yanked off his hood.

"You win," he said.
I didn't speak, but activated my voice cloaker.
"You win," he repeated. "I have failed."
"You never fail," I said, my voice coming out thick and foreign to my ears.
"Before you check mate, show me who you are."
I dug my sword harder into his neck.
"Please," he begged.
"I will not check mate," I replied.
He tried to swallow and stared, wide-eyed at me.
"But you are the Black Knight. You kill each one. You never let anyone survive."
"Perhaps the Black Knight can be surprising," I said, calculating my words.
"From everything I've learned of you, I should be dead already."
I deactivated each of his protective devices, including communication. He watched me do this, resignedly.
I tossed his sword to the floor and all of his gear.
"Now you," I said. "Show me yourself."
He deactivated Chameleon.
"What is this?" he asked. "I have studied you long and hard and you have never done this."
"It's different this time," I said through the voice cloaker.
"What is?"
"My victim."
"How?"
I deactivated my own Chameleon but kept my hood on.
"Goodness gracious, great balls of fire," I said. "Does he not understand?"
He gaped at me and went pale.
"You're twelve years old," I said. "Same as me. Don't you know, Mac?"
"You? You?" he screamed, pressing himself deeper and deeper into the wall.
I let my sword drop and pulled off my hood.
"I'm sorry, Mac," I whispered. "They made me."
For the first time since I'd known him, the strong, the brave, the brilliant MacKenzie Lawrence fell to his knees and cried.
I knocked his chin up with the dropped sword.
"Don't cry," I ordered.
"But Alyson...I trained with you. You were my...my..."
"Friend?"
He nodded shakily, still crying.
"It's been a long time since I've heard that word spoken and even longer since I've spoken it myself," I said. "They tricked you. I would train with you, pretending I didn't know."
"I see."
I stared down at the ground and put my sword back into my leg.
"You know they took me from a playground? I was one of the first of the new wave. We had parents. Did you?"
He nodded.
"They took me from a friend's backyard. I was three."
"So was I."
"Are you going to kill me now, Knight?"
I looked him in the eye but my vision was blurred with tears.
"No, Mac. You kill me."

I've never heard of a tree collecting dust but I suppose anything is possible.
But I've never heard of a mind cracking open the sky, either, although mine did today.
Perhaps this was the imminent disaster as your mind and my mind and our minds cover each other like the folds of a half-born leaf--or unti lthe end hatches a beginning where neither of us exist.
I'd like to say that darkness covers me but it's only the light of a street lamp that enfolkds me made possible by the lamp's engulfment by darkness.
In reality, the only thing that covers me is humidity and the promise of heat when the sun comes up, and ebcause of the combination my own irresistability to blood-sucking insects and the slight discomfort of an itch along the edges of my skin in the morning.

A storm is brewing and I hope it rains. It rained yesterday but not for very long. The storms haven't been very good this year and the storms haven't been much at all. We're under water restriction again and to tell the truth, I'm very tired of being in a drought.

I suppose the storm has hit all over the world in one form or another, though, and instead of raining water, it's raining human lives and propaganda from every millimeter of the circle.

I have officially given up on humanity. But I will not give up on individuals. There is hope there, I believe.

Sixteen days until I'm out of here. The room is almost done. And I know that I'm not alone, although that what it seems like at the moment. And that's my hope, and I guess hoping in itself gives me more reason to be hopeful.

Hope is the only thing I've ever possessed more than loneliness. And I guess that's a good starting point.

We Don't Sing No More

I don't sing much anymore. I can't bring myself to it. The past few days, I've tried. I've tried to create music but I can't. I've tried scrounging up some of that stuff we used to call hope but it's just not there anymore. Not for anyone. Not for me or you. Not for the Americans or Europeans or the Israelis or the Lebanese. Not for the Asians or the South Americans. Not for the Canadians, not the Russians. Not the Africans. Not the islanders. Not anyone.

It's not there. We fooled ourselves in the first place thinking that it was, or that it might be.

The world's not come down to this. It's just what it's always been and we've deluded ourselves for so long into thinking that there can be rules in war pertaining to the "humane" but what's humane at all about war at all? What's humane about anything human? It all boils down to blood. We live for the same thing we die for.

Ithaca In Parts: The Oath of Me'usha

Life is not always sweet.

On the plains of Mitra on the planet of Waas, people had been at war for longer than they could remember. I was born one of them, a Lui'embai, as we called ourselves.

Our bodies were anything but human, but all peoples are the same, no matter who they are in the universe.

As a Lui'embai my name was Mah'lo-gua. I was female in the most simplistic of analogies to earth. This was an early life, so I never knew my true name, although afterward, I remembered hearing it whispered in the night air when the battles took their rests; I remembered the trees singing 'Ithaca' and sometimes even the clashing of bodies against each other as we all fell dead.

Here, we struggled to stay alive because why else should we be born?

Mah'lo-gua treasured life. Her sister Si'ynan-undua begged to differ.

I caught her by the fire once, contemplating a knife against her wrist.

"You wish to kill yourself?" I asked her from behind, the fire flickering back and forth between us.
"What's the point in waiting?"she answered.
"You cannot be free if you are dead. We wait for the world to take. Although it is chaos, it is still life."
"The chaos is for nothing. For what is it that we fight? We have all forgotten! We're not born knowing. We don't don't die knowing."
"Spend your life trying to find out. Suicide isn't the answer."
"How do you know? The Clans come and go. Sometimes we're one of them. This world is not for us. Can't you see, Mah'lo-gua? The Lui'embai commit suicide en masse. What's one taken alone? It will die by the Clans anyway," she said.
"You sound like the Clan of the Malo-selo-hul, the Mountains of the North."
She turned to me then, her face cast in shadow, the fire illuminating a wring behind her, creating an illusion that held her slightly above the ground.
"I have joined them, sister. I have taken the Oath of Me'usha."
I stood in place and gaped at her.
"How could you?" I gasped. "How could you, Si'ynan-undua?"
"It is the way to peace," she answered. "I will be of the other Clans, too. But I have taken my Oath. We must stop this ravaging of Waas. We have been nothing but a blight upon ourselves and the planet! We must finish it off!"
"We already kill those who come from the chaos. But there is something worth preserving among all of us! Please! For the children, you must see this," I argued.
"I swear to never harm a soul by creating for it a body. The Oath of Me'usha," she said.
"What has become of you, Si'ynan?" I whispered.
"I swear to purge from upon this earth all creatures known as life. I swear to end the chaos, annihilate each Clan in turn. I swear that when my time comes, or when all Clans have been erased, whichever time brings first, I will purge from upon this earth this creature of myself."
"You have gone mad!" I exclaimed.
An hysterical laughter escaped her and she turned back toward the fire.

In the morning she was gone. Over the years, the Clan of Me'usha grew until it took up all of the Northern Plains. It spread to South and the East and West, killing everything in its path that moved.

The Clan of Me'usha only grew by convincing, for they were to have no children without being put to death: both the creature who carried the child and child, so as not to put it through misery. The mothers gave themselves willingly.

One day at the end, the Clan of Me'usha ambushed my own and my sister came upon me. She invited me to take the Oath of Me'usha.

"To take my place," she told me.
"What will become of you that I have to take your place?"
"I have created a body. We must end ourselves."

Of the several thousand members of the Clan of Me'usha, there were twelve to be put to death along with their unborn. I watched from the shadows as they all drove the Knives of Battle into themselves, each bearing an expression of utmost ecstasy.

I took the Oath of Me'usha, forcing my children to take it along with me.

In time, the Clan of Me'usha grew stronger and bigger than the rest. After only three centuries, they had succeeded in purging the world of all other Clans.

Then it was only a matter of time. There were no more children. No more battles. I thought of it as a synthetic peace.
As the last of them died out, I watched. I never agreed with the Oath I'd taken, but took it as a way to preserve life in the only I knew possible.
However, from that time forward, I did abide by its promise.

I swear to never harm a soul by creating for it a body.

Now, the planet of Waas no longer exists, for everything dies. But its plains were quiet, and its mountains and its seas. The world was quiet but for the soul who rested in its core. Now even that soul is silent.

Life is not always sweet. But it is a taste, nonetheless.

If I could have one wish I would wish for the day I can wake up and ask you "What's new?" and you could answer "Peace."

But that will never be.

There's no point in any of it. So we keep hoping and I can't help wondering what for.

More die everyday for nothing. The cause has been forgotten and there wasn't really a cause in the first place except for religious zealotry and the false pretense of God.

But this is humanity. We thrive on what's marketable and peace most certainly doesn't sell.

There's nothing to say. I just sat here for five minutes and thought of nothing to say.

All is fair is fair in love and war, right? So what happened to the love? Did it die? Most likely it was a lie. There is no love and never was.

But we keep hoping. There's nothing else to do but fight, is there? And I don't want to fight.

Are they dying for the fight or the love or the hope? Are they dying for anything? Some bastard's pet enterprise? An exploitation of the young as always for the old's forgotten quarrels?

My favorite part is how we look the same. We all look the same. I can't tell one from the other and that should tell us all something: there is no difference except what we imagine.

For once what is real is caused by what's imagined and I'd rather not imagine. I'd rather not dream. I'd rather live and save than live and die. But humanity is its own carcinogen and the disease has spread everywhere.

Now, it's only a matter of time.

I think now is a great time to sink into fantasy. Are you ready?

Because I have a problem with empathy and actually feel.

So I think it's a good sort of therapy for me to escape.

The music went from loud to soft and the blob of people around me suddenly paired off into innumerable couples and I stood in the center alone.

I quickly gave up as I looked around and began to back up out of the crowd.

But then he came out of nowhere.

"Will you dance with me?" he asked me.
"Yes!" I answered.
Because how many times does the one person I'm completely enamored by come up and ask me to dance with him? How many times does that happen? How many times does the one person I'm completely falling for start falling, too?

I liked his long blonde hair and his blue eyes. I liked the way I hadn't had a clue as to where he was from. I liked his accents--completely American when speaking English and completely Israeli when speaking Hebrew.

I liked the way he held me in time and how we swayed in time with the music.

"I'm sorry," he said in the middle of one song. "I sweat too much."
"It's ok. It's only 120 degrees in here," I answered.

And we kept dancing.

For some reason, they played two slow songs in a row and it felt like an eternity that didn't last long enough. Then the music ended and the couples broke apart and scattered their separate ways.

"I don't want to leave tomorrow," I said to him outside.
He shrugged.
"It's good to go home eventually."
"Good-night, ---," I said.
"Laila tov, Aurora," he said to me.

The next morning I couldn't stop hugging him good-bye.
He laughed at me.
"It's not like you'll never see me again. I'll be back in a few years."
"That's forever from now!" I said.
"Aaah. Keep smiling. Forever isn't that long."
I hugged him one last time and watched him walk on the bus.

Through the day, I imagined him walking through the airport and stepping on the plane and going back home to Israel.

I was supposed to send him a birthday present, Dracula, by Bram Stoker because we had an ongoing joke about how he was a vampire and I was the Northern Lights.

So now I don't hesitate to tell my friends that I love them. Because I didn't tell him and I never sent his present because by the time I was ready I'd learned that Time is never on your side and people are snatched away in a moment without any warning whatsoever.

Since the war started last week his face has been flashing before my eyes constantly. I can't get away from it. I can't talk about it. I can't do anything. I dream about him, though, like I've dreamed about him since he died.

Sorry. He didn't just die. He was murdered.

He was murdered for nothing like everyone else.

Because stubborn people can't share. Because people are animals. Because people aren't human, they're savages and they love to kill themselves and anything that remotely resembles life and joy.

He was murdered.

And the last thing he ever saw is something I can only imagine. Because maybe he was looking out the window at the countryside of the Galil. Or maybe he was talking to a friend. Or maybe he was looking inward and remembering his dreams or looking forward to the day he wouldn't end up living. But mostly when I imagine, I imagine fire. Fire because I know it was the last thing he ever felt even if he didn't see it. Fire because that's what happens during a suicide bombing.

He talks to me all the time in my dreams, so maybe ghosts are just our imagination or maybe they really are the imprint of someone who used to be. Maybe he really does exist somehow, which means he really does think of me, really does visit me, really does love me, too.

He's the reason I'm terrified of anything real. That's the secret. The people I love the most, the people I admit to loving the most are the first ones stolen away. So I don't admit outright, even to myself, because I can't. Because I don't want them to die.

I don't want them to die.

Unfortunately, the rest of humanity wants everyone to die because people are never good. They're beasts. And beasts are selfish and care for nothing except the survival instinct and thrive on the inherent hatred of every other living creature known to them.

I'm sorry I'm one of them. But I try as best as I can not to be.

And I still don't want them to die.

It's funny, though, because even though it hurts in the morning when I wake up and realize that he's not really alive, I want those dreams again and again. Because I still love him. I still miss him. I still think of him every day.

And I love it when his face flashes in front of me and I get caught up in it for a moment and believe it's not a dream.

First Let Down

Well, it's not so bad, I don't think. Let's just say not every agency out there can be trusted, so I've decided to terminate all dealings with this one no matter what they say about my manuscript.

http://www.sfwa.org/beware/

OH MY

I sent my synopsis into a literary agency last night.
They answered me first thing this morning and told me they want to see my whole manuscript.
I spent all day putting in last-minute revisions and putting it into format.
And sent it in.

Now I wait again.
But I PASSED THE FIRST TEST!
And this is REAL.

Nothing in Particular

So I haven't written on this in a while...Since then I've hung out, torn apart my room which is still happening, attempted to write a synopsis for my book which is still coming...seen lots of people, prepared to go back to Philadelphia for the Philadelphia Folk Festival in August and then go straight to school and stay with Kat for a week before move-in day! I'm seeing Lindsay today at 4:15 which is really exciting! Two days in one week which is almost never heard of.

I finally saw Kelly yesterday and talked to her for a long time and then saw Mr. Clifford which was nice. Only I forgot to remind him of those stupid library books I took out for him on my card and of course are about a year overdue now. Oh well. I made him pay for lunch and then got pissed off because he was ditching me after 2 hours to go see someone else. So much for sensible planning of the schedule. So I said that was fine and that he should just drop me off at home instead of driving aimlessly and proceeded to slam the door in his face. Which I personally thought was great. But he came running after me begging for forgiveness and I'm an idiot so I forgave him.

Talked to James again to confirm the whole Philly thing, so I'm going to buy my cheap plane tickets today and he's buying the concert tickets. I also have to send my stinking promissory note in so my tuition gets paid and call Mendel which I'm dreading to remind him that he'll be recieving one, too.

I also found out I have a job dishwashing starting Monday for a while. Hopefully until I leave. It sounds crude but fortunately I tend to enjoy those things. Look at my job at school. If cleaning up puke and walking up to random masturbators and telling them to "Please stop" in the Student Lounge at 2:00am and to "Please find your own room" isn't crude I really don't know what is. So dishwashing should be wonderful. Except my mother is there, of course. But I can deal with that. Hopefully, they'll let me wash to my iPod so I can listen to goodness while I wash away the nastiness and stick my body in mile-wide pots and get shit out of them.

That's all now. Yay. I have to get dressed and clean my room (or attempt) and write the synopsis and see Lindsay.

Well, at least my back is almost all better so I can start walking again tomorrow! I've skipped yesterday and today. Just to make sure it doesn't die on me.

Boyhood Stretched on a Line

Another song. If you were listening closely you know who it's for.

I wish you can find all your wonders
I wish you can wind around the time
so it holds you tight
and treats you nicely

I hope you can find somebody who's true
someone who's new to you
for every day you open your eyes
She'll grow your love for you and lie
with you in the moonlight

And if it were all up to me
I'd wish for you to keep your childhood wonders
But even though you knew
that it couldn't last
I know you never quite believed it before
that life's too fast
'til it happened to you
You never quite believed it before

So take your time
Don't rush it
Even though you see the years
stretched on a line
that seems hard to master sometimes

I'm balancing, too
right beside you
And if you ever need anything
Remember the whole world's
in it with you, too

And if it were all up to me
I'd wish for you to keep your childhood wonders
But even though you knew
that it couldn't last
I know you never quite believed it before
that life's too fast
'til it happened to you
I know you never quite believed it before
that life's too fast

So take your time
Don't rush it
Even though you see the years
stretched on a line
that seems hard to master sometimes

Even though you see the years
stretched on a line
that seems hard to master sometimes

Even though you see the years
stretched on a line
that's too hard to master sometimes.

Home

Home is lonely. I'm hanging out with Sam and Noah right now but it's still lonely. They like to sit in my room (or rather in my presence) and read. So the silence fills up the emptiness and becomes even more empty than it was in the first place because everything that's here reminds me of where I'm not, or who I'm not with more like. I can't wait for the summer to be over.

The heat's already oppressive. Late August weather in mid-June. Already over 100. Last night Cher took me to a Dr. John, Neville Brothers, and BB King concert which was amazing. But at 7pm it was still 101 degrees outside and I wondered if my mind weren't already cooked beyond measure or if it was just my imagination that my skin was boiling off. I've decided that it was just my imagination to remedy the horror of what this heat does to us.

The sky is still on the edge between light and dark and it's after 9pm.

I went out walking again today. Noah came with me. Tomorrow I have to start out earlier because the heat gets too intense and I have to stop before I get in all my miles. Ideally, it'll be my 7.5 like it was in May but it'll be hard getting myself up at 5:30 to beat the over-90 mid-mornings. All I can think about is the heat.

It seeps into your brain like water through the cracks, boils out your eyeballs and your hair and your skin. The humidity sticks to your teeth it runs so deep and before you know it it's haunting your dreams, soaking your bed, making the nightmare of the waking day inescapable and all we can do it pray for a winter which never comes. We sigh with relief for a 90-degree cool breeze.

It's why I moved to New England. Unfortunately, I still spend the worst part of the year in the region I sought to escape. So much for freedom. The heat follows me and the air's so thick I suffocate in it as it wraps itself around my mouth and nose and I crumble under that legendary Southern Wrath.

Ithaca In Parts

I like it when the air grows thick with summer heat, so tangible I can feel it lacing through my fingers. I like the feeling of earth and cement pressed only as much as the pressure it takes to hold my body to the planet against my bare feet. I like the world just before a storm because the electricity is visible in ever micrometer of space between the air and the trees and the cars, between the buildings, and all the skin that wishes to free itself from bone. Sometimes I think that electricity is all that's left of us after we've given up on actually living life. Sometimes I think that electricity is all we can do to hope, all we can do to sustain our souls inside this itching skin when all parts of ourselves are constantly trying to break free. Maybe it's to find something glorious, something spectacular. No, not glorious or spectacular. We don't need that. All we need is simplicity, the unstoppable joy that can only be attained by finding the important things. I guess everyone's definition of that is different. For me 'important' means a kind of liquidation of the mundane. Like taxes or what brand is more fad today than the next, or all the things we think we need to survive. 'Important' is a single moment, a moment where you can look at something opaque like Time and see right through it. 'Important' is the second before you wake up, when all your drams are actual and not hard to remember once you open your eyes again. 'Important' isn't what you find on the other side. It's what you find at the beginning and in the middle and at the end. It's what you realize you had all along. 'Important' is perspective.

Wanderers

"Not all who wander are lost."

We're wandering, I suppose. Usually I feel most comfortable when I wander, because there is no longer one place for me.

When I write, I wander but I never know what towards. None of that matters, I don't think, when speaking of direction. When all is said and done, we'll all end up where we're supposed to be whether we believe so or not.

Although I know the world is ever-changing, I hold fast to the hope tha some things will reamin relatively the same, that people will continue to read, in particular. A few will if not many, and I sincerely trust that it will never be completely lost. I can assume this because more people will read then write and millions of people write. So maybe there is some hope for me and my dream profession.

Road to Infamy

To preface...this is Kat's song that I promised. I wrote it as soon as I got to James's house, or pretty soon after. He sat in the room watching me and I guess that's a good sign. I used to not be able to write a thing when it comes to music unless I was alone in the room, but lately that's been changing.

This song is about a ghost who keeps haunting someone's mind, but the dreamer rather likes the illusion of the ghost being alive for a few moments, although they know it will all be over as soon as they wake up.

Wish I could turn off your mind
reading mine
But you wander instead
inside my head
Like a mad infestation of
cruel infatuation
while I bleed on the bed.

My resistance is breaking
And your persistance is shaking
I'm sure I'm Mercy bound
but I hit the ground
Did you hear that sound?

I killed you once
Like a tiger on the hunt
But mercy I drowned
and you were found
and in the end you still
roamed in me

Wish I could turn off your mind
reading mine
But you wander instead
inside my head
I'm sure I'm Mercy bound
but I hit the ground
Did you hear that sound?
Did you hear that sound?
Did you hear that sound?

Did you hear that sound?

As of yesterday, I'm in NJ/NY and spent all of today in Manhattan which I loved as usual. Saw Billie. Saw mom's friend Joyce and her family. Went to the museum of holograms. Etc etc etc. Talked to Kat. :0) Couldn't reach James. Too tired to write anymore right now. Nighty night.

Voice From the Past

Sometimes you find a gem from a long time ago and remember who you were and realize that people (especially yourself) never change. Here's something to look after:

November 23, 2001

Dear Avi Marie,

The world is all a gray gloom. I realized that my unhappiness has its roots in the happy past. Dylan is gone; my mother is right, he doesn't care about anything but his own opportunity. He might as well be dead.

Samantha. Who she was, she is the one my heart used to love, the Sam of the past, not the Sam of the present.

So I have let them go. Cut the string, untied the knot, shattered the dream of "could."

Now. There is Now. For the "Now" of the past six years, all the worl dhas killed me, shunned me, burned my heart out with some invisible, corrosive potion. Forget the future. There is now. Forget the past. There is now. Forget the world. There is the dream. Lose myhself to worlds and worlds upon worlds and worlds. Go far across the canyonto the other side of life. Take that one crucial step towards happiness for myself, take it or leave it? Take it:
The advantage is mine, it's
where the friends are, it's
where the light is.
Take it:
Break your father's heart.
Break your mother's heart.
Leave those two small boys crying for you in the dust.

Should I leap at this chance to go away to school and be happy, be with my friends? Should I leap at this chance for Myself and shatter the hearts of the family I want to get away from? All except my father. How could I even dream of leaving him? Perhaps it's the only way.

When all hope is gone. All roads lay before me and I look down on them from the crossroads. One step on one of them obliterates, closes off the others. I know which one I'll choose. The one I've always chosen because it's me.

Happiness is on a lease and that lease just ran out. All the windows to all the worlds call out to me, I'll find you! That one man in all of them, will you ever find me? You're probably shut out forever, never to meet me. I've already met you, but you live in another world, a book, a you haven't met me and never shall.

I know Aldebaran, but he is me, inside me, never to emerge. Perhapd it's true.

There really is just one world that spends its time dreaming of others.

-Tali

I was dreaming of him then. I was dreaming of him for years before then. But I finally had the guts to write it and voice it just once. The second I finally lost all hope, practically, was the second the world finally let go and made the most wanted of wishes and the most sought after of dreams come true. Never doubt it. An answer is always just around the corner.

Idea reincarnated from awhile ago:

Girl feels misplaced in time so she goes to sleep one night and wakes up in the past. . . . where she meets her father as a teenager and he go nuts about her. (plot thickens) she has to avoid that but gets to know him on a completely different level. (this is why I abandoned it because it seems kind of Back-To-The-Future-y.) She meets a creepy old woman who knows all about her travels in time and how to get her back through some weird trance-psychic thing. Anyhow, she tells him not to look for her, as in not to search her out, to find someone else and fall in love, etc etc but she's definitely afraid of the grandfather paradox. She goes back. Story focuses on her father and meeting her mother and then when she's born he names her after herself (or in his mind, his long lost love) blah blah blah. How cheezy. I know.

Today is a multiple anniversary.

1. My mother's birthday
2. I finished In Pursuit of Wind a year ago

It's also the day after Kat Flynn left to go home, but I probably won't remember this date for that one a year from now, and I'll just say "sometime at the very beginning of June."

Yesterday was also pretty good, sans Kat leaving. :-( (Which made me really really sad because she's the most awesome person and makes me happy.) Shawn Woodbury called me out of the blue to tell me all about how he's an awful friend etc etc for not calling me all this time or making any effort at contact. We talked for a bit (probably 20 minutes or so) and then his phone died on us and that was that.

I'm supposed to see Kelly Long today but I had forgotten that it's Mom's birthday, so I might reschedule for Saturday or something...not so sure, but hopefully. And I get to see David Thomas on Monday and meet his family!! I can't wait to meet Kelly (his wife) and little Holden (his baby), affectionately named after Holden Caulfield of Catcher in the Rye. I've been really worried about Kelly Long, though. She's sick with some unknown-abdominal/intestinatl-something that no one can figure out to save their lives. So she's retaining water in her abdomen and looks like she's eight months pregnant, apparently and is always in massive pain. She told me that she decided the other that it's ridiculous to let it rule her and sit in bed wasting her life away, so she's going to ignore it all and live as normally as possible. Which I think is great.

Around 12:00 last night my house phone rang and woke up my parents, but it was Mark, inadvertently calling that phone because he thought it was my cell and didn't look. His friend died early yesterday morning and he's in Florida right now saying goodbye to his grandmother for the last time and I really feel quite inadequate because I can't be there for him when he really needs me. I told him this and he said that just hearing my voice on the phone is enough. Maybe for him. Not for me. But I suppose I'm never good enough for myself.

I still have vertigo after almost a week, but it's going away after a few seconds as opposed to lasting for hours at a time and making me absolutely sick. It seems tht all my health problems happen at home for the most part. Joy. I love stress.

Anyhow, the good news is, I'm leaving for the northeast on Wednesday (the bad news being I actually have to clean my room before then) and going to the wedding for Robbie, then visiting Carolyn for a few days and then seeing James (which makes my world). So, that sounds great.

George is still here and a little down lately over another unknown-something-let's-figure-it-out. But I don't think he's having much luck. But he doesn't like talking so I don't really press about it. I guess that's the one bad thing other than the wedding next week...George is leaving and I won't see him for a while. :-( I hate leaving friends. But it's always what happens so I adjust to loneliness and hide in words, my own, or everyone else's again.

I'm looking for something right now that doesn't exist tonight.

I think that it might be connection. The best part is, I thought it was lost. Maybe it is lost. But it's not really. At least not for now, not for the time being. Each time I've thought it was lost, it's come back and proved me wrong. I'm still hesitant to trust it, though. Remember the last time I did that? There was a two-year lapse.

I'll admit it. I feel guilty. For not being there because I'm not able to be when you were always there every moment I needed you. You were even there when you weren't because that was the way I needed you then in order to make me stronger, to grow this person who has become whatever this is of me.

Just go.

Remember? Remember? Just go.

Restraint isn't worth it you know it's never worth it and I don't understand all these people because I just go with it you see you see I just go with it and the glow and the beat all merge into one and me and the rest of itand the rest of it

See me becoming someone else again?

This happens sometimes and it scares the shit out of me but i love it i love it i love it and i'm mad mad mad

i guess it's worth it i guess it's worth it because it's air and i can finally breathe freely againthis hasn't happened in a long timeand i've missed this kind of airthis kind of thought

I used to blame it on Sibyl Freid.

But she's gone mostly now and it's all me because that's all it ever was in the first place.

Answer! Answer!

Or you'll see a whole dialogue that's all made up but not really because the world's always clearer in the imagined one

I don't think I'm supposed to die tonight
but i just mighti just might

i'm all slipping sliding now in the mind with the words and they're all bleedingblendingtogether and i can't tell the differenceand i don't want to

it's someting else with me and them and all of the words and i can't breathe without them because they're the air and i suffocateand you suffocate meand you suffocate along with us and i can't tell the differencebetween me or you or fake and real andis there really a differencei don't think so

everyone reads me be crazy

there' s no other me

it's all clear here

i see it i see and the wave is back and the ink is back and i see it i see it do you see it i see it and i want it and i want it to kill me so i don't have to look anymore into anything but black on black and white and i'll be nowhere but behind it all

i don't think i'm supposed to die tonight
but i just mighti just might

you think you've got hypergraphia?

think again
think again
think again
think again

write until you can't think anymore and then you're crying crying crying but it's really about dying and i was there when i was born you know i was there when i was born but i can't stop crying ever on the inside i can't stop crying ever on the inside and i forgot how to laugh in there until he came and i can't help him now i can't help him back so i'm worthless i'm inadequate and i can't help him back

i'll never find the way out of this

never never never never never never never never never never never nevernevernevernevernevernevernevernever

Now you see how I fester within myself?

I don't see anything but ink
and i can't breathe anything but ink
and i can't live anything but ink
but the ink isn't real

it's the inkling behind it

and that's words and their meanings and sometimes it's nothing at all and that's what i'm made of so nothing at all and nothing at all and nothing at all and nothing at all and sometimes a glimpse of what could have been great and what might be great in time to come but we'll never get there together because another will another will and it won't be me because i run out i run out i run out of it and i can't take it all like this and sibyl's screaming gold on the wall and in my life that's everything that never was and everything that never will be so i'm just like her, sibyl freid, i'm just like her.

I think I hear you echoing in my head. But it's a pleasant dream. If I could hear that for the rest of my life, I think I might just be happy, because echos originate from somewhere and that somewhere would be your voice.

It'll be all right. It really will. At least I hope so.

I wish I could be there. I really wish I could be there for you, with you. But I can't and I can't help. I can never help.

I scratched my eye playing basketball last night (don't ask) and I gave myself mild heat stroke by walking three miles in 90 degree weather because I'm crazy and like hills and pushing myself past limits. Yay.

Donation

The ironic thing about praying for an organ to save someone's life, in most cases, is that you're also praying for someone to die. I can't say I blame anyone. That other person has nothing whatsoever to do with them; they've never heard of them; they don't know they exist. They're probably sitting at their breakfast table right now planning out their day and expecting a very exciting many, many years. But they'll walk out the door in an hour or a minute and turn on their car to go execute their exciting plans and things won't go as planned because there'll be a collision and their many, many years will turn into the plans of hoping for many, many seconds, then many, many moments and then they won't think anything at all. Somewhere out there there's a person sitting in the visitor's chair of a hospital room waiting for someone they love to die, not putting much hope in a miracle. But the doctor will come in, or whoever it happens to be who tells them that they've found a kidney or a heart or whatever organ it is they've been needing. And they won't think "Oh, that poor family; oh, that poor person." They'll think "Thank G-d, it's a miracle!" without a second thought to the unknown martyr.

If I'm ever put in this position, which hopefully I'll never be, I'll make sure I grieve along with celebrating. Or I'd hope to be the donor.

In Response to My New Reader :-)

I know how you feel. Sometimes I just want to punch out a boulder because of people and their unreliabilty. It's because of this that I've given up on them and barely give anyone more than half a chance. Too much disappointment has taught me that disappointment is not worth my energy so I begin as a cynic in all situations. This way, my beliefs are either always confirmed or I am pleasantly surprised. It's worth the pleasant surprise.

A lot of people think that this isn't a very good philosophy and automatically label it 'pessimistic' but I will continue to disagree. It's realistic and since I've adopted it, I've been a much happier person (although people would tend to disagree with how 'happy' I really am--they haven't known me for very long if they disagree). Nevertheless, it all still frustrates me because getting things done yourself puts a burden that feels unnecessary upon a person and despite my cynicism, I still would like to have some fulfillment of the faith I still hold in humanity, particularly those parts of it I consider "friends."

Midnight on the Meadow

There comes a point when the loneliness gets unbearable, so you'd do anything, like hurl yourself against a wall to feel something on your skin. There comes a point when words don't make it, when imagination doesn't make it, when you're waiting and waiting and nothing comes, so you turn to yourself instead.

I hate it when people make promises because promises are always broken--eventually. Lately I've found myself looking in the mirror and questioning who's looking back. Here, the silence is full. Sometimes I imagine the world hearing it along with me but I know I'm the only one.

Why? I know you're asking that already.

Because we make our own silence. I make my own silence. I'll admit to that. But the cacophony on the other end drives me mad because I can't hear and think while it's going and in the din I hear more silence than I do without it. So I try making music. I try shouting. But the music doesn't carry far and the shouting doesn't last.

What lasts, I think, is the memory of the echo and in a memory, as we know, is always the absence of sound. Sometimes I want that sound so much I trick myself into thinking I actually hear it. But I don't hear anything. It's similar to how the world has never heard me.

It's pitiful, this life. She's pitiful, this little girl. She talks to walls and listens so hard she actually thinks they answer back, but underneath it all, she knows she's only answering herself.

Do you think you can help me make a memory of something magical, where 'magic' entails nothing but inklings made real? These are small ideas, small thoughts that really only involve assurance that I'm not the only one dreaming, that I'm not the only one dependent on the perpetuation of my breathing, that the walls I spread myself thin on are not the only things that can hold me back.

I used to think that distance was a wall. Now I know that distance is only what you make of it, that sometimes contact seaparates and sometimes separation joins. I spread myself along the distance, like I spread myself along the walls and I become that distance between myself and everyone else, bridging gulfs and digging empty spaces.

Now I put all this thought down as always in liquid ink so that whoever you are and whoever anyone else is can make what they'd like of it. But that's just what I tell myself. I tell myself people will read to soothe myself into the deception that people actually care about anything to do with this life of mine. I really write it down for myself. Because in here, in me, are the only people who have ever remained constant. And so be it if they're not real; so be it if they're only my own cheap fabrications. But I love them and they hold me instead of walls and they answer instead of silence and they look back at me when I get the guts enough to look in the mirror and actually take in what's being reflected. They're silence made loud and clear for no one but myself; they're compensation for confused and neglected emotions. And I tell myself over and over again that they are enough because it's my defense mechanism and deep down under there, somewhere, I'm in love with life.

But eventually there comes a point when the loneliness gets unbearable, so I do anything, like hurl myself against a wall to feel something on my skin.

What is life? Unfortunately, I have the feeling we'll never know the answer to that question. More unfortunate, still, I'm feeling that there's no point to the question or to the person behind this keyboard typing. This feeling usually comes when I'm with the family. I want to end it all and be done with it despite the world's beauty or the lack of.

But there are some good things about being here: I recede into myself because there's nowhere else to go, so I begin to see them, so I begin to write them and the pointless forms that I must impart onto the page pour out again and again and again. This is all I can ever do with my life: hope that there can be some purpose or meaning of me through this act by which I attempt to imprint myself upon humanity.

First Day

Within the first hour of being fully awake and functional today, I got in a fight with her over the dumbest thing possible: laundry detergent. She wants me to fill up these little jugs I got this past year with the detergent and then donate the big bottles to her. AKA "I'm too lazy and cheap to buy my own."

#1 I bought those myself and on principal do not want to give them to her because and I need them and no I can't buy more because I don't have any money, remember? I make less than YOU do. Of course I didn't say that. She said I should just fill them up every summer with what they have in the house. Which is usually none because it's empty or whatever and then she'll complain that I took all of it. Isn't it easier if I just keep my own and am the only one to use them so no one has to worry about buying anything? Whatever.

I told her she could take the fucking soap. Just like she took my guitar money and my book money.

#2 Sam got DKA again today and was throwing up everywhere and not doing very well. I started shaking, so George and I walked to the Avenue and back. I hurt my knee really badly from doing that. Oh well.

#3 I talked to Scott Long today. That was interesting.

#4 I really miss Kat and James. I wish they were here right now. I need my wonderful friends to be here for me now but of course when I need them most is when I'm at home which means they're never here.

#5 Don't know what's up with tomorrow. David Thomas didn't answer any of his phones so I guess I'm in for a day in the house working on the blanket and reading/unpacking.

#6 Mr. Clifford said he might see me in the early afternoon but I don't believe him for one second and wouldn't have even heard about that if I hadn't brought it up. Jerk. If someone doesn't actually care about you, why the hell do they put so much effort into making you think they do after you bring up the point? I'm sick of that shit. Especially from him. And frankly speaking, I don't need to deal with it anymore and he can go frolic in his Popularity Land like he always has and I won't say anything. Because I'm starting not to care at all. I'm starting to realize that one day I won't even be able to say "Once, I had a friend..." Because he's just like Anthony: a liar. Or if not a liar, someone who doesn't care in reality. So stop tricking me already. Stop wasting your time. Because that moment I've warned you about where you turn to look in my direction and I'm long lost out of sight is right upon us and about to pass.

I want to go home. I hate it here.

Last Day :-(

Just got out of my Af. Am. final. I'm so OCD it's ridiculous. I messed up on one thing in the writing and went up, got a new blue book with 40 minutes to go, and started copying the entire exam over. What a loser I am. So now my hand is jello and hurts like hell. But I've still got one exam to go (Hebrew) and should probably get a little rest beforehand and review vocab just a little bit. What do you think?

Dad's alread in NC and it's only 10:30. That's good time.

I'm particularly depressed because I have less than a day left. I spent last night with James hanging out and editing the paper which, surprisingly, is in English for once. And is pretty good. Today, I'm spending as much time with everyone as possible. Jordana left yesterday and I cried for half an hour. I told James that I'm going to really start crying when I say goodbye to him and Kat. The cry will probably last about five hours in the car and into the next day. Oh joy. I really love them. I really really do. The great thing is, they love me, too and there's no shit to go along with it. No wishy-washiness. No phoney crap. Just simple, wonderful friendship. I love that more than anything. And I hate how everything good has to end.

Sadness

Started packing today. Which means the end is near. Which means I want to cry. Studied more of that awful lit book that's really informative but tedious to read. Hung out with James after Shabbat dinner as usual. Only in my room because his room was...occupied and I packed and he wrote part of his essay and Jordana was herself. Which was fun. I'm going to miss her.

It's amazing how much you can grow in a few months. And now I don't know what to do with myself.

Imagine

Imagine there's no heaven, it's easy if you try. No hell below us, above us only sky. -John Lennon

I've never actually tried to imagine heaven. I've just taken on the everyday and tried to ignore the hell that's more generally put before us. Sometimes, we truly can make a heaven of hell, especially when it's the world. I think of it like a handful of clay, ready for me to mould into whatever I like. The world squeezes through my fingers and dirties me like the earth in my backyard. But getting dirty is also fun and all of this would be boring without it.

The year is over and I've given away a lot of myself and gotten pieces back in return. For the first time, people have equalled the ones who saved me, because, I suppose, they save me over and over again. They have let me know I can stand on my own, without anyone but myself; but also, that I don't need to. I told Kat the other day that I fall in love with my friends. All of them. Sometimes the love is deeper and we each become a part of each other, showing each other the intricacies and idiosyncracies of the many sides of who we are.

Two people this year have told me I've saved them, so I suppose I've saved them back. Because of the past, I hang waiting to be let down, but hope nevertheless for the mutual tension on that rope, so that neither of us will fall. And because I'm prepared for whatever life throws at me, because I'm never surprised but allow myself to feel anyway, although not as much, I'm surprisingly stable, as James said.

In less than a week I'll be on the road going south. George will be with me, so we'll each take a bit of what we've made of heaven back with us: he on his adventure and I on my flight home. I have another home now, though. Many homes, I guess. Home is where you make it. No matter how cliche that sounds. Home is where the people you love are, and where the people are who love you right back.

I wish I could share all of this with you, this other home that's about to be scattered the world over for a while. But you're home, too. Remember that. You're home, too.

Another Birthday Day Edition

So, after I wrote the last entry, Mr. Wilson wrote all participants this letter, after which I proceeded to message every single person who messaged me and have now begun talking to people I haven't spoken with in years. So, kudos, again, James. Great job. :-)


Hey Birthday-ers,

I hope you ‘birthday’ days have been interesting and you have all gotten surprising results. I and the few others I have spoken to have gotten a variety of reactions but generally they have been very positive. My last input is that you contact everyone that you got a birthday message from. I don’t care if you explain the whole thing but I think that you should use this opportunity to contact people even if you haven talked since high school. My goal is that this day has increased the total amount of happiness and goodwill in the world (if I can for a second take this facebook game too seriously), so don’t let this opportunity pass. They went to the trouble of wishing you a wonderful day, so at least you can say hi and show that someone thinks about them, too. Good luck and thanks for playing along with me.

James

Birthday Day

Oh, Mr. James Wilson and his experiments...
ARE DRIVING ME CRAZY (even though they are extremely entertaining and amusing and ridiculous).

SO...birthday day. That was today. Is today. Where...let's get that explanation he wrote from facebook and post it verbatim on here:

Information

Event Info

Name:	Birthday Day
Tagline:	We All Deserve Birthdays
Host:	Facebook
Type:	Causes - Rally

Time and Place

Date:	Monday, May 1, 2006
Time:	12:00am - 11:45pm
Venue:	On Facebook

Description

This is another of my Facebook experiments. I wanted to make my Birthday appear to be perpetually tomorrow, but before the end of the first day I had gotten six hugs, a plate of awesome cupcakes, three bottles of blowing bubbles, and plenty of smiling goodwill. So I thought a little harder and thought that everyone could do this, should do this, on the same day. So go into your profile and make you B-Day MAY 1st. I want to fill up the Birthday list on facebook, and make everyone trust in facebook and wish each other happiness for a day. Thanks "facebook friends."

*sigh* So there you go. I got about 50 million wall/notes/phone call/in-person messages.

But it worked. I've spoken to people I haven't spoken to in years because of it. So, Kudos to you, James. Not that he's reading this or anything. But it'll remind me one day of Birthday Day when I look back at the past eventually.

Searching

There are moments, I think, when a fleeting jolt of emotion afflicts a person's mind. For me, I treasure the moment. I notice it in people's eyes when they stare at me unblinkingly, almost fascinated by the babble that makes its way past my lips. They fall in love for a moment--that's the emotion; that's the incredulous stare.

But emotion is ephemeral, as I said above. And ephemerality is my business in prose--I cannot stop creating; but each new drop of ink and its codification of inspiration leave the last behind. With it, I build upon my self and abandon at once. As for the Others' fleeting feeling--I build upon and leave myself behind. I donate a piece of myself to them and their innocent, inadvertent love.

For the moment, I love them back. And moments in Time are eternal, so our love is, too. Now, this is simple prose, but simplification proves often most benefactory to man and his unlimited affinity for complication. To erase that complication--and I dare to--I ask what would it do to our humanity? Would we go mad with beauty? Mad with strain? Overwhelmed by the vastness of the ungraspable sky and our seeming (or possible) (or probable) insignificance in relation?

The beauty is harmony--how it cannot be interrupted, how it cannot be tainted or overrun by our din. The din is but a note in this universal song that reigns almost unnoticed over us. We must step back while continuing to sing. Our music in explosives can be changed, for a symphony has many movements and the movements change--the song can change, while the band plays on. Nothing must be forever permanent, save that of the Voices singing through the starlit vacuum and the darkness in between.

In conclusion: I would risk simplicity, the sacrifice of complication--for the Madness of the bellatristic and unimaginable. I would take the love wiht me and leave myself behind as I grow and you grow and we grow--into the sweeping attraction between moon nad tide, into the life-giving and life-taking glow of solar wind and shine.