Below are the 25 most recent journal entries.
blondes may not have more fun, but
they do get hit on more often.
everything means something?
i tell myself, over and over, to start writing again. i tell myself, over and over, tomorrow?
New Jersey this month, hit by a hurricane, a foot of snow, seventy-degree sunshine- everything you'd think to throw and with weather as erratic as the voice inside my head you'd think there would be more poetry in what I have to say about it but there isn't, there's nothing, reading and sleeping and eating enough to keep everything quiet and dull and constant-
at sixteen I thought this would be best, center of gravity between head and feet, smile intact, happy and healthy and oh, now I just don't know. What do I want? almost ten years later and every desire is almost the same: distance, propinquity, the shiny and new and the comfortable, and the familiar, and the strange, the interests you confuse for immorality, the virtues I've called boredom.
oh I am not really looking for anything; apply too many fake eyelashes, blink heavily in morse code.
today i cleaned my room, which is abominably late or laudably early, depending on from which side you are defining time.
A FISH HOOK, AN OPEN EYE
o.k. but really, I was too big to throw back and anyway, it was an excellent homage to my siren call.
"Things That Do Not Change With Time: constellations, rocks, bones. who I am when nothing's different, maybe Dylan said it best i mean you live and learn and you learn to let go. forget the dead you've lost, they will not follow you."
o.k. I lied, you know I did, it is true that I mean everything I say until just before the words leave my mouth, but I talk too fast to keep up with myself- remember the world and everything in it has meaning (or might). Sitting on your roof counting backlit leaves, cheese and crackers and water as sweet as wine, watching for u.f.o's or fireworks or anything except what I see when I close my eyes, sometimes this is everything.
everything we can't believe in
I forget not to bother,
forming an attachment against every odd, one more name to add to an increasingly long list of people who will never love me in the future, one more person who liked me better before they got to know me or when our only interactions were more-or-less in one of our heads, I don't know-
I am just tired of being less than what everyone expects. I don't make anything, spend too much on impulse, don't go as far as I need to get away from who I was.
sunflowers and teacup ashtrays
I know I am not in my right headspace because every song is singing to me today, breathes sweet nothings in my ear like leave while you still can and everyone is wrong and re-reading jack kerouac makes more sense than it doesn't, makes more sense than it did at sixteen when I was still high on life and drugs and believed the sun was around every corner. I want to get a tattoo, want to repierce my nose, want to draw all over my body and paint a flowercrown across my forehead, walk across water as far and as fast as I can away from everything today.
Mood: where it's at
a fish hook, an open eye.
I went to Israel for ten days and brought nothing tangible back with me, having lost the seashells I collected from the desert somewhere between the mediterranian and the atlantic, too-many hours and miles spent above sea level. Everything was bright and beautiful and I managed to make no friends at all (I don't care what the pictures tell you, sometimes they are not worth their weight in words).
Back at home I breakdown, too much early morning excercise and too many dancing late nights and time spent trying to be somewhere else to be ready to be here again- slipping back out of self-imposed solitude and into routine like a duck into water or,
I don't know,
a noose around the neck?
I feel better now, I do, my feelings are occassionally intense but always short-lived and anyway I am happy, I am happy, I just don't know where I am going with it. Housewarming on saturday, tax returns and spring time and everything in bloom, can't you just be happy with what is, stop worrying about the will-be.
I am practicing pouting for my quarter-life crisis, only two and a half months to go! I am studiously not-unpacking anything, living from boxes and racks despite living in the same apartment for months and months more to come, waiting for the weather to tell me which way to go, and
it's not that I'm unhappy, it's just that I'm not anything, coasting through hours and indulging an excess of anything to compensate for the absence of meaning, I don't know, I can't make you want me more, I can't make myself someone else
it doesn't make a difference how careful I am to keep my eyes closed around mirrors.
Mood: don't look back and don't run
and remember it isn't that you aren't constant enough, it's just for months,
for as long as I can remember everyone around me has waxed and waned like moon phases; changelings and chimeras and light shows don't make for a shoulder to cry on. I laugh and talk and can't sleep when I need to because I'm afraid this doesn't stay, I lie awake all night watching the shadows move across the wall and wait for something that won't come, rest my head on a heart beating harder than high tide and hope the dam holds.
if you're nobody, you can't be somebody
it's hard sometimes, you know, every word out of her mouth is meaningful, gives depth and breadth to otherwise mundane moments and-
inside my head is white noise alone, empty seashell ocean-roaring. I worry you can hear the hollow if you get close so I try to keep everyone at arm's length when I can but who knows: he smells like the beach even midwinter when the chill outside gets into my bones so maybe the sound is just calling him home, I am happy I am whole I am
just the way I always am.
Mood: unless you're somebody else.
off the next three days after years or weeks or o.k. days of not not-working, looking forward to everything for the first time since I opened my eyes. Porta tomorrow night, every door in the wall open to summer thoughts outside the plexiglass- museums and wind-tunnels, saturday afternoons.
I don't know why I just feel insecure about everything: long hours, the future, your hands holding mine. Winter is no time for new ideas. I got accepted to birthright and feel anticipation-flutter, flustered, exhausting- I mean exciting.
NOTHING IS HAPPENING AND HAS BEEN FOR WEEKS
Back at the Inkwell twice next week and more future-foreseeable, the next few years are circling my head like vultures. The internet makes obsolete my knack for memorizing useless facts and I don't know what I want to do with myself, you know, post-precocity. Everyone else has their career and I have a vacant smile to match my eyes for every occassion.
pick a town, find a box, live alone.
I feel good about everything-almost and worried about the future, I want to learn new things and pick up skills and expand horizons etc but instead I sit inside thinking about these things, or nothing at all- mostly the latter. goth-dance dress-up was a success but the party-follow-through slightly less so and every day after has been anticlimactic.
everything is a series of extremes,
i am up and up and up and constellation-eyed, neon-sign bright inside, or
sad and low and curl my toes and fists as tight as i can to keep everything inside instead of leaving it strewn behind me,
shedding clothes and friends and every memory we made in an attempt to lose enough of what's dragging me down, i don't know,
most of the time i guess i feel alright.
after work today i paint my face with black and gold and slip into a floral dress, a cardigan, some semblence of self-sufficiency, woodstain birdhouses on my back porch and listen to saves the day until i feel like laughing again.
i have too many things to get done and so do none of them, read hemingway and pinch myself for not knowing how to say just what i want to- slipping around meanings like the path of my tongue from my throat to my lips is the gordian knot and your swords aren't sharp enough to cut through this time. you can't make it mean anything if it doesn't;
you can't make it mean anything.
Mood: misplacing firearms
sometimes we wait too long and nothing happens.
I feel like the original un-left-or-leaving girl from the picture book you made five, six, twelve hundred years ago: going nowhere and not as unhappy about it as I know I ought to be.
I want to be open to new directions but instead spin circles around the same distractions, you can't tell me anything about state lines I don't already know and even when I'm lost I know these roads will lead me back to what and where I've been before. Every year is a new groove in the same record; variations on a theme. I am looking for absurdity but not reaching far enough to find it. although! some weekends are more equal than others.
see also: living room camp-outs, navesink smoke bombs, streetlight water balloon fights, waterfall lingerie.
THE WEATHER IS HERE, WISH YOU WERE WARM
racing around trying to stay one step ahead of the thunderclouds inside my head, the empty side of the bed, the space between my body and the wall stretching from horizon to horizon. i am lusty and angry and exhausted from being so happy, the butterflies inside my stomach and my head/ chrysalis, cobwebbing my thoughts and common sense and twining everything together so thickly i can't see through to the end.
too many too loud sixties pop/rock sing-alongs in my car to avoid the sound of my thoughts, oh well oh well oh well i am happy, how many times do i have to tell you until i convince myself? it's not the absence of the individual but the emptiness inside my life that isn't filled by someone else. knowing better than to need someone to complete you doesn't make you immune.
mood: oh! darling
STICK SHIFTS AND SAFETY BELTS
after all of the worry over how and what and why where and, o.k., mostly how, the end of everything is as easy as hanging up the phone, walking out the door. i have met so many people in the past two weeks and everyone looks familiar, everywhere feels like home.
i am boucing off the walls and barely thinking two days ahead but it's good for now, try not to look back, don't plan the future before you have to.
mood: my my myopia
you've got pollen on your nose
following home one long cloud strung out along the skyline like vertebrae, ocean spine, the rainclouds cleared for the first time all week and my head felt lighter in direct proportion to the expanse of sunlight. lunch-led long concentric walks around former familiarities, dusk on the beach, dinner for nostalgiac anniversaries post-everything-else and a debate over leaving too late.
i don't like to stand still, graceless and colt-kicking my way around other people until my legs collapse under me, falling asleep every night almost-alone and almost-happy. what does it take? get your books off my shelves, get your words out of my mouth and leave me to my own devices. just because something is socially accepted as degrading doesn't mean i have to feel degraded?
mood: consent, etc.
wash my hair and take care of my nails, stare at the mirror for minutes at a time studying better ways to wear silence and smiles, try to remember to act shy and keep my innate overenthusiasm on a short leash;
wear perfume religiously because i am the flower and you are the bee, i need you
to perpetuate my own beliefs in myself, a mirror reflecting what i want to know. if i bury my face in your chest for long enough i can smell the ocean; can ignore my own thoughts for long enough to breathe again. "how to lose friends and alienate people" religiously reading and staying out too often to keep my actions in line. distractionless, directionless, over-enthusiastic and under-motivated.
"too much personality for one and not quite enough for two"
i guess there is some merit to my favorite beach bunny's theory of fat and happy: no matter how much i have eaten my weight stays constant, everything disappearing inside the hole where my heart should be.
I WANT TO BE THE GIRL WITH THE MOST CAKE
oh I don't know what I want so how could I tell you, I want everything. From bed to the beach to a bar and back again, to work and to dinner and movies on t.v, quiet moments, warmer blankets. All I want is everything anyone has to offer, or maybe more than that- action-adventure disasters in the air this month.
paint the past whatever sweeping shade of rose you'd like
Everything is perfect/ly ordinary lately. Someday I will look back and accept that it's time to grow up but does it have to be now, can't I have a few more years of perfectly terrible mistakes and ridiculous decisions, I am already tired of being an adult and have played at it for less than a year. I know, I know, the timing is wrong, but when wouldn't it be?
I am (im)patiently waiting for the sun to stop hiding, promising to solve my problems with efficiency and certainty instead of bursts of retail-therapy and increasingly constant indecision
next week, or maybe sometime next fall.
Mood: "you ruined my life, or
"I place my faith in fools. Self confidence, my friends call it."
i guess i can't really complain about life's complications when the most pressing question in my head from day-to-day is whether to focus summer shopping on post-apocalyptic versus cupcake-esque clothing
and the answer anyway is (as always) why choose one
who knows who you will be tomorrow
april rain inside my car bearing hard down route 18 and dark clouds rumbling overhead in angry voices, bad omens like birds lined up on telephone wires. all week spent collecting feathers in jars and bottles of water in bulk, gas masks and bicycle wheels for the apocalypse,
if spring doesn't come soon i am finding my own.
april is the cruelest month,
stop swallowing your sadness shot by shot, stop winking back with whiskey-breath and a chip on your shoulder, it's not a stranger's fault just because you find one in the mirror every morning. stop waiting and wanting and do something instead, learn to do it well, and better than well, stop drinking your ambitions into vague absurdities. what you do isn't who you are- now doesn't have to mean forever
it's just that by the time you've decided you've made the wrong decision, it's probably too late to turn back so hey, move forward blindly instead, make a decision and turn to the corresponding page and don't keep your finger held on the last one you left: eyes closed, arms outstretched, keep a packed suitcase in the back of your car. paint your face with mud and stones, braid your hair with flowers, keep honey-sticks in your pocket, dress yourself up like a doll and imagine someone else pulling the strings. lie to yourself every morning with different fictional-futures and sing yourself to sleep at night, tonight and tomorrow and every night after.
Mood: breeding lilacs
the absence of capitals and excess of punctuation means i'm a poet;
self-taught (mostly made-up) yoga at night and long walks with anyone around the nice weather, feeling good about myself and almost-everything at least almost-all the time but inside my head is tangleweed, strangleweed, i can't think about the future or cause-and-effect, actions or consequences or all that comes after. the problem is in the past the future had so much promise and potential and now i sit on the back porch reading comics and smoking too-many cigarettes wondering how every road led here. i'm not really unhappy, i'm just not overwhelmed with joy (or tragedy, or any extreme of emotion outside of occassional annoyance) and that's a new feeling for me- sometimes it's hard not to miss the full spectrum. rollercoaster emotions give a (false) sense of adventure.