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.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Saturday, May 27, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Saturday, May 20, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
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."
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.
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.
Monday, May 15, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, May 12, 2006
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.
#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.
Monday, May 08, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
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.
It's amazing how much you can grow in a few months. And now I don't know what to do with myself.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
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,
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
Monday, May 01, 2006
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:
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
| Name: | Birthday Day |
| Tagline: | We All Deserve Birthdays |
| Host: | Facebook |
| Type: | Causes - Rally |
| 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.
*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.
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