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Nov. 28th, 2008 @ 08:16 pm I had some dreams, they were clouds in my coffee...
Current Mood: overcome
Every once in a while our unconscious stumbles across the magical line between knowing and unknowing. As if attempting to create imagined happiness inside a cage of self-imposed misery, a vision comes to us that is unshakable in it's tangibility, almost impossibly real.

One such revelation of truth came to me in that pixelated world between sleep and awake, and so vividly imprinted itself upon my mind that I can not help but shudder with the recollection at the varied and unpredictable times it chooses to come back to me.


I stand in a small, dimly lit office trimmed with rich mahogany over warm neutrals. The warmth of the room is enriched by the glow of a bronze desk lamp with green glass shade, the type that typically adorns the desk of a lawyer or accountant. The subdued lighting contributes to the heavy somber feeling that hangs thickly in the air, the kind that results from the announcement of some inexplicable tragedy or bad news that could not be predicted or avoided.

Beside me in a wooden rolling chair sits a man, a nameless man, face in his hands, elbows on his knees. His suit jacket long ago discarded and forgotten, tie left in some unremembered place, collar unbuttoned as if somehow this will make the world more bearable. He runs his fingers through his no longer pristine black hair with an inaudible exhale, as across the room on a faded brocade couch an older, indistinguishable man continues his rationalizing explanation of the night's catastrophe.

Reaching out a hand, this nameless man snakes his arm around my thighs, pulls me to him until my legs are pressed against his body slumped in the chair, burying his face against my hip. His expression remains forlorn, but somehow the warmth of our contact stirs an unspeakable emotion that passes back and forth between us in a free exchange of intimacy that washes over us, isolating us from the world. The room begins to fade away, and I am suddenly hyper-aware of the details of the experience of him.

The first thing that I notice is the fabric of his shirt. It is soft and almost nonexistent in consistency so that brushing my hand across his arm my fingers almost reach through the material to his skin. Underneath his skin is soft and tan, hot to the touch. I become aware of a burning heat wrapped around me at every point of contact, a chemical reaction between us that penetrates into the pit of my stomach and travels up until the hair on the back of my neck stands up from the power of it. His scent overcomes me, ethereal and intoxicating. As I begin to separate this overwhelming heat from the wave of emotion that has enveloped me, I suddenly become cognizant of the breadth of his shoulders pressed against me, the strength of the arm that holds me and then I realize his face has tilted up, looking at me with piercing eyes full of sorrow. Sorrow that melts into unspeakable relief as the barrage of sensations I have felt washes over him and for an instant we are one being. It is a moment unlike anything I have ever experienced in waking moments.


The evocative authenticity of this experience has haunted me for days. In sleep my subconscious struggles to reclaim this moment, to discover the identity of this perfect being who held me in his arms in a moment of tragedy and found solace in my presence. In waking moments my mind fights to comprehend what that feeling was, as it lies just outside of my understanding.

It is as if someone challenged me, said to me "You don't know what you're missing" and in the mystic realm of Morpheus my mind reached out and achieved this....this...this is what I'm missing.

Words cannot do justice to this experience. Even as I write this I am saddened by my inability to capture the true essence of it.

For once in my life, words have failed me.
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Nov. 13th, 2008 @ 09:58 pm The downside...
Current Mood: morose
So, it turns out, when a train derails, it's pretty much impossible to put it back on the track.

Wish I'd known that before.
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Jul. 6th, 2008 @ 07:46 pm Eulogy
Current Mood: inhuman
The dashboard clock reads 17:85
Now 18:99
Struggling to catch up, but bogged down by the stale coffee
that coats its inner workings.
That mishandled turn and unrelenting centrifugal force
that drenched it with caffeine
transformed it from a time piece to a date book.
In hopes of rushing to the past it promises I speed
88 miles an hour
Doc Brown said.

But instead of spiraling backwards
I just rush into the future.
None of my past experiences prepared me for this consequence.

Why do I paint my hair red? I know.
Now.
It's so that some part of me will bleed
externally, a signal to the world
of the unstoppable hemorrhage that courses from my heart
infecting every part of me
until my joints slosh with every movement
heavy and rain-soaked with the life liquid
I can't seem to control

The prophets insist.
You exist here. It is not linear.
No. I exist here.
like all who have suffered the unrepairable
stuck in time at the moment
of my mortal wound
that moment which pricked my heart and out rushed life
unable to stop the draining of who we were
who I was
stuck in that moment
I live there, desperately clutching
trying to hold on to some part of me
as I feel my life rushing out of me
When the mortal wound is dealt
we stay
forever
just one second too late
wishing to edge just a little further in the past
and prevent the inevitable
But instead
I simply hang on to the moment of my death
trying to remember what it was like to be alive

I live here. but it is not was it was
I breathe here. but it is not oxygen I need.

I am not.



Linear.
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Jun. 21st, 2008 @ 02:29 pm untitled short story....again. for those who missed it the first time.
Current Mood: hungry
It was a morning, similar to every other morning. The gloomy sunlight peered through the curtains and agitated her eyelids as the wailing siren in her dream faded into the persistent whine of her alarm clock. Lily’s eyes fluttered open, and her arm shot out and gracelessly slapped the top of the clock until it ceased its protestations against sleep. Something is supposed to happen today. It was all the recognition her mind could muster in the lifting fog of unconsciousness.

Something is supposed to happen today. What am I forgetting? Lily studied her own eyes in the bathroom mirror as she lazily brushed her teeth, hoping maybe she’d remember whatever it was that was lingering on the edge of her mind. No luck. She leaned over and spit, letting the nagging suspicion that something was not quite right disappear down the drain along with everything else.

It was a morning, similar to every other morning. The sun was shining, not too terribly brightly, the birds were singing, not too terribly cheerfully, even the wind was lackluster in its performance. A few leaves rustled halfheartedly above her head as she stepped out the front door and headed toward her car, shrugging her shoulder out of habit to readjust the heavy bag that hung there. A dog-eared political flyer stuck to the edge of the sidewalk, wedged ever so slightly in the grass that threatened to reclaim the concrete in a singular act of rebellion against rural development. It caught her eye, fluttering there on the ground where it had been carelessly discarded by some neighbor who had found it objectionable.

Lily resisted the urge to stop completely, sub-consciously aware of the socially unacceptable behavior of standing and staring at litter. Her pace slowed for two steps, then she darted forward, slapping the toe of her foot onto the quivering corner that irritated her beyond rational levels. Something about the movement of that tattered piece of paper echoed the fluttering of the curtain in her mind that concealed some missing piece of information that appeared briefly enough that she knew it existed but remained obscured. Infuriated at the resurgence of her forgotten memory, Lily bent down and snatched the flyer off the ground. The thought crossed her mind to tear it into confetti, but instead she balled it up with one hand and shoved it forcefully into the outer pocket of her book bag.

She let her mind roam, probing for some clue to the absent information. The harder she thought, the greater the uneasiness in the pit of her stomach became. Her concentration wandered until her brain processed what her eyes were seeing and she slammed on her brakes, jerking to a halt halfway through a crosswalk. Exasperated embarrassment made her grit her teeth and wave apologies to the disgruntled pedestrians who shouted a few choice obscenities in her direction. Something is supposed to happen today! What the hell am I missing? She grunted at herself in frustration, and turned up the radio resolving to drown out her thoughts. At least until she ceased to be a road hazard.

It was a day, similar to every other day. But not for Lily. She walked around in a daze, maddened by the persistent nagging of something forgotten. The uneasiness in her gut grew, robbing her of appetite. Conversations with peers went by unregistered. If asked, she would have been thoroughly unable to recount that day’s events. Autopilot took over her body and she existed merely as flesh and blood, her mind completely absorbed in the pursuit of an answer. Arriving home that afternoon, she dropped her bag unceremoniously in front of the sofa and sank down, burying her face in her hands. Wracked with frustration she sat, swaying gently, struggling to see behind the curtain as someone who reaches inward for the details of a dream that has left a disturbing aftertaste. It was force of habit that compelled her to plunge her hand into her bag as her cell phone began to ring. But when she retracted it, clutched in her shaking fingers was not the attention seeking phone but the crumpled flyer she had stuffed there and promptly forgotten about.

Slowly, trembling, Lily unfolded the glossy leaflet, smoothing out the creases against the coffee table. It took her a moment to collect herself, and then her eyes began to scan the words, reading and rereading until she finally began to comprehend. It was not, as she had initially concluded, a political brochure. Upon examination she realized it was the words “I Have The Answer” in large block letters that must have led her to this deduction. She repeated the words to herself, then read them out loud. It was, she realized, a religious pamphlet claiming (as they all do) to offer the answer to the ultimate question.

Desperate for any reprieve from this debilitating obsession with her elusive white whale, Lily headed for the door, flyer in hand. So set on finding anyone who could offer her some sort of reassurance, she didn’t even stop to grab her wallet or keys, but galloped down the stairs and set off in the direction of the address indicated by a big black star on a plain map. As she made her way down the block, using every ounce of reserve she had left to prevent herself from breaking into a run, her brain sought urgently for the words to describe her problem. Now that she had someone to ask, she felt she ought to figure out just what it was she was going to ask. Her mind raced, trying to reshape this dilemma into something tangible. Some phrase or sentence that could communicate the immediacy of her desperation. She began to reread the advertisement, hoping to turn some of its terminology into something useful. And then she saw it, in small, red letters at the bottom of the back of the page. “The answer is within you.” It said. It made her stop short, and she repeated the sentence back to the flyer. It didn’t really mean anything, it didn’t tell her what the answer was. It didn’t even state the question. But something about those five words gave her pause.

In her mind, a trumpet sounded the fanfare of victory. Suddenly it didn’t bother her that she couldn’t put her finger on it. She knew, somehow, that when it became important, she would remember, because the answer was in her. It was there, when she needed it. A great smile broke out across her face, and she looked up from the crumpled flyer, clutched white-knuckled in her hand. The blasting of the trumpet shifted from inside her mind and she turned in the direction of the sound.

It was a day, similar to every other day. The gloomy sunlight peered through the leaves and agitated her eyelids. Something was supposed to happen today. Lily smiled to herself, staring vacantly upwards at the sky, now acutely aware of the missing piece. In a flash of brake lights, the veil that had hidden this moment from her dropped, and her dream came flooding back. She shut her eyes, sleepily, and wondered if the wailing sirens would ever turn into the whining of her alarm clock.
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Apr. 24th, 2008 @ 01:25 pm Changing in front of an open window....
Current Mood: content
Have you ever had a moment of perfect happiness?

I'm not talking external joy, the kind that makes you laugh out loud, or muffle screams of ecstacy.

I'm talking complete and utter harmony with yourself, with nature, and with the higher power that surrounds us all and continually tries to convince us that we are safe.

In this moment, when you experience it, you will know. You will know that all things are transient, that life is fleeting, and that everything important is out of your control.

Nothing you say or do will change that which you are destined to achieve. Maybe it takes you sixty years and half a dozen tries to get it right, to start down the right path.

But you'll get there. Eventually.

Maybe this moment will last a life time, maybe it will flicker through you so fast you almost don't realize you've had it until it's gone.

When you've had this moment, take the next to rejoice with me.

For we are bretheren.
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Apr. 8th, 2008 @ 10:38 pm I HATE THIS.
Current Mood: stressed
I'M TIRED OF TALKING. I'M TIRED OF WAITING. I'M TIRED OF GETTING NO WHERE.

JUST GIVE ME SOME GODDAMN CLOSURE AND LET ME MOVE ON WITH MY LIFE.





This angry and overly personal outburst has been brought to you by the number 13, the letter W, the state of Arkansas, and my bipolarity.
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Feb. 18th, 2008 @ 01:56 pm The Secret Life of Walter Mitty
Current Mood: contemplative
"When I was a child I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child. When I became a man, I put away childish things."

Actually, when I was a child I lived in an extraordinarily intricate fantasy world. Hours spent on long road trips, waiting at doctor's offices, and sitting at a table being "seen and not heard" afforded me ample opportunity to invent and maintain a Secret Life that none but I knew existed.

It was a fantastic and ever changing world. As a little girl, I imagined myself a princess, dainty and adored. Climbing the stairs to my room became a trip to the highest turret of a vast and elaborate castle. The family cat became a magical Talking creature who accompanied me on my adventures. As I got older the princess became an empress, wanting for nothing, riding through mystical forests and governing a peaceful kingdom of dolls and horses. Sometimes I became the horse I rode, a shimmering Palamino with long flaxen hair, galloping down sidewalks of mountain paths and leaping over yard hoses of babbling brooks.

Occasionally my reality would leak out and blend with this one. Long skirts were ball gowns, and cars were carriages drawn by advanced steeds bred to travel at upwards of 60 miles an hour. As I grew more disillusioned with the world the feminine and pacifistic princess became a warrior queen, following in the footsteps of Boadicea and Joan of Arc, riding into battle, feared by the forces of evil, loved by women and adored by men. Fighting the good fight on the battle field of my mind soon stripped her of nobility and I became a wandering mercenary. The older I got, the more the saga of my alter-ego revolved around overcoming impossible obstacles, conquering powerful nations, and always being the most beautiful and sought after woman in the land.

She could never be pinned down, this goddess creation of mine. Her power would wax and wan depending on the circumstances of my "real" life. The people in her world would come and go, depending on their usefulness in perpetuating her mythical existence. The friends and lovers of my Secret Life were always directly related to the friends and lovers of my Public Life. But one thing was constant. One thing about the manifestation of who I wanted to be was always there. Her desire to be desired. In my mind I created desirers, from templates of people I knew or celebrities or historical and mythical figures I wished I knew. Always there were throngs of admirers who sought to be like her, be with her...be with me.

Somewhere along the way, she disappeared. Fading into the back of my memory as I began achieving in real life the things I had imagined achieving in my mind. It's been many years since she embodied me, since I walked down a hallway and dreamed I was sitting atop a magnificent horse, or dressed up and imagined I was going to a Cinderella-esque ball where Prince Charming would sweep me off my feet. Even when I try I can hardly remember her name or what her favorite savory treat was as she feasted at banquets thrown in her honor, late at night as I lay awake in bed indulging in stimulating fantasy. But she is always with me. Somehow, she shaped me. She was a positive visualization of my goals and dreams, and she pushed me to pursue them. She pushed me to achieve them.

I think it's good that she's gone away. It symbolizes that I have created a life fulfilling and exciting enough that my elaborate fantasies pale in comparison. And I'll know, if she ever shows back up, that I have the power to bring her life into sync with mine.

I have the power to live a life that most people can only dream of.
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Dec. 29th, 2007 @ 02:30 pm Homeless for the Holidays
Welcome to the end of 2007, arguably one of the best and worst years of my life. "Choose your own adventure", the tagline on the front of the book read. I wish I had gone to pages 43 and 87 instead of 56 and 22. But 45 and 62 worked out pretty well for me. If you know what I mean.

You don't?

The holidays are meant to be spent with the people we love. Unfortunately for most of us, we are forced to spend them with our families instead. For me that meant flying to the Pacific Northwest to sit in the cold and rain slash snow for 9 days with family who should be dead and can't always remember that they're not. It's a special time.

If, dear reader, you should ever be given the opportunity to choose between something you don't want to do and something you do want to do, always choose the latter. Don't waste time feeling guilty about shirked responsibilities. In fact, if responsibilities were not occationally ignored, they would cease to maintain their identities as responsibilities. Indulge yourself often enough to feed your soul, but not so much that you starve your bank account. Don't love someone because they are beautiful. Let them be beautiful because you love them.

Wisdom.

Youth is wasted on the young, and I shall never grow old.

....remember...
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Nov. 8th, 2007 @ 05:27 pm The Good, The Bad, and the Marginally Insane
Current Mood: pissed off
Sometimes light is really dark. Sometimes crows can sing like larks.
sometimes winter feels like spring
don't think you know everything.

Ever feel like you're tip-toeing through a minefield? Human beings are impossible. All we ever want is me me me. Would it kill you do something nice for someone else once in a while? Even just once? Some simple selfless act that puts someone else's happiness above your own? No?

Of course not. Because we are a species of assholes. Selfish, manipulative, thoughtless assholes. We only help someone or do something nice for someone when we think we'll get something out of it. From helping a friend out so they'll "owe" you, to taking a girl out to dinner so she'll "fuck" you, you are a horrible self-involved person who will do nothing unless it brings you some sort of satisfaction.

Is it so hard to fathom that bringing a smile to someone's face might....MIGHT bring you some satisfaction?

This is the problem with human beings as a whole. This is why concepts like socialism fail. Because altruism is a farce. Because kindness is not innate in people.

All of this is, of course, an unjustly broad generalization based on a small sample group. it is perhaps my own ploy to elicit from someone some kindness directed at myself. Or maybe it is a self chastising rant designed to guilt myself into picking up the search for the perfect selfless good deed.

But it's really just my way of saying:

Hey, go out of your way to be nice to somebody. Asshole.
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Jun. 19th, 2007 @ 10:58 pm the little man who Wasn't there
Current Mood: indescribable
i woke up every morning in a bed
stained with loneliness and abandonment
behind a face
soiled with the absence of tears
to a life
long ago turned stale
i watch in awe the pedagogish parade of the women who have gone before,
those who did not find the happiness i seek
anna stands proudly, holding a waxy tower that once held the wick of her life
edna empties sand and shells from her water-logged shoes
dolly, delores, Lo. has escaped one hell and plunged
into another
hestor hands me the bloody sheets, the shape of her character cut from the center
A crimson reminder of past transgressions
these women have made my mistakes for me
imperfect reminders of the price of perfect happiness
a plastic placemat infused with
STARS and STRIPES
tumbles down the road caught in the rip tide
of intermittent cars burning oil in pursuit
of instant gratification
my skin is taught beneath the dried ejaculation
i stretch and twist, feeling it catch and crack
a private personal reminder of the early morning revelries
the dirty secret of you that i carry around all day
counting my lucky stars
in your Eyes
I woke up this morning in a bed
that wasn’t mine
behind a face
I didn’t know
to a life
I hadn’t created
and today, I weep
I’ve never before known this happiness that is such a burden
it is a relief to cry
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May. 11th, 2007 @ 04:59 am A dream is a wish your heart makes
Current Mood: pissed off
What the fuckin' ever fuck.

The end.





except not really.

Can people please stop these ridiculously futile attempts at 'world peace'? How is not stopping to get gas on some arbitrarily designated day going to do anything? The day before and the day after everyone's gonna go get gas. Did you all miss the completely unsucessful "no gas days" in the last five years? Not that I think it would do any good, but if you're going to try to prove a point, at least say "no one buy gas for a week" or two weeks, or a month. Jesus. Who are you trying to send a message to? Citgo? Like they're really gonna go out of business because 250,000 people don't buy gas one day? For Christ's sake, what will they do if only 65 million people get gas on May 15th. Shut the fuck up.

On another note, who the fuck cares who started the war, if you can even call it that. We started it, they started it, Bush started it, Denis Hopper started it, the moon started it. GOD. It doesn't matter. Stop being shit heads. Bush is on his way out of office. He knows that. So he's going to do whatever he damn well pleases until then, and you can march in front of the White House with as many tagboard signs as you want and not buy gas as long as you can stand it, and no one will notice. There is nothing we, as the unsuspecting, auspiciously well meaning public can do about it. I'm angry.

In a completely different vein, my life is a waste. I need Clarence (was that his name?) to drop in and save me when I jump off this bridge, cuz I am dying to see how the world changes if I never exist. What if Desert Storm never happens? Maybe it was my fault, cuz I threw up on some guy in a Drug Emporium one day when I was 6 years old and he was trying to wipe it off his pants in the car and had and accident and killed some lady who just happened to be someone important's wife and put them in a bad mood so they voted yes on going into Saudi Arabia and then voila. I've been responsible for the liberation of Kuwait. Yay me.

So maybe I am never born, and this all never happens, and Kuwait is still under Iraqi control, and they're not so angry at America in general and 9/11/01 is just another day and ODU theatre doesn't suffer, and Apple, Inc. never has a "hot girl" work for them, and 18 people in Norfolk are left without someone to blame for the fact that they're fat and unhappy, and Charlotte stays in Tennessee with her four brothers and sisters, and no one is the wiser. This seems like a better plan than the current one. I'm going to take it up with God. I think I was a mistake.
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Mar. 31st, 2007 @ 07:36 pm Ooo me! Me too! I wanna post a blog!
Current Mood: weird
Current Music: Scrubs
I'm worried about the actor in the Burger King "Sponge Bob No Pants" commercial. Fortunately, he's generic looking enough to have a semi-decent advertising career without being pigeon holed as the "No Pants" guy. I hope.

I like nicknames. At this, you may scoff. If you know me at all, you know I detest abbreviated variations of my name. I have some antiquated notion in my head that people should be referred to by their full name. Not last name full name, but Theodore, not "Ted", Alexandra, not "Alex". I have no idea why. It could have something to do with my love affair with the Roman and Russian patronymic system. Elaboration not necessary, because it would be boring.

So, let's get away from "nick" names. Nick is is a nickname. That's stupid. Who came up with that? Why not a bobname, or a stanname? Or a bettyname?

This singing rabbit Skittles commercial is HYSTERICAL.

On to pet names. This is a term I like better. After all, the most common derivative of a full name I use is "Charlie", when referring to (or rather, yelling at) my cat. Charlotte. Pet names are good. Pooky. Baby. Juice Box. Honey. Cum-rag. These are better.

Sometimes they're a whole phrase: "A" is for Ashley, "B" is for aBIgail. Rob "I don't like that color black" Wilson. Sometimes they're a weird permutation of an actual name. My favorite was "Babs", out of Babsmigail. I'm not really sure how that came around, but for some reason this sits better with me than "Abbey." Even "Baggage", while irritating and oddly implicative, is preferable.

I've realized while this, that the most likely reason for my inclination toward the more innovative pet name is just that. They're personal. They're creative. They mean you're really friends with someone and have had experiences and good times from which these names have arisen. They're not the generic short forms that everyone tries to use to feign familiarity. Like when a doctor calls you "Chris" because your chart says your name is Christopher and he's trying to put you at ease, even though you go by your middle name, which is Walter, because your parents hated you and "Broken Condom" wouldn't fit on your birth certificate.


On a completely unrelated note, I think it sucks that Priority Toyota is letting people vote on whether or not that "I just wanna thank
you" Bitch gets to keep her job. Hmm. That's a nickname. Full circle.


This was not was I was gonna blog about at all. Better luck next time.
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Feb. 27th, 2007 @ 11:26 pm rubber ducky, you're the one...
Current Mood: confused
Fifteen candles flicker in the breeze of the open window, intermittently blowing cool air across my face, bringing relief from the sweat accumulating on my cheeks. The steaming water hidden under six inches of bubbles makes my skin feel like silk, glittering in the candlelight like some surreal scene in a movie that makes us everyday ordinary girls feel inadequate and ugly.

A pack of cigarettes, a bottle of wine, a Nabakov novel. These are all intended to ease away the mundane details that plague my mind. A candle burns out. Humbert scours hotel registries for a clue to the identity of his Judas.

I cannot help but let my thoughts wander back onto the path I'd set up this elaborate moment to escape from. My mind has trampled the leaves to mulch as I've traced over the same thoughts again and again, trying to find where truth branches off. Every time I try to follow the route to its completion, I wind up back at the start.

Two people. Two versions of events. Which is false? One has obvious motive to lie. The other I trust more than most. So why does my intuition tell me that this second version is the erroneous one?


I'm not used to having people out to get me. I'm usually out to get myself.

The book ceases to hold my interest. The candles melt down.


The water goes cold.
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Feb. 14th, 2007 @ 01:52 pm Analysis of Major Characters
Current Mood: nervous
Julia is Winston’s lover and the only other person who Winston can be sure hates the Party and wishes to rebel against it as he does. Whereas Winston is restless, fatalistic, and concerned about large-scale social issues, Julia is sensual, pragmatic, and generally content to live in the moment and make the best of her life.

Winston longs to join the Brotherhood and read Emmanuel Goldstein’s abstract manifesto; Julia is more concerned with enjoying sex and making practical plans to avoid getting caught by the Party.

Winston essentially sees their affair as temporary; his fatalistic attitude makes him unable to imagine his relationship with Julia lasting very long. Julia, on the other hand, is well adapted to her chosen forms of small-scale rebellion. She claims to have had affairs with various Party members, and has no intention of terminating her pleasure seeking, or of being caught (her involvement with Winston is what leads to her capture).

Julia is a striking contrast with Winston: apart from their mutual sexual desire and hatred of the Party, most of their traits are dissimilar, if not contradictory.
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Jan. 29th, 2007 @ 05:04 pm Manic-Depression
Current Mood: moody
Friday, January 26th, 2:53 am
Winter is here at last. S.A.D. hits full swing, colliding with bipolar programming already in progress. No commercial breaks here. Thoughts of suicide creep into the edges of my mind. Last attempt failed due to faulty blade. Previous attempt failed due to expired prescription. Mental checklist of current possibilities. Romanticized scenarios of social aftermath play out on the silver screen of my imagination. Who will cry for my life? Who will tell? Will they think to call Vivian? Will someone tell him? Will he cry when he finds out I’ve left, or has he cried too many crocodile tears to muster any real ones? Sleep takes over, plan postponed.

Saturday, January 27th, 4:15 pm
All goes swimmingly. No need for tears now, only for my phone, caught in the midst of an epic battle of wills in the other room. It’s Mommy Day. We will go to a movie, have dinner, talk, gossip and giggle like old girlfriends, with no overhanging financial or familial problems to spark the tears and arguments that perforate our past. Anticipation is always dangerously exciting.

11:52 pm
She’s gone. We almost made it. Religious ideology rears its ugly head to ruin a perfect evening. Situational drama and the stress of having to come up with “pleasant” topics for seven long hours creates the desire for alcoholic reprieve, cookies make for comforting bedfellows.

Sunday, January 28th, 10:43 pm
Beautiful. Everything is beautiful. Except me. Friends, companions, food and films. But the face in the mirror is hideous. I hate myself. My skin is too pale, my calves too big, my thighs not thin enough, my breasts not firm enough, my nose off center, my arms not toned, my cheekbones not pronounced, my hair is stringy and dry, my eyes are dead. Hunger is for the weak. I will smoke another cigarette to curb the appetite that seeks to destroy my thinning process, and drink a glass of milk to trick my body into jumpstarting my metabolism, fooling it into burning caloric energy despite the hollow rumbling of the walls of my stomach sticking together. I’m hideous. The sound of my own voice repulses me. The urge to validate myself through meaningless, disease tempting, poor sex with a multitude of strangers takes over. There’s nothing to live for when I’m sleeping alone. I have to be better.

Monday, January 29th, 5:17 am
Minor emotional identity crisis. There is absolutely nothing wrong with my life right now. My house is clean, and warm. My classes are challenging but manageable. Rehearsals increasingly purport a show that will be fantastic. My bank account sits happily well fed. I must create a problem. I cannot handle perfection.
Wake up. “Mmf. Wake up. “What?” You should go home. “It’s five in the morning.” Nevermind. “What the hell.” Sorry. “Are you crying?” No. “Abigail.” I’m sorry. I can’t love you. You should probably go before…
I don’t know how to deal with happiness.

11:24 am
Gorgeous day. I’m on top of the world. To class, and rehearsal, and the now! Joy comes with the morning.
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Jan. 11th, 2007 @ 07:49 pm There goes I...
Current Mood: indifferent
It's not that you're boring.





You're just not interesting.
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Dec. 24th, 2006 @ 02:36 am The Colonel Is Breakdancing.
Current Mood: rejuvenated
Current Music: Hard To Concentrate-Red Hot Chili Peppers
In my happy home I barely breathe. All my searching and working and sweating has been for naught. You are always vulnerable. I never thought for one second I’d have nothing left but shame.

Remember when you thought you knew better? I did. I do. I have been the victim too many times. I never once in my wayward life was heading to run out.

In my happy home...

I will not lay down. I will not lay there and take it. I will not allow myself to be stripped of who I am because you feel I should change. I will not be an easy target.

There’s no more crying. There’s no more pain.

I beg my God to speak.

I will not lay down my arms.

I will not lay down my body.
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Dec. 19th, 2006 @ 02:17 am it's not a secret anymore what you keep me around for
Current Mood: infuriated
So I’m watching this Ewan McGregor movie on HBO that I was only mildly interested in when I saw the preview for it, that’s turned out to be slightly captivating. Could be because they just performed a scene from Hamlet. It’s now lost all value.

for nothing is either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.

Existentialism! What a fantastic philosophy. In Ecclesiasies, King Solomon lamented, “meaningless! Meaningless! Everything is meaningless!” From this sprang the inadvertent school of thought which strips humanity of any excuse to live.

Why are emotions involuntary? How can they overlap so violently? Don’t take me up. I’ll just fall down once again. An inkling of hope, a glimmer of affection, and love crashes over me in bipolar waves of silky water until the tempest of hate churns the silt from the bottom to create the murky estuary that clogs my veins.

I’m afraid, I’m alone and entirely useless.
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Dec. 18th, 2006 @ 12:35 am Analysis of Major Characters
Current Mood: drained
When the play begins, Blanche is already a fallen woman in society’s eyes. Her family fortune and estate are gone, she lost her young husband to suicide years earlier, and she is a social pariah due to her indiscrete sexual behavior.

She also has a bad drinking problem, which she covers up poorly. Behind her veneer of social snobbery and sexual propriety, Blanche is an insecure, dislocated individual. She is an aging Southern belle who lives in a state of perpetual panic about her fading beauty. Her manner is dainty and frail, and she sports a wardrobe of showy but cheap evening clothes. Stanley quickly sees through Blanche’s act and seeks out information about her past.

In the Kowalski household, Blanche pretends to be a woman who has never known indignity.

Her false propriety is not simply snobbery, however; it constitutes a calculated attempt to make herself appear attractive to new male suitors. Blanche depends on male sexual admiration for her sense of self-esteem, which means that she has often succumbed to passion. By marrying, Blanche hopes to escape poverty and the bad reputation that haunts her. But because the chivalric Southern gentleman savior and caretaker (represented by Shep Huntleigh) she hopes will rescue her is extinct, Blanche is left with no realistic possibility of future happiness. As Blanche sees it, Mitch is her only chance for contentment, even though he is far from her ideal.

Stanley’s relentless persecution of Blanche foils her pursuit of Mitch as well as her attempts to shield herself from the harsh truth of her situation. The play chronicles the subsequent crumbling of Blanche’s self-image and sanity.

Stanley himself takes the final stabs at Blanche, destroying the remainder of her sexual and mental esteem by raping her and then committing her to an insane asylum. In the end, Blanche blindly allows herself to be led away by a kind doctor, ignoring her sister’s cries.

This final image is the sad culmination of Blanche’s vanity and total dependence upon men for happiness.
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Dec. 12th, 2006 @ 03:58 pm So scared to find out...scared we're gonna lose it.
Current Mood: determined
Crying out for consistency.

“I know that this will hurt, but if I don’t break your heart, things will just get worse.”

If the burden seems too much to bear, remember the end with justify the pain it took to get us there.

You promise me that you believe in time I will defeat this. Somewhere in me there is strength.
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